His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (19 page)

His next words stunned Maeve.

“Hello, Son.”

CHAPTER TEN

Kieran stopped. He stared, frozen. His head swam in icy shock. But the longer he stared, the more he knew his first suspicion was true.

The man was the father he had not seen in many years. Twenty-one, to be exact.

Desmond O’Neill’s waist had thickened, and his auburn beard had grayed, but Kieran could not mistake the truth.

How had the man known where to find him? Where had he been since that terrible day at Balcorthy?

Kieran opened his mouth, and for long moments, no words came. His mind whirled, and he felt certain his furrowed brow showed his confusion.

“I thought you were dead,” he said finally.

With a sharp edge to his laughter, Desmond came closer. The skin around his eyes gathered in deep creases, giving testament to his age and hard living.

“Is that what your mother told you, now?”

Numbly, he nodded. She had lied to him, clearly. Jocelyn Broderick, his mother, was dead, gone to find her heavenly reward some five years past, so he could not ask her why.

Still, the man had sought him out this day, and though Kieran did not know what had kept his father away, some part of him felt gladdened at this reunion with his sire.

Desmond scowled. “She always was a heartless whore. Can’t say I’m surprised she would tell you thus.”

His slur took Kieran aback. Jocelyn had been many things: withdrawn, bitter, more interested in the Church than her son. But she had never lain with a man other than her husband. Irritation replaced a bit of his gladness.

Beside Kieran, Maeve tensed. She watched in silence, her face full of wide-eyed shock.

Damnation, he had not wanted to tell her—to tell anyone here—about the worst of his past. Every time memories of it crept up, he’d found ’twas easy enough to forget them with swordplay, ale, or female flesh—whichever he found handy. But a woman like Maeve, she would never forget.

“Maeve O’Shea,” Desmond said, nodding toward her. “How fare Langmore and your brother, lass?”

She nodded cautiously. “Well, sir. Thank you.”

“Maeve is no longer an O’Shea,” he told his father. “She is my
wife
.”

“An O’Neill, lass!” Desmond grinned. “Well ’tis glad I am to have the likes of you as my kin.”

Maeve sent Kieran a seeking glance, then turned to O’Neill.

’Twas odd enough a dream—a father mysteriously alive, a wife who knew naught of his past. Yet, from the wind upon his face and the feel of Maeve beside him, Kieran knew it was not.

As reality replaced shock, one blinding question followed: If Desmond O’Neill had not died that fateful day at Balcorthy, where had he been for the past twenty-one years? Why had he never contacted Kieran, especially after his mother left him in the care of strangers?

“Maeve is a Broderick, like me,” Kieran said.

Desmond frowned. “And did that bitch strip you of your rightful name, too?”

Irritation became anger at his father’s slur. “She is dead, and maligning her does naught to change what is done.”

“Dead? ’Tis the best news I’ve heard in years.”

Kieran felt his jaw tense; his fists clenched. A simmering fury replaced the anger he’d felt moments ago.

He and his mother had not loved well, for she had never wanted a son of Irish blood. Kieran had tried to adopt her English ways, to no avail. His mother may have abandoned him, but she had at least seen to his care, written an occasional, if distant, letter. What had Desmond O’Neill ever done as a father but engage in the siring?

He gazed at his father, suspicion rearing its head, ugly as a gargoyle. “Why have you come?”

Surprise crossed Desmond’s face. He leaned forward to clap Kieran on the shoulder. “To visit. You’ve grown to a fine son, one in whom a man can take pride. To see you as the earl of Kildare and back in Ireland, and with so Irish a wife, well…it does my old heart good.”

Though the man smiled, Kieran saw the watchful gaze Desmond swept over him and Maeve.

His father came closer then and clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, a fine son. An earl with so much power!”

Kieran heard his father prattle, seemingly happy. But his battle instincts, honed since age eight, warned him to be wary.

“Why have you come?” he repeated.

Desmond looked affronted, then flashed a false grin. ’Twas no doubt in Kieran’s mind the expression was naught but a ruse.

“Have you no kind words for your old father, now? Come, invite me in for an ale. Let us talk of Ireland.”

