His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) Page 9

  The hope and misgiving on her face told Kieran she was uncertain. “’Tis no problem of yours if the wee one has nowhere to sleep.”

  “But it is. As lord here, I’m to see that all at Langmore are cared for. Besides, your chamber is not far from mine. If your mite is unhappy at night, ’tis likely none of us will sleep well.”

  Kieran did his best to send her a teasing grin. Jana responded with a weak smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He waved her thanks away. “Think naught of it. Rest now.”

  With a nod, Jana rose and left him with the cradle.

  * * * *

  At midday, Maeve lifted her head from her reading and went to the great hall in search of a bit of bread to ease her hunger from Ash Wednesday fasting. She prayed she would not see her new husband.

  When she entered the great hall and found Kildare shirtless, she knew her prayers had been heard not at all. In fact, ’twas as if God took great pleasure in placing enticement in her path.

  Maeve stared at the wide expanse of Kildare’s muscled back as he bent over something he blocked with the breadth of his body. His torso tapered down to a lean waist, marked here and there with idle scars. His discarded shirt lay in a heap at his feet, and a fine sheen of sweat now covered the skin his shirt did not.

  Rhythmically, he worked at something with a small knife—some wood, she suspected from the sounds. With each movement, his wide shoulders flexed. The hard flesh of his back and arms rippled.

  Maeve’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She had never seen such a well-built man. She tried to remember something that her mother had always said. “Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat.” But she could not deny he was a very attractive goat.

  Crossing herself for such lascivious thoughts on a religious day, Maeve began to back out of the room.

  Suddenly, Kildare tossed the knife on the table before him, rolled the tension from his shoulders, and turned.

  He caught her staring.

  But his chest only drew her gaze more. The firm bulges of his shoulders and the hard swells of flesh sculpting his chest prefaced the ridges of his tight abdomen.

  Then he smiled that grin, as if he knew a secret and wanted to whisper naughty words across her skin as he held her naked against him.

  Dear God, this perfectly formed man was her husband? How was she to resist such masculinity, coupled with his bawdy humor, his energy, his smile?

  She must remember he hailed from England. He was here to subjugate the Irish. He could see Quaid dead tomorrow, if he wished it. And he had no aversion to battle.

  How could such a man capture her attention?

  Quaid had always been gentle, soft-spoken, sharing her serious nature.

  Aye, and he had never ensnared her interest so deeply.

  “A good day to you, sweet Maeve. Did you cease speaking to me altogether, or is your muteness momentary?”

  Kildare teased her, as if he could read her restless, confused thoughts.

  Maeve closed her eyes in mortification. ’Twas likely he could read her mind. No doubt her thoughts were plain upon her face. She held in a grunt of frustration.

  “As I’ve said, I am not your sweet anything,” she snapped and began to walk around him, toward the kitchen.

  When she spotted Jana’s baby cradle perched upon the table beside Kildare, she paused. Was he so heartless as to take a bed from a babe not yet born? He had no use for the cradle.

  “What do you do with that? Her babe will come any day, and she will have need of it.”

  He nodded, the glint in his dark hair shining by firelight. Maeve wondered if ’twas as silky to the touch as it looked, then thrust the thought away.

  She was not a simpleminded girl to lose her head over an enemy possessed of more brawn than heart. She was an O’Shea, the most learned in her family. In her heart, she was betrothed to another, so had no reason to ogle the man, especially a man who would take a cradle from a babe.

  Kildare frowned. “I am finishing the cradle, not taking it from her.”

  Glancing down at the baby bed, Maeve could see now the remaining corners were rounded for rocking, as they had not been before. In fact, he had added some curves to the spindles and finished the rough edges off. It looked beautiful.

  Geralt, God rest his soul, had not much talent with wood. Kildare, however, did. ’Twas no surprise the man was good with his hands.

  At that thought, she swallowed.

  Maeve looked at her husband again and could not look away from his striking blue-green eyes—and the consideration within them. Something within her softened, despite her wishes.

