His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) Page 10

  “Alone in the great hall with a lot of soldiers?” gasped Fiona.

  Maeve frowned, seeing the problem in that. “Let us find her, shall we?”

  Fiona hesitated. She looked back at a largely pregnant Jana, then to Maeve again. They both nodded. Finally, reluctantly, she followed.

  * * * *

  Inside the great hall, Kieran greeted the lieutenant from the English army in Dublin.

  A few days past, he had realized the army at Langmore would need reinforcements to hold the castle in case of rebel attack and had requested more men, particularly until the curtain walls could be raised for their defense. Today, they had arrived, and he could breathe more easily now.

  Maeve was another tale altogether.

  As if the thought of her conjured up his wife, Maeve stepped into the great hall, Fiona by her side.

  His wife looked about the room, past all the soldiers, sparing barely a glance for him. Finally, she found her youngest sister in the corner, giggling with Colm and drinking a mug of ale.

  With purpose in her stride, Maeve made her way to Brighid.

  Kieran wondered if she was aware of all the male eyes of appreciation following her.

  The soldiers also gazed at Fiona with rapt eyes. But where Maeve had ignored such stares, Fiona stood rooted in place, her face ashen. She seemed to tremble, gaze fixed on a pair of men who eyed her with more interest than most.

  True, she did not seem one who wanted much attention, but she looked more than merely overwhelmed. He frowned. Did she think the soldiers would harm her here? Now?

  When Fiona swayed where she stood and began to crumple to the ground, Kieran raced to catch her. He narrowly saved her head from hitting the hard floor.

  Maeve dashed to his side, Brighid’s hand in hers. “What happened?”

  “I know not. Take Brighid away. I will bring Fiona up.”

  With a worried glance at Fiona, then Brighid, Maeve nodded and disappeared up the stairs.

  Behind him, Kieran heard several men laugh.

  “Sent her right into a swoon, Freddy,” joked one lanky man missing two front teeth.

  “That we did,” answered Freddy, a dark-haired swain with a barrel chest.

  Irritation swept through him. The girl had fainted. ’Twas no matter to laugh at.

  He turned to reprimand them. “Shut your mouths, both of you.”

  Their laughter ceased immediately.

  “Aye, my lord,” Freddy said.

  To all the soldiers, he said, “Sit. The maids will bring you ale and a small repast. When I return, I will give you further assignments.”

  As all the men ambled to the benches to do Kieran’s bidding, he left the great hall to take Fiona to her chamber.

  Once there, he laid the girl down upon her bed. Still she moved not. She looked like a fragile bird, one whose wings had been broken. One who would rather see death than face life.

  Concerned, Kieran snapped his fingers next to Fiona’s ear.

  A moment later, she began to open her eyes and moan.

  Upon seeing him, she bolted upright and gazed around the room, blue eyes glassy and wide.

  To know she was not ill should have been enough to convince him to leave Fiona to recover on her own. But the panic on her face gave him pause.

  “What is it?” he asked, voice low. When she did not reply, he pressed on. “What is it you fear?”

  Realizing they were alone, Fiona fixed her gaze solely on him. The terror in her eyes shook him, startled him.

  “Release me, please.”

  Her voice shook so violently Kieran could scarce understand her.

  He did as she asked but could not keep his alarmed gaze from her wounded expression.

  “What is it you fear?”

  “’Tis naught.” She tried to smile. “Too many people in a room overwhelm me.”

  She lied. He knew that by the way she glanced at her shaking hands, the way her voice held forced cheer. He more than suspected it had to do with the Englishmen.

  “Why do you fear the soldiers?”

  At his question, her eyes widened with horror. “I-I do not. I—”

  “You do,” he countered softly. “I saw you. I watched your response to the one called Freddy and his friend.”

  At that, Fiona’s eyes became huge pools of terror.

  Kieran watched her, wondering what in Hades’ name he should do. A part of him wanted not to become involved in Fiona’s struggle, whatever it was. But somehow, he could not leave the terrified girl.

