His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (11 page)

Instead, he would seek the outdoors, gather the army, continue the training, and be grateful for their slight improvement.

Suddenly, thunder rumbled. Kieran turned to see lightning illuminate the dawn-tinged sky. Then rain began to fall like water poured from a bucket.

Simply wonderful. Now he would be trapped inside for the morning at least. And if this rain was anything like the last, he might be caged in the keep all day.

Would nothing go right?

The storm reminded him how much he hated this infernal country, despite its beauty. Besides the fact it rained too much, Ireland held more than its share of mutiny, and now his wife would come to him with carnal knowledge of a damned rebel.

Before he could stoop to unhappy thoughts again, Kieran thrust on his boots and headed out his chamber door, toward the great hall.

Once there, he spied Jana, who sat in a chair, rubbing her belly, crying again and staring at a baby cradle.

Something inside him turned annoyingly soft as he approached her.

“Are you unwell? Has the time come?”

“It is near,” she said between sobs. “And Geralt n-never had a chance t-to finish the babe’s cradle.”

Kieran looked at Jana’s flushed, tear-ravaged face, then the cradle itself. ’Twas nearly complete, its framework of good workmanship. He thought it a nice enough cradle, not that he had seen many. But the one Drake had made for his children with Averyl seemed similar. The one Aric had made and would soon fill was elaborate enough for a royal babe.

“What is not complete?” he asked.

Jana looked at him as if he had not the sense of a swine. “It does not rock.”

When she pointed to the bottom of the cradle, Kieran noticed two thick wooden slabs, one at each end. The head had been carved with rounded ends so that, when pushed gently, the cradle would rock. The other end still possessed square corners.

“I see,” he murmured.

Jana only began to sob harder. “What kind of life will my babe have? His father is dead, his mother is alone, and he has not a suitable bed.”

Kieran watched the woman’s shoulders shake with sorrow. He knew little of breeding women, but he could not imagine such upset was good for her or the child. Nor were all these tears good for his disposition, sour as it was already.

The thunder crashed in the sky again, and Kieran realized he had naught better to do.

“He will have a bed. I will fix the cradle,” he offered softly, wishing he had Aric’s expertise with a knife and wood. Still, he could finish the job well enough.

Jana ceased sobbing and fixed him with a suspicious stare. “You will? Why?”

“Have you anyone else to fix it?”

“Nay. I waited, hoping…” Her tears began in earnest once more. “I hoped ’twas a mistake, that Geralt w-would come back to m-me, that he had not been t-taken from me…from our babe.”

Kieran repressed the urge to comfort the woman. She would not welcome it. Nor did he want to become too involved in her sorrow. Still, he could not abandon the woman. ’Twas clear she grieved. And still she had this babe to birth. Jana needed his help, even if she did not wish it.

“Let me finish the cradle,” he offered in a low voice. “You lie down. Such tumult cannot be good for the child.”

The hope and misgiving on her face told Kieran she was uncertain. “’Tis no problem of yours if the wee one has nowhere to sleep.”

“But it is. As lord here, I’m to see that all at Langmore are cared for. Besides, your chamber is not far from mine. If your mite is unhappy at night, ’tis likely none of us will sleep well.”

Kieran did his best to send her a teasing grin. Jana responded with a weak smile.

“Thank you.”

He waved her thanks away. “Think naught of it. Rest now.”

With a nod, Jana rose and left him with the cradle.

* * * *

At midday, Maeve lifted her head from her reading and went to the great hall in search of a bit of bread to ease her hunger from Ash Wednesday fasting. She prayed she would not see her new husband.

When she entered the great hall and found Kildare shirtless, she knew her prayers had been heard not at all. In fact, ’twas as if God took great pleasure in placing enticement in her path.

Maeve stared at the wide expanse of Kildare’s muscled back as he bent over something he blocked with the breadth of his body. His torso tapered down to a lean waist, marked here and there with idle scars. His discarded shirt lay in a heap at his feet, and a fine sheen of sweat now covered the skin his shirt did not.

