But he would have to get his father home soon, for burial on Wrexton land.
There was a briskly flowing brook near the cottage, and Marcus walked down a beaten path to get to it. He pulled off his tunic and crouched down, dunking his head in the water. Somehow, he had to clear his thoughts.
Keelin finished tending the lad, then put away her medicines and bandages. She washed her hands in a basin of fresh water, then went over to speak quietly to her uncle.
“Sleep awhile now,” she told him, knowing that the worry and then the excitement of visitors had exhausted him. “I must go out for a bit, but I’ll be back to see to ye soon.”
She had to talk to the Englishman.
Stepping outside, Keelin was surprised and dismayed to see so many knights milling about near the mule-wain. She assured herself that there was no danger of one of the men discovering the spear, but it made her uncomfortable to see them standing so close to it.
Keelin calmed herself. With a definite plan in mind, she approached one of the men and asked where the young lord might be found, and was given a direction to follow. She took the path to the brook, skirting a partially hidden nest of baby snipes, and stopped short when she saw him.
There was a strange fluttering in her belly and a heaviness in her chest as she watched this primal young man, standing half-naked on the bank. She felt hot all over, as though her skin were on fire. Her heart pounded as if she’d swallowed some of her own foxglove powder.
If she’d ever seen so well developed a man, Keelin could not remember it. If she’d ever noticed how low a man’s chausses hung on his hips, or how the muscles in his arms stood out, the memories were lost to her.
His upper body and hair were wet and he threw his head back as she’d seen wild animals do, half expecting him to shake all over to dry himself. Keelin’s mouth went dry as she watched. She forgot to breathe.
And then he saw her.
He took a sudden step back and plopped his booted foot right into the brook. To make matters worse, he lost his balance and fell on his rump. Saints above, the man had a lovely blush, as well as a good deal other attributes, Keelin thought as she rushed down to the water to give him a hand up. He’d gone a lovely pink right to the ends of his ears.
“Well, if ’twas a bath ye wanted…” she said in jest.
Silently, the blond Goliath got to his feet and stepped up and out of the wee river. Keelin realized he was in no mood for humor. Nor was he inclined to be friendly to her. She could understand that. She was Irish, after all, same as the men who’d attacked the young lord’s party. Had the situation been reversed, and English mercenaries attacked a group of her father’s men…Well, Keelin was certain that no Englishman would be safe from Eocaidh O’Shea’s wrath.
“The lad is sleepin’ now,” she said somberly, breaking the tension his silence created. He’d been full of orders to his men when he’d first arrived, when the boy had needed quick attention, but was clearly loath to speak to her.
“’Twill be some time, though,” she said, “before we know how he fares….”
The man nodded curtly and headed up the path toward the cottage. It appeared to Keelin that he wanted nothing to do with her.
This would never do. She had a request to make, an urgent one. This young lord was the answer to a prayer, if only she could get him to agree to escort her and Uncle Tiarnan away. With Tiarnan’s health being what it was, this stern giant was her only hope. She’d find a way to leave Tiarnan in this man’s care, and then go on to Kerry herself. She needed to know what was going on at Carrauntoohil.
“Wait!” she commanded. And got his attention at last.
He stopped and half turned toward her.
“I am Keelin O’Shea, daughter of Eocaidh, high chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda.” When he made no response, she said, “I believe ’tis my right to know the name of my guest.”
He cleared his throat. “M-Marcus de Grant,” he finally said haltingly. “With my father’s death this afternoon, I am…I am the new Earl of Wrexton.”
’Twas just as she thought. This was no ordinary Englishman, and Keelin was glad she’d given her full credentials. Marcus de Grant was a high nobleman, and a man grieving for his own father. Now, if only she could persuade him to take her and Tiarnan to his lands.
“My condolences on your loss,” she said earnestly, walking toward him. The poor man was obviously shaken by his father’s death. “’Tis not an easy thing to lose your family.”
