His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (6 page)

“That leaves me and Fiona, my lord,” offered Brighid.

A quick glance at the two fair-headed sisters revealed Fiona trying to hide her grimace with a false smile, and Brighid’s mouth turned up in a hopeful grin. He nearly smiled at the absurdity of it.

“I will wed you, my lord,” Brighid offered. “For then I could learn of men and women and how babies are made…”

Babies? Brighid was little more than a child herself. ’Twould be some while before he would think her grown enough to take to his bed. But again, if wedding the imp would further his cause here, mayhap he could bring himself to do it and get a babe on her soon.

Kieran turned his gaze to the other blond girl. Her smile was too bright, inciting his curiosity.

“Fiona?”

Kieran could swear he saw her flinch when he called her name. But that fixed yet tense smile remained in place.

“My lord,” she murmured, not quite looking at him.

“Come here.”

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to issue the command, but he knew his instincts were right when she complied, hands shaking so hard he wondered if she was ill.

“My lord,” she said again when she stopped before him. This time her voice shook like her hands as it clawed its way up her throat. No doubt he terrified her.

Mayhap he should not have beaten her brother so senseless.

But it had felt too good.

Kieran regarded Fiona. “I don’t bite.” Then he smiled, hoping she would respond in kind. “Unless you ask me.”

Fiona blanched instead. Kieran frowned and waved her away. She retreated, face relaxing with relief, hands pressed into a white-knuckled clasp.

Sighing, he gazed over the bunch once more as Jana rose to face him. Flynn moaned in the background.

With a glance down, Kieran found his hose and boots a bloody, muddy mess, his tunic torn, his dignity challenged, and his knuckles sore from punching Flynn.

And he had yet to even enter the castle.

Such ill beginnings did not bode well for any stay in Ireland.

Kieran cursed. He must get on with wedding and bedding a wife as soon as possible. Only then could he leave. Only then would he know pleasure in life again.

“Beginning tomorrow,” he began, regarding the four sisters, “I will spend one day with each of you, even those widowed and promised.”

Maeve objected, “But—”

“You are unwed at the moment, and that is all I require,” he interrupted, then went on, “At the end of those four days, I will inform you and your brother, as well as the king, which of you I will take as my bride. Until then, I want a bath, a meal, and a soft bed.”

Maeve opened her mouth again. “But—”

“And no arguing, no threatening, no frightened nor curious females.” He gave each of them a hard stare. “None at all.”

CHAPTER THREE

The following morn dawned gray and rainy. Though Kieran’s young squire, Colm, and a few of his trusted men had arrived during the night, with the weather as it was today, they could not venture out of doors. Such idleness chafed him. Kieran wanted to be outside these thick stone walls, training the castle’s army, assessing the lands, meeting its people, finding the root of rebellion. Remaining trapped with the four shrewish sisters irritated him beyond measure.

Then further unsettling news reached him upon first wakening: Flynn had left Langmore during the night and had not returned. He had no doubt the man could find the rebellion and join them, should he put his mind to such a task.

But he would bother with Flynn when the man returned. Now he had a bride to choose, despite the fact he would rather take a long trip to purgatory if it meant he might avoid taking a wife.

After breaking his fast, Kieran toured the small keep. It had been built more for defense than comfort. Its walls were thick and its luxuries—and bedchambers—were few. Still, it was a sturdy keep, and only that would matter if the Irish rebels attacked.

Knowing he could no longer put off the inevitable, Kieran returned to the great hall and reluctantly summoned Jana to his side. Since the pregnant woman had spent a good portion of the night insisting she would have the babe within hours, Kieran figured he ought not to waste any time in speaking with her, lest she actually birth the mite soon.

The dark-headed sister appeared in the great hall a few minutes after the appointed time. After clearing the room of all others, he sat beside her. Her fatigued face drew a moment’s pity for some unknown reason, and he hoped she found a restful night’s sleep soon.

“So I’m to spend the day with you, am I?” she said, but even the contempt in her voice emerged as little more than weariness.

“Aye. I would ask you a few questions, hear about you, about Langmore. You may ask questions as you wish.”