Sensing he would receive no further information until the man was inside Langmore’s walls, Kieran gestured Desmond in the direction of the keep. He followed. Beside him, Maeve dug her fingers into the crook of his arm as he escorted her inside. Her every muscle felt beyond tense.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He gave her a slight nod in acknowledgment.

So, his perceptive wife did not trust O’Neill, either. Her expression said she was not pleased the man was his father.

He began to think she was not alone in that.

Once inside the keep, he turned toward the stairs. “Go. Await me in my”—he glanced at his father—“our chamber.”

She looked from Desmond, then back to him. Her expression reflected concern, a willingness to protect.

Did sweet, slender Maeve think to protect him, a warrior?

He found the thought vaguely pleasing, if impossible.

Finally, she gave him a reluctant nod, then departed upstairs. Kieran watched her go, hips swaying—not like a temptress; she was too practical for that—but something elementally female and graceful. He wondered, not for the first time, how much longer it would take him to break through her resistance so he might touch her—all of her—as he craved.

“She’ll make you a good wife, Son,” said Desmond, intruding into his thoughts.

Kieran merely nodded as they sat at the head table in the great hall. A kitchen wench brought them ale a moment later, at his bidding. Everyone bustling about he then sent away.

Finally, he and his father were alone.

And Kieran felt anything but comfortable.

“I have visited Langmore once or twice. ’Tis a beautiful keep,” Desmond offered. “Strong and defensible, a good haven in times of war.”

Kieran merely nodded. “How did you learn I had come?”

“Your cousin Hugh. He has maintained a correspondence with the earl of Rothgate for some five years, Son.”

Guilford. Kieran absorbed the information and stifled a curse. He would speak to the meddling old man as soon as may be. “And you’ve just now decided to see me. Why is that?”

“To see the man you’ve become,” Desmond said, as if the answer should be obvious.

Kieran still distrusted his words. ’Twas a strong instinct.

“Yorkshire is but a week away. You might have seen me sooner had you merely wished to satisfy your curiosity.”

“An Irishman riding on English soil? Nay, ’twould be like plunging a blade in my own heart, lad. Foolish.”

Perhaps an Irishman might have such a worry, but only if he had reason to fear the English wished him harm—or if he had done aught wrong.

“But now that you are back in Ireland, we have much to discuss, father to son.”

Thus far, Kieran could think of naught he wished to discuss with the wily older man. “Such as…?”

“The past.”

Nay.
Kieran shook his head. “It is over and done. Discussing it changes naught.”

Desmond nodded. “Well, then, what of the future?”

“What of it?”

“’Tis a time of great changes for you. And for Ireland.”

“I can see to my own matters,” Kieran said, leaning forward in his chair, dreading what he felt certain would come next.

“Can you see to Ireland’s as well?” Desmond asked.

Reluctantly, he nodded. Though he wanted not the duties King Henry had given him, they were his to fulfill, if for no other reason than his honor and Guilford.

“Well, we both want what is best for her now, don’t we? Aye,” Desmond said. “And what could be worse for a country than having foreigners with the spirit of serpents rule it?”

Kieran nearly flinched at his father’s words.

Desmond merely leaned forward in his chair and whispered, “Son, I know you’ve come at that bastard Tudor’s request, but you cannot forget your blood now. You cannot turn your back on the country that birthed you.”

So, O’Neill was here to persuade him about the virtues of Ireland and the rebellion. At the cost of committing treason?

“I thought Jocelyn birthed me,” he returned dryly.

“I meant the soil, lad. ’Tis not dense you are. We are a land rich in traditions that have naught to do with the English. We deserve our freedom!”

“And you want me to help you get it?”

Desmond nodded excitedly. “’Tis been the cause closest to my heart since before I wed your mother. For some years, we were winning the war. Now this Tudor bastard sends more men in here to live in our castles, breed our women, subjugate our spirit. But you”—his father pointed at him—“you are of Irish blood. You know the joy of this land. Help us, son.”

Commit treason to help a man who had given more of his heart to a cause than to his own wife and son? Turn his back on Guilford to aid the rebellion he hated for ravaging his life not once but twice?

The River Thames would smell like the sweetest summer rose before that would happen.

“Get out,” Kieran ordered.

