His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (16 page)

They were alive, thanks in part to Kieran’s help. All would be well now with Jana.

“You did more than yell,” she assured Kildare. “You helped.” At his dubious expression, she rushed on. “Truly. I was most fearful until you came.”

Kieran shrugged, as if he could not conceive how she believed such but would not argue again.

The babe soon tired, as did Jana. Ismenia took him from his mother’s arms, then washed the infant.

Kieran curled his arm around Maeve’s waist and led her away. “Come. They need us no more.”

Without a word, Maeve followed Kieran to his chamber.

Once there, quiet fell between them, but she sensed no tension, only…gladness.

As he poured wine, she ambled to the window and looked out. In the hours during the babe’s birth, night had fallen completely over the land, tossing milky stars into a blue-black sky. The moon hung high, casting a silvery glow over the hill-dotted landscape she knew so well. ’Twas so quiet she heard frogs croak. In the distance, she heard the River Barrow trickle. Not even a breeze disturbed the cool air. She sighed with the peace of it.

Tonight seemed as if God had declared a holiday from strife. He had brought forth a new child into the O’Shea fold upon an eve so blessed, harmony sang in her veins. ’Twas as if calm enveloped Ireland and the walls of Langmore. Though she knew it was all temporary, a fleeting illusion, it still made her smile.

Kieran put a cup into her hand, and she sent him a tired smile. “You did very well by your sister.”

She shrugged. “I am glad they are alive and the boy looks healthy.”

“He does. He looks like a boy she can be proud of.”

Maeve nodded, and Kieran’s hand came up to soothe her back, first in a gentle caress, then a firm stroke, easing tension from her tired muscles. He sent his fingers over her shoulders, about her tight neck, as he sipped wine.

A lazy contentment stole through her, a combination of the day’s life-changing events and Kieran’s easing caress.

Had she ever imagined his touch would rouse aught but apprehension or passion? Nay, but now that she had felt his comfort, she was loath to let it go. She should—she knew that. But right now, she could not deny herself such small solace.

She closed her eyes, feeling his hands upon her and languor wash through her.

“You amaze me,” he said softly.

“Me?” she queried, opening her eyes a fraction.

Then she saw his gaze focused on her face, her mouth. Her lips tingled in anticipation of his kiss.

Instead, he spoke. “You are brave and smart and kind. You care for your family.”

Against her will, she flushed upon hearing his praise. “I do only what I believe to be right.”

“You keep Langmore and your family together.”

She frowned. “You would do no less.”

Disagreement flickered across his face, but he said naught, simply continued his questing fingers over her back, fluid now where stiffness had so recently reigned.

As he gazed upon her, a new tension slid through her, one she welcomed in a way she did not understand. She opened her eyes to regard him with honesty and all the uncertainty and need within her.

As if he read the emotions in her eyes, he swallowed. He wore no teasing grin tonight as he eased his thumb along her nape. The pleasure of it seemed to steal straight to her heart, and she melted closer to him.

“Sweet Maeve,” he breathed, brushing the hair away from her face as he leaned closer, closer.

He pressed his mouth to hers. Tonight, there was no hurry in his kiss, only a soft hunger, a joy for life she, too, felt. ’Twas a yearning she could not resist answering.

With a brush of his lips, he claimed her mouth again, his tongue dusting her lower lip with a light stroke.

Maeve felt it all the way to her belly—and lower. She opened her lips to meet him, needing to taste him. Tonight she would think about naught, tomorrow and yesterday be damned.

Thought disappeared as he accepted her invitation with a groan. His tongue made a sweep through her mouth that was somehow lazy and thorough at once. Turning to him fully, she clung to him, drawing him in. She pressed closer, her breasts against his wide chest, as they shared each breath. He touched her cheek with gentle fingers.

Quivering beneath his soft touch, his attention, she wondered briefly how such a warrior could treat her with such tenderness.

Then he claimed her mouth again, hunger mounting.

Her own rose a notch as she felt his hard shoulders tense beneath her hands, began to hear her heartbeat in her ears, urging her to dive into the deep, endless kiss.