She stared into a cup of goat’s milk. “You know all that is important. I grew up here in Langmore. I was wed here. ’Tis a fine castle built near a hundred years past, but she stands strong. I have no doubt ’tis why you English beasts want it.”

Kieran chose not to comment on that gibe now. ’Twould only lead to an argument that would sap her of more energy.

“What do you enjoy, Jana?”

“Enjoy?” She frowned, clearly surprised by such a question. “Do my interests matter?”

Aye, they did. His parents had failed at marriage so badly because they shared naught but a son. Since Drake and his lovely wife, Averyl, both shared a love of books, Kieran thought to find a wife with whom he could share something. Such might cut down on the death and mayhem.

Mayhap…and mayhap not.

“I have been far too busy readying for this birth of late to be concerned with interests.”

“What of your interests before your marriage?” he prompted.

Her faded mouth thinned into a pressed line. “I am tired and recall little before I wed. Now my only interest is in birthing a healthy babe, as Geralt would have wished.”

When Kieran saw a glossy sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, he nodded. “You will make him proud.”

“Not if I take an enemy as my husband. I want no part of this absurdity.”

“So you’ve said. I want no part of marriage, either, but—”

“You did not lose the one you loved a mere two months past,” she said, rising from the bench as her voice rose in volume. “You will not have to look at your innocent babe and try to explain why he has no father. You will not have to tell him that the English killed his father but his mother married one of the butcher’s kind anyway!”

Tears began down Jana’s face, and she crumpled back to the bench in a sobbing heap.

Kieran flinched as she wailed beside him and rested her face in her hands. Her noisy tears echoed in the great hall, disturbing even the resting hounds. Frowning, he stared at the grieving woman. Her pain was no pretense, and he found himself shifting in his seat with discomfort.

“They k-killed him! And for doing naught m-more than what he believed was right. Freedom… ’Twas all he sought. W-why did he have to die to gain something he had been born with?”

Kieran had no answer for that. That was simply war. Some won. Others lost—and paid the ultimate price. Always he had accepted thus.

Today, watching Jana shake her own body—and her babe’s—with the force of her tears, he felt…tense.

“Jana,” he said softly. “Your Geralt did what he thought right, true. But he defied the law—”

“English law!” she cut in angrily, lifting her head from the table.

Misery had turned her cheeks pink, her nose red, and her eyes puffy. Grief sat stiffly in each line of her oval face, in each inch of her downturned mouth.

For once, Kieran knew not what to say.

“Why should the English make laws for Ireland? They rape our land and our women. They kill our men, then expect obedience.” She laughed bitterly. “Why should we give it?”

Though Kieran knew Jana believed such, she could not see the truth: war, by its nature, decreed that those who fell would be subjugated by those who conquered. ’Twas no right or wrong in that. It simply was.

Still, he could not help an unwelcome pang of sympathy for her loss and that of her babe. He had grown to manhood without much of his own father. He knew how great that loss could be.

“Shhh, good lady. You will upset the babe.” He reached out to place a soothing hand upon her own.

She yanked it away. “Touch me not, you swine! And be assured that if you are so foolish as to force me to wife, I will do all that I can to make your life hell and see you dead.
That
, you English miscreant, would have made my Geralt happy!”

Jana pushed away from the bench and lumbered away from the table. Kieran made no move to stop her.

Aye, he could force her to wed, if he wished it. ’Twas clear Jana could breed, which would ensure he could leave Ireland, but she spent more time in anger or grief than in the running of Langmore or the care of her family. She would soon have a babe to birth and raise, so ’twould be some time before he could get another on her himself and leave this miserable place. Would he not be best served to leave her be? Aye.

Kieran denied his decision not to wed her had aught to do with the enmity his parents had sharpened to lethal hatred—a fate he feared would be his own if he wed a woman who despised him. But he felt sure Aric and Drake would both have chastised him for such a denial.

Shaking his head, he tossed back the rest of his ale and rose to leave the great hall. Behind him, small, angry footsteps approached.

