His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) (22 page)

O’Toole, gagged until now, had his mouth freed and was allowed to speak. “I did naught wrong, I tell you.”

“Do you deny killing two English soldiers?” Burkland asked.

“I but kept them from stealing my sheep and raping my sister!”

“And you required taking a blade into the belly of one and the throat of another to do that?”

“They had blades as well, blades they would have used, had I given them a chance.”

Burkland cast O’Toole a disbelieving glance. “Do you have any evidence these sheep were yours?”

“Nay, but they were.”

“I see,” Burkland said as if he had proven his point. “And your sister… Do you have any evidence she did not welcome these fine Englishmen in her bed?”

“She screamed so loud my ears rang!”

“Perhaps she screamed in pleasure,” suggested Lord Butler.

“No honorable Irishwoman takes pleasure in an Englishman’s bed,” O’Toole spat, glaring directly at Kieran.

Knowing ’twould infuriate O’Toole, he gave the man a shrug and a smile.

The rebel surged forward in fury. A pair of guards stopped him, one dealing him a blow to the stomach.

“Enough!” Burkland decreed, then turned to the rest. “Your decision, gentlemen?”

“Death!” the others declared in unison.

Kieran felt his throat plunge to his stomach. Aye, he held no love for O’Toole—but Maeve did. And he doubted she would understand his part in her once-betrothed’s death. He knew not why, but the rending of the fragile bonds of his peace with Maeve distressed him. And O’Toole’s defense, if true, weren’t crimes that warranted death.

Awaiting his answer, the Palesmen turned to hear his verdict.

Impulsively, he opened his mouth to say he would take Quaid back to Langmore and deal with him privately, starting with a meeting of his fists and O’Toole’s nose. But he could not. Such foolishness was not smart or logical, for it would put the rebel directly into Flynn’s—and Maeve’s—paths again. Both were too dangerous. Neither could he allow.

Resisting the urge to fly from the bench and pace, Kieran gritted his teeth. He was no damned coward. War had always meant making such decisions of fate, most of which were difficult. When he took an ax in one hand and a sword in another and faced a man with intent, he took a life. Without blinking, he moved on to the next opponent. Warriors did these things in times of war. ’Twas their duty. Ordinarily, he thought not about ending a rebel’s life.

But Maeve’s anger would be great indeed if O’Toole died this day.

And Kieran knew he could do naught to stop it.

“Death,” he muttered finally, damning Ireland under his breath.

* * * *

Three days later, Kieran crept into Langmore’s keep long after midnight. In the morn, he would have to tell Maeve the truth about O’Toole. He dreaded every minute of it, knowing she would hate him for his part in the rebel’s execution.

Tonight, he wanted naught but to see Maeve and sleep without seeing O’Toole’s face of resigned bravery in his mind.

Treading to his chamber, he was surprised to find Maeve curled up in his bed, sleepy and warm, her hair twisted into a single braid that curled about her neck and lay between the tempting mounds of her breasts.

She wore naught but a shift, and the burning taper in his hand revealed the shadows of her dusky nipples to his hungry gaze.

Blood rushed to his shaft, making him thick, tight, and hard in mere instants. Not so unusual, he thought with a grimace. What he disliked was the tangle of thoughts in his head, careening around until his belly churned and he knew no peace.

The urge to be near her drove him to sit on the edge of the bed, beside her. He touched her shoulder, grazed his finger across her cheek.

Longing, thick and demanding, settled in his gut. He hated the thought she would not speak to him once he told her the truth. She would withdraw the sunshine of her smile. Too well he knew even his best explanation would not soothe her.

He would miss her—even more than he had in Dublin. For whilst there, they had been but separated by miles. Here, beliefs and loyalties would separate them. She would not change hers, and he could not afford to change his even if he wished to. And the torment would be greater, for he could see her each day but not hold her sleep-soft body in his arms, not win her smile—not for some while, if ever again.

Maeve moaned in slumber, and Kieran looked down, realizing he had been squeezing her hand too hard.

He also saw her golden eyes open, glowing by the dim candlelight.

“You’ve returned. When?” Sleep slurred her muted words.

A puzzling wave of tenderness swept through him. Had she worried? The thought held appeal. “Only now.”

