The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  He could have forced her beneath him as a prize of the siege, yet he'd bent to her rank, wed her right and true and showed her last night how a simple brush of his mouth over her skin could ignite the very heat in her soul. What would it be like, sharing her body with this man? Would she find that pleasure she never attained yet knew to reach for? She glimpsed it only in this man's arms, felt it whisper out of her reach, but, oh sweet lady, how she yearned for it.

  But hasty vows and her stipulations forbade it.

  She could not take pleasure with him, come to him as his true wife till she was certain he was committed to Donegal, to them all. Withholding herself from him, like withholding her oath, was the last vestige of her own free will remaining out of his control.

  If she gave one, the other would follow, and then she would surely be lost.

  * * *

  Gaelan met the last step and searched the hall, his gaze falling on his wife. He was not surprised to wake and find himself alone, though the blanket neatly tucked about him left him comforted that his misspoken words last night had not completely estranged her. And yet, a light sleeper, even after a night of drinking, he wondered how she managed to dress and open the huge wood door without making a sound.

  Her son beside her, she was wiping his mouth, encouraging him to drink his milk. Connal beamed at her, wrapping a lock of her hair around his little fingers, listening whilst she instructed Brody and the cook's assistant Bridgett with the day's labors. He crossed to her, smiling at the knights cradling their heads before he stopped beside Siobhàn.

  He bent and in a low growl said, "Go change your clothes." Siobhàn paused in taking the trencher from Bridgett. "These are me workin'—" The fierceness of his gaze stopped her.

  "I can provide for my wife well enough, Siobhàn, and I will not have you parading about in rags. Wear an apron if you must, but you are Lady Donegal and will attire yourself accordingly."

  She nodded mutely, but made no move to obey.

  "Must I strip that hideous thing off you myself?"

  "Must you order me about?"

  His features pulled taut as her reminder sank home. 'Twas such a trivial thing, her garments, and Gaelan's lips twitched. "Will you humor a man who imbibed too much and change, my lady?"

  Her lips pulled into a small smile that was both wrenchingly sweet and wholly false as she rose from her chair and with a secretive touch to his chest, tipped her head back. "As you wish, m'lord."

  Gaelan almost laughed at the tightly gritted compliance and caught her against him, softening the request with a gentle kiss. For the briefest moment, her lips shaped his, and he heard the sighs of the women around them and could not resist patting her behind. She yelped, lurching back, muttering something in Gaelic as she fled to the stairs.

  Gaelan turned back to the table. Connal sat a couple of spaces beyond him, digging his spoon into a bowl of meal and milk, shoving it into his mouth between glares. Gaelan was at a loss as to what to say to one so young—and so filled with anger.

  "Connal, would you—"

  The boy threw down his spoon and scrambled off the bench, stomping to the doors. Gaelan sighed, taking up a slice of bread and cheese.

  "Give him time, sir."

  Driscoll stood off to his right, watching the boy's retreat. He did not tell him he'd no intention of pressing the child, since he had no notion of what to say to soothe his aches. Gaelan popped the cube of cheese into his mouth, then gestured to the seat nearest him. "What have you to tell me, Driscoll?"

  The man's face showed his surprise.

  "I didn't believe you waited in the hall to see if your princess survived a night in my bed. What is it?"

  Driscoll nodded to the solar. "I feel there is a need for privacy in this."

  Gaelan frowned, the bite of bread halfway to his mouth. He stood and, taking a goblet of watered wine with him, they headed to the solar. Five minutes later Siobhàn stepped inside and he rounded on her.

  "Why did you not tell me the raids had been going on for over a fortnight now?"

  Briefly her gaze spilled past him to Driscoll and his face reddened. "'Twas not your concern, husband, 'twas mine." Siobhàn flicked a hand and Driscoll departed. "And when was I to tell you—when you threatened Ian, when we settled the contracts or mayhaps during the ceremony?"

  Her condescending look angered him and he crossed to the chest, throwing it open and withdrawing his sword. "That will change today. Driscoll reports to me alone." He fastened the weapon in place. "You will not handle affairs of war."

  "Aye, you are best at that."

  At her biting tone, he twisted and met her gaze. "You expected different?"

