Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

D era didn't know how long she'd been sitting against the wall.

Just sitting.

Waiting for… something . Punishment? Death? Her brother to come down those stone steps and yell at her again? It seemed to her that it wasn't out of his system. But it emphasized to her how much of a stranger Brend really was. He was her brother and they shared parents, but that was all they shared.

Essentially, they were enemies.

It was a depressing thought considering he could very well be her only brother left, but it couldn't be helped. She saw the world one way and he saw it another.

And then, there was Cort.

Dera's only thought on him was the fact that whatever fledgling emotions she felt for him had been summarily dashed. He'd been cold and hard when he'd brought her to the vault, but she really didn't blame him. She expected it. Their passion had been a fleeting moment of glory and nothing more, but she knew without question that she would remember him for the rest of her life. No man would ever kiss her like Cort had and no man would make her feel the way he had made her feel.

She knew it in her bones.

So, she sat in the darkness, propped up against the wall with her knees hugged to her chest, staring into the dim space of the vault. The only light came from the stairwell that led up into the bailey, so it wasn't completely dark, but dark enough. It was also cold enough that she was shivering, but she had no concern for her personal comfort. Her only concern was the shambles she had made out of her life but, strangely enough, it wasn't something she regretted. She was as loyal to her country as the English were to theirs, so there was nothing to regret.

Except Cort.

A shadow fell across the light coming down the stairwell, jolting her from her thoughts. She could hear the grate open up above as a figure came down the stairs. As Dera watched, Cort emerged from the stairwell.

His arms were full of things– many things, from what she could see. Blankets and other things meant for comfort. Behind him, two servants were bringing in a frame of some kind. She watched curiously as Cort took the key from the wall and unlocked her cell door.

"Put the bed inside," he told the servants. "Set it up so that it is sturdy."

The men pushed into the cell, putting the wood and rope bedframe on the ground between them. As they began to set it up, Cort turned his attention to Dera.

"It is cold down here," he said, setting the items in his arms to the ground. He pulled a blanket off the top and shook it out, draping it around her shoulders. "Wrap that around yourself. I've brought a mattress and blankets for the bed. I do not know how long you are going to be down here, so I will have Bella pack some of your possessions and bring them to you. Is there anything in particular that you want?"

Dera looked at the man as if he'd lost his mind. "My… my possessions?"

"Aye. What do you want Bella to pack?"

Dera didn't know what to say. She looked at the men setting up her wood and rope bedframe, thoroughly confused at what was going on.

"I… I don't want anything," she said, pulling the blanket around her. "I'll keep the blanket, but that's all I need. You needn't trouble yourself, my lord. Just… leave me."

Cort ignored her request and so did the servants. They finished with the bed, making sure it was sturdy before putting the straw-stuffed mattress on it and the blankets. In fact, it was a very nice bed to sleep on.

Cort had also brought other things with him, one of which was a folding table that was used when the army traveled. The legs were separate from the table, so he put the legs on it, stood the table up, and produced a small stool, which he put next to it. As the servants left the cell, he told them to go to the kitchens and bring back food and a brazier so Dera could have some warmth.

All the while, Dera simply sat there and watched. Cort was being very kind in bringing her all of this, which greatly confused and upset her.

"Why did you bring me all of this?" she asked. "I told you I don't want anything. You're wasting your time."

He looked at her. "Do you really want to sleep on the ground?"

"Aye." When he simply stood there and looked at her, she shifted away from him so he couldn't see her face. "Cort, just go. It is false kindness you are showing me and I don't want it. I am not your duty; I never was. I don't want anything from you."

He didn't say anything. He just stood by the cell door, which was half-open. Enraged that he wasn't responding and wasn't leaving, she suddenly stood up and grabbed everything off the bed, tossing it out of the cell. She lifted the bedframe and tried to jam it through the opening, but it was too wide and wouldn't fit, so she kicked it and shoved at it, thoroughly wedging it into the doorway.

The tears began to come.

