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in the air as he spun Flynn around and hoisted the arm behind her brother’s back with a painful shove. Next, he grabbed Flynn’s hair in the other fist and propelled him against Langmore’s outer wall, face first.
    With Fiona’s second shocked gasp in her ears, Maeve raced after the pair.
    “I’ll not take this from you, I tell you,” vowed Flynn. “I’m promising it will be my pleasure to kill you.”
    Kildare only shoved him against the wall harder, his shoulder pushing Flynn’s face into the unyielding stone. As Maeve approached, she saw the miscreant still wore a smile.
    Such a fight made him grin? What manner of man—or beast—was he?
    “I would not deem it likely now, would you?” taunted the Englishman. “Of course, if you wish to fight more, ’twill be my great pleasure to oblige you.”
    The glitter in Kildare’s unusual blue-green eyes confirmed his taunt in a way that made Maeve shiver. She had no doubt he would enjoy besting Flynn into oblivion.
    She had wondered upon first meeting Kildare if King Henry had finally chosen a warrior to defend the territory with his own hands, instead of one who would line the pockets of others for privilege. For Kildare seemed a man who would not tolerate much idleness. He would take matters into his own hands.
    Seeing such so clearly displayed did not bode well for the rebellion’s future.
    “Aye, now!” Flynn challenged.
    With a laugh, Kildare released him. “I look forward to wiping the floor between here and the great hall with your backside.”
    “’Tis welcome to try, you are,” sneered Flynn.
    “Nay, both of you!” Maeve shouted.
    The brash Kildare turned to her and actually winked. “’Twill not take long, love.”
    Did he truly think that concerned her? Maeve wanted to slap him. Of all the arrogant, brazen…
    She sucked in hard as the Englishman made another fist and glared at her brother with great intent. Flynn was most important now. She must help him, for he had not the experience to deal with a warrior of the earl’s ilk.
    Grabbing Kildare by the crook of his elbow, Maeve tried to stop the next punch. He merely shrugged off her touch, then plowed his fist into her brother’s face. Squarely into his nose.
    Blood spurted everywhere.
    Behind her, Jana gagged. Fiona gasped again, wringing her hands. Brighid was wide-eyed with shock. No help there.
    Maeve sprinted after the combating men again—a moment before Kildare snapped a fist from his side to Flynn’s gut faster than she could blink, then planted the other into his jaw once again.
    With a snap, a crack, and a grunt, the fight ended, punctuated by the thud of Flynn falling to the earth.
    As if sensing her approach, Kildare wiped the blood upon his knuckles on his hose, shrugged, and turned to her.
    Again, he wore a smile. Clearly, such actions pleased him—to bully a man unprepared for such an attack.
    Maeve approached the tyrant, fist clenched, and rammed it into his shoulder. “That was heathen and unnecessary, you ogre!”
    With a momentary scowl, Kildare shrugged off her blow. “Of course it was necessary. Do you think, lovely Maeve, that Flynn O’Shea will question my authority so blatantly again?”
    Knowing Flynn, aye. At least every day, mayhap more. But no good could come from telling Kildare thus.
    Bending to her brother, she examined his face. When he woke, he would be bruised. His lip would need a stitch, mayhap two. His head would pound harder than a church bell on Sunday, but he would suffer no lasting damage.
    Trying to rein in her temper, she drew in a deep breath and rose. “Have you considered that you might rule better with kindness?”
    “Like O’Shea planned to kindly kill me? Thank you, but such interests me not, for obvious reasons.”
    Again, he smiled. Maeve felt her heart pick up pace. Most like from fear at the coarse violence of his action. It had naught to do with the charm of that smile, no matter that it looked so natural, as if he’d been born