Celtic Bride

by Margo Maguire

  Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  “And ’tis common for folks who’re out late at night to wear it in an amulet to protect them from the—Nay, I should not be smilin’ that way if I were you, Marcus de Grant. Ye have no idea how many innocent travelers have been saved from the terrible creatures that lurk in the dark.”

  Marcus shook his head. “At Wrexton, ’tis a different kind of magic.”

  Keelin looked at him skeptically.

  “’Tis true,” he said. “Come.”

  He took her hand and they walked along a narrowly cleared path in the garden, until they reached a few small juniper trees. “Do you see the mistletoe growing there?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Keelin replied, looking at the familiar leaves.

  Marcus set down his bow and the quiver, then reached up and snapped off a branch of mistletoe with his fingers.

  “It makes a good decoction for delirium, too,” Keelin remarked as Marcus gazed at the plant in his hand. Keelin easily understood his hesitance to speak of its magic. She found it difficult to speak of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and the special powers it possessed.

  He raised the plant high, then looked at Keelin. The heat of desire burned in his eyes, and Keelin felt it singe her to the roots of her soul. Time stood still as he moved closer. Keelin’s breath caught in her throat and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Her breasts throbbed with the need for his touch and an ache that centered in the core of her being spread out to the rest of her body.

  Keelin’s eyes fluttered closed as his lips came closer. She inhaled and caught his essence as she waited for that first tempestuous touch of his mouth.

  He did not touch her.

  Keelin’s eyes flew open as Marcus suddenly turned, retrieving his bow and arrows from where he’d left them. He seemed to steel himself for some difficult task, saying hoarsely, “When the time is right, Keelin O’Shea, I will show you the magic of the mistletoe.”

  Keelin’s head spun. If there was more magic than what she’d just experienced, she did not know if she would survive it!

  Marcus took Keelin’s arm and started walking down the path. He cleared his throat. “We’ll have to seek a Yule log soon, too,” he said, as if to dispel the power of the last few minutes. “My father would have wanted all of Wrexton to enjoy the mirth and gladness of the season.”

  It took Keelin a moment to adjust to the change of topics. This would be the first time Marcus would celebrate the Christmas season without his father. ’Twould be difficult for him, for all of Wrexton, for she had seen that Eldred had been much loved by all the people here.

  But Keelin had no opportunity to comment, for one of the young grooms was bounding down the path toward them. “Lord Marcus!” he cried. He was excited and a little frantic.

  “What is it, Dob?” Marcus asked.

  “’Tis Frieda! Marshal Boswell sent me to fetch you! He needs you!”

  Marcus shoved his bow and the quiver of arrows into the boy’s hands. “Stay with Lady Keelin,” he said, setting off at a run, “and see that she gets safely inside.”

  “Yes, m’lord!”

  They watched as Marcus disappeared down the path, surefooted and fleet. Then Keelin turned to the lad at her side. “What happened?” she asked. “Who is Frieda?”

  “She’s Lord Marcus’s mare,” Dob replied, trying to subdue his excitement. “Tryin’ to foal, she is, but havin’ trouble.”

  Keelin remembered seeing two beautiful mares, one a chestnut, the other a gray palfrey, both huge with pregnancy, when they were led from the burning stable. She was chagrined to learn of Frieda’s difficulty, and considered following Marcus to the stable. She thought better of it, however, when she recalled what her father’s reaction would have been to her “interference” where she did not belong. ’Twas likely Marcus would not care to have her in the way, either.

  “And Lord Marcus will help Marshal Boswell with Frieda?”

  “Well, yeh,” the lad replied. “Lord Marcus knows everything there is to know about horses. And he’s teachin’ me.”

  “That’s commendable,” Keelin said absently. Her nerves were raw, thanks to Marcus. She should be grateful he’d kept his distance, but instead, she was frustrated and tense.

  They had almost reached the keep when Keelin realized she would likely meet Lady Isolda in the hall. With so many travelers stranded, ’twas up to the chatelaine to supervise activities in the hall. Dreading another confrontation with the woman, she asked Dob, “Would there be a staircase ‘round back o’ the keep?”

