His Rebel Bride (Brothers in Arms Book 3) by Shayla Black, Shelley Bradley Page A

again and staring at a baby cradle.
    Something inside him turned annoyingly soft as he approached her.
    “Are you unwell? Has the time come?”
    “It is near,” she said between sobs. “And Geralt n-never had a chance t-to finish the babe’s cradle.”
    Kieran looked at Jana’s flushed, tear-ravaged face, then the cradle itself. ’Twas nearly complete, its framework of good workmanship. He thought it a nice enough cradle, not that he had seen many. But the one Drake had made for his children with Averyl seemed similar. The one Aric had made and would soon fill was elaborate enough for a royal babe.
    “What is not complete?” he asked.
    Jana looked at him as if he had not the sense of a swine. “It does not rock.”
    When she pointed to the bottom of the cradle, Kieran noticed two thick wooden slabs, one at each end. The head had been carved with rounded ends so that, when pushed gently, the cradle would rock. The other end still possessed square corners.
    “I see,” he murmured.
    Jana only began to sob harder. “What kind of life will my babe have? His father is dead, his mother is alone, and he has not a suitable bed.”
    Kieran watched the woman’s shoulders shake with sorrow. He knew little of breeding women, but he could not imagine such upset was good for her or the child. Nor were all these tears good for his disposition, sour as it was already.
    The thunder crashed in the sky again, and Kieran realized he had naught better to do.
    “He will have a bed. I will fix the cradle,” he offered softly, wishing he had Aric’s expertise with a knife and wood. Still, he could finish the job well enough.
    Jana ceased sobbing and fixed him with a suspicious stare. “You will? Why?”
    “Have you anyone else to fix it?”
    “Nay. I waited, hoping…” Her tears began in earnest once more. “I hoped ’twas a mistake, that Geralt w-would come back to m-me, that he had not been t-taken from me…from our babe.”
    Kieran repressed the urge to comfort the woman. She would not welcome it. Nor did he want to become too involved in her sorrow. Still, he could not abandon the woman. ’Twas clear she grieved. And still she had this babe to birth. Jana needed his help, even if she did not wish it.
    “Let me finish the cradle,” he offered in a low voice. “You lie down. Such tumult cannot be good for the child.”
    The hope and misgiving on her face told Kieran she was uncertain. “’Tis no problem of yours if the wee one has nowhere to sleep.”
    “But it is. As lord here, I’m to see that all at Langmore are cared for. Besides, your chamber is not far from mine. If your mite is unhappy at night, ’tis likely none of us will sleep well.”
    Kieran did his best to send her a teasing grin. Jana responded with a weak smile.
    “Thank you.”
    He waved her thanks away. “Think naught of it. Rest now.”
    With a nod, Jana rose and left him with the cradle.
     
    * * * *
     
    At midday, Maeve lifted her head from her reading and went to the great hall in search of a bit of bread to ease her hunger from Ash Wednesday fasting. She prayed she would not see her new husband.
    When she entered the great hall and found Kildare shirtless, she knew her prayers had been heard not at all. In fact, ’twas as if God took great pleasure in placing enticement in her path.
    Maeve stared at the wide expanse of Kildare’s muscled back as he bent over something he blocked with the breadth of his body. His torso tapered down to a lean waist, marked here and there with idle scars. His discarded shirt lay in a heap at his feet, and a fine sheen of sweat now covered the skin his shirt did not.
    Rhythmically, he worked at something with a small knife—some wood, she suspected from the sounds. With each movement, his wide shoulders flexed. The hard flesh of his back and arms rippled.
    Maeve’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She had never seen such a well-built man. She tried to remember something that her mother had always said. “Put