Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (16 page)

More and more and more. It would never end. The fire-scorched clarity of her desire saw the truth. Aodh would ever demand more of her, and she would give it.

“We are meant to be, Katy,” he said by her ear. “It will be so good, I will ensure it. Sign the papers, stand down your men, and we will be together.”
 

Her heart leapt, for a brutally long second, then crashed back, yanked down by cold reality. But in that leaping, she saw the deeper danger of Aodh expanding like a storm on the horizon: he could make himself matter to her.
 

For a moment, at his words, her heart had been buoyed by…hope.
 

But this rebel was not hope. He was her downfall.
 

She’d simply been seduced. By a warlord with an agenda. And despite how her body became a candle for him, this was no matter of seduction. This was politics and power and war.
 

This was treason.

Woe to her if she ever forgot it again.

Resist. Deny. But never, ever give him anything he wants.
 

For once she began, she might never stop.
 

As his head hung beside hers, his breath warm on her neck, she whispered back, “No.”

“No?” he repeated softly.

“No.” With effort, she lifted her head. He was watching her, his ice-blue eyes searching.
 

“
Céard sa diabhal?
”

It was in Irish, but Katarina had spent her life in Ireland, and she knew very well what it meant:
what the hell?

So she repeated herself. “No. No. No.”

He straightened away from her. “What are you saying?”

 
“I cannot wed you.”

“Why not?”

“Treason is why.”
 

The dark brows descended. “If ’tis treason now, ’twas treason before, when you were willing. What has changed?”

“I… The papers.” She pointed at the table, inkpots and brightly colored sealing wax and long silk threads lying all about, a festive little documentary celebration of treason.

Still cupping her face, his thumbs by her temples, his fingers curled around the back of her head, he looked over his shoulder at the table.
 

“You never meant it,” he said in low accusation. “’Twas all a lie. You lied to me.”

Anger rose up in her then.
Lied
to him?
 

“And who are you?” she whispered fiercely, feeling quite mad. For she was coming undone. The restraint and rigid self-control of the past years were slipping away like ice in spring. She felt it sliding, slippery and wet, like a sheet of ice shearing off into a swift-moving river. Further proof she’d slipped off the ledge of sanity entirely, she put her hands on his chest and
pushed
him.
 

“Who are you, Aodh Mac Con, that I may not lie to you?”

He dropped his hands, shock on his face.

“You, a usurper? A warlord? A thief?” And as madness abounded this night, she pushed him again, forcing him back a step. “And
I
may not lie to
you
?”

His jaw worked, but no words came out.

“I would not wed you, Aodh Mac Con, not if all the kings in the world begged me. It would be treason. And I am not that woman.”

For a moment, there was nothing but his hard body, motionless, and the long, slow breaths coming out of it, and the fierce, penetrating gaze, growing harder, harder, harder yet.
 

“Are you
mad
?” he snarled.

“Reckless,” she said, her words and body shaking, but her will unmoved.

“Veering perilously close to stubborn.”
 

“So be it.”

A beat of silence. “You have already agreed.”

“I changed my mind. You cannot have my men, and you cannot have me.”

Fury burned in his gaze.

“I signed nothing.” Still, though, it had the whiff of a betrayal. Curse him.
 

A ripple moved through his jaw. Clearly, Aodh was not used to being told no. “This will be done,” he vowed, low and lethal.

“Over my dead body,” she whispered back.
 

“If it comes to it.”
 

“You did not do so before.”

“Do not use the past as a judge of what I am willing to do in the future.”

“Do what you must, Aodh Mac Con. I refuse.”
 

“You will bend to me, Katarina,” he vowed as he swept his sword belt off the floor.

“I will not.”

The gaze he snapped to her was like a lance, slicing through her. “Then I will break you.”

“I should like to see you try.”
 

He reached her in two strides, roughly cupped the back of her neck, and plowed her mouth open with a violent, unforgiving kiss.

She stood cold beneath it.

Ripping his mouth away, he clamped his fingers around her face, held her mouth just below his, and growled, “Katarina, do not make me do this.”

“Do what you must. As have I.” Their mouths were so close, her hair was fluttering from their softly enraged words. “No,” she whispered again. “I say no.”

With a roar of rage, he backed up, then leapt off the dais as if she were a rolling fire and he had to move fast to get out of the way. He strode halfway across the empty hall with its bright fires burning, calling out, “Ré!”

No reply. Everyone had escaped farther away.
 

Abruptly, he spun on his heel and came back for her. Fear now joined the glorious rebellion, and she scrambled backward as he came toward her, his gaze fixed.

“Aodh,” she exhaled in terror.

He took her by the arm and propelled her out in front of him, off the dais, across the hall, bellowing as they went, “
Ré!
”

There was a brief moment of silence, then came a distant voice, very low:
“
Son of a bitch.” From all corners of the castle came the sound of men and boot steps, hurrying toward the hall.

