Celtic Bride (16 page)

The sound Keelin made gave him the impetus to seek more. He delved into her mouth and pulled her close, matching the hard planes of his body to her soft curves.

Keelin responded as though she could not get enough of him, the knowