His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) Read Online Free

war? She despised them, all of them, for their haughty voices and silken clothes. And their arrogance. Aye, always that. Behind her sat a prime example of grating English confidence.
    Turning again to face the intruder, Maeve pasted on a smile.
    “And a good day to you, fine sir.” She curtsied.
    Apparently pleased with her response, the Englishman dismounted and sauntered toward her, his eyes ever upon her face. Maeve swallowed against the heat of his stare while ignoring her sister’s gaping expression beside her.
    With a sweep of his hand, he took her own in his. Maeve scarce had time to register the strength of his fingers and the texture of his calluses against her palm before his lips touched—and lingered—on the back of her hand.
    Against her will, she stared. His features were pleasant, his nose straight and even. The slash of his brown brows a masculine arc over the intriguing bluish eyes. He was clean-shaven, and he wore his hair shorn like his undoubtedly Norman ancestors. Even its color was pleasing. Black would have been too severe on him. Nay, God had blessed him with a shade not too light, not too dark, possessing a hint of auburn. And he was probably rich and smart and annoyingly charming besides.
    Suddenly, she dreaded every day he spent at Langmore.
    “You are a gem indeed amid such a lovely land,” he murmured. “I beg the pleasure of your name, sweet lady.”
    ’Twas doubtful with his charm he begged for much. No doubt women simply gave the man whatever he asked, all for a mere moment in his strong arms and the touch of his full mouth upon theirs. And while Maeve liked the company of her own sex, they could be such fools when a charming man sniffed about their skirts.
    Ignoring the fact her hand tingled where his mouth had been, Maeve gently broke the contact and cast her gaze away as if timid.
    “What would you be knowing of this fine land, sir?”
    At that, his grin turned wry. Aye, he was self-possessed and strong and a warrior to the core, but he could smile. The flash of white teeth, the engaging stare, the warm interest in his lively eyes made him unlike the other Englishmen she had known. Mischief hung about him as surely as a cloak. No doubt, he had led many a maid astray.
    The fact he would remain at Langmore as their lord annoyed and flustered her at once. Would he continue to focus his charm upon her, despite her betrothal to Quaid?
    “I know little of the land, ’tis true,” he answered, saving her from foolish thoughts. “But its beauty is clear for all to see.”
    Again, his gaze caressed her, roaming her cheeks, brushing her mouth, then meeting her eyes once more. Oddly, Maeve felt her heart pick up its pace again. Why, she had no idea. He was a rogue—and an English one at that—seemingly intent upon trifling with her. He cared naught for the Irish people. Like the others, he would reap the land’s profits, use them to line his coffers, impregnate his kitchen maids, and jail the men.
    The fact she could do naught to stop him made her want to scream in frustration. Somehow, she had to stall him, make plans for Langmore’s defense. They were unprepared, for this new Kildare had not been expected until next week!
    “’Tis a lovely bit of land we have,” she agreed, smiling with deceptive sweetness. “What brings a fine man like you here?”
    At that, his smile faltered. His eyes did not seem quite so lively. “I am the new earl of Kildare, lady.”
    “My lord,” she cooed, pretending away—and gritting her teeth.
    A furrow wrinkled his brow, and Maeve was surprised to find he did not like her show of deference.
    Then the smile returned, as if it had never disappeared. “For you, lovely lass, I am Kieran. And you are…?”
    She frowned. Odd, his name. It sounded more Irish than English. In fact, ’twas a Gaelic word for dark. More like than not, ’twas a comment on his soul.
    And since he had likely come to subdue her family, she would wait to confess her O’Shea