Kieran whirled, hand beside the dagger at his waist, ready. He saw only Maeve and felt his mind relax.

Smiling, he watched her come near. This morn, she wore her hair loose, a cascade of red-gold glory that fell to her waist. The green dress she wore contrasted with the rich, creamy underdress beneath, spilling a ripple of a sleeve down her arm. The gown fit snugly to her small waist, and though he could not see her legs, he could imagine the long and firm appendages and sighed.

A light quip sat upon his tongue, one he hoped would charm her. He bit it back when he saw the fury flushing her face and tightening her fists.

“’Tis so like an English bully to seek out the weak and hurt them,” she hissed.

“Hurt? Who—”

“Who?” Maeve barked back. “Now you say that you are simple-minded as well as mean? Jana cries upon her bed great rivers of tears after less than a quarter hour’s conversation with you. Leave her be! Her shattered heart can take no more.”

Maeve was a warrioress protecting one of her own. He did not think her tendencies ran violent, but had no trouble believing she would sink a knife into any man’s back who dared to hurt one of her kin. He admired that about her, though such could be a meddlesome penchant he must not give free rein.

“You will not take her to wife,” Maeve insisted, leaning closer, jaw clenched with fury.

With her spring-scented nearness and her flushed face, Kieran’s mind wandered down dark paths where an eager Maeve accepted his kiss hungrily, with open-mouthed fervor. What would she taste like?

She exploded, fists clenched. “Do you listen to me? That lewd smirk says not.”

Her shout chased the thought away. Aye, he wanted her near, but not so he could hear her haranguing him.

“Aye, I hear you. You wish me not to wed Jana.”

Somewhat mollified, Maeve stepped back a bit and unclenched her fists. “Aye.”

“Who would you have me wed then?” he asked.

She paused in consideration, then, with a false smile, offered, “My brother’s hunting bitch is in heat.”

Kieran laughed. No one could deny the woman had spirit. She did not speak much, not like Aric’s Gwenyth. But when she did choose to comment, ’twas clear she spoke her mind.

“As much as I must have a wife, a dog will not do, sweet Maeve.”

“I am not your sweet anything.” She glared at him.

“Perhaps I will change that.” He gave her the grin that melted many a heart—or at least a dress away from the owner’s body.

“You cannot, I assure you.”

Maeve seemed so sure of herself, so certain she could resist whatever temptation he might throw her way. But she knew naught of his determination if he set his mind to something. And mayhap he would set his mind to having her, if she proved to be the wife he needed.

In response to her declaration, he merely smiled. “If you wish me to cease considering Jana as a wife, I will do so.”

Maeve’s golden eyes narrowed. “You would do such a thing simply because I asked it?”

“Nay. I do such a thing because I had reached much the same conclusion. Jana will remain unwed until she finds a man of her choice and my approval.”

The suspicious glare on Maeve’s face softened to a mere frown. “Truly?”

“Good lady, please stop looking for some trickery on my part. I will not marry Jana, and that is all.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

He nodded, then watched her turn away.

But the devil inside him made him call out to her. “I have made no such decision about you, sweet Maeve.”

* * * *

A roll of parchment arrived the following morn from Dublin. Breath held, Maeve waited for Kildare to read it. How successful had the rebellion been? Had Flynn been able to free Quaid?

She yearned to see her betrothed now, before she forgot his face, before she spent any more time pondering the mocking English smile that had kept her awake last night.

Beside the great hall’s hearth, the earl straddled a bench. His wide shoulders and long legs, honed by countless hours of training and war, bunched and rippled with every move. As he read the missive, his unusual blue-green gaze made its way over the paper. She watched, swallowed, her stomach fluttering.

’Twas fear, she told herself fiercely. Only fear for her brother and her betrothed, neither big men, neither much of fighting men. Kildare could kill them both if he chose. The day of his arrival had proven that plainly. The flutter in her belly had naught to do with the hawkish, handsome face, his watchful eyes, or that strong body.

Finally, he lifted his head, rolled up the parchment once more, and cursed. Clearly the news within did not make Kildare want to celebrate. Good!