Sobbing, she picked up the stool and banged it against the bedframe. It didn't break, but it cracked, so she threw the stool out, followed by the table, which she had to break apart before tossing it. All the while, Cort stood back and let her. When Dera retreated to her corner and took the one blanket he'd given her, pulling it over her head and weeping, Cort went to stand over her.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked.

Dera sobbed deeply, the blanket over her head. "Go away," she said. "I don't want you here. I don't want to see you ever again."

Cort crouched down beside her, a few feet away. He watched her struggle, knowing her sobs were the result of several different things. It wasn't just him.

But he'd come to a decision.

"Dera," he said quietly. "Take the blanket off your head. I must speak with you."

She sniffled and sputtered and shook her head. "You do not," she said. "There is nothing for you to say. There is nothing for either of us to say."

He watched the blanket wag back and forth. Finally, he reached out and pulled it off her, gently. Her mussy hair came into view, partially covering her face. She didn't move to reclaim the blanket, but she didn't look at him, either.

He sighed faintly.

"I know this has been a difficult day for you, but will you please listen to me?" he said.

She grunted. "I have asked you to leave several times and you have not," she said. "I suppose I have no choice if you wish to speak. Get it over with."

He could hear self-pity and fear in her tone. Fear of what he was going to say, fear of not wanting to hear it from him again. Fear that he was going to verbally lash her.

But that wasn't the case.

"I am an English knight to the bone," he finally said. "I have killed more men in battle than I care to recall. I have done things on behalf of my country that I cannot tell you, but trust me when I say that they were not pleasant. I have learned to harden myself in more ways than you can imagine, to take the emotion out of every situation. But in spite of that, I have a weakness and that is the fact that beneath the steel-covered fa?ade, I do indeed feel things. Sometimes, I feel too much. Just now, I was in the solar with your brother, asking his forgiveness for striking him. I do not like it when there is tension between me and those I adore."

Dera continued to sit there, staring at her lap. She was no longer openly weeping, but he could see a tear or two drip from her chin. But she remained silent.

Cort continued.

"I should not be upset with you for doing to me what I was doing to you," he said quietly. "You were trying to glean information and so was I. Henry himself had heard you were some kind of warrior woman, like Queen Maeve, and in Lynn I saw that warrior woman come forth. And she was fearsome. In that moment, I could see that everything Henry had heard about you was true. How many battles have you fought in?"

Tears were still dripping from her chin. "I don't know," she said. "A dozen or more, I suppose."

"And your brothers taught you to fight like that?"

"They did."

"Then they are fine warriors," Cort said. He hesitated before continuing. "You should know that you are returning with the English armies to Ireland. Denys believes you can help his men and mayhap even be a liaison to the rebels."

She looked at him, then, in surprise. But that surprise quickly turned to darkness and she turned away.

"I will not help the English," she said. "I have helped them as much as I intend to. I would prefer to remain here in the vault."

"We could be gone a very long time."

"It does not matter," she said. "I have nothing left to live for; my family is dead, or missing, and I have betrayed those I was loyal to. But they have betrayed me, too. Still, I will not do anything more than I have already done. You can tell Lord Denys that I said so."

Cort watched her a moment before settling back on his bum. As big as he was, he filled up a good portion of the floor space, with Dera crowded against the wall a couple of feet away from him. He leaned back against the wall, tipping his head back as he thought on what to say.

"Do you know why I struck your brother?" he asked after a moment.

Dera lifted her slender shoulders. "Because he was angry? Because he was mad with grief?"

"Because he touched you."

She didn't say anything for a moment before finally looking over her shoulder at him, curiously.

"Why should that matter to you?" she asked.

Cort's eyebrows lifted as he stared up at the top of the wall. "I have been asking myself that same question," he said. "You are a rebel. You are Irish. You can kill a man with such ease that it is frightening. But you are also humorous, gentle, caring, and passionate about what you believe in. I could talk to you all day and night and never grow weary of it because you are brilliant. So very brilliant. I struck your brother because he threatened you and I will kill any man who threatens you, even if it is your brother."

