Claiming Her

He peered over her shoulder down into the great hall. “’Tis larger,” he murmured.

“Larger than what, my lord?” she replied more sharply than intended, then began to push past him, back outside. “Good, my lord, I shall call for my men—”

His gaze snapped down to her. “Stay.”

Something in it chilled her from her breasts to the back of her spine. Dim, sharp shouts pierced in through the open doorway. The shouts of soldiers.

She took a step backward. “What news, my lord? You said the Irish…?”

“Oh, aye,” he said, very low. “It is the Irish.”

“What have they done this time?”

“Taken Rardove Keep.”

Seconds ticked away as her heart beat harder, as she stared into his fire-ice eyes, his Irish eyes, as she finally discerned the faint Irish lilt to his softly spoken words.

“What did you say?” she whispered dumbly.

He slid off his helm, revealing a handsome face and partially shaved head. Shocking, barbaric, illegal. The pricks of fear became a cold wash of it, a river through her skull, so she could not even hear herself think.

He brought those steel-blue eyes very close to hers and bent the granite of his jaw into a smile.

“The Irish have taken Rardove Keep, my lady. My thanks for opening the gate.”

Chapter Four

AODH LOOKED DOWN at Katarina, the woman known as the Beauty of Rardove. She was, indeed, beautiful.

She was also, quite literally, standing in his way.

He was prepared for anything—screaming, running, fainting, begging—which rendered him entirely unprepared for nothing. The dark feminine eyes locked on his burned with an entire mountain range of emotions, but everything about her remained calm, motionless, almost serene.

Her cheeks, though, did grow slightly more pale.

At least that was something.

“You’ll not be harmed if you do as I say, my lady,” he sought to reassure her. Although she did not appear to be particularly in need of reassurance.

In fact, she did not appear to be listening.

Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, to the open door, through which cold air and the sounds of his men taking over the castle rushed. She moved nothing else. Nothing at all, nothing but her nostrils, which flared slightly as she inhaled. She was all but motionless. Perhaps stunned.

“Where is Bertrand of Bridge?” she asked finally.

He reflected a moment. “Wandering on a hill somewhere in Northumbria, one hopes.”

Her gaze slid back. “Who are you?” Her voice was low, throaty.

“Aodh Mac Con.”

No need to mention the “Rardove” part just yet. Or ever. It would only complicate things. Ship her out, and get on with the rebellion.

More motionless regard. She seemed to be working that out. The early spring winds had succeeded in tearing free a copious number of strands of hair from the threadbare hood enclosing her head. They hung like dark russet ink strokes beside her mouth.

“Aodh, son of the Hound.” She anglicized his name in a low, throaty voice.

He gave a small bow.