Claiming Her

Katarina watched

as Aodh was led up in front of her. The sky stretched out behind him in glorious, unending blue, Aodh was a dark stroke of masculinity in the foreground, clouding her vision. She could see nothing but him. The soldiers shoved him roughly to within a foot of her, and Aodh, mad thing, bent his head and kissed her.

Arms bound behind his back, hers just cut free, the rope ends still dangling, they kissed, a hot, passionate, diving kiss, more lunging than loving. Aodh gave his powerful torso a mighty shake and, for a moment, freed himself from his captors. At this much liberty, he took another step nearer and leaned over her, opened her mouth beneath his with hard, furious, delving strokes, the last kiss of a dying man.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hung on, kissing him back.

People tried to drag them apart, but Katarina’s grip tightened. Bertrand called, “I warned you he was mischief!”

Aodh and Katarina kept kissing. Shouts ran rampant, the commander hollered for people to drag Bertrand out of there, soldiers grappled, knocking into each other, and in the midst of the mayhem, Aodh ripped his mouth from hers and whispered into her ear, “Cruthaigh mé mearbhall, Katy.”

She looked up into the eyes so close to hers. “A distraction?”

“Aye. Slip away. Ní tusa ata ag iarraidh orthu. Mise amháin atá á lorg acu.”

“Oh, you are wrong. Bertrand wants me,” she whispered back in Irish. “He wants both of us.”

“That is why you must slip away. Nothing is served if we are both taken. Rardove needs you.”

“I—”

“Katy,” he said in a furious Irish whisper, “if I am not here, and you are not here, Bertrand will be.”

The breath caught in her throat. Then they peeled her arms from around his shoulders, forced her away, dragged her backward. “Is cuma liom,” she cried in Irish. “Nil sé ag teastáil uaim. Níl uaim ach tusa. Tusa amháin.”

“It is too late for that, Katy. It does not matter if you want it. You are Rardove.” They hauled him roughly away. “Be Rardove. I need you to be that, for me. For our people.”

With a wicked jerk, they turned him away. The soldiers holding Bertrand released him then, and he flew at Aodh in a fury. Aodh snapped his head back, then forward, and smashed his forehead into Bertrand’s face.

Bertrand stopped as if he’d run into a wall. With a surprised, pained grunt, he reeled back, his nose bleeding, then stumbled, and dropped to his buttocks in the mud.

The soldiers exploded into laughter. “Bring Aodh here,” the commander said, still laughing, holding out a hand for Aodh.

They propelled him up the hill. Blood trickled from his forehead down his cheek as he looked back at her. “I could not be more serious, Katy,” he said in Irish. “Do as I say. Go now. Stay near Ludthorpe. You will see your chance. Take it.”

Staying near the man who’d held her hostage for Aodh’s surrender seemed like a particularly bad idea. The commander held her gaze a moment, then, very levelly, shifted it away and put a hand on Aodh’s elbow. “Here we go.” Then he shouted, “Everyone, move out!” He snapped back at the soldier holding Katarina, “For God’s sake, release her and make yourself useful.”

With a jerk, the soldier did, then glanced at Bertrand, sprawled in the mud. “Ought I get him up, sir?”

Ludthorpe shook his head. “Not yet.” His gaze came up and brushed over hers. “Let’s be off,” he said to the soldier, and, very nonchalantly, very definitely, left her standing there, unbound and unguarded.

The soldiers tossed her a confused glance, but having no desire to gainsay their master, and having a great desire to get out of Ireland, they followed him.

The camp turned to noisy chaos as tents were broken down, wagons loaded, horses saddled. Only Katarina stood, twenty paces out from the main army camp, alone in the field, with Bertrand nearby, sitting in the mud, starting to groan and shake his head from side to side.

She backed up a few steps, then turned and ran.

Chapter Forty-Two

THE SOLDIERS UP ON the walls gave a shout when they saw her coming. Seven of them braved the open pathway to run to her, surround her like dark caped wraiths in the coming twilight, and hurry her back inside the walls.

She rushed straight for the keep, and straight into Dickon, almost toppling him over.

“My lady,” was all he said. His voice was broken, his face pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed; he’d been crying. “Oh, my lady,” he cried, then stilled when he noticed her face, where Bertrand had struck her. “What happened?”

She pulled him to her, then, holding his arms, set him away a little and peered into his eyes. “I am fine, but Dickon, heed me, we have things to do.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said miserably. “What?”