Dera's tears were gone. She stared at him, unsure what he meant with his words. "Your chivalry is noted," she said. "But it was not necessary."

He flicked his eyes down to her, his head still tilted back against the wall. "It was not chivalry."

"Then what?"

His gaze lingered on her a moment before looking back up to the wall in front of him as he struggled to explain it to her.

"You are meant to be protected," he said. "By me. I do not want anyone touching you but me."

"You are not making any sense."

He sighed sharply. "I know," he said. "Do you remember how you told me once that you pitied Brend and Bella because they were in love? Because he is Irish, and she is English, and they can never legally wed in England?"

"Aye."

"You should pity me, too."

"Why?"

"Because I think I love you and I am at a loss to understand how or why it has happened. All I know is that it has, and I cannot deny it. Or you."

Dera's eyes widened and her mouth popped open. Gone were her tears, completely gone, and the heart that had been so damaged by the events in Deny's solar was now coming alive again, thumping painfully against her ribs as she realized what he was saying. She tossed off the blanket, rising to her knees as she gaped at him.

"You… what ?" she gasped. "Cort… do you mean it?"

He looked at her, then. "I do not say anything I do not mean," he said. "I suppose I would like to know what you are feeling. If I was a betting man, I would say that there is a spark between us. I have not imagined it."

She opened her mouth to reply but the words wouldn't come forth. She ended up shaking her head, her mussy hair wagging back and forth. "Nay," she whispered. "You have not imagined it. I sought to bring you to your knees with my charm and wit, but you ended up bringing me to mine. I did not expect it, nor did I welcome it, but it happened nonetheless and… oh, Cort, I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Is this truly happening?"

The warm glimmer was back in his eyes as he looked at her. Without a word, he held up a hand to her and she crawled on her knees over to him, putting both of her hands into his big palm. His fingers closed around hers, tightly.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

"It is truly happening," he said. "It was sucking chicken brains that made me fall madly in love with you. A woman who eats garbage shall always have my heart."

He was smiling as he said it, but she wasn't giving in to his humor. Not yet. "Don't tease me," she said softly. "Are you sure about this?"

"I am sure," he said, his smile fading. "I have never been one to hide what I am feeling or thinking, so tell me… tell me what you feel, Dera."

Her eyes suddenly filled with a lake of tears as she gazed upon him. "Everything," she murmured tightly. "I feel everything for you, everything I shouldn't feel. I don't want to feel it because then we will be in the same situation as Brend and Bella are, and they are tormented by the fact that they cannot be together."

Cort fell silent, caressing her hands with his big fingers, acquainting himself with warmth he never thought he would feel under circumstances like this. He always thought that when he married, it would be an arranged one. A proper English marriage with a proper English lass. He never imagined it would be for love. But given that his parents married for love, he shouldn't have been so cynical. In fact, his situation wasn't unlike his parents' situation had been, once.

"When my father met my mother, they were both married to other people," he said. "My father's first wife was an arranged marriage and they hated one another, and my mother's husband was a bastard of a man. He abused her terribly. When my father fell in love with my mother, he went through great lengths to annul both of their marriages and was met with the strongest opposition imaginable. He took it to the king, to the papal envoy, and pleaded his case before anyone who would listen. But no one did. My parents resigned themselves to the fact that they could never marry, but they did. Miracles happened to allow them to marry. You have never in your life seen any two people more in love than my mother and father. My point is that if we are meant to be together, then we will find a way. I will not stop until we do."

Dera felt a great deal of hope in that declaration, but also great deal of trepidation. It was all happening so quickly. "Mayhap you need time to think about this," she said. "I would understand if you acted on impulse. It has been an emotional day for us all."

His head came off of the wall and he looked at her. "I do not act on impulse," he said. "Rash decisions will kill a man, so I do not make them. Everything I told you was true and I shall stand behind that decision until the day I die."

She wanted so badly to believe it. "But I am Irish ," she said quietly. "And you serve Henry. Both Dillon and my brother have told me that you are the most elite of all knights. What on earth is the king going to think of you, taking an Irish wife?"

