Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (35 page)

“Did you like my gift?” he asked, without looking at her.

So, he was unsure of himself. Or perhaps of her.
 

She was very, very sure. “You mean the betrothal papers?”

“Aye.” He slammed the cork back into the skin opening.
 

“The one torn into pieces?”

He dropped the skin on the ground. “Aye.”

“Oh yes, Aodh,” she assured him softly. “Very, very much.”
 

His gaze swept to hers, then he kissed her again. She took the kiss until, her eyes opened dazedly and she saw the crowded bailey had ground to an almost complete halt. People stopped and stared as Katarina, who’d been trapped in a tower, stood with their new lord, getting properly kissed.
 

She pushed him away and tried to catch her breath. “But
why?
”
she
asked, ducking her head, keeping her voice low. “Why did you tear it up?”
 

He shrugged. “I was wrong. I’ll have you willing or not at all. Nothing else will do.”

This was the sort of thing that could make a woman not care who was watching.
 
She pushed up on her toes and touched her lips to his. “That, sir, is almost enough to make a lady consider being reckless.”

His hands closed around her before she could step away. “This pleases you? This tearing up of things?”

She nodded. “Greatly.”

“Then I shall begin tearing up things immediately. Papers, trenchers of bread.” His hands interlaced at the small of her back, not letting her retreat. Which was quite his way. “I’ll rip the tapestries to shreds.”

Katarina laughed and rested her head on his chest for a moment, not caring who was watching or what they thought. Her skin was awash in chills comprised of laughter and passion and…yes, happiness. When had she last been happy?

She could not count the years. Life was not made for such things. Happiness was nonessential, but oh, how it pleased.
 

Again—and again, and again—how Aodh pleased.

“And I believe, sir,” she said, looking up at him, “that as you going to tear things up on my behalf, I will…stand down my men on yours.”

 
“Ah,” he said slowly, then bent his head and kissed her again.

They walked to the keep together after they’d released the garrison. He slung his arm over her shoulder and they strode through the bailey. She walked close at his side, discussing what she wanted to speak to Cook about for the evening meal.
 

He barely listened. It was enough she was here, chattering happily, her slim body curving up to his. The hum was back, the emptiness filled.
 

Miniature reunions erupted all across the bailey as her household drew close to speak to Katarina, to hug her, to ask questions or advice on various small matters. Clearly they did not need her opinion on whether to boil the chicken or purchase additional lye for the laundry, they just wanted to be near her, to touch her hand, to bring her sprigs of spring wildflowers—Dickon shoved them into her hands and rushed off before she could catch him—so it was almost an hour before they were back inside the keep.

He took her directly to their chambers. He had no specific plans, but a great many general ones.

They spent the rest of the day there. They left only for the evening meal, when the household finally pounded on the door for Aodh. And for Katarina.

*

“WEAR THIS.”

Katarina was in their chambers, rummaging through the wardrobe, casting aside all the gowns that would not do for such a night as this. But they would
all
not do.

Her muscles were gloriously sore and well worked. Muscles she had not known she possessed were still sensitive and trembling. She felt aglow.

And she had
nothing
to wear.
 

She turned at the sound of Aodh’s voice, and almost caught her breath.

He stood in the doorway, his hair damp from a bath, fresh and windblown and smelling of vitality and spring and maleness. And wearing…velvet.
 

His broad shoulders filled out a black tunic, studded with rivets across the front. His dark hair fell down over it, melding with the darkness of the fabric. Black hose completed the ensemble, down to polished knee-high boots. He looked like danger incarnate. In fact, the only hint of color was his ice-blue eyes.
 

Magnificent indeed, a beast in his prime. And he knew it.

Over his arm hung…the red fabric from the tower. “The servants made it into a gown for you,” he said.

“Tandy,” Katarina said fondly. “She is a master seamstress.”

“She had helpers. You’ve a talented staff.”

Katarina touched the rich reds and pale yellows of the fabric. “They have had to be, for I am not.”

On his arms, in addition to the gown, lay a pale shift, with lace along the edges, and silk stockings, with silky threads falling from them, and a long girdle with hammered silver links, not hers. A gift, then.
 

“Wait outside,” she said softly. “I will change.”

He handed everything over and backed out.

She could have called for Susanna, or one of the others, but she did not want to share this moment. Aodh could help her finish. The silken gown fell in skirts of pale yellow and red, with wide, flowing sleeves edged in lace. It became a tumble of yellow and dark red, one color overfalling the other, a frothy concoction of bright sun and red shadow. It had an open, darted bodice, the tight yellow tunic showing through the red silk ribbons like a sun. The tops of her breasts rose up above.
 

The long, linked girdle banded her slim waist, double-looped in orbits of gold, and falling below her belly. She braided her hair and wrapped the long plait around the crest of her head, and pinned it. Over it she wore a simple, unadorned veil that flowed to her hips, banded by a circlet of gold around her head.

She bent and peeked a moment at her reflection, intending to pinch her cheeks, but they were already flushed with color.
 

Taking a breath, feeling oddly shaky, she opened the door and stepped onto the landing.

