His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (29 page)

Her husband was more than an English warrior bent on battle. He was warm and concerned, at times tender, at times fiery, and always beloved.

Beloved?
Did she love him?

The truth hit her like an anvil.

She could find no other reason why she had been unable to set him from her heart, why it soared when she thought of his smile. No other reason came to mind as to why she ached when they were parted for long days and weeks, and why her whole being lit up with joy when he came near.

Such could only mean that she loved him.

Trembling in earnest now, Maeve finally set her hand to knocking on his door. A moment of silence ensued, and she drew in a ragged, nervous breath.

“Enter,” he called a moment later.

Swallowing, Maeve did as he bid as she pushed the door open. Inside, firelight glowed in golden radiance about the chamber, lighting the familiar stone walls, the curtains about his bed—the bare flesh of his strong back, as he wrote with a bold hand across the parchment before him.

“Kieran?”

At the sound of his name spoken so freely from her mouth, his head snapped up. He rose to greet her, clearly surprised.

“Maeve. How fare you? Your sisters say you’ve been ill.”

The babe.
She must yet tell him of that. And she vowed she would, as soon as she had thanked him for sparing Flynn.

“As you can see, I stand before you very much alive.”

“Are you well? Clearly, you have been out in the rain.”

He sat again, looking tense. “Maeve—”

“Let me speak,” she interrupted. “I know what you’ve done for Flynn.”

Surprise crossed his features, lit his blue-green gaze. Again he stood, this time turning in profile as he faced the fire. “I—”

“I merely wanted to thank you,” she insisted. Approaching him with a raised hand, she set it upon the taut flesh of his arm. “You heeded my wishes at great risk to yourself.”

He hesitated. “I did not want to cause you more pain.”

Though she wanted Flynn safe and the rest of her family whole, something compelled her to ask, “What if the other Palesmen or the king learn Flynn lives? Will they not accuse you of softening? Of treason, even?”

Kieran gave her a casual shrug. But Maeve knew better, for he stiffened further, his arm bulging beneath her fingers.

Maeve stared openmouthed at her husband. He would risk his life to spare her feelings?

A wave of concern, of joy and love, warmed her body, beginning with her heart. “Oh, Kieran.”

Standing on the tips of her toes, Maeve wrapped her arms around him and drew him down to her embrace. Slowly, he wound his arms about her, damp dress and all. Then he buried his face in the crook of her neck and held her tight.

They remained thus for long moments, heart to heart, caught in the rich texture of a moment where feelings reigned in silence—but they seeped into her all the same.

Kieran stood straight then, backing out of her embrace. She clung to his arms, stared up into his eyes, charged with need. ’Twas a need she shared with everything inside her.

Leaning forward again, she placed a soft kiss upon his lips.

He hesitated. Time stood still as she waited for his reaction. And she feared. Did he care for her but refuse to accept an Irishwoman into his heart? Did he even wish to love as she did? Could he?

Kieran drew in a jagged breath. His arms tightened around her waist. His hands splayed across her back.

Then he opened his mouth above hers.

Relieved, joyous, aching, Maeve met him halfway, parting her lips and seeking him with her tongue.

Tenderness held sway in the timeless world of their kiss. He sampled her mouth with patience and reverence. Maeve felt his wanting in every slide of his hand across her damp back, in every breath exhaled upon her cheek.

After a lingering kiss, Kieran nibbled his way down her jaw, to her neck. “Maeve,” he whispered. “I have missed you.”

Another wave of feeling swept over her heart, nearly swaying her mindless with its power. Never had she loved with so certain a heart. She would have wed Quaid because her parents and Flynn had wished it. He would have been the kind of man to make her content.

Kieran sent her into the stars. For all their differences and their quibbling, he made her understand the joy of connecting with a mate, of feeling whole in his arms.

Eager to feel him, Maeve slid her hands from his shoulders to his back, urging him closer. He was heat and steel, but so careful with her, his touch soft across her breast.

Leaning into him, she glided her hand across the breadth of his wide back, entranced by the hardness of male flesh covered in velvet skin. Again, she indulged in the sweep of her hand across his back. In turn, Kieran sent her a stare so fixed, ’twas as if he wanted naught more than to look at her all night, please her all night.