  By Saint Peter’s toes, Aric was wise, knew when to be gentle, how to soothe when necessary. Even Drake, who had an uncanny ability to ferret out people’s thoughts and motives, would know what to do with Fiona.

  He, however, had no damned idea.

  Slowly, he reached for her hands and took them in his. Her palms were icy, clammy. She flinched at his touch.

  Then she tried to jerk from his grasp, began shaking her head violently from side to side.

  “Nay!” she screamed. “Do not touch me.”

  Kieran held fast. “Freddy and his friend, did they hurt you?”

  She only struggled more. “Do not ask me. Please!”

  The answer was clear in what she tried not to say. His ire soared. Aye, he might have seduced more than a few women in his life. But he had never wanted to incite fear, never hit one, never taken one by force.

  Suddenly he feared something like that had happened to young Fiona.

  “They hurt you,” he stated, willing her to tell him all.

  She said naught. Tears began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Color returned to her face as despair and something that tore at Kieran’s gut took over. Her whole body trembled with these silent tears. Kieran’s anger multiplied.

  “They hit you?” he asked.

  Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. More tears fell—one, two.

  Then she nodded.

  Kieran kept his curse to himself. “Did they rape you?”

  This time, Fiona tensed and paused for a long minute. She seemed not to breathe. Her chin trembled with an effort to hold in more tears, to hold in her words.

  “Tell me. You can trust me,” he assured. “I will never hurt you.”

  “I can trust no one,” she cried. “If-if my family knew…Flynn would seek rev-revenge. They would kill him—mayhap all of us—for it.”

  Gripping Fiona’s hands, Kieran willed the girl to calm, to understand he was not her enemy. He willed the girl to tell him the truth.

  “Did Freddy and his friend rape you?”

  A long moment passed. Fiona’s eyes slid shut. She bit her lip as if to keep the words within.

  “I will tell no one,” he vowed. “I but ask you to tell me the truth, lass. Did they?”

  A terrible moment passed and the tears came again, now in a stream.

  Finally, silently, she nodded.

  “Both of them?”

  More tears fell, wetting her ravaged face. Tight white fists came up to block her desolate face.

  She nodded once more.

  Kieran felt anger explode within him. Fiona was a fragile creature, at six and ten barely a woman. They had stripped the innocence from her and replaced it with fear. They had left her with a terrible secret to bear, lest her brother die defending her honor.

  And the awful deed would not go unpunished.

  “When?” he asked softly.

  “Six months p-past.” Her voice shook, but she continued. “Before his arrest, the last earl came to L-Langmore and brought soldiers. I was in-in the garden alone…”

  He needed no more information to know Freddy and his partner had attacked the girl, who had been unaware of the dangers warring men who craved power presented.

  Fiona was not unaware of such dangers now, damn them.

  He had known such deeds happened after battle. ’Twas not uncommon for triumphant soldiers to conquer the female half of the vanquished, pillaging and raping. Though he had always found such dist
asteful and refused to participate, he had left the others to their whims.

  Clearly, he’d been very wrong.

  Those men did not engage in mere sport, but fright and pain and suffering—the kind he saw in Fiona’s eyes.

  Squeezing her hands, he tried to soothe her with his voice. “They will not hurt you again.”

  Fiona closed her eyes against him.

  Still, he kept talking. “I vow this.”

  Nodding, Fiona squeezed his hands in return, then released them to sit up.

  When she looked away, gaze cast down to the floor, Kieran knew she wanted to be alone.

  “Fiona?” Maeve called from the door suddenly.

  His wife caught sight of her sister’s wet face and raced to her side. “Oh, sweet sister, what ails you?”

  Fiona did not answer but hugged Maeve instead in silent healing.

  Kieran stood. Maeve looked up from her sister’s embrace and shot him an accusing look, one that asked what he had done to make Fiona cry.

  The irritating wench! Could she not see he had but tried to help? Nay, for she was convinced he was the enemy. And Kieran wanted to defend himself, but he could not…without giving away Fiona’s secret.