Rhythmically, he worked at something with a small knife—some wood, she suspected from the sounds. With each movement, his wide shoulders flexed. The hard flesh of his back and arms rippled.

Maeve’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She had never seen such a well-built man. She tried to remember something that her mother had always said. “Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat.” But she could not deny he was a very attractive goat.

Crossing herself for such lascivious thoughts on a religious day, Maeve began to back out of the room.

Suddenly, Kildare tossed the knife on the table before him, rolled the tension from his shoulders, and turned.

He caught her staring.

But his chest only drew her gaze more. The firm bulges of his shoulders and the hard swells of flesh sculpting his chest prefaced the ridges of his tight abdomen.

Then he smiled that grin, as if he knew a secret and wanted to whisper naughty words across her skin as he held her naked against him.

Dear God, this perfectly formed man was her husband? How was she to resist such masculinity, coupled with his bawdy humor, his energy, his smile?

She must remember he hailed from England. He was here to subjugate the Irish. He could see Quaid dead tomorrow, if he wished it. And he had no aversion to battle.

How could such a man capture her attention?

Quaid had always been gentle, soft-spoken, sharing her serious nature.

Aye, and he had never ensnared her interest so deeply.

“A good day to you, sweet Maeve. Did you cease speaking to me altogether, or is your muteness momentary?”

Kildare teased her, as if he could read her restless, confused thoughts.

Maeve closed her eyes in mortification. ’Twas likely he could read her mind. No doubt her thoughts were plain upon her face. She held in a grunt of frustration.

“As I’ve said, I am not your sweet anything,” she snapped and began to walk around him, toward the kitchen.

When she spotted Jana’s baby cradle perched upon the table beside Kildare, she paused. Was he so heartless as to take a bed from a babe not yet born? He had no use for the cradle.

“What do you do with that? Her babe will come any day, and she will have need of it.”

He nodded, the glint in his dark hair shining by firelight. Maeve wondered if ’twas as silky to the touch as it looked, then thrust the thought away.

She was not a simpleminded girl to lose her head over an enemy possessed of more brawn than heart. She was an O’Shea, the most learned in her family. In her heart, she was betrothed to another, so had no reason to ogle the man, especially a man who would take a cradle from a babe.

Kildare frowned. “I am finishing the cradle, not taking it from her.”

Glancing down at the baby bed, Maeve could see now the remaining corners were rounded for rocking, as they had not been before. In fact, he had added some curves to the spindles and finished the rough edges off. It looked beautiful.

Geralt, God rest his soul, had not much talent with wood. Kildare, however, did. ’Twas no surprise the man was good with his hands.

At that thought, she swallowed.

Maeve looked at her husband again and could not look away from his striking blue-green eyes—and the consideration within them. Something within her softened, despite her wishes.

Why, blast him, had he done something kind?

CHAPTER SIX

Kieran stared at the marks in his candle-clock, waiting eagerly for Maeve to come to his chamber. He had no notion what she might do with her half of their hour together.

He had a fine idea of what to do with his.

But since he agreed to give her at most a fortnight before consummating their marriage, he would have to content himself with less—for now.

Frowning, he tried to recall a time he had done something with a woman as comely as Maeve other than take her immediately to his bed. Naught came to mind.

With a yawn, he glanced past the open door, down the narrow hall. No sign of his bride.

Annoyance chafed him. The first of their hours alone, and already she defied him. Somehow, Kieran felt no surprise.

Making his way out the door with a mutter, he strode down the hall until he reached the chamber Maeve shared with Fiona.

The door stood ajar and he peeked in.

There Flynn stood, chest puffed forward, looking mightily pleased with himself. Maeve stood before him, holding a rolled parchment, wearing an expression of giddy surprise.

“How did this reach you?” she asked her brother.

“Don’t be tellin’ me you don’t have faith in me now.”

Maeve frowned. “I have faith in you, Flynn.”

“At times,” he grumbled. “All will be well this time, I swear to you, Maeve.”

“How?” she asked, lifting her uncertain gaze from the page to Flynn’s face once more. “I know naught of any plan.”

“Worry not. I will keep my promise.”