A moment later, his mouth caressed her neck, then whispered kisses past her collarbones, down to the tops of her breasts. There, he tasted her skin in an unhurried sampling.

Within the confines of her dress, her breasts tightened, crying for his touch. The brush of his lips slipped lower, over her wet dress. She felt his breath upon her nipples, the care with which he held her. Maeve reeled from the sensations, the joining of her body and heart in something so right.

“Sweet Maeve,” he whispered just before his mouth delved into the valley between her breasts.

And she could wait no more to feel him everywhere, to fully accept the fact they were husband and wife for always.

Slipping her hands to her side, she began working on the hooks of her damp gown. Gladness lit Kieran’s features before he set his fingers to helping her. Moments later, she stood clad in her chemise, the rich green of her gown on the floor in a forgotten heap.

Kieran’s palm was like a warm breeze upon her skin as he lifted the shift from her hips, abdomen, and breasts inch by inch. He dragged it over her head and tossed the garment away.

Lashes fluttering, Maeve closed her eyes and gave herself over to his touch. Kieran did not disappoint, skimming his rough palms down her shoulders before cupping her breasts.

Thick desire wound through her, until she knew only this moment, this man, his touch, and the soft golden candlelight about them.

Kieran continued with his slow loving as he bent to her and eased his mouth over her breast, tongue stroking lightly. Her pulse skipped. She went nearly limp in his arms as he cradled her breast, thumb caressing the tingling side, and laved kisses upon her.

Maeve wrapped her arms about his neck and held him there as he fanned the fire of her want into something burning and strong. Still, he would not be rushed as he turned the same mind-reeling attention to her other breast for an endless minute. Heat coiled deep in her belly.

In the next instant, he surprised her by bending to lift her against him and carry her to the bed. Gaze capturing into hers, Kieran settled her back against the mattress, then stood back to remove his hose. Golden shadows played over his brown hair, his muscled body, and Maeve found herself impatient and entranced.

He joined her on the bed moments later, beside her, his hands indulging in a silky exploration of the curves at her waist, her hips. She sighed at his touch, feeling dazed at his attention, the pleasure.

Maeve returned the favor, sliding a trembling hand down the length of his chest, caressing the top of his thigh. And still his gaze held hers, her own a willing partner privy to the fluid desire and infinite tenderness there.

When he rolled her to her back and covered her with his warm length, Maeve welcomed him by clasping him tightly. His mouth found her in a smooth, unhurried stroke. When his knees gently nudged her thighs apart and he eased his hard length inside her to treat her to that same slow pace, Maeve felt certain she had been transported to heaven.

On the next long stroke, he sank deeper, then deeper again. Need shimmered in her blood. Her beat caught at his gentle rhythm. Her body, her heart, rose up to meet him each time he entered her.

Pleasure resonated in her hips, warming her, as Kieran fit his hands beneath her hips. His breath on her neck was pure fire. With each thrust, he seemed to pour himself into her. Pleasure swirled and grew until she found herself dangling dangerously close to the edge of passion.

Above her, Kieran moaned, his body growing taut. His strokes lengthened, quickened.

“Maeve,” he gasped as he crashed into her once more.

He transformed her pleasure into a bright, glittering release that scattered a satisfied glow throughout her body. Tensing, he cried out above her, delving into her once more, and again. Then, with a deep exhalation, he lay upon her, utterly relaxed.

Maeve held him, his heart racing against hers. Peace and joy overtook her mind. The past mattered not. The future lay before them with perfect promise.

“Kieran?”

He groaned. “A moment please, you vixen. I think you robbed me of my mind.”

Despite the serenity deep in her blood, she laughed. “I’m a thief now?”

“Consider, my lady, that I’m certain I’ve never been so thoroughly boneless and expended in my life.”

Smiling, Maeve decided she liked the sound of that. Hugging him closer, she hoped he would welcome what she must say next.

“I stole naught what I did not intend to give back to you in some way.”

He sent her a low rumble of laughter. “Oh, you gave back, my sweet wife.”

Maeve felt herself flushing. “That is not what I meant.” She batted a playful hand at his shoulder, then took his hand in hers. “I meant this.”

As she placed his palm on her abdomen, his eyes widened in question, then in shock.

“A babe?” he whispered.