Aodh spun as if he’d been pacing and stopped short. His gaze trailed down the front of her, a long, lingering, and utterly
male
regard. Her body responded: washes of heat in her belly, prickles across her breasts, hardening her nipples.
 

Their eyes met.
 

“You are beautiful, Katarina.” The simple, unadorned compliment made her feel as if she’d been laced with gold.
 

“As are you,” she said despairingly.

The hard lines of his face relaxed, and a smile touched a corner of his mouth, and oh, it had the same impact as when he’d first smiled at her, in the bailey, when she did not yet know he was taking over her life, and they’d shared a smile over the stubbornness that made her hold a castle beyond the Pale with only ten men.
 

She felt quite battered by his smile, just as she had back then.
 

“Men are not beautiful, lass,” he informed her.

“You are.”
 

“Just don’t let Cormac hear you say it.” He reached up to her face and slid his hands under her veil, to the nape of her neck. His fingers were cool against her skin, as he clasped a necklace around her throat.

“A gift,” he murmured.

Her fingers flew to it, touched the hard, smooth, knitted metal.

“Come see.” He led her back inside.

She bent before the small mirror again and caught her breath. It was a carcanet, a jeweled choker, studded with garnets and pearls. From the center hung a pendant, on a long chain, dipping into the hollow between her breasts, depicting a soaring bird.
 

Behind her, also half bent over, peering into the mirror just above her shoulder. was Aodh.
 

She smiled at him in wordless pleasure.

He tugged a little pouch from his pocket and dumped it into his palm, then turned her around and began tucking little bodkins into her hair. They were tipped with gems, garnets and emeralds, so they sparkled as she turned her head.
 

“You make a fine maidservant, sir,” she laughed.

“You should see me with stockings,” he said, intent on tucking one above her ear, and even as she laughed, a quiver of excitement went through her at the image of Aodh’s hands on her stockings. Untying the bows behind her knees, his hard fingers scraping her soft skin, then rolling them down…

Quickly she returned her attention to the mirror, her fingertips skimming the little sparkling studs across her hair and veil. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“You look like the night sky,” he murmured.

She thought he would try to kiss her, if not take her outright, their afternoon exertions notwithstanding; their current position certainly invited a taking, him bent over her back. Indeed, it made her face flame. But he only straightened, and extended his arm.

“Shall we?”

She laid her fingers on his forearm. “We shall.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

HE LED HER to the stairwell, which was bright with extra torchlight and a hum of excitement. Of revelry. There had not been revelries here for years. Not enough money, and too much danger. Now, Aodh had brought it all back. Feasting and music and laughter and…rebellion.

No, she told herself firmly. Not tonight.

Ré stood at the archway to the great hall. He too was dressed for feasting, and was smiling, which quite transformed his grim warrior’s face. My, Aodh did surround himself with great lusty men.

Ré swept her a low bow. “My lady.” She returned a curtsey, feeling quite charmed, then Ré slid his gaze to Aodh. “A word?”

Aodh stepped to the side while Katarina waited impatiently. When their conference went on an additional minute, then another, she stepped forward and poked her nose into the hall, to see the festivities.
 

A face appeared at her side almost immediately. “My lady!”
 

She jumped back, then smiled at the portly mayor whose round face and big bulging eyes were peering at her earnestly. Mayor MacDougal was a very earnest man.
 

“Master MacDougal,” she said warmly, holding out her hand. “It is
good
to see you. It has been some long time.”

He stuffed his thumbs into his waistband, nodding. “Indeed it has, my lady.”

“I greatly miss your wife’s cheeses.”

“I will have some sent up immediately,” he assured her. “And we greatly miss your whisky.” He grasped her hand and pumped it with enthusiasm, then bent into a clumsy bow from which he peeked up hopefully. “Will you have a new batch anytime soon?”

She smiled. “I will have some sent down at once.”
 

Aodh stepped up behind her, and she half turned toward him, saying, “Master, I would…” Her words drifted off.

Odd as it would have been to say “the lord of Rardove” or any other such term, being witness to the show of deference, nay adoration, the entire hall exhibited when Aodh stepped into the room was even more affecting.

The mayor practically bent himself in half, swept his hat off, and doffed it to the ground. “My
lord
,” he breathed.

The rest of the room fell into deep bows and curtsies, and a reverent hush swept the hall.

The son of Rardove had come home, and they were pleased.

Then, among the soldiers and various warriors, a huge roar broke out. Cups were raised in the air, and some great, happy Irish shout went up—it was too loud to actually understand the words—then the stringed instruments that had been playing throughout were suddenly drowned out entirely by the sound of a…bagpipe.
 

The sound lifted up in a beautiful, wailing cry, like something rising up from the earth. It swelled through the hall, a haunting call to arms. Eerie, stirring, evocative, it washed over her like a wind, made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
 

As it played, the hall was still, as if enchanted by the sound, then it faded away, and another huge roar rocked the room, calls and whoops and stamping feet. It fairly shook the place. The stringed instruments seemed to take this as their cue to begin playing again, and as music lifted over the heat and bodies, people crushed forward, servants moved through the hall with food lifted high in the air on trays, and the revelries seemed to actually speed up as Aodh moved into the gathering.