  Why, blast him, had he done something kind?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kieran stared at the marks in his candle-clock, waiting eagerly for Maeve to come to his chamber. He had no notion what she might do with her half of their hour together.

  He had a fine idea of what to do with his.

  But since he agreed to give her at most a fortnight before consummating their marriage, he would have to content himself with less—for now.

  Frowning, he tried to recall a time he had done something with a woman as comely as Maeve other than take her immediately to his bed. Naught came to mind.

  With a yawn, he glanced past the open door, down the narrow hall. No sign of his bride.

  Annoyance chafed him. The first of their hours alone, and already she defied him. Somehow, Kieran felt no surprise.

  Making his way out the door with a mutter, he strode down the hall until he reached the chamber Maeve shared with Fiona.

  The door stood ajar and he peeked in.

  There Flynn stood, chest puffed forward, looking mightily pleased with himself. Maeve stood before him, holding a rolled parchment, wearing an expression of giddy surprise.

  “How did this reach you?” she asked her brother.

  “Don’t be tellin’ me you don’t have faith in me now.”

  Maeve frowned. “I have faith in you, Flynn.”

  “At times,” he grumbled. “All will be well this time, I swear to you, Maeve.”

  “How?” she asked, lifting her uncertain gaze from the page to Flynn’s face once more. “I know naught of any plan.”

  “Worry not. I will keep my promise.”

  As answers went, Flynn’s told Kieran little, except that Flynn had likely promised Maeve he would see to Quaid’s release, which he had already suspected. The conversation said naught of who was involved in this rebellion or how they planned to thwart the English charges against Maeve’s betrothed.

  He knew Maeve had received a message, most likely of a personal nature, from a man whose bed she had shared. And from the manner in which she clutched the note, Kieran guessed his wife was happy to have it.

  Disappointment pierced him, and his reaction chafed. Naturally, he expected loyalty and fidelity in a wife. Knowing his own bride felt joy receiving the court of another lover left him unsettled. Any man would understand that. ’Twas no more than his attempt to protect that which was now his.

  “Thank you, Flynn.”

  “Read the missive now. I’m off to a late supper.”

  Hiding in the hall’s dark shadows, he watched Maeve nod and Flynn slip out of her chamber. A moment later, she unrolled the note and thrust on her spectacles. Through the curved lenses, he watched her gaze move quickly over the page.

  Her expressions changed. Smiling one moment, frowning the next. Distress followed, then a gasp. Finally came the expression that irritated him most—wistfulness. Her animated face and soft mouth said she longed for the man. The thought made Kieran want to growl and rip the note from her hands.

  Why?

  And why was he, a grown warrior, crouching in hallways to see what his own wife was about? Aye, he did not want the wife, at least not forever. Nor did he truly want the castle. But they were his now, and by damn, he would hold them.

  Striding forward, he entered the room and shot her an accusing stare. “What do you read, Wife?�
�

  Maeve jumped, then rolled the parchment quickly. She looked at him, though her gaze did not meet his eyes. “’Tis naught, my lord.”

  “Kieran,” he bit out.

  She nodded. “I did not see you at supper.”

  “The men and I were training. I would ask who sent you that note in your hands.”

  “This?” She held up the parchment casually. “’Tis but a letter from a distant cousin that Flynn received. He asked me to reply.”

  Maeve’s smile was a nervous one as she turned away, as if dismissing the subject. Dismissing him.

  Kieran refused to have any of that. “What does Quaid say to you?”

  She whirled back to him, golden eyes wide. She opened her mouth, as if to reply, but no words came forth.

  “Does he vow devotion, my sweet Maeve?”

  “I know not of what you speak.”

  “Rubbish. Quaid sent that note. Flynn brought it to you.”

  Again, she paused in silence. Kieran watched the pulse flutter at her throat. She swallowed. Her hands tightened around the parchment.