  “Yes, m’lady,” the boy replied. “It’s this way.”

  Keelin went along with him, skirting the path that followed the high wall of the keep. She looked up at the windows and the battlements that edged the perimeter of the building as well as the castle walls, and realized what a massive fortress Wrexton really was. Truly, Marcus was lord of as fine a fortress as she’d ever seen. Carrauntoohil Keep was a crude stone stronghold compared to it.

  With the snow tapering off, Keelin thought she saw a figure move in one of the upper windows. She could not see who ’twas, nor did she know what rooms overlooked this part of the bailey.

  Shuddering, Keelin moved closer to the curtain wall. She did not like the feeling that overtook her just then.

  “The river flows under the wall up there,” Dob remarked, pointing ahead. “Lord Marcus was once kept prisoner in the rooms down below by the old earl.”

  “Eldred kept his own son imprisoned?” Keelin asked, startled by the boy’s words.

  “Oh, nay, m’lady,” he replied. “’Twas the old earl, the one before Lord Eldred. It be quite a story if you’d care to hear it.”

  Keelin was certain ’twould be a good story, but she was too preoccupied to enjoy it now. Something was about to happen, some disaster was about to befall her, though she could not say exactly what it would be. She felt an urgency to get inside quickly, to Uncle Tiarnan’s chamber. “Nay, not now, Dob,” she said as she picked up her pace, “but later on, if you’ve a mind to tell it, I’d be willin’ to listen.”

  The lad smiled at the promise of further congress with the lady Keelin. “There’s the buttery,” he said, taking his task of escort and guide seriously, “and if you walk just a little past it, there’s steps leading down to the lord’s quay.”

  “And is there a stair back here where I can—”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Dob said, pointing ahead. “If you go in through that doorway, there’s—Look out!” he cried, shoving Keelin off the path.

  A large slab of stone and mortar glanced off her shoulder and crashed to the ground next to her. Dob knelt in the snow next to Keelin. “My lady! Are you all right?”

  Keelin sat up. She frowned and shook her head in confusion. “What happened? I…that noise…” She looked up to the top of the wall, then at the block of stone on the ground nearby. “This is what hit me?”

  Dob gave a shake of his head, clearly puzzled by the event. He looked up at the keep, then back at Keelin. “I—I don’t know how it could have fallen, m’lady,” he said in astonishment, “but it did. Are you hurt?”

  “Nay,” Keelin replied, wincing as she shrugged. “Just bruised my shoulder a wee bit, I think.”

  “Let me help you up.”

  The lad gave her his hand and Keelin pulled herself up. It had been close. One more inch either way and the heavy piece would have done serious damage. It might have killed her.

  She wondered if this incident was what had her intuition humming with apprehension or if something worse awaited her.

  “I—I’ll see you inside and then I’ll run back and get Lord Mar—”

  “Nay, Dob,” Keelin said. She could see that the lad himself was quite shaken by the experience, and Keelin did not want him to feel responsible. She merely wanted to get to Tiarnan’s chamber where all would be well. Surely no harm would come to her when she was with her uncle. “If ye’ll just take me to the steps and walk along with me to my chamber…No need to b
e disturbin’ Lord Marcus over this. No harm was done as ye can see.”

  “But m’lady…” he said, clearly unsure what to do.

  “No arguin’, lad,” Keelin said firmly though she felt quite wobbly inside. She took the boy’s arm. “Come. Walk with me.”

  Keelin found Tiarnan sitting with Adam. She had dropped off her cloak and changed into her green gown, and felt marginally better. By the time she arrived in Adam’s chamber, her intuition warned her of no further danger, and she did not intend to upset either Tiarnan or Adam by speaking of the incident on the path. She would simply take what comfort she could from their presence.

  Adam was laughing when she entered the room.

  “Oh, Lady Keelin!” he said, grinning. “Lord Tiarnan was just telling me of the time when you tied together the boot laces of all the men sleeping in your father’s hall and—”

  “Uncle Tiarnan!” Keelin cried. She pushed the frightening incident to the back of her mind for the moment. “Ye know better than to be regalin’ the lad with such wild tales. I’ve always behaved as a proper Irish—”

  “A proper Irish rascal!” Tiarnan declared.