Cort shrugged. "I do not know," he said honestly. "That is a situation I will deal with when the time comes. There is no use worrying over something that has yet to even happen."

Dera could see that he meant it. He was resolute in all things, unapologetically so. She admired that quality a great deal.

But it also terrified her.

Without another word, she scooted over to him, sitting down next to him and tucking herself into the crook of his big torso. As she cuddled against him, drawing on his heat and strength, Cort wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. That moment, that sweet and precious moment, was the culmination of the proper English knight and the Irish rebel who had found common ground, and common feelings, with one another.

It was a moment seared into their hearts and souls, knowing what they would be facing because of it. Hardly believing any of it was real.

But it was.

Cort should have been lamenting this turn in his life. He should have been kicking himself for it. But he couldn't, not when feeling Dera in his arms was the most natural thing he'd ever known. She belonged there, as surely as the sun belonged in the sky. It was the natural order of things and something he would fight to defend to the death.

He found himself praying it didn't come to that.

Come what may, he belonged to her forever.

*

They were still waiting for Cort to return to Denys' solar, but Brend told the man he needed to take a piss.

That wasn't the total truth.

It was an excuse to leave the solar to clear his head and try to come to grips with everything that had happened. His father and brother were dead. Two more brothers and his mother were possibly hostages.

And Dera had confessed everything with hardly a moment's hesitation.

That's what had him so angry.

It wasn't the mere fact that she'd confessed. He didn't care that she'd betrayed the rebels who had clearly betrayed her by capturing Mount Wrath. He didn't give a lick about those bastards. What he did care about was the fact that in divulging the information she knew, and in telling Denys who she was, she took away Denys' bargaining chip with Brend. Denys' had offered Brend permission to marry Arabella in exchange for information on his sister.

Now, that bargain was no longer needed.

Aye, Brend told Denys that he didn't need to be bribed but, deep down, that wasn't the truth. The more he'd thought about it after the fact, the more he intended to accept Denys' offer. Why shouldn't he? The death of half of his family had him thinking that he didn't have a family any longer. His life in Ireland had been so long ago, people he'd only seen a handful of times since he'd been sent to England as the legacy knight.

All he had was Arabella and he wanted her badly.

But he was afraid that Dera had ruined all of that.

So, he wandered out to the bailey in search of the garderobe near the gatehouse that overhung the moat. But there was a horde of soldiers in the bailey as the posts were switched for the coming night and he had no desire to talk to anyone, so he turned and headed back into the garden that was behind the keep. It was quiet back there and he could take a piss in the bushes. He could also think.

Think about a future that was slipping away from him.

As he entered the garden with its flowering vines and pond of silver fish, he immediately caught sight of Arabella. She was sitting in the rays of the afternoon sun, sewing on something. She was always sewing on something. Their last words had been so very harsh and his heart ached at the sight of her, wondering if he should simply turn around and leave.

But he couldn't.

At this time of year, the roses were in bloom and he could see Arabella's head over the tops of the pink roses with the lavender spears planted between them. He stood there a moment, staring at her, feeling deeply grieved over their harsh words in the stable. Even if she never wanted to speak to him again, he had to make the attempt to at least apologize. He couldn't leave the situation between them as it was.

Taking a deep breath, he made his way towards her, his focus never leaving her. The wooden bench she was seated upon was backed against a hedge and her head was down, concentrating on what she was doing. Brend was about ten feet away from her when he spoke softly.

"Greetings, Bella," he said quietly.

Her head shot up, startled by his appearance. For a moment, her expression suggested that she was glad to see him. But quickly, she suppressed her natural reaction to him. She fought off any joy his presence might have brought.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, returning her focus to the fabric in her hands. "You do not normally come to the garden."

"Not normally," he agreed. "But today… today is different."

"Why?" she asked, resuming her sewing.

"Because we received a missive from Ireland," he said. "Mount Wrath has fallen. My father and one of my brothers were killed."