  “Quaid has always vowed devotion,” Maeve said finally.

  With an angry shake of his head, Kieran cursed. “Once, he had the right to vow such. No more.”

  “Just as you had no right to begin the raising of Langmore’s curtain walls, but you did anyway.”

  Kieran had no wish to be a ruffian with her on this. Quaid had written the note. Aye, she had received it, but ’twas up to him to cease others from coming, lest her connection to the other man stayed strong.

  “The walls are of no consequence. Their raising will make Langmore less vulnerable to attack, which is my right—and my duty. O’Toole, however, is of consequence to me. Write him and tell him you’ve married.”

  She paused, jaw tensing, before she said, “I had planned to do that. He has a right to know.”

  “The only right he has is to stop courting you.”

  Finally, Maeve looked at him. In fact, glared, her turbulent gaze on his face. “Why behave as if Quaid’s feelings for me—or mine for him—matter to you? You have Langmore at your feet, an army ready at your call. For all your charm, I doubt you came here wanting me as a wife. And someday, probably in less than a month, you will be bedding every kitchen maid and smithy’s wife who will have you. Can you not leave me be?”

  She was exceedingly keen and free with her tongue. Somehow, that only irritated Kieran more.

  “You would have me allow my own wife to cavort with her lover—”

  “We can hardly cavort while you and the rest of the English dogs have him under lock and key!”

  Her shout echoed off the stone walls and undoubtedly through the open door into the halls. He wanted no one aware of his business. Damnation, he had no desire to deal with it himself.

  But deal with it—and her—he would.

  Turning, he kicked the door shut, then faced her again. She looked startled, uncertain. And through it all, he found her uncommonly lovely. Auburn lashes framed her wide golden eyes, which brimmed with intelligence and rightness.

  How could she believe herself right to pine for Quaid O’Toole when the man was not her husband?

  Mayhap she needed a reminder of what she missed in asking to keep their marriage unconsummated.

  Kieran focused his intent gaze upon her face and walked slowly to her.

  He came close. She backed up a step. Aye, he made her nervous, and with good reason, he supposed. For he was none too happy now. It must show.

  Did it also show that, despite her disloyalty to him in thought, he wanted her still?

  “The only person you will ever cavort with from now on, my sweet Maeve, is me.”

  “I am not like a”—she threw up her hands, flustered—“a horse. You cannot command my every movement, and you cannot own me in such a way.”

  “The law says otherwise,” he tossed back.

  “As I’ve always said, your English laws are foolish!”

  “By marriage, they are your laws now. So you will tell Quaid you are well wed now and to cease his correspondence. And you, Wife, will cavort with only me.”

  Kieran took hold of her arm and used it to bring her against him.

  Maeve’s head snapped back, eyes widening. She gasped and a shiver raced through her.

  His body throbbing with lust, Kieran bent to her and took her lips with his own in a rush of breaths.

  Possessing, sliding, seeking, his lips glided over her moist mouth. A soft press here, a nibble there. He curved his arms around her middle, hands on the small of her back, pressing her ever closer.

  His next kiss was deeper, hungrier. He felt like a man starved who intended to make her his banquet. Suddenly, he floated in hazy pleasure, aware somehow he had wanted this, wanted her this way, all along.

  Clasping his fingers upon her face, he touched her, swept his caress down her throat…and lower. She responded to the demand of his kiss, staying with his insistent rhythm. Yet he kept the pressure light enough that she might yearn for more.

  With a mewling sound in the back of her throat, Maeve leaned into him. The sound vibrated through his aroused body. She seemed to seek that bit he withheld, more of the pleasure that intoxicated his senses, too. He groaned at the thought of giving such to her.

  The tips of her breasts stiffened against his chest, through her soft garments. And he could think of naught but touching her until she cried out with a want that equaled his.

  Determined to have just that, his teasing finger swirled around the edge of her nipple once, twice. She stiffened and leaned into his touch, her every sense seemingly attuned to him.