  Both Adam and Tiarnan burst into laughter with Tiarnan’s description of her, and she could not help but smile, too. In spite of all of Keelin’s difficulties at Wrexton, Tiarnan had found contentment and a return to good health. He had all the companionship he needed with Adam and Marcus, and the knights who had sheltered with them in their poor cottage.

  He would be happy here, Keelin thought. With a clear conscience, she could leave him at Wrexton, knowing his days would be safe and comfortable.

  Adam’s wound was healing well, too. He was gaining strength every day and would soon be able to move in and out of his bed without assistance. He would begin taking solid food and his recovery would be nearly complete.

  Though all these things meant she would soon be able to leave, thoughts of her return to Carrauntoohil gave her no joy. On the contrary, Keelin felt nothing but misery at the thought of going away. Yet she schooled her expression and her voice so as not to betray the sorrow she felt within.

  “I’ll have ye know, Master Adam,” Keelin said with feigned indignation, “that I am the daughter o’ Eocaidh O’Shea, High Chieftain of all o’ Kerry. ’Tis not fittin’ to mock such a high personage, if ye catch my meanin’.”

  “Keelin!”

  Just when Keelin thought she’d regained her equilibrium, Marcus flung the door open and stepped inside. His clothes were a mess—a combination of mud and blood, Keelin thought, and his face was drawn.

  Clearly, he’d heard of the incident on the path, and suddenly Keelin had a desperate need to feel his protective arms around her.

  “Ah, Marcus,” she said instead, standing up from her place on the side of Adam’s bed. She clasped her hands together in front of her, and sent him a forbidding expression. She did not want Tiarnan’s peace shattered by a discussion of the accident on the path. “How fares Frieda?” she asked quickly. “Has she foaled?”

  For a fair man, Marcus’s face darkened perceptibly, but he went along with Keelin, clearly understanding her intent. He replied that the mare had delivered a fine colt, but not without difficulty. It remained to be seen whether or not the horse would recover from the birth, or if she’d ever bear any more young.

  “Will she die, too, Marcus?” Adam asked, his voice small and troubled. It had not occurred to either Marcus or Keelin that the boy would take Frieda’s condition to heart.

  Keelin sat back down next to the lad and glanced up at Marcus, hoping that her eyes did not betray her need for him. She knew he was torn between the need to stay and offer reassurances to Adam, and hauling her out of the room to question her on what had transpired outside.

  She hoped he realized Adam needed him more than she did.

  “Nay, Adam,” Marcus said, kneeling next to the lad, “trust that Marshal Boswell will take excellent care of her. And just wait until you’re able to go out and see the colt. He’s a fine lad—has the look of his sire.”

  Adam relaxed some with Marcus’s words.

  “But Frieda,” Adam persisted. “She will be all right?”

  “Adam…I can’t promise you,” Marcus said, “but she seems so. The birth was not easy, but I believe Marshal Boswell will see that Frieda recovers.”

  “Might I go and see her, Marcus?”

  “Absolutely not,” Marcus replied. “You are not yet healed, young man, and I would not have you leave your warm chamber—”

  “But Marcus—”

  “Nay, I’ll hear no more,” Marcus replied as he got up. “I will check on the mare often and let you know of her progress. When you are fully healed, you may visit Frieda and Isabella in their temporary stable, but not until then. Keelin,” he said, turning, “I would have a word with you.”

  He took her by the elbow and began to usher her out of the room. Completely attuned to each other, neither of them took note of Adam’s pout or the puzzled expression on Tiarnan’s face as they left Adam’s chamber.

  Marcus kept one hand under Keelin’s elbow until they reached her room and entered. Marcus closed the door and latched it.

  Keelin turned, pressing her cheek against Marcus’s chest. His arms went around her.

  Neither spoke.

  ’Twas the first time Keelin had ever felt fragile to Marcus. For all her height and strength, she was still a woman, in need of his protection. And he had failed her. First when she’d been injured in the stable, and today, on the path.

  Never again, he vowed.