Her head snapped up to him, her eyes wide with shock. "Oh… Brend," she said, her hard manner suddenly gone. "I am so sorry to hear that. Please accept my sympathies."

He forced a smile. "Thank you," he said. "May I sit, please?"

She nodded without hesitation, setting her sewing aside as he planted himself on the bench next to her. She was looking at him with great concern.

"What of your mother and your other brothers?" she asked. "Are they well?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he said honestly. "We are told they have been captured, but there's no way to know if that's true. Your father is preparing to assemble a great army to leave for Ireland within the month. I suppose we shall discover what has become of my mother and Declan and Finn at that time."

"So it was Ardie who was killed," Arabella said. She knew the MacRohan family by heart. Reaching out, she put her hand on his big forearm. "Truly, Brend, I am very sorry for you. I can only imagine how grieved I would be to lose Dillon or Damey."

Brend looked at the hand on his arm, feeling the heat from her palm through the tunic sleeve. But he made no move to touch her. Still, her warmth against him broke him down. The emotions began to pour forth.

"Bella," he murmured. "As I live and breathe, I cannot be without you. I am sorry for the things I said to you in the stable. I love you; I have always loved you and I will always love you, and there is no one else in the world that I love more than you. I should not have made it sound as if you were not important to me, for the opposite is true. Therefore, I must ask you a question."

The hand on his arm turned soft and caressing. "There is no need to ask my forgiveness," she said softly. "You know I do not stay angry with you very long. I never could."

He looked at her, giving her a crooked smile. "That was not what I was going to ask you."

"What, then?"

"Will you become my wife?"

It was her turn to smile, a gentle smile that turned rather soft and giddy. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Tell me. Please."

"Of course I will."

Brend lifted her hand, kissed it, and put it back in her lap. That was usual when they were together, in public where anyone could see them. Contact between them was very limited.

"Your father made a bargain with me earlier," he said. "He offered your hand in marriage and the command of Chateau da Garosse in Bordeaux if I provided him with some information he was interested in. I am going to accept his offer but I wanted to ask you first if I have your permission to do so."

Arabella was looking at him in astonishment. "My father offered you my hand in marriage?"

"Aye."

"But… but he does not know about us!"

Brend snorted ironically. "Bella, he knows much more than you give him credit for. He knows and he is surprisingly untroubled by it. He knows we cannot wed here in England, so he wants us to go to France where our marriage will be legal."

It was everything they'd ever spoken of, toyed with, and dreamed of. Arabella could hardly believe her ears. A hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes, overcome with emotion.

"Is it true, Brend?" she whispered tightly. "Did you tell him we had discussed that, time and time again?"

"I did not tell him. The suggestion came from him before I ever said a word."

"Then he knows it is the only way, too," she said, growing excited. "He knows the only way for us to be happy is to go to France. Can we finally live the dreams we are always speaking of?"

It was an effort for him to not reach out and pull her to him. He wanted to so very badly. "I believe so," he said. "But first, there are things you should know. Your father is amassing an army to go to Ireland to regain Mount Wrath, as I told you, and I am expected to go as well. I will fight to regain the home I was born in. That means we cannot go to France until your father's properties in Ireland are settled, which may take some time."

"How much time?"

Brend shrugged. "I have no way of knowing," he said. "It could be a year. It could be two. Or it could be six months. I am asking you to be patient and wait for me to return because I must do this first. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "I do," she said. "But I would wait a thousand years if it meant we could be together in the end."

He smiled. "As would I," he said. "But each passing hour will be like torture until I see you again. Until I am able to take you in my arms without fear."

Arabella looked around the garden; they were quite alone. Boldly, she turned to him. "May I ask you to kiss me, Brend? We are celebrating our betrothal, after all. It is not too much to ask, is it?"

His smile grew. Instinctively, he looked around as well, making sure there was no one to witness their clandestine and illegal action, and he cupped her face in his big hands and slanted his lips over hers tenderly. It was enough to cause the tears in Arabella's eyes to overflow, so sweet and gentle was his kiss, but he ended it quickly. He had to. Arabella wiped at her face, feeling the emotion of the kiss down to her very soul.