  With a curse, he headed out the door. Maeve he would deal with later. Now he had justice on his mind.

  * * * *

  Later that night, Maeve paced her husband’s chamber, waiting for him to appear. ’Twould seem she had guessed wrong about him again. Instead of inciting her sister’s tears in some fit of meanness, as she had assumed, Kildare alone had found a way to convince Fiona to spill the secret of her troubles.

  Maeve had wondered these past months why her sister had nightmares, spent more time in church than ever, reviled the attention of all men.

  Now she knew, for Fiona had told her, as well.

  The thought made her want to cry. Her dear sister raped by two English ruffians.

  No wonder she had suffered.

  Against Fiona’s wishes, Maeve had gone in search of Flynn to tell him. Aye, she, too, feared Flynn would exact revenge, but Maeve hoped she could make him see reason.

  Her brother, however, was nowhere to be found. One of the army’s soldiers, still loyal to the rebellion, had said he’d left only hours past to see to business.

  Maeve was not surprised, for the notes she had recently scribed told her the rebellion had plans to free their men imprisoned in Dublin and wage a final battle, the latter of which she opposed—and had told Flynn so. She wanted him here for their wounded sister today.

  A sound at the portal interrupted Maeve’s thoughts. She looked up to see Kildare.

  His tunic sat askew upon his wide shoulders. His hair lay rumpled, and blood dotted the corner of his mouth. A bruise was forming on his jaw. He wore a huge grin, the kind he’d worn after thrashing Flynn on the day of his arrival.

  She frowned. But she knew well Flynn was not at Langmore this night. Who might Kildare have been sparring with now?

  “Hello, sweet Maeve. Waiting for me like a good wife?”

  Folding her hands before her, Maeve forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand, not the remembrance of their last kiss.

  “I-I would thank you for persuading Fiona to tell us of the tragedy that befell her.”

  Kildare nodded, his face suddenly sober. “How is she?”

  “Calmer now, though she still blames herself and I cannot understand why.”

  “She had naught to do with it,” he agreed, wiping away the blood trickling from his mouth.

  “What happened to you? Another fight?” The thought irritated her. Did the man have naught better to do than show his prowess with his fists?

  He shrugged. “Merely seeing to a little discipline in the ranks. Naught of merit.”

  In other words, fighting. And whether he called it discipline or a rowdy scuffle, ’twas still all done with force and fists and violence. Done like a beast until the soldiers were forced to fight back to defend themselves, most likely.

  “Is fighting all you know?”

  He paused as if the question confused him. “What ask you?”

  His total bafflement vexed her, and she found herself clenching her fists.

  “Can you not find amusement besides pounding others with your fists, you mucker?”

  “Mucker, am I? That is grave. But since you’ve denied me the…amusement I most seek—”

  “You may leave all references to sex out of this.”

  “I may?” he mocked. “What if I do not wish to?”

  Throwing her hands up in the air, Maeve sighed. “Why did I think I could simply thank you for discovering Fiona’s worries and finishing Jana’s cradle?”

  Kildare took a gentle grip on her arms. “Maeve, I but tease you.”

  She clenched her jaw, clearly angry. “Why do you fight so much? What have you to gain?”

  Pausing, Kildare wiped the smile from his face. “From the time I was eight, I lived with the earl of Rothgate in training. My closest friends are warriors. Here”—he held up his palm to show her a small scar running its length—“this is where I took vows of blood to protect and care for them like brothers. I’ve known battle my whole life. It is what men understand, Maeve.”

  “Quaid was never so full of bloodlust.”

  Kieran gritted his teeth at the man’s name on Maeve’s tongue. “I am certain your half of our hour is near done. Since you chose to spend yours berating me, I choose to spend mine sleeping. So I bid you good night, sweet Maeve. Unless you wish to join me in my bed.”

  Maeve shivered at his seductive tone. She tried to tell herself it was revulsion, for who could want a warring man so primal and primitive?