She groaned tiredly. “’Tis late. You must be weary.”

Moments ago, he had been. Now he could think of little but Maeve and the twisted tangle of his thoughts.

“Not so weary now that you are near.”

Kieran could not resist clasping her chin softly and running his thumb across her lips. Maeve lifted a heavy-lidded gaze to him, eyes darkened with the golden fire of awareness.

The want in his gut tightened, sparking his entire body with desire. Aye, he’d thought of holding her these three days past. And now she lay before him, in his bed, soft woman.

But a soft woman who would soon hate him.

His conscience warred with his urge to be near her. His battered mind needed the soothing balm of her touch.

His conscience lost.

Bending to her, Kieran arched his hand around the back of her neck and brought her mouth gently to his. He brushed his lips over hers once, then again. She smelled of…Maeve. He recognized her scent, some unique blend of woman, spring, and Ireland itself. Never had he smelled its like. ’Twas addicting, he thought, deepening the kiss, leaning in.

Maeve did not resist him, but curled her arms around his shoulders and welcomed him with a willing mouth that parted when he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. Triumph and a belly-deep need implored him to taste her honeyed essence—unique like her scent.

He felt himself drowning, his thoughts swimming in all that was Maeve. Half lying upon her, he leaned his weight on one elbow and lifted his other hand to her breast. Thrill charged through him when he found the mound taut, its tip erect. He teased her nipple with his thumb, alternately brushing and pinching.

She arched beneath him and whispered, “I-I missed you.”

He looked at her, those golden eyes full of uncertainty and longing, and murmured, “I thought of little but you.”

The admission did not come easy, but he owed her that honesty. Mayhap, ’twould soften the truth he must tell later. He pushed the thought aside, knowing he needed to taste her one last time—before she pushed him away for weeks, mayhap even months, or God forbid, forever.

The possibility chilled him. He kept it at bay by caressing her cheek with his fingers.

Pleasure lit Maeve’s fiery eyes. A smile touched her mouth before he kissed her again, this time deeper. She hesitated not an instant, but opened beneath him, unfurling like a petal to the morning sun. Kieran reveled in her response, running a hand across her breast again, tempting her with his touch until she moaned.

To his shock, she lifted the shift from her body, over her head, baring her nakedness to his hungry gaze. Though he had not known such was possible, he hardened further at her honest display of her wants. Though she was hardly the first woman to remove her clothes for his pleasure, he found Maeve’s gesture more pleasing because it was her and it was real.

“You’re lovelier than I remembered, sweet Maeve.”

The candlelight lit up the glow of the red-gold wisps about her face, along with her smile. Kieran knew an uncompromising urge to touch her, to make her his again.

Seizing her mouth, he set his fingers to unbraiding her hair. He would not be satisfied until its fire lay about his white sheets as he loved her.

While his fingers worked at her tresses, his tongue swept through her mouth. Maeve arched and moaned, then surprised Kieran by sliding his tunic over his head. They broke the kiss for a mere instant, long enough to see the garment strewn on the floor, before their mouths came together once more.

Kieran could not recall anything that felt more perfect.

Then she set her hands to his chest, her fingers to his nipples. The shock of her soft fingers upon him, squeezing, caressing—’twas more arousing than he could bear.

“Maeve, my sweet, what do you do to me?”

Her mouth kissed a path to his ear, and she whispered, “I’m making you feel all the heavenly things you stir inside me.”

That whisper—her very words—sent shivers through his body. He captured her mouth again, hard, urgent, driving her to meet his desire. She did, and incredibly, he wanted more.

Kicking off his boots, he knelt on the mattress and set his hands to work at his hose and braies. To his surprise, Maeve joined the effort, her hands gliding down his back, over his buttocks and thighs. With a tug on the garments, the rest of his clothing lay haphazardly across the wooden floor.

Now he lay naked beside Maeve and her delicious ardor.

She lifted her mouth to his, and Kieran did not hesitate in receiving her kiss, demanding more of her. He let his hands roam over the soft texture of her skin as he inched down her body, pausing at the slope of her shoulders, the firm weight of her breasts, the gentle curve of her belly…the soft folds of her womanhood.