Marcus doubted he’d ever felt so awkward before. As he stood half-naked on the path, with the O’Shea woman bearing down on him, he wanted to drop his sodden tunic and run. Run from everything—his new position in life, the responsibility he felt for Adam, the death of his father. And he would most certainly run from this exquisite black-haired lady, whose regal manner had him typically tied into knots.
At the same time, he sensed that the woman spoke from experience, that she’d known loss herself, and it was that feeling that gave him the impetus to reply to her statement. “No, i-it isn’t easy,” he said woodenly.
“And the lad, m’lord? Who is Adam?” she asked as they began to walk abreast of each other.
“My cousin,” Marcus replied as he moved to keep some distance between them.
“Not meanin’ to be impertinent, m’lord,” she continued, “but how did all this happen? What befell your party?”
“I had hoped you would have some insight into that,” Marcus said, surprising himself at his loquacity. He hadn’t stammered at all, and somehow had managed to say exactly what was on his mind, in spite of the directness of her forest-green gaze, her exquisitely curved form and the tantalizing spicy scent that seemed to emanate from her.
“Me?” she asked, apparently stunned, for she stopped dead in her tracks.
“Celtic warriors attacked us in the wood north of here,” he said. “Another party of Englishmen arrived in time to rout them, but not before they killed four of our men and wounded several others besides Adam.”
Keelin O’Shea pressed a hand to the center of her chest, drawing his eyes to her softly rounded bosom. She muttered a couple of unintelligible words, and then to his amazement, she said, “I’ve been worried somethin’ of this nature would happen sooner or later.”
“You know about them—the warriors?” he asked, stunned by her admission, even though he’d already made the connection.
Keelin set her jaw and inclined her head and Marcus had the distinct impression that she intended to duck the question. Her evasiveness angered him and he took hold of her arm.
“What of those Celts?” he demanded, his anger rising to the surface again, even as he became aware of her softness. “Will they return? Are there more of them lurking somewhere, waiting for—”
“No!” Keelin replied irritably, pulling her arm away. “At least I greatly doubt it. The Mageean warriors have never split up to search…they’ve always traveled together, as one….”
“Go on.”
“They’re Ruairc Mageean’s men. And they are after me,” she said dejectedly. “They’ve been chasin’ after my uncle and me for the last four years. We’ve been hidin’ out here in England, movin’ on whenever the need arose.”
Marcus could not afford to be self-conscious or bashful now. Keelin O’Shea had the answers to his questions. She had information about the warriors who’d killed his father, and he intended to find out what she knew. For the first time in his life, he was not entirely tongue-tied and overwhelmed by his nearness to a beautiful woman. Though he still felt deathly uncomfortable, he found he could speak to her—touch her, even—without freezing up like a branch in an ice storm. On the contrary. He felt as if the flames of Hades were consuming him bit by bit. “Who is Ruairc Mageean?”
“Well…” Keelin swallowed hard, taken aback by the lord’s anger. Sure, she could see he’d leashed the powerful emotion, but ’twould be a terrible thing if ever he let it free. ’Twas obvious that now was not the time to make her
request. In fact, she realized belatedly, it might be better to leave the man alone entirely for now. “’Tis a long story, but suffice it to say that Mageean is a rival of my family. A cruel and heartless man who would possess all of Munster if only…”
“If only…?” Lord Wrexton asked, his anger barely concealed.
“If only he had the power to do so,” she said uneasily as she turned abruptly and headed up the path to the cottage.
Marcus stood watching as her slender form was swallowed up in the thick woods, but his relief at being left alone was short-lived. Within a few short minutes of Keelin O’Shea’s departure, there was a bloodcurdling, feminine scream from somewhere deep in the wood.
He dropped his tunic in the dirt and ran.
Chapter Two
Keelin managed to walk only a short way up the path when she was accosted. Her filthy attacker slapped one hand over her mouth and the other across the middle of her body. Then he dragged her through the woods in the opposite direction of her cottage, away from any help at all.