  Who would not want a man who could kiss with all the sweetness of spiced mead, who tasted like pure temptation?

  Ignoring the troublesome voice in her head, Maeve left him and went below to the great hall. There she would wait for Flynn. Anything to avoid her vexatious husband.

  At the corner table sat two men, both blue and swollen and bloodied. She shuddered.

  Dear God, what had happened to them?

  Beside them, another Englishman saw her reaction and laughed. “Looks like your face ain’t pleasing to the ladies, Freddy, now that Kildare tousled you well and good.”

  Fiona had told Maeve that a man named Freddy and another soldier had raped her. These bruised men had brutalized her sister? Anger and a shocking need for vengeance pricked her. Then she realized Kildare had mauled these toads’ faces with his fists. For Fiona?

  “Close your mewling mouth, Benny,” hissed Freddy.

  Benny kept on laughing. “You look as ugly as my mother’s feet. Between that and the rebuke Kildare made about touching the women at Langmore, ’tis likely you’ll be an old man afore you bed another wench.”

  “You’ll be as old as me, you damn fool. Shut up.”

  As if Freddy had not spoken, Benny kept laughing.

  Maeve turned away, stunned.

  Kieran had punished Fiona’s rapists? He had told the men to not touch the women of Langmore? Such sounded as if he protected them from men of his own kind, warring men, Englishmen. Why?

  Had he thought Fiona’s plight as terrible as she? Maeve could not conceive the man of Kieran’s teasing, bloodthirsty nature would consider her sister’s attack aught but the spoils of war.

  Had she misjudged him once more?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kildare spent the following day, all day, with the soldiers, training for the battle Maeve prayed would not come. She wanted peace for Ireland—and that included a peaceable solution to the differences in the Pale now.

  As ferocious as her husband looked practicing war, she feared he’d be doubly lethal on a battlefield.

  Sighing, Maeve dismissed the thought and paced his chamber. Surely he would show up soon. Then she might find out, once and for all, what manner of a man he was. Now she could not decide between the arrogant, unfeeling rogue who had taken her to wife without a word of he
r consent, or the man who had completed a coming baby’s cradle, helped her wounded sister, then punished the bastards for their crimes.

  Maeve could hardly imagine Kieran was both these men, but that possibility looked confoundingly real.

  The swish of the door alerted Maeve to a presence. She turned to find her husband striding into the room, his graceful economy of motion all the more evident by the muscled swells and sinews of his bare torso.

  Maeve did her best to look away.

  “If you’ve come to accuse me of some other misdeed, I will tell you I’m far too tired to hear it,” he nearly groaned.

  She frowned at the many questions racing through her head. Aye, they had Fiona’s matter to discuss, but one query leaped into her mind and would not quiet until she had the answer, one which might tell her so much about him.

  “If you do not like the training, why be a warrior? It’s bloody business anyway.”

  He nodded as he poured some water into a bowl upon his trestle table. “Aye, but battle itself makes a man’s blood race. There is naught like besting a worthy opponent.”

  Maeve frowned at him. The man was ever a puzzle. She understood him not at all. Battle made his blood race? It sounded trying to one’s nerves, not an event to anticipate.

  “Besides the fact I must train to prepare this army, naught beats a hard day’s work to divert my energies.”

  “Divert your energies from what?”

  He splashed water on his face, then wiped it dry with a cloth at his side. When he looked at her again, water had spiked his brown hair hanging over his forehead, as well as his lashes. His blue-green eyes danced with sudden mischief.

  “From the fact that I have eleven days before I might claim you in our bed.”

  She swallowed against his words, for they incited a burn of anticipation that made little sense. Had she gone mad? Had Kieran driven her to insanity with his hot, spiced kisses? With wondering how his hands might feel upon her flesh?

  Repressing the reckless feeling, she looked away from his bare skin and changed the subject. “My lord—”

  “Kieran,” he all but sighed.

  She smiled. “I accused you of misdeeds yesterday, and I know now I was wrong. I came to express my gratitude for what you did for Fiona—and to her attackers.”