Her slick flesh surrounded his fingers, wet, nearly ready. Her cry rang in his ears, calling to him. Her musk, along with the drive of desire in his belly, urged him on. His need to touch her would not be denied.

Nor would his urge to taste her.

With his thumb and finger, he parted her folds, revealing her pink nubbin, hard now from his ministrations.

“Kieran?” she called in question.

He never answered. Instead, he brushed her with his tongue. Her indrawn gasp spurred him to do it once more. He cradled the spread of her thighs in his hands. Good, she was taut and expectant.

Again, he laved attention on her sensitive flesh until she quivered. Then again. Back and forth, he lapped. Maeve grabbed the sheet in her fists and arched into him. His blood surged.

She moaned, then breathed in deep, loud gasps. “Kieran.”

He answered by taking the little bud into his mouth and sucking, his tongue teasing the tip.

Maeve exploded, the flesh beneath his mouth pulsing with pleasure. She cried out loudly, bucking her hips. Her thighs trembled, quivered, then relaxed as pleasure saturated her. Gladness that he had pleased her aroused him more.

Kieran returned to her side with a smile. Maeve turned to him with a dazed expression that had him checking an urge to mount her immediately.

“You look awfully proud of yourself,” she said, voice husky, enthralling.

“You don’t look as if you think to complain.”

She laughed. “Brute.”

Her slur came without force, but she reached for him, hands to his shoulders, propelling him to his back. As she kneeled over him, she looked down at him with a determined gleam in her eye. Kieran swallowed.

Her hand wandered down his chest, over his belly, until she claimed his shaft, so hard, its head now nearly blue.

When she squeezed him, her touch blasted Kieran to the edge of his control. Her thumb brushed the engorged head, and he wondered if he’d remember his own name once she finished with him.

And then she bent to him, experimentally touching her tongue to his tip. Kieran felt sure his brain melted altogether at that moment.

He opened his eyes to find Maeve wearing a pleased smile.

The she took him more completely into her mouth, her warmth surrounding his sensitive flesh, her tongue laving him.

His melted brain mattered not, because he had just died and found paradise.

He groaned in ecstasy, the bands of desire pulled tight in his belly. Maeve repeated the process once more, then again. His need rode dangerously close to the edge. And he wanted her, to be inside her, as he’d never wanted anything else.

Grasping her by the shoulders, he clasped her to him, then rolled her to the mattress, pinning her beneath him. “If you seek to kill me, you do a fine job.”

With that ragged murmur, he captured her mouth and entered her in one smooth stroke.

Maeve was open to him, ready, welcoming. Bliss resonated in Kieran as he thrust deeply, claiming her inch by inch.

“’Tis you who kills me,” she muttered.

Kissing his way down the slope of her jaw, his teeth nipped at her earlobe as he breathed against her neck. “Let us find a pleasurable passing together.”

“Aye,” she cried as he plunged into her welcoming wetness again, grinding deep, deeper until he swore he felt her womb.

Wildness erupted within him. He wanted to reach her this way, every way, hear her cry his name over and over until she lost her voice, her very breath, her memory of Quaid’s touch.

Again, he drove into her, then again, until the edge of the precipice rushed to meet him. He gritted his teeth against it, determined to take her with him.

Suddenly, she tensed and cried out. He felt her flesh close around him, squeezing in firm pulses, coaxing the fulfillment from his body.

Blackness floated in his vision as he thrust into her one last time. Rapture burst in him, filling his blood with a slow burn of satisfaction. Languor followed, so thick and perfect Kieran wondered if he would ever move again.

Beneath him, he smelled Maeve’s clean skin, felt the hard pound of her heart. And he rejoiced in a joining so perfect he swore he’d never known its equal.

She smiled softly and pressed a kiss to his mouth. Her golden eyes glowed, and Maeve looked at him with ardor. Something both happy and tender, something foreign, unfurled in his chest.

“I see you did miss me whilst you were in Dublin.”

Dublin.
Her words chilled him with reality. Joy vanished from his body, replaced by foreboding.

He had experienced his stolen moments in her arms. And no matter how badly he wished to cling to them, to do so would be gravely unfair. Now he must tell her the truth.