She kicked and scratched frantically at the villain who hauled her mercilessly across the dense forest growth, but her actions were of no avail. She could not get herself free from the man, except for one short instant when she managed to let out a desperate screech.
The Celtic warrior wrapped her hair tightly around his hand and, speaking in Gaelic, told her in no uncertain terms to keep silent. Pain ripped through Keelin’s scalp as the man brutally yanked and resumed his terrible pace through the forest.
Keelin couldn’t think clearly, yet a thousand disconnected thoughts ran through her mind as she clawed at the man’s hands. Would the warrior kill her? Who would care for Uncle Tiarnan then? What would happen to Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh? Had her cry been loud enough for anyone to hear?
“Let the woman go!”
The Celt suddenly stopped and whirled around. Holding Keelin in front of him like a shield, he faced Marcus de Grant, who appeared like a golden giant out of the woods to challenge him.
“Be still, Keelin,” Marcus de Grant growled. Startled once again by the young earl’s sudden appearance, Keelin felt the cold, steel blade at her throat and knew that her life depended on keeping still.
“Give me Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and I will free you,” the warrior demanded.
“Níl!” Keelin cried.
Lord Wrexton’s sword was drawn and he was ready to engage the Irishman, but Keelin was afraid the young lord could do nothing while the mercenary held her this way, with one hand tightly tangled in her hair, the other on the knife. If de Grant attacked, Keelin would surely be killed.
De Grant stood at the ready, slightly crouched, and slowly began to circle Keelin and the Irishman. Somehow, in the depths of her distress, Keelin wondered what he could possibly do to free her.
She heard a strange, strangled sound, and realized it had come from her own throat. The mercenary pulled her hair even tighter and turned to keep Wrexton in front of him, though Keelin could feel that he was slightly off balance. She was too frightened to act, and so she moved with him, taking care not to jar herself against the knife.
“You’ll never leave these woods alive, Celt!” Marcus taunted. “Let her go and I’ll spare you! Drop—”
A loud crack split the air behind her, and the Irishman yelped. Keelin was thrown forward, onto her knees, facedown in the dirt.
Amidst the sudden shouts of men, and confusion all around her, Keelin came as close to fainting as if she’d just experienced a powerful vision. Heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, she was helped to her feet, then pulled off them again when her knees buckled. As she fell to the ground, she heard the clash of swords, the grunts of men fighting for their lives. Suddenly, all was silent. De Grant lifted her into his naked arms and carried her to the path that led to her cottage.
The young lord was quiet as he carried her faultlessly through the woods. Trembling, Keelin wrapped her hands around his neck and held on, treasuring the unfamiliar sensations of safety and security. It had been years since anyone had protected her, or helped her in any way. The warrior had killed a man to protect her.
She gazed up at Lord Wrexton, whose eyes were locked straight ahead, and took notice of the short, red-blond whiskers that covered his jaw and neck. She’d never seen any young man up so close, had certainly never before appreciated the strong lines and muscles of a warrior’s physique. Yet she’d found herself gaping at this powerful man more than once in the short hours since he’d crashed in on her life. She had never thought a man beautiful before, yet now…
She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut out the thoughts that would surely cause her nothing but trouble. How the man could have such an effect, and so quickly, was a mystery to Keelin.
Marcus got her back to the cottage and the place where his men were encamped. He eased her down onto the stump of a great oak, and tilted her chin with one hand as his men gathered round. “You’re bleeding,” he said, oblivious to her appreciative gaze, and astonished that she’d come to no harm. The Celt had been quick to raise his sword against Keelin. ’Twas by the grace of God that Marcus had been quicker, though he’d achieved little satisfaction in killing the Celt.
With a surprisingly steady hand, Marcus touched the injury on Keelin’s neck, assessing its severity.
“The knave cut me?” Keelin asked, surprised. Yet another odd feeling rose in her, much more intense than anything she’d experienced so far, one that seemed to be the result of the earl’s gentle touch. But how could that be? She’d never heard of such a thing.