  This is who I am, he was saying, and yet Siobhàn detected a plea for understanding. She took a step closer, yet he grabbed his gauntlets of chain mail and left the solar, calling for Reese, his armor and for DeClare and his wondrous sword.

  * * *

  Gaelan reined up. "Sweet Jesu." He had seen carnage before, been the maker of it, scented the stench of death, but this—these were not warriors. They were herders and woodsmen—families. His gaze moved over the bodies strewn like rag dolls on the ground, bent back over carts. A child no older than Connal lay under a bench, the wood shattered where a broad sword hacked through the child and speared the earth. Gaelan pulled his gaze away and met Driscoll's.

  "My suggestion is to burn it; do you agree?"

  Driscoll blinked, shocked at being consulted. "Aye." He started to dismount, but Gaelan stayed him with a wave.

  "We will tend to it, Irishman. Are there villages nearby, anyone who would have seen this?"

  Driscoll frowned in thought. "A small one, half this size. 'Tis but a half day's ride."

  "Take ten soldiers and seek information." Gaelan looked at Sir Mark. "Join him, and answer to Driscoll's will."

  Sir Mark nodded gravely and, with Driscoll, wheeled about and rode off.

  A half hour later, Gaelan watched the flames consume the tiny village, his men standing by to see that the fire did not leap to the forest. There was no reason for this. The livestock was butchered along with the owners, so it was not a raid to fatten a man's pens. The few citizens were too far north of the castle to know Gaelan had married Siobhàn yet, therefore it could not be a retaliation on him. Or could it? Could this be the Maguire's doing? Would he take his jealous vengeance out on these innocent people?

  Gaelan walked the perimeter, his hands on his hips, his gaze on the hoof prints. Firelight flickered off something shiny and he bent, digging in the damp earth. His scowl turned black and he shoved the item inside his breastplate, then headed to his horse.

  * * *

  Siobhàn stared out the window, searching the landscape.

  "I hope he is dead."

  Siobhàn gasped and twisted to look at her son. "Do not say such things!"

  "I do!"

  "Connal O'Rourke!" She marched over to his bedside and knelt, tucking him in like a bun in a basket. "I am shamed to hear such talk. 'Tis mean and a bad omen to wish death on a body."

  "Then I wish it twice!"

  She sighed heavily, calling on patience and smoothing the blanket over his tummy. "'Twill not change matters."

  "If he is dead, it will."

  "Nay. Another nobleman will come and the king will order me to wed him, too. And without an army, we are weak, Connal. Why do you think I let him in without a fight? They are too many, too strong. I could not risk our lives, laddie. Would you?"

  Connal was quiet for a moment, then muttered a stubborn, "Nay."

  "Good. Besides, we have what we need, a roof, food on the table, in your belly," she said, tickling him. "And we are protected from invaders, my sweet. Wed to him, I can make certain all are treated fair. With another, I might not. Tuigum?"

  Connal turned his face away and nodded, yet she knew her son, knew there was something else on his mind he was not speaking. Unwilling to press him, she kissed his forehead and left.

  Siobhàn entered her chambe
r, the emptiness of it making her feel more alone than before. They had been gone for two days with no word. And though she'd busied herself with storing the gifts and providing space for his things, she admitted she was growing worried. She snapped her fingers and Culhainn slunk from the bed, taking his position on the floor at its foot. Stripping off her clothes and crawling tiredly beneath the covers, she wanted to believe her worry stemmed from Driscoll being with them, that if aught happened to them, she would be facing another of Henry's knights and she was just growing accustomed to PenDragon's face.

  She rolled to her side, punched the pillow and sighed. I do not miss him, she vowed.

  A minute later she flopped on her back, then kicked off the covers, uncomfortably hot despite the cold spring air.

  Fine, she thought. She missed the big oaf. She missed sparring with him, the way he teased her, held her as if she would shatter like fine glass in his arms. Missed his kiss and the scent and taste of him.

  Leaving the bed, she moved to the window, throwing open the shutters, the blast of cold bracing to her hot skin. No man here spoke to her so candidly. No man looked upon her and made her feel like a woman instead of a leader. And she'd lain awake the past night tormented with thoughts of what had happened to him. Had they been ambushed again? Was Ian out there, laying in wait for just such a chance, for her husband to venture out with only forty men? She would not put the matter past him, considering the jealousy she'd witnessed. Had Lochlann defied the king's edict and joined her former betrothed against PenDragon? Nay, she thought. O'Niell and Maguire rarely saw eye to eye on aught, but the thought of them warring on her husband made her shiver. It would be a bloodbath.

