His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (18 page)

Why did he affect her in ways Quaid did not?

Sensing her hesitation, Kieran reached up for her and plucked her to the ground, directly before him. They stood so close she felt his heat, sensed his leashed desire. It sent a dangerous, foolish swirl of longing curling through her.

Remembering Quaid and the political duty she had to Ireland’s future, one that did not include falling in thrall to the enemy, she stepped away.

“Why have you brought me here, my lord?”

The expected irritation crossed his face. Aye, she knew he hated her to address him thus. That was why she did it. ’Twas a small enough revenge for having altered her life without her consent.

With exaggerated patience, he pulled the bow from the bag attached to his saddle. Then he handed it to her and closed her fingers around the detestable weapon.

Fury scaled her as much as his touch upon her hand. She knew not whether to curse him or melt.

“In your hand I place a longbow. ’Tis made of two pieces of yew, so it is fairly light. This is a boy’s bow, so it is smaller. You will be able to shoot it.”

“I wish no such lesson, my lord. I must ask that you remove your hand—”

“In archery,” he began as if she had not spoken, “you strive for four areas of practice. First, of course, is precision. In hunting, in defense, even in sport, it is important to hit one’s target.”

“I do not want to learn this.”

“Will you use it against me by joining the rebels when they march?” The rogue had the nerve to grin.

“I’ve told you, I want no bloodshed. I only want freedom for Ireland.”

He nodded, as if her words had solved all. “Number two, you want speed in each shot. You can hardly defend yourself or hit a moving target if it is faster than your arrow.”

She feigned a yawn. “Must I hear more?”

He answered with a laugh. “Three, you want comfort and ease with the bow’s handling. For this, you must have nimble hands.”

Was it her imagination, or did his last sentence hold particular suggestion? Maeve risked a peek at his lean profile, only to find that ever-present grin of his.

Determined to ignore his intimations, she watched his hands close around the bow again.

Still, the thought of his nimble fingers lingered to discomfort, to distraction.

“Last,” he said, “you must have power. ’Twill do you no good at all to merely scratch your target. You want to penetrate, deeply.”

Certain he had intended every kind of suggestion with those words, she snapped her gaze up to his face.

His eyes, a striking blue-green, darkened, sharpened, at her regard.

“I understand you,” she accused.

He merely smiled. “Good. Then I’ll not have to instruct you much more on what I seek.”

Then, as if he had not used a husky shiver of a voice to suggest acts that pass between a man and woman, he took her by the shoulders and turned to face the glade of trees.

Again, he handed her the bow. “Now, position your body directly before the target and spread your feet apart a trifle.” When she resisted, he wedged one of his booted feet between her slippers and prodded them apart. “Distribute your weight equally on both legs and line up your shoulders with the target.”

He placed her thus, hands roving from shoulders to her hands, then finally dropping to her hips. Even through her dress and her smock, she felt the heat of his fingers penetrating her skin, sinking deep into his touch.

“Good,” he crooned. “Now hold the bow so you form a vee with your thumb and forefinger, like thus.” He quickly placed her hands in the appropriate position. “Remember, you should be able to move freely after an arrow is released.”

She sighed. “How would I know that before I shoot the arrow?”

“Once you practice, you will know. Now you must nock the arrow. Hold the bow in your left hand, like thus.” Again, he put her in the correct stance. “That is good. Bring the bowstring against the inside of your left arm.”

Frowning with concentration, she did as he bid, doubtful she could do this. Something that appeared so simple suddenly felt complicated.

Though with Kildare, nothing that seemed thus should surprise her.

“Aye, Maeve. Lay the arrow shaft across the rest, with the feather sticking up. Excellent,” he praised as she followed his instruction. “Now draw the arrow toward the bowstring. Stop only when you feel the string sits firmly in the arrow nock.”

Again, she followed his instructions. The motion felt awkward, but he nodded with approval, his gaze suddenly alive and serious at once. She watched him, oddly eager for his next words.

“Excellent. You must draw the bow next, using your first three fingers.” He seized the ones in question and curled them around the taut string. “Aye, but hold the arrow nock with your fore and middle fingers.”