As answers went, Flynn’s told Kieran little, except that Flynn had likely promised Maeve he would see to Quaid’s release, which he had already suspected. The conversation said naught of who was involved in this rebellion or how they planned to thwart the English charges against Maeve’s betrothed.

He knew Maeve had received a message, most likely of a personal nature, from a man whose bed she had shared. And from the manner in which she clutched the note, Kieran guessed his wife was happy to have it.

Disappointment pierced him, and his reaction chafed. Naturally, he expected loyalty and fidelity in a wife. Knowing his own bride felt joy receiving the court of another lover left him unsettled. Any man would understand that. ’Twas no more than his attempt to protect that which was now his.

“Thank you, Flynn.”

“Read the missive now. I’m off to a late supper.”

Hiding in the hall’s dark shadows, he watched Maeve nod and Flynn slip out of her chamber. A moment later, she unrolled the note and thrust on her spectacles. Through the curved lenses, he watched her gaze move quickly over the page.

Her expressions changed. Smiling one moment, frowning the next. Distress followed, then a gasp. Finally came the expression that irritated him most—wistfulness. Her animated face and soft mouth said she longed for the man. The thought made Kieran want to growl and rip the note from her hands.

Why?

And why was he, a grown warrior, crouching in hallways to see what his own wife was about? Aye, he did not want the wife, at least not forever. Nor did he truly want the castle. But they were his now, and by damn, he would hold them.

Striding forward, he entered the room and shot her an accusing stare. “What do you read, Wife?”

Maeve jumped, then rolled the parchment quickly. She looked at him, though her gaze did not meet his eyes. “’Tis naught, my lord.”

“Kieran,” he bit out.

She nodded. “I did not see you at supper.”

“The men and I were training. I would ask who sent you that note in your hands.”

“This?” She held up the parchment casually. “’Tis but a letter from a distant cousin that Flynn received. He asked me to reply.”

Maeve’s smile was a nervous one as she turned away, as if dismissing the subject. Dismissing him.

Kieran refused to have any of that. “What does Quaid say to you?”

She whirled back to him, golden eyes wide. She opened her mouth, as if to reply, but no words came forth.

“Does he vow devotion, my sweet Maeve?”

“I know not of what you speak.”

“Rubbish. Quaid sent that note. Flynn brought it to you.”

Again, she paused in silence. Kieran watched the pulse flutter at her throat. She swallowed. Her hands tightened around the parchment.

“Quaid has always vowed devotion,” Maeve said finally.

With an angry shake of his head, Kieran cursed. “Once, he had the right to vow such. No more.”

“Just as you had no right to begin the raising of Langmore’s curtain walls, but you did anyway.”

Kieran had no wish to be a ruffian with her on this. Quaid had written the note. Aye, she had received it, but ’twas up to him to cease others from coming, lest her connection to the other man stayed strong.

“The walls are of no consequence. Their raising will make Langmore less vulnerable to attack, which is my right—and my duty. O’Toole, however, is of consequence to me. Write him and tell him you’ve married.”

She paused, jaw tensing, before she said, “I had planned to do that. He has a right to know.”

“The only right he has is to stop courting you.”

Finally, Maeve looked at him. In fact, glared, her turbulent gaze on his face. “Why behave as if Quaid’s feelings for me—or mine for him—matter to you? You have Langmore at your feet, an army ready at your call. For all your charm, I doubt you came here wanting me as a wife. And someday, probably in less than a month, you will be bedding every kitchen maid and smithy’s wife who will have you. Can you not leave me be?”

She was exceedingly keen and free with her tongue. Somehow, that only irritated Kieran more.

“You would have me allow my own wife to cavort with her lover—”

“We can hardly cavort while you and the rest of the English dogs have him under lock and key!”

Her shout echoed off the stone walls and undoubtedly through the open door into the halls. He wanted no one aware of his business. Damnation, he had no desire to deal with it himself.

But deal with it—and her—he would.

Turning, he kicked the door shut, then faced her again. She looked startled, uncertain. And through it all, he found her uncommonly lovely. Auburn lashes framed her wide golden eyes, which brimmed with intelligence and rightness.