His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) by Shayla Black, Shelley Bradley Page A

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!
    “What news have you, my lord?” she asked as if she knew naught.
    He speared her with a stare that quickly turned contemplative. “Where is your brother?”
    She shrugged, feigning ignorance. “Oft times, he visits a wench in a neighboring village.”
    “Which one?”
    “I know not. Why would he share this with me?”
    Kildare looked at her skeptically but said naught more. Maeve thought she might go mad with curiosity.
    “Has aught happened, my lord?”
    “I suspect you know this, but during the night, Malahide Castle was attacked by unknown members of the rebellion.”
    Maeve tried to suppress her relief and glee. Flynn had not been caught!
    Instead, she gasped, trying to sound appropriately surprised. “And what happened?”
    “Little, really. But they managed to damage the keep, including the dungeon.”
    They had reached the heart of the castle, found a way inside, and entered the dungeon. Dare she hope Flynn had been able to free—
    “No one escaped, thankfully.”
    Maeve could not help the sinking disappointment that slid a thick path to her stomach, taking her spirits with it.
    “The missive lists the names of several prisoners the rebellion seems to covet. Among them is one Quaid O’Toole. Is he your…betrothed?”
    Silently, she nodded. She wanted to scream or cry in frustration, in fear. To do so before Kildare would reveal too much. Instead, she decided silence was her safest course.
    “If you and your brother thought to free him and wed you off safely before I could decide who to take to wife, I will be much displeased.”
    Displeased? As if she wasn’t sick with bitter disappointment, utterly disheartened? “My goal remains to wed the man of my choosing. If someone freed him from English clutches, I would applaud them.”
    Kildare’s face turned hard and warring. No hint of that seductive smile lingered. “Are you disappointed Flynn failed?”
    “Flynn had naught to do with last night. As I said, he is with a woman—”
    “If Flynn wanted a wench to warm his bed, ’tis doubtful he would have to leave Langmore for such. From what I have seen, there are many women at Langmore worthy of a tumble.”
    Maeve forced herself to meet Kildare’s hot