He angled his head over hers more, now seizing what she offered. Again, she swayed against him restlessly, seeking the ease of the ache he was building, building.

Heat curled in her limbs, swirled in her blood, set her adrift in a hazy sea of sensation where only his mouth and her ache for him existed.

The hunger seemed to seize him, too, as he wound his hand behind her neck and made her mouth his captive.

Then he truly kissed her, insistently, hungrily, rapaciously.

Maeve had never imagined a mating of the mouths so deep she drowned in its hot urgings. His scent slid across her senses, heightened to his every breath, his every groan. His lips played with her need, surging it skyward until she boiled.

Maeve scrambled to thrust her fingers under his tunic. Kieran sighed his approval as one of his hands made its way from the small of her back to the underside of her breast.

Tensing, Maeve felt his thumb playing just beneath her nipple. His mouth continued to plunder and give, always demanding and bestowing complete assurance.

Her nipple tingled, tightened under his ministrations. She felt herself moisten and swell, hunger howling like a fierce wind, drugging her veins like the heaviest wine.

This need consumed her, stirred her. Surely such desire for her enemy was a sin.

The thought chilled Maeve. What of Quaid? What of Ireland?

Horror, then guilt, crushed her ardor, and she jerked from his embrace. She hated that she panted and ached, that her mind felt somewhat sluggish and uncertain.

Pressing her temples, Maeve closed her eyes and willed rational thought to return, but she could still scent Kildare in the thick air between them, still feel the throb of her need pulsing with every heartbeat.

“Maeve?”

She opened her eyes to regard him. His tunic sat askew on his shoulders. His hair lay rumpled from her fingers. Those unusual blue-green eyes looked dilated and heavy-lidded. From pressing against him, she knew the state of his arousal. And she wanted him.

Biting her lip to keep in her cry, she shook her head. ’Twas unfair she should be married to the one man who challenged her, who could make her blood dance to his rhythm—and that Fate had chosen him as her enemy.

“You promised me a fortnight’s wait, my lord.”

Disappointment hardened his features. “To adjust you to the idea of our marriage,
my lady
. A few moments ago, you seemed quite reconciled to our…union.”

Maeve looked away and tried to muster up some anger for him for such a sneer. But he only spoke the truth.

“It is Lent, the time for sacrifice.”

He regarded her with a cynical stare. “And you decided to give up sex until Easter?”

“Nay, I-I merely feel uncertain.”

“Your thoughts are uncertain,” he corrected. “You felt more than fine.”

’Twas no use trying to argue with him in this mood. She had broken their unspoken truce. Part of her mourned that, for she hated the anger between them. Part of her knew there was no other way. She was not ready to give herself over to him, to be intimate with him in every way he desired. He wanted more than a husband sought from a wife. With him, there would be no fleeting kisses, no quick entry, no short possession.

Nay, he wanted a lover to envelop, to overwhelm.

The realization frightened her.

“I’ve asked you to wait another eight days. I shall hold you to each one.”

So I might hold my sanity a little longer,
she thought, fleeing his room for the sanctuary of her own.

But she knew ’twas temporary. He was a warrior, a predator. He would hunt her down, stalk her senses, and capture her eventually.

’Twas simply a matter of when.

* * * *

Flynn finally returned on that blustery Tuesday morn. Deeply relieved at his homecoming, Maeve laid aside her book and her spectacles and greeted him in the great hall with a hug.

Her brother was in little mood for family affection, and he cursed and stepped around her, seeking a mug of ale.

“What happened?” she queried, frowning in concern.

He downed the mug’s contents in a few swallows. “Quaid is still in prison, if that is what you ask.”

She flinched at his anger. “I have heard thus. Did you see him?”

“Nay, but his father did. We were close, I tell you, to besting those English devils. The guards were deep in their cups. We managed to get a blade to Quaid. But by Saint Christopher, the man used it but once before it was taken from him and he was captured again. Wish that he had killed a whole lot of those English dogs.”

Flynn’s voice rang with contempt and bitterness. Maeve scowled. When had she last seen him smile? She could hardly recall. Now he talked mostly of war and killing the English.