Desmond’s eyes widened as his frown deepened. “But Son—”

“Do not call me that.”

“Kieran, I am your father.”

“And a fine example you have been for the past twenty-one years.”

“I wanted to seek you out sooner but knew not where to find you, lad. I was wrong.” Desmond’s voice seemed to plead. Kieran knew better than to believe it. O’Neill had only visited when it suited him, when his son could aid him. The wretch.

“Aye, wrong you were. Now I want you gone.”

“You are an earl now, with an ear to the king. Kieran, you can ease the rebellion’s way with Henry Tudor. Ireland needs—”

“I don’t give a damn about Ireland. I care even less for the rebellion. Now get the hell out of my castle.”

* * * *

Maeve paced. Though her husband had not been alone with Desmond O’Neill long, she feared for him. Aye, O’Neill had long been devoted to the rebellion, but he
wanted
bloodshed in the name of freedom, even seemed to crave the sight of it red and running on the soil. And he’d begun to influence Flynn of late… And then there was the rumor that whispered word about the manner in which Desmond had driven away his English wife many years past. She knew not if ’twas true, but if it was, Maeve could see some frightening implications.

She shivered. Kieran should not be alone with the man, for he did not understand O’Neill’s nature. But she did. Aye, she had warned him, but had it been enough?

The sound of the latch on the door brought Maeve whirling about. Kieran marched through the door, his face a glower. Tension dominated his body. His mouth, usually smiling, pursed instead in a scowl.

Kieran took three long strides to the hearth, then turned, stalking back to the door. Twice again he crossed the floor, his frown becoming fiercer with each step.

What had happened with O’Neill?

She’d never seen him so agitated. In fact, she had only known his imperturbable charm. And though she knew what had likely incensed him, his sudden change still disturbed her.

“What happened?” she asked.

He stopped in midstride to glare at her. “What about this damned country makes all you people fanatics to free it?”

His question shocked Maeve into silence. From whence had such a question come?

“Truly,” he went on, “do you people see this place as God’s Promised Land or some such nonsense?”

Kieran began pacing again before she could answer, and Maeve sensed he did not really wish a reply anyway.

“It rains too much,” he ranted. “’Tis foggy nearly always. And you Irish find guileful ways of dealing with honest men.”

Of what did he complain? Maeve was uncertain but had no doubt the blast of heat she felt from him was anger, more than she had ever imagined Kieran capable of.

“If you will but sit—”

“Like your brother”—he paused at the hearth to spin toward the door again—“that day I first arrived, he trapped me in that mud hole, rather than fight me like a man.”

Aye, Kieran was indeed very angry. And his fury grew with each word. Had his father’s visit unleashed this uncommon display? Kieran’s mood before the man’s arrival had been a good one. Maeve searched her memory for anything else that might have upset him, but concluded it could only be Desmond.

Then why did he not talk about it?

“Your talk with your father, it did not go well?”

He speared her with a glare and bunched a fist, paced faster, and bit out a curse.

“And you,” he accused, stalking closer. “You lied to me about the bridge over the River Barrow. Did you hope I would drown in that damned bog? As it was, my horse nearly emasculated me. Would you have laughed if he had?”

Kieran’s anger was now approaching fury. His accusation stung her, but she held her temper, reminding herself that something had happened to cause him strife and she would not know what it was until he was composed. Now, she could only do her best to calm and comfort him.

“I in no way wished you harm when I lied about the bridge. I merely wanted to delay you so that I might advise all at Langmore you were arrived. Flynn set that trap for you before I knew what he was about. And I did my best to see you quickly freed. I am sorry.”

“Saint Maeve you are,” he sneered. “Willing to sacrifice your sensibilities and distract the enemy with your words and your kiss whilst the rebels attack the safeguards of
my
people.”

Maeve bit back a word of defense and approached Kieran, who looked darker than a storm cloud at midnight. Never had she seen him without his voluble charm. His wicked grin looked years away from his current scowl. But Kieran was more than angry. Mere anger he would find some way to ignore or laugh away. The fact he displayed as much depth with his fury and pain as he did with his laughter stunned her. His pacing and cursing told Maeve his father’s visit affected him deeply.