Maeve tried to grip the little bit of wood between her fingers but could maintain no grip on it. She sighed in frustration as she tried twice more, to no avail.

Kildare reached into the tangle of bow and arms to position her fingers on the top and bottom of the nock. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, she clamped around the wood. Suddenly, the fit of the pose felt much better.

“That’s right.” He regarded her with approval. “Now draw the string back until the index finger on your right hand feels fixed in place. And remember this place, for you will use it each time you draw a bow. Different anchor points result in poor shooting.

“Are you aimed properly?” Kildare began repositioning her directly in front of the closest tree in the glade before he even finished speaking. “Now look at the target with both eyes. Imagine lining up your arrow with the tree so they align perfectly. When you feel ready, take a breath and release the bowstring.”

Intent on the target, Maeve looked from the tip of her arrow to the thick tree trunk. Then she took the aim’s measure again.

“Do not worry about accuracy now. Understanding aim takes some time, sweet Maeve. For now, ’tis enough to try.”

Absently, she nodded, then drew in a breath. An instant later, she released the string. Kildare stood behind her, his large hands engulfing her waist, making her feel tiny and for once not invincible.

Maeve was unsure if she liked the feeling or not.

The arrow went through the air with a small whistle, then moments later, hit the tree. The tip barely embedded itself in the bark two inches above the ground. But she had done it!

“Very good!” he praised, leaning around her.

His genuine smile, his dancing eyes, combined with the familiar heat of his touch, made her feel flushed, fluttery—not at all like her usual logical self.

“Try again,” he suggested and reached for another arrow.

With a surprising excitement, she plucked the arrow from his grasp. She repeated the process, missing the tree this time.

An even more surprising disappointment stole through her, and she questioned its existence. It wasn’t as if she cared whether she ever mastered archery. Of course, she did not like being unable to complete a task, any task.

She glanced behind her, to Kieran’s face. Relief relaxed her when she saw no disappointment there. Then she frowned. Certainly she did not care about her performance in this brutal sport because she sought to avoid his disappointment. Did she?

“Not everyone makes every shot,” he assured.

“Not even you?” she challenged.

He shrugged. “I have had twenty years of practice.”

“Hit that tree,” she said impulsively. “I want to see how you do it.”

Grinning, he took the bow from her hand and reached for another arrow. In a whirl and an instant, he had the arrow in place, his body in stance, and his shot aimed. He released the bowstring faster than a blink. The arrow whistled in its flight, the shrill cry as it sliced through the air surprisingly loud. With a solid
thwack
, the wooden tip embedded itself in the tree. Even from this distance, Maeve could see the entire tip had penetrated the bark. Deep, just has he had said.

Would he make love the same way?

The thought came from nowhere, but she could not shake it. Maeve looked up at him, caught between awe and fear and curiosity and her own unshakable desire. Why did Kieran confuse her so?

His gaze held her own. For long heartbeats, he said naught. Neither moved. Maeve felt sure he would kiss her again, and her body tightened with anticipation.

“Try again,” he said softly, handing the bow back to her.

Their fingers brushed as she took the instrument from him, and she shivered. Next, he handed her another arrow, gave her another touch.

Trying to settle on the instructions he had given her, Maeve placed the arrow in the bow and lined up her aim. She was aware of little more than Kieran standing behind her, all heat and muscle, his soft breath near her neck.

She closed her eyes, demanding concentration of herself. Then she let loose the arrow. A moment later, it found its way into the tree mere inches from Kieran’s.

Behind her, he laughed. “You are quite good at this, Wife. Perhaps I should be worried?”

He teased her, and she felt herself smiling, staring, wondering about him…

Suddenly, his smile faded, his eyes warmed.

Then he took her mouth.

Maeve did not resist. Instead, she felt herself open beneath him, as if she were another person, a weaker one whose desires meant more than anything. Want and warmth pounded strongly in her veins as he slanted his lips over hers again and pursued, explored, demanded, and possessed her mouth. But he gave, too, the most exquisite pleasure. She felt it building in her breasts, and her belly, coiling lower… God help her.