"I long for the day when we will not have to hide what we feel for each other," she said.

"As do I," he said, feeling rather lightheaded after such a delicious kiss. "It will come soon enough and these days of hiding our love will be only a memory."

Arabella wiped the last of her tears away, smiling brightly at him. But her smile faded as she spied something on the left side of his face.

"Brend?" she said, peering at his jaw. "What happened to your face? Where did that bruise come from?"

Brend knew what she meant. With his pale skin, any blemish was quite obvious. "There is more to the missive about the fall of Mount Wrath," he said, gingerly touching the sore spot. "The castle is in the possession of Irish rebels. I am not sure how much you know about the rebels, or their supporters, but my sister is one of them. Dera is part of the rebellion. Did she ever tell you that?"

Arabella's shocked expression returned. "Nay," she said. "She has never said a word. Are you certain?"

"I am."

Arabella shook her head. "She never said a word to me, not a word," she said. "Does my father know this?"

"He does now," Brend said. "When we were told news of our father's death, I will admit that I blamed Dera. The mark you see on my face is from Cort striking me."

Arabella's eyes bulged. " Cort? " she repeated. "De Russe?"

"Do you know another Cort?"

She shook her head, her expression full of disbelief. "Nay," she said. "But Cort would not hit you. He loves you!"

Brend shrugged. "I know," he said. "But he thought I was threatening my sister."

"Were you?"

He shook his head. "I grabbed her arm, though I do not recall doing it. I suppose I was going to take her to the vault and lock her up, infuriated that she would help the rebels that killed our father. I don't even know why I grabbed her, but I did. She is in the vault now, in fact."

"God's Bones," Arabella gasped. "She is a prisoner?"

Brend nodded. "I know she is your friend, Bella," he said. "But she hates everything English. You would do well to stay away from her until the situation eases. It is far too volatile, so it would be best if you simply stayed clear of it. That goes for Damey and your mother, too, though I am sure your father will tell them. Do you understand?"

Arabella nodded solemnly. "Of course, Brend," she said. "But Dera… are you truly certain she is a rebel?"

"I am."

"How long have you known?"

"Since she arrived."

"And you never told me?"

"It was not your business," he said. "Besides, she had made a friend of you and you seemed to like her a great deal, and I thought… I hoped… that might ease her fearsome hatred of the English."

Arabella was greatly distressed over Dera, but it brought their most recent conversation to mind.

"She told me just the other day that I had changed her mind about stuffy English lasses," she said. Then, she sighed heavily. "Oh, Brend, I am greatly troubled over this. Dera is in the vault, you are going to Ireland…"

He shushed her gently. "I know," he said. "But you are strong. I know you will continue to be strong. Now, I must return to your father before he comes looking for me, but I wanted you to know what has happened. We must all be strong from now on. Promise me?"

She nodded sadly. "I do."

He smiled encouragingly as he stood up, looking down at the top of her blonde head. "There's a good lass," he said softly. "Smile for me, now."

Arabella looked up at him. She was completely prepared to comply with his request and bid him a fond farewell but, somehow, she couldn't. She simply couldn't. Her eyes began to well and she lowered her head.

"I cannot," she wept. "You are going to war and I cannot pretend that all will be well. We've endured two years of our love and I've only kissed you twice. I am sorry, Brend, I am truly trying to be strong, but I simply cannot do it any longer. What if you go away and never come back? Are two chaste kisses the only things I will ever have to remember you by? Is that what my life will become? Mourning a man I never fully knew?"

She was becoming loud and Brend looked around to make sure no one could hear them. He didn't see anyone, but it only emphasized what she was saying. They'd always had to hide their feelings from one another, being so close but yet so far.

It had been a painful existence.

It wasn't something he was content with, either, but there wasn't anything they could do about it. She knew that, but that didn't help her distress. It only made it worse. He took a step closer to her, greatly concerned that she was so upset.