A group of soldiers appeared at the top of the stairwell that led down to the hall. Aodh flung himself away from Katarina and backed up, as if he could not trust himself to touch her any longer, leaving her standing alone in the hall, his men at the far end.
 

She stood straight and tall between them all.

The blond-haired barrage of a warrior looked between her and Aodh. He seemed to give her the faintest of nods then turned to Aodh. “My lord?”

Ah. He’d reverted to a respectful title in view of his master’s fury. Something to learn from those who knew Aodh Mac Con better than she. Too late now.

“Take her ladyship to the high tower,” he commanded, his voice like ice, like winter, so cold it was impossible to believe his mouth had been so hot on her body just a few moments ago. “Lock her in.”

Ré nodded. His face showed no emotion.

“Collect the rest of her household. Round them up, servants, hen maids, clerks, get them all. Lock them up.”

She spun so fast, her hair, loosened by his attentions, whirled around her shoulders. “Aodh, you cannot—”

“What?” His question sliced her words off like a blade. “What can I not do? I can do anything, Katarina, and you cannot stop me. Rardove is mine. I need nothing from you.”

He strode away, toward the stairs, buckling his sword belt on. He leapt up the stairs and strode past his men without a word, out into the cold black night, without cloak or hood.
 

Katarina was led by yet another soldier to yet another tower, even higher than before.
 

Chapter Fourteen

FURY FUELED her ascent up the circular staircase, flanked fore and aft by Aodh’s soldiers. They stepped out onto the landing of the high tower and young Bran, heretofore the closest thing she’d had to a friend, glanced at her uneasily as he unlocked the door.
 

With an indignant squeal of iron hinges, it swung wide. Darkness unfurled like a tongue.

Part of the original castle built in the twelfth century, the high tower had been designated a bedchamber for guests many years ago, then forgotten entirely when the guests disappeared. With walls five feet thick and an oak door four inches, the high tower was a testament of medieval power. No drafts here.
 

No luxuries either; the tower had escaped most of the renovations that had swept the rest of the castle over the centuries. In fact, it had become a bit of a storage room.
 

A huge, pitted oak table was pushed up against one wall, benches atop it and chairs pushed carelessly beneath. On and around the table, sat crates of old bottles and bolts of fabric and the butt ends of candles that had yet to be remelted, all the various odds and ends that inhabited a marcher castle in constant flux on the edge of war.
 

A small hearth had been added at the turn of the last century, and a few old tapestries were pinned unevenly across the walls. A recessed cistern in the far wall held fresh water, and a large, canopied bed dominated the room, a twist of linen hanging from the ceiling above it to keep out drafts. Otherwise, there were few comforts.
 

That suited Katarina well; she wanted no comfort. She wanted to
bite
him. Gnash Aodh Mac Con in her teeth, for having unleashed such dangerous passions. She’d spent years tempering herself, and in one day, he’d undone it all.

The barrage of a captain stayed by the door, watchful as Bran escorted her inside. He lit oil lamps that hung off wooden beams, casting wary glances her direction whenever her restless pacing took her behind him. Shadowy light rolled through the room, but when Bran crouched before the small hearth and made as if to light that as well, she pointed at the door.
 

“Leave.” She was the stern chatelaine now as she’d never been before, cold and regal.
 

Bran got to his feet, staring as if she was a wild thing. Which she was—wild and distressed and cornered and dangerous.
 

Bran joined his captain on the landing. Their gazes met, then slowly, the door swung shut with a thud. She heard a soft, heavy metal click, and the boots retreated.

She’d been locked in.

The thing she loved so desperately about Ireland—her freedom—Aodh Mac Con had taken away.
 

She took a wild turn around the room, roiling with energy, furious, wanting to fling herself at Aodh, to hurt him, to ruin him as he was doing to her.
 

Her boots rang out loud on the floor as she circled endlessly through the night.
 

*

 
“SHE WILL NOT submit.”

“I noticed,” Ré said.

Down in the jousting yards, with moonlight to light their swordplay, he and Aodh circled each other, blades out. Ré was accustomed to such things; Aodh was an engine of movement in the best of times, and when he’d stormed out of the castle a few hours ago, venting a fury the likes of which Ré had never seen before, he’d assumed they were in for a night of…this.

Ré smashed Aodh’s sword away and spun in a circle, coming around again, blade up.

The bailey was dark. Slivers of light from the castle windows broke the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. Candle glow and soft sounds spilled from the hall. The barracks and gatehouse towers added some illumination. Tiny stars glittered here and there behind the scuttling clouds from a clearing storm.

“Are you asking my opinion?” Ré said.

“Have you one?”

 
“Perhaps you should send her away,” he said as he slid his boot to the side, watching Aodh’s sword in the moonlight. It moved in a wide sweep, and Ré leapt back. “As planned.”

 
“No.”

“Why not?”

“I am not yet convinced she cannot be of value.”

“In what way?”

“Contacts, networks, alliances. She has lived here for years. She knows these people, these men.”