  The guards called out; the trumpeters hailed. Siobhàn strained to see in the dark, then dashed to the chest, flipping it open, forgoing a shift and wiggling into a fresh gown. Jamming her feet into her slippers, she paused at the oval looking glass PenDragon had given her and finger combed her hair.

  She made a face in the glass, quickly fastening her girdle. "I am pitiful, aye, Culhainn?" She looked at the wolf in the glass, but the animal's only response was a shift of his eyes. The trumpets blasted again. "Come, beast."

  Lifting her skirts, Siobhàn raced to the stairs, waking the household and flinging orders for a bath and food brought to her chambers before heading outside. Culhainn barked at her heels as she crossed the inner bailey, excitement and relief clenching her stomach. The gates of the outer curtain swung wide, the thunder of hooves and clink of weapons and armor coloring the air. She stood back, her gaze searching the faces, the mounts, for the familiar. Her heart slammed at the sight of the dead man slung over the horse. His soldiers.

  Oh, God.

  She heard her name and her gaze swept the squad of knights and soldiers again. Then she saw him, his face blackened with smoke, his hand bleeding, and she darted between the jumble of horses and men, rushing forward.

  She froze a few feet from his mount. Her eyes misted. She did not know why, the devil take the man, but she was relieved he'd survived.

  Culhainn settled beside her on his haunches, his blue gaze moving between the two.

  Gaelan slid from the saddle, leaning back against it and simply looking his fill of her. God's bones, she was like a breath of spring air in the black of winter. "Greet me proper, wife." She lurched into his arms, her breasts mashed to his cold armor, and Gaelan tipped her head back and kissed her deeply, hungrily, her response weakening him in the pits of his soul. He did not question her greeting—they had a bargain in this marriage—yet she was all he could think about on the return, all he longed to touch, to feel her softness after so much death and destruction. The carnage had never bothered him before, yet this time, his only thought was, it could have been her.

  Drawing back, he kissed her once more, then tossed the reins to Reese and swept his arm around her waist, guiding her toward the inner bailey and away from the captured prisoners. He did not want to answer questions right now. Culhainn barked and Gaelan looked back, inclining his head, and the dog leaped, barking a greeting before dashing ahead to the keep.

  She caught his hand, examining it. "You are not injured elsewhere?"

  He shook his head, unable to find a bit of intelligent thought with her so close.

  "Alan, wake the dairy maids to bring three pails of milk to the hall," she ordered a passing servant, then to another said, "Ask Bridgett to warm the mutton from supper, and the bread." Inside the hall, Gaelan let her lead him through the maze of folk stirring from sleep and the knights filing tiredly inside.

  At the staircase, she stepped from his side and clapped. Attention swung to her. "Driscoll, 'twas unsafe to leave your wife and children alone. They are in the solar." He smiled brightly, glancing to the entrance as his woman emerged and with a cry, flung herself into his arms. "Stay here the night and rest, my friend." She looked at Brody, crooking her finger, and he joined with them to take the staircase. "Let Davis sleep, but see a tray is provided for Driscoll and his family. Have a cask of wine opened and tell Nova to lay out this evening's fare for the men. I know there was plenty, so send a portion out to the soldiers." Brody nodded as she mounted the steep steps, unconscious of her arm around her husband's waist. "Have I forgotten aught?"

  "Your husband," Brody said, leaping forward to push open the chamber door.

  Siobhàn tipped her head and met Gaelan's gaze.

  He smiled, the flash of white teeth against his sooty face looking sinister. "You are a bossy wench."