"Please, Bella," he said softly. "I know this is difficult, but…"

With a heaving sob, she stood up, covering her nose with the sewing in her hand. Weeping, she ran off, heading towards a small room that was tucked into the thickness of the garden wall. It was where the servants kept their gardening implements, guarded by an iron door because sometimes they stored things in the room that could be considered valuable, like flower or vegetable seeds. The door could be locked to guard the precious stores.

Against his better judgment, Brend followed. He simply couldn't leave her like this. She rushed into the small room, sobbing as if her heart were broken, and he stepped in behind her, watching her as she stood over by a dirty table shoved up against the wall where plants were often kept. There was a small, barred window above the table, allowing light to enter.

With a heavy sigh, Brend closed the door behind them.

Silently, he made his way over to her, thinking of what to say. This was an extremely rare private moment, with no eyes or ears to be fearful of. In fact, he could take her in his arms if it pleased him and the thought was not only unfamiliar, but terribly exciting. There was never a moment in time between them that they were alone enough to do as he pleased.

Or as Arabella pleased.

Before he could speak, she dropped the sewing and ran to him, her lips fusing with his as she threw her arms around his neck. Brend responded instantly, his muscular arms around her, his lips on hers, kissing her so hard that he drove her soft lip into her teeth. He could taste the blood.

But still, he kissed her harder. There was finality in his touch, knowing this stolen moment could very well be the last time he ever tasted her. There might never be another opportunity like this and given he was heading to Ireland and battle, it could be the last time. Ever. That had never really occurred to him until now and that very real possibility drove his passion to the next level.

Arabella was in his arms and he lifted her effortlessly, sitting her on the potting table. There was so much fire to their touch that it was raging out of control. Arabella began to weep softly as he kissed her, his hands moving to her body, touching her through the fine dress she wore, feeling her warm flesh beneath the fabric. It was freedom he'd never had, now with absolutely no restraint. When he brushed over her right breast, she took hold of his hand and put it squarely over her breast.

"Touch me," she murmured against his lips. "Take me as your own, Brend. Mayhap we will never know this moment again and I want to remember every part of you as the only man who was ever meant to be my husband. In my heart, you have been my husband since we were children. That has never changed. But if I am to lose you to battle, please let me feel your love as it was meant to be."

His breathing was ragged. "Bella," he said. "I cannot…"

She cut him off. "Please," she begged, her hands on his face. "Do not deny me what has always been my heart's desire. Has it not been yours?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. "With every breath I take."

"Then take me ."

Brend didn't need to be told twice. He should have slowed his actions at the very least, taking his time with her, but he found that he couldn't. He'd restrained himself from touching her for so long that now that he had her where he wanted her, he couldn't control himself.

He was on fire.

As his seeking mouth moved to her neck, he loosened the fastens on the surcoat, sliding the shift and dress off her shoulders, enough so that he could expose her small but firm breasts. When he took a warm nipple in his mouth, suckling ravenously, Arabella held his head to her breast as if he were nursing against her. Nursing him as she would nurse their children, God willing. As she held him tightly, his hands snaked underneath her skirts, hiking them up, revealing her delicate and virgin core.

Pushing her back on the table, Brend nursed hungrily at her breasts as his hands, far more gently, caressed her buttocks and torso underneath her skirts. Such forbidden, delicious delight. When he gently stroked the pale fluff of curls between her legs, she started with uncertainty, but he stilled her with tender words. He bunched her skirts up around her waist to gently kiss her lower belly.

With her properly relaxed, Brend slipped a finger into her tight, wet sheath, listening to her gasp at the sensual intrusion. She was hot and slick, her body prepared for his invasion, and he refused to wait. He had never imagined they would know this moment any time soon and even now as they were on the precipice, he knew they shouldn't. He knew he should stop.

But he couldn't.

He'd never wanted anything so much in his entire life.

Unfastening his breeches, he let them fall to his ankles and he put the tip of his throbbing phallus against her tender core. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he looked her in the eyes.