  “Keelin,” he said, “where were you hurt? Dob said the stone hit you, knocked you down.”

  “Aye, it did, Marcus,” she replied. She started to shake all over again, thinking about her close call. And then there was Marcus, so near, his effect on her so profound… “Dob pushed me from the path, so it barely hit my shoulder.”

  “Thank God for that,” Marcus said.

  “And for Dob.”

  “Yes,” Marcus replied, his throat thickening with emotion. “He’ll be well rewarded.” Had Dob not been so quick, he might have lost her. All he could do now was hold her, and reassure himself that all was well.

  He pulled away slightly, moving his hands to the laces that held her bodice together. Keelin did not stop him, nor ask what he was about. Proper or not, he would see with his own eyes that she was truly unhurt.

  When the bodice was loosened, Marcus gently pulled it off Keelin’s shoulders, leaving her barely clad in her white chemise. She looked even more vulnerable than before, with so much soft, white skin exposed. He longed to touch her, to pull her close, but he dared not, for fear of injuring her. “Which shoulder was hit, Keelin?” Marcus asked, his voice a quiet rasp.

  “My left,” she replied, turning slightly.

  Gently he pulled the thin chemise down. Keelin stayed still, though she was unable to conceal a slight tremor, and the way her breasts rose with quick, nervous breaths.

  He had vowed to remain chaste, yet he could not resist touching her. The sight of her graceful neck and delicate collarbones evoked something totally male and primal inside him, responding to her utter femininity. He ran the tips of his fingers gently across her fine bones and could not suppress his own tremor.

  A nasty red scrape marred Keelin’s shoulder, and a large bruise had begun to form around it. Marcus knew it had to hurt with every move she made, but he doubted any bones were broken.

  Goose bumps appeared on her skin and when Marcus turned his gaze to Keelin’s face, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes closed. He felt every bit as aroused as she looked.

  One long lace held the gathered chemise together. Marcus gave a half-hearted attempt to resist, but lost the battle. He gave the cord a slight tug, and the fine linen fabric slipped. It will do no harm to look, he told himself, and mayhap touch. But no more.

  As it was, he’d gone too far.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Marcus,” Keelin said. It might have
been uttered as a question, or an answer, Marcus thought. Mayhap even a prayer.

  “You are so very beautiful,” he said. He took one hand and raised it to his lips, and when he lowered it, he dropped a soft kiss on her injured shoulder, causing Keelin’s breath to catch.

  Her reaction inflamed him. He put his hands on her waist, then slid them up to bear the weight of her breasts. With thumbs extended, he touched her nipples, causing the tips to bead, and making her gasp with the impact of his featherlight touch.

  Marcus had never touched anything so fine. He circled the deep pink skin, then bowed his head in order to taste her. Taking one breast deep into his mouth, Marcus felt Keelin’s hands in his hair, and heard her gasp with pleasure.

  He released her.

  “Marcus!” she cried breathlessly. “Please…”

  Marcus pulled the chemise back up to cover her. He could take no more, and knew she could not, either.

  “Keelin, I must go before I do something I will regret.”

  “No—”

  “Yes,” he said, summoning the strength to retie the lace. “I will leave you now and go to my bath. But we will sup together in the hall.”

  “Marcus—”

  He cut her off with a quick kiss on the lips.

  “In the hall,” he said. “At supper.”

  Marcus might have smiled at the expression on Keelin’s face when he left her, but he knew his own was no better. Still, he did not regret leaving her. Honor demanded it.

  Water had been brought to his chamber for his bath, and he wasted no time getting to it. He stood upright in the tub, sluicing the warm water over his body. It did not help to ease the arousal that was nearly painful, but at least some of the day’s grime rinsed off. Looking down at his body, Marcus did not know how long he could live with the tension. The way he wanted Keelin was beyond what he’d ever felt for any other woman, and he had vowed to take his passions no further than chivalry allowed. Already, he’d stretched the boundaries.

  But the relief of finding her relatively unhurt had been too great. He’d had to touch her, he’d needed the reassurance of her body against his, the taste of her skin on his lips. She had needed him just as badly.