“Aye,” Marcus replied. “He sliced you when you fell.”
“Wh-what happened back there?” Keelin asked. She felt shaky and light-headed now that the threat was done. “How did I…Why did the scoundrel let me loose?”
“We heard your scream,” Marcus began. One of his men handed him a clean cloth and a stoppered crock of ointment that he used to daub at the thin slice on her neck. “I came after you, as did Marquis Kirkham—the Englishman who routed the Celts after they attacked our party.”
Keelin furrowed her brow and shook her head in puzzlement. “Where did the marquis come from? How did he—”
“I know as little as you, my lady,” Marcus replied. “Kirkham arrived in the woods behind you and the Celt, just about the time I got there.”
“Aye, my lord,” one of the men said. “Lord Kirkham rode up just as we heard the lady cry out.”
“I kept the Celt distracted,” Marcus continued, “while Kirkham used his whip on the man.”
“That was the crackin’ sound that made him drop me?”
Marcus nodded. “Kirkham has a fondness for the whip,” he said, “though he’s a skilled swordsman as well.”
Keelin winced at the stinging caused by the ointment. “Sword or whip,” she said as he wrapped a clean length of cloth around her neck. “I’m grateful to the man for comin’ along when he did.” Then Keelin stayed his hand with one of her own as she looked into his light-blue eyes. “You have my thanks as well, Lord Wrexton.”
She saw color burst in his cheeks, then flush down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. His diffidence endeared him to her as much as his strong, powerful presence had done earlier.
Keelin would have touched the bit of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead, but she dropped her hand midway when Marquis Kirkham arrived in the clearing. He was tall and powerfully made, with a visage as fierce and dark as the very devil. Keelin could almost believe the man had routed the Celtic mercenaries single-handedly.
“What say you, Marcus?” the big nobleman said, slurring his words. Keelin realized the man was drunk! “I’ve been mopping up after you all day!”
Marcus did not respond to the man’s sarcasm, for he was accustomed to Kirkham’s brooding and sarcasm. Instead, he merely finished tying Keelin’s bandage in place. Keelin, however, took exception to the drunken newcomer’s speech. Such loose and foolish talk would never have gone unchallenged in her father’s
keep. She stood and faced the man.
“M’lord,” she said firmly, “can ye not know of the young lord’s loss? His own father was slain this very day, yet here ye jest—”
“Is this true, Marcus?” the marquis asked earnestly. The captious mischief in his eyes faded and his posture straightened. “Did Eldred fall to those savages?”
Marcus gave a curt nod and turned away. Kirkham followed, and the two men disappeared from Keelin’s view.
Keelin sensed a terrible turmoil in the marquis, in spite of his drunkenness, but she was unable to understand any more of the man. Perhaps, she thought, he had good reason for overimbibing, but her intuition failed to give further insight.
She touched the bandage at her neck and thought again how close she’d come to losing her life. What would have happened to the clan then, if Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh was lost? Keelin’s urgency to return to Carrauntoohil doubled, though the means by which she was to get there were unclear. Somehow, Keelin would see her uncle safely to Wrexton, and then make the trip to Kerry on her own.
Marcus did not feel the chill of the early evening. He was never one to be subject to the cold, but in the last few minutes, he’d been suffused with heat.
It was entirely the woman’s fault.
He would have liked a few moments to himself to savor the experience of holding Keelin O’Shea. He’d have given himself time to think of her softness and the long, elegant lines of her neck, the gloss of her hair and the fire in her green eyes.
Instead, he strode into his campsite beside Nicholas Hawken, and told of his encounter with the barbarian mercenaries.
Nicholas sobered with Marcus’s words, and listened attentively, his brooding features never changing.
“I apologize, Marcus,” Nicholas finally said, bowing his head, “for my earlier gaffe. Eldred was a good and just man and I am sorry for your loss.”
Celtic Bride Page 3