  "And you may scold me later, husband. You need a bath." She gave him a push inside, and after ordering Culhainn to remain with Connal, she closed the door. Gaelan halted where he was, his gaze moving around the room. The fire was high and glowing gold into the chamber, and a large tub sat near, water steaming the chilly air. Candles filled the room, showing a platter laden with dried fruit, bread, meat and cheese on the table with a pitcher of wine; the honeyed wine, he hoped. The bridal gifts were stored except for the carpet covering the stone floor, the tapestries on the walls, the mirror, a jewel box and chest of coins, the latter on an old carved desk, one from the mansard, polished and tucked in the corner, the back to the window. A tall chair stood behind it. His gaze swept farther and a knot thickened in his throat. His trunks were here, his extra sword on the mantel, his battered goblet having a place beside it as if 'twere made of gold and not tarnished pewter.

  He dragged his gaze to her.

  "Siobhàn?"

  She looked away, briefly. "Since Brody has my duties … I was … bored."

  He faced her, his armor scraping as he lifted his hand to her face. He drew a line across her cheek, down to her lips. Gaelan was so deeply touched he could not speak. No one had provided for him like this, seen to his comfort, and he was beginning to understand the true benefits of a wife—save one.

  "You are my husband," she confessed under his probing gaze. "I saw no reason not to treat you as I would any other of my folk. I apologize for my neglect."

  "My thanks, Siobhàn." He bent to steal a kiss and she pushed at his chest, turning her face away, then cocked a glance.

  "You reek, my lord."

  He smiled. "You do not. By God, you smell like flowers." And home, he thought as she wiggled out of his arms.

  "And you may too, if you wish. Come sit." She toed a stool to the center of the room and he guessed her intent.

  "The armor is too heavy. Send for Reese, if you like."

  "He is currying your horse. I can do this."

  "'Tis not necessary, Siobhàn. I can remove it." Her look doubted, yet he unbuckled his sword belt, laying it in the open chest, then loosened the leather straps hinging him into the metal suit. She watched as with practiced speed, he removed the vambraces from his arms, the greaves covering his shins and thighs, then reached behind his head and lifted the breast- and backplate. He held it out to her and Siobhàn grasped it, the weight of it driving her backwards. Gaelan leapt to catch her, taking the metal shield and setting it down carefully.


  "You did that a'purpose."

  He grinned. "There are some things a woman cannot do, Siobhàn."

  She eyed him. There was a message in there somewhere, but with his arms around her, his eyes looking so soft and tender, she could not find it.

  "Sweet Mary, how do you walk under that mammoth weight, let alone climb astride your horse?" She scooted away from his touch and crossed to the table, pouring wine.

  "Practice." Gaelan dispatched his boots.

  "The Irish fight wearing only a tunic." She glanced up, smiling. "The Scots do it naked."

  "Godless heathens," he muttered on a smile. "No protection."

  "Ahh, but quiet." She smiled a bit smugly. "You likely alert the entire countryside clanking about in that."

  Gaelan watched as she came to him, offering him the goblet. He accepted, draining it without stopping, soothing his smoke-dry throat before handing back the cup. "Is that for me?" He nodded to the tub, pulling off his chain mail.

  "I am not the one who stinks."

  He sent her a false scowl, then walked toward the tub, stripping off his clothes as he did, and Siobhàn sighed, following the trail of hauberk, leather tunic, sweaty shirt, stilling when she scooped his braies off the carpet. She straightened, lifting her gaze to him.

  "Jager me," she whispered, and he looked up, peeling muslin trunks down. Bare, Gaelan stared at her, his body reacting to her perusal with amazing swiftness.

  Her gaze swept him, remaining briefly on his arousal, and her expression turned almost eager.

  "Do not look at me like that, Siobhàn, or I will break my promise."

  Her gaze snapped to his and she brushed past, refusing to look down again. She'd already garnered an eye full of his masculine attributes. And my stars, he was huge. Yet she could not get the image out of her mind and she thanked God for the reprieve when he stepped into the bath, sinking with a groan. Gripping his clothes, she smothered one of her own. Every inch of him was honed with muscle, his chest sculpted, his stomach ribbed, his arms and legs like long twists of thick rope. Even his hips were sinewy. And between … oh lady, spare me this aching, please, she thought, her breasts suddenly throbbing to be handled, the wool gown rough against her nipples. Her skin grew hotter than usual and, dropping the clothes, she moved to the window, throwing open the shutters. She told herself she would find no pleasure in bedding with him, that he would likely rip her in half when the time came, yet her body refused to listen, rushing with blood. She wrapped her arms about her waist, trying to smother her sudden trembling.