In the next moment, she felt his hand at her waist moving up, curling toward her heart. His fingers brushed at her fluttering belly, traced a slow, soft line between her breasts.

A strangled moan escaped her as she arched closer. Her breast ached to feel the heat of his touch surrounding her, enclosing her completely.

Suddenly, he fulfilled her wish by sliding his large palm over the taut mound. The fabric between them abraded her flesh; then his thumb followed, skimming, brushing, arousing.

And still he devoured her with his mouth. Maeve felt herself drowning in a warm, honeyed pool of desire, the gong of her heartbeat resounding in her ears, making her body throb.

Why could Kieran do this to her, make her wanton, so nearly willing to forget all she held dear just for the experience of his pleasure?

She was not that kind of woman. Duty—to family, to God, to Ireland, to Quaid—must come first.

Taking a deep breath, she ended the kiss and stepped away. She expected him to come after her, to demand they continue the intimacy.

He did not—and perversely, that disappointed her.

Kildare licked his lips, as if taking more of the taste of her. His hot stare drilled her, filled her with a shaking need, and she couldn’t decide whether it frightened or thrilled her.

“In six days, sweet Maeve, there will be no stopping. Then I will take you—all of you—without your protests.”

Between her illogical desire and his words, she felt without power, and she refused to let him steal her will or her voice.

“When we made that agreement, I said a fortnight, give or take a few days, my lord,” she snapped.

“Less I will agree to; more I will not. I plan to hold you to that fortnight.”

“And do you have that calculated to the second? Should I expect to wake up that morn and find you pinning me to my bed, regardless of my wishes?”

She tried to scorch him with contempt, but his face betrayed no reaction to her tone.

“You cannot make me want you!” she cried, frustrated.

“I do not have to,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Your body wants me. ’Tis your mind I fight now.”

Maeve stared at him, wide-eyed. How had he known that?

Her question must have shown on her face, for he came closer and whispered, “A man senses things about a woman he desires: her breathing, her heartbeat. Did you know a woman’s arousal has a scent?”

“And like any beast, you perceive it?”

“Yes,” he said without apology. “I know the scent of your arousal, Maeve. I won’t rest until I satisfy it.”

With that, he turned away and stashed his bow in the pouch beside his saddle. Silently, he held out his hand to her. Knowing ’twas best if they left now, she placed her hand in his. Such proximity in the sunshine, the trees enclosing them in false privacy, gave the illusion of intimacy they needed not.

Quickly, Kieran helped her on the horse’s back, sat her astride, then mounted behind her. His body engulfed her back in taut heat as they rode for Langmore. Neither could she mistake his erection against her buttocks.

Suddenly, her head felt light, her muscles weak. What was she to do? Kieran was right. He had won her body over. Even now she ached. Late at night, she thought too often of entwining her body with his. She had only her mind to resist him now, and she feared that, with his smile and unexpected acts of tenderness, he was fast overcoming that as well.

Finally, they reached Langmore. She swung her leg over the horse’s head and slid off the horse’s back without Kieran’s assistance and sought to make her way inside.

Before she could escape, he leaped from the saddle and grabbed her arm. “You cannot run from me much longer. I will not hurt you, and soon your mind will know that.”

“You know naught,” she ground out.

Kieran looked ready to kiss her again, just to make his point, and Maeve steeled herself for another onslaught of warmth and tingling fire.

“My lord?” called Colm, his squire, instead.

With irritation on his lean features, Kieran turned to the boy. “What is it?”

“’Tis someone here to see you.”

Kieran looked beyond Colm’s shoulder, to the figure of a vaguely familiar auburn-haired man.

Maeve shuddered when she recognized the visitor as Desmond O’Neill, for she had never liked the wily man, despite his devotion to the rebellion.

She turned to Kieran, to warn him of the man’s crafty nature. The shocked look on his face stopped her, for he looked as if he’d turned to stone.

Frowning, Maeve watched as O’Neill walked toward Kieran, then held up his hand in greeting.