“Most like before Christmastide,” she confirmed, nodding. “’Tis why I’ve been sick.”

“Maeve…”

Uncertainty shadowed her heart. “Does that please you?”

He drew in a deep breath. “’Tis so unexpected, I scarce know what to say.”

She regarded him with a frown. “Your pleasure would be best, as he will come whether you want him or not.”

“True,” Kieran conceded, still looking somewhat stunned. “I…I will protect him, as I protect you.”

So badly, Maeve wanted to tell Kieran of her love, explain she kept it secret because of anger she now would not allow to spoil their future. But ’twas clear the news of the babe had been enough for the day. Soon, when he was reconciled to being a father, she would reveal all—and hope he felt the same.

* * * *

Lying beside Maeve that eve as she slept, Kieran tossed in their bed, feeling as if Maeve had, with her touch, robbed him of rational thought, stripped him to the bone of feeling.

Then she had stunned him senseless with her announcement.

A babe?
’Twas the ticket to the freedom he had long sought, his means to leave Ireland now that the rebellion was so severely crippled ’twould be some time before it would rise again—if ever.

He cast his gaze down to Maeve. The richness of the red-gold spread across the white pillow, her fair skin still flushed from the tender, shattering love they had shared.

Kieran tried to resist the urge to brush his fingers along her cheek but could not. She smelled of rain, of pure female, and of him. She looked a like a sleeping goddess, relaxed but still fiery.

Aye, he loved her. But what did that solve?

So much divided them he could scarce list all of their differences. And the magic she made him feel was frightening for him, a man of battle, of logic.

Leaving the bed, he began to pace. Movement helped him to think better. Still, given their clashes, he could only wonder if he and Maeve were destined to share his mother and father’s fate—eternal hate. Kieran rebelled against that thought. He had not his father’s battering bitterness. Maeve had not his mother’s narrow, pious mind. Still, so many parallels existed…

And what of his life as a mercenary? During his first days in Ireland, how he had yearned to return to Spain, earn his coin, a bed, a willing señorita, and drink into the night if it suited his whim.

Fondly, he recalled those days. They could be his now.

Did he want them again—or something else entirely?

Cursing, Kieran dressed in quiet and strode down to the great hall. Many of the castlefolk lingered there, supper just past, listening to Brighid play the light notes of a harp.

At his entrance, Kieran glared over the crowd. Chattering ceased. The dancing stopped. Brighid’s harp fell silent. Aric rose.

Kieran’s gaze found its way to his friend. Wearing a concerned frown, Aric crossed the room to his side.

“What ails you?” he asked, voice low.

“Everything,” he choked, seeing the castlefolk stare.

With a glance over his shoulder, Aric nodded. “Let us go outside, hmm?”

Nodding, Kieran turned numbly, not certain why he had sought his friend, except for the man’s logical mind.

Aric led him out into the falling night, where milky stars brushed the sky. Night sounds invaded his head—frogs, crickets, the rush of the River Barrow nearby. Damp ground beneath his feet seemed to suck him down.

“What has happened?” Aric asked, leaning up against the stone walls of the keep.

“Maeve,” he whispered. Still, his mind could scarce form the words. “She is breeding.”

Surprise crossed Aric’s face just before a smile curled up his mouth. “Wondrous news! Gwenyth and I waited years for God to bless us with Blythe. Consider yourself—”

“I know not what to do!” Kieran ground out.

Confusion fell across Aric’s face. “You love her?”

“Aye.” The realization still did not please him.

“She will give you a child.”

He nodded. “By Christmastide.”

Understanding dawned on Aric’s strong, tawny face. “And you still consider leaving?”

Kieran exhaled into the chilly fog. “She will come to hate me. Already she hates the English cause I represent. And Maeve will forever stand for Ireland.”

“You can find an understanding with her,” Aric encouraged. “She is not an unreasonable woman.”

“Aye, as long as I bend to her wishes. I have done all I can, and still it will not be enough. I cannot keep her brother safe forever. Sooner or later, the Palesmen will discover his whereabouts, and I will be forced to send him to Dublin, I fear, else King Henry will see me dead, as well as punish you and Guilford for my choices. I cannot risk that. Nor can I release Flynn to wreak more havoc with the rebels.”