"I love you, Arabella de Winter," he murmured. "What I do now, I do for no other reason than that. You are my love, my life, the very air I breath. I will never love anyone else as much as I love you. You are, forever and always, the very heart that beats within me."

With that, he thrust into her, listening to her gasp with pain as he ruptured her maidenhood. Arabella gasped again as he thrust over and over, seating himself, feeling her wetness close in around him. It was passion and desire such as he had never experienced. Once fully seated, he held her buttocks against his pelvis and began to thrust into her.

Arabella clung to him, feeling his manhood deep inside her, filling her as she could have never imagined. With every thrust, his pelvis rubbed against hers and she could feel something deep inside her spark every time their bodies met. It was overwhelming, something she could have never imagined in all of the dreams she and Brend had ever shared.

This went beyond physicality.

It went beyond love into the heady world of needfulness.

She needed him.

"I want your son," she breathed, daring to reach down and touch herself where their bodies were joined. She could feel his smooth phallus against her fingers as he entered her, again and again. "Fill me with your seed so that I may bear a proud son of MacRohan. Give me what I was destined for– having your child. Please do not deny me, Brend."

Brend gasped heavily as he heard her words, sending lust firing through him stronger than anything he'd ever known. He was the eldest MacRohan, expected to carry on the family line, and there was no finer mother for his son in the world than Arabella.

God, it was wrong. It was wrong in so many ways, but he found himself hoping that he would impregnate her, a son that would bear his handsome looks and her intelligent mind. If she became pregnant with his child, then Denys could not deny their marriage. He would have to send them to France so they could be together forever. When her fingers brushed his phallus again, he couldn't hold back and he released himself deep into her body, feeling her own release as she milked at him, her nubile body begging for his seed.

He was happy to comply.

Gasping and sweating, Brend gathered her up into his arms, holding her tightly with her legs still wrapped around his hips, still embedded in her body, as his arousal died away. He was relishing the feel of her against him, tucking it deep into his heart for the times to come that would see them separated. He didn't want to let her go, but he knew he had to. Every moment they remained together like this was another moment that someone could happen upon them.

He hated that he had to think of that and not linger in the afterglow of Arabella's love.

Such was the curse of their love.

"I must go," he whispered. "Your father is expecting me and I do not want him to send someone looking for me."

Arabella pulled her head from the crook of his neck, looking up at him. Her eyes were welling with tears again.

"You do not regret this?" she murmured.

He shook his head, smiling gently. "Never," he whispered. "Even if your father were to walk in on us at this moment, I would not regret it. It was… it was the greatest moment of my life."

Arabella smiled, tenderly touching his face. "And mine," she said. "I love you, Brend MacRohan. In this life and beyond, I will always love you."

He smiled in return, kissing her hand and finally releasing her from his embrace. He bent over, pulling his breeches up and tying them off as Arabella pushed her skirts down. Hopping off the table, she pulled her bodice up, covering her breasts and trying to straighten her clothing out. When Brend caught sight of what she was doing, he helped her, brushing the dirt from the table off her skirt.

"Wait for a few minutes after I leave before you follow," he said. "That way, if anyone happens to be watching, they will not see us leave together."

She nodded seriously, bending down to pick her sewing up from where she had dropped it. "I will wait," she said. "And I will see you tonight at sup."

He shrugged. "Mayhap," he said. "Unless your father decides to keep us all barricaded in his solar with this Irish rebellion mess."

"Then I will see you when I can."

"You know that you will." He paused a moment, looking her over, reaching out to smooth the blonde hair that was mussed in the heat of passion. Leaning over, he kissed her gently on the lips. "Give me a smile. Let me keep that tucked into my memory until the next time I see you."

She smiled at him and he winked at her, heading out of the small room and leaving her with her half-finished sewing in-hand. She'd just spent the most wonderful afternoon with the man she loved, but the reality of their situation settled deep. With war in Ireland looming on the horizon, she wondered what tribulations they would be forced to face from now on. She couldn't even hazard a guess. Now that she'd had the man, she never wanted to let him go.

For certain, life had changed for all of them on this day.

Whatever the future held was frightening.