Flynn also had yet to inquire about Jana or any of the others. ’Twas unlike him. Was he so involved with the rebellion that he cared for little else?

“Jana birthed a boy whilst you were away,” she said, offering a smile and a refill of his ale.

“Both are well?” he asked, raking a hand through his long, dark hair. He looked as if he wanted to pace.

She nodded. “’Twas a difficult birth. Jana bled much and we worried she might die.”

“Aye, well…she lives now,” he said as if distracted. “There should not be a reason, I tell you, that we cannot free Quaid and the others.”

Maeve scowled at her brother. Rebellion obsessed him. And it worried her.

“I will keep trying, Maeve. If it takes my last breath, I’ll see you wed to him and freed from that swaggering cock, Kieran.”

Fixing him with a frown, Maeve began, “You—”

“You cannot free your sister from me. She is my wife.”

Maeve and Flynn both whirled to the sound of Kieran’s voice. He looked imposing and large, and none too pleased. He gazed at Flynn with contempt and ire, then shifted his attention to her. To her shock, his gaze upon her seemed much angrier.

Maeve glared back. If he thought to be angry with her for refusing to share his bed, then he could stew and fume into next week, for all she cared.

“You will never wed Quaid.”

Kildare’s anger hardened as he spoke those words, and she saw then he smoldered over her wish to escape their union. He viewed it as a duplicity, she felt certain. Maeve swallowed against a sense of guilt and apprehension she scarce understood.

“My lord—”

“Not now,” he barked, then turned his attention back to Flynn. “’Tis time for you and I to talk.”

“I have naught to say to you, you English prick.”

Kieran grabbed her brother by the arm in a harsh grip. His wicked grin showed traces of unyielding steel. “I have plenty to say to you, swine-sucker. And you will listen now.”

Her husband began leading her brother away. Maeve ran after them, panic rising. Flynn’s pride would not withstand another beating like Kildare had given him that first day, not to mention what such would do to his face. And what if Kildare should see her brother imprisoned for his suspected part in the rebellion?

“My lord—”

“Stay out of this, Maeve. I simply wish to question him.”

“Do not hurt him,” she implored.

“I can see after myself,” Flynn insisted as if insulted that a mere woman thought to protect him.

Knowing she could do naught, Maeve watched them go, heart sinking.

CHAPTER NINE

Kieran returned to his chamber later that night, frustrated. He’d gotten precious little information from the foolish Flynn earlier. And blast Maeve, but he had been unable to punish Flynn for his rebellion with fists, as her protests had rung in his head.

And then there was the woman herself. By Saint Peter’s toes, he could not recall the last time he’d had this much difficulty in seducing a woman. He frowned. In fact, he had
never
had this much difficulty. That Maeve should lead him on such a chase did not surprise him; a more stubborn creature he had never encountered. Still, why did all his charm fail him now, with his own wife?

The object of his own thoughts knocked upon the door to his chamber and hovered just inside, looking very well in a dress of shimmering gold. ’Twas no surprise he could think of little else but her lips beneath his. The blasted woman had that effect on him.

“My lord?” she called.

He sighed. Would she ever call him by his own name? He knew her refusal to say it was another form of defiance. But damnation, he could scarce handle more resistance this night.

“Aye, my wife. You have come for our hour together?” he asked, noting the book tucked beneath her arm and her spectacles in her hand.

“Nay, I came to speak to you of my brother.”

“I sent him to his rooms. And you may rest easy, for I did not hit him, though he sorely tempted me.”

The relief on her delicate face only irritated him more. He watched with fascination as she flung a stray lock of fire-hued hair behind her shoulder. Hellfire, how he wanted her.

She, on the other hand, hated nearly everything about him.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Kieran,” he corrected futilely.

As he expected, she behaved as if he had not spoken.

“Flynn is not himself of late, and I would caution you to know that, while he can be rash, his intent is pure.”

“Pure rubbish for the English position, Maeve.” Kieran shook his head, weary. “I do not wish to discuss your brother. We are to spend an hour together—”

“But—”

“We
will
spend this hour together, Maeve. We have been waylaid by birth and rebellion, but no more. I’ll not have you stiff and unyielding in my bed seven days hence.”