  Then he encompassed her in broad palms, taking both breasts into his hands, rippling his thumbs back and forth across their tips. She panted beneath him, her mouth pressed to his as if asking for succor.

  “Aye, sweet Maeve,” he whispered as he trailed kisses from the corner of her mouth to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “Show me your fire.”

  Maeve hesitated, then arched her neck. He kissed his way to her throat, until his lips and teeth tantalized fragrant skin, toyed with her ear, shooting another shiver down her back.

  Aye, now her body wanted him, even if her mind did not.

  Suddenly, she stiffened, then broke away from his embrace. Backing away, chest heaving, she gulped in large breaths of air. Her wide golden eyes seemed to accuse him of something heinous.

  “Leave me,” she demanded.

  Kieran frowned. “We will share a bed, Maeve.”

  She shook her head. “Your seduction is well practiced, my lord. You can make any woman want your touch, so find another, one willing. I vow I will resist, for my mind is stronger. It will not let me forget you are the enemy.”

  “I am your husband,” he countered.

  At that truth, Maeve closed her eyes. “You have done your duty to King Henry in taking a bride. Please leave me be.”

  Though Kieran had not done his full duty to the king, since his bride did not breed yet, he saw no reason to anger Maeve by telling her thus. She would only resist him more if she knew the king thought her much like a brood mare. Instead, he dropped his hands from her and stepped away.

  “This marriage is sudden for you. And I have agreed to give you a fortnight to reconcile yourself to our union. In exchange for this, you agreed to spend an hour alone with me each night. Keep up your part of the bargain, Maeve, and I will do the same. But never think I will leave you to your lover.”

  Kieran knew he was angrier than he should be. Somehow that only made him angrier still, for Maeve had that effect on him, blast her. When he was with her, emotions seemed more common, more vivid.

  He hated it.

  Perhaps, ’twould be best if he let her be—at least until tomorrow night.

  * * * *

  The following morn, Maeve was still shaking from that kiss. Body and mind warred until she felt exhausted.

  She cried at the injustice of feeling such desire for Kildare a
nd not her own betrothed. Why? Why could Quaid rouse naught in her but a loyalty to the Irish cause and an abiding friendship? Always she had known they were destined to wed. Always she had refused the advances of others because of it. Quaid cared for her. His was a kind soul. And he loved her.

  How, then, could she kiss and crave a man who would cheer at Quaid’s hanging and do his best to coax her into his bed for little more than the sport of it?

  The sounds of horses, many of them, riding toward Langmore interrupted her thoughts. Curious, she left the comfort of her bed, despite the morning chill, to open her shutters and peek out the narrow window.

  English soldiers, about two dozen of them. Damnation, what could they want here?

  Her heart began to race. Had they come to arrest Flynn?

  Maeve knew she must hide Quaid’s last missive to her—and hide it well. Mayhap such would protect her brother. As she turned away, she collided with Fiona, who peered out the window in wide-eyed horror, countenance chalky white.

  No O’Shea liked the English, true. But Fiona seemed a bit more afraid than the others. Then again, her quiet nature had never provided for outright bravery.

  “Come,” she said to her sister. “We will dress and sit in the solar.”

  “Nay,” resisted Fiona.

  “We must appear as if we have naught to hide,” Maeve insisted. “We must appear as if we have not a care.”

  Fiona looked at her, stricken. Finally, she nodded, then turned away.

  Maeve sighed with relief, but her sister’s reaction worried her. Aye, Fiona had always been the quiet one. But she did not like this fear.

  Pondering the matter as she dressed, Maeve could think of naught that made sense.

  Shrugging, she waited for Fiona to finish dressing, then took her by the hand and led her to the solar. Thankfully, Jana was already there. Their gazes met, and Maeve realized her elder sister had decided a group of sewing ladies would rouse less suspicion than those going over household accounts—and a rebel missive or two.

  “Where is Brighid?” she whispered.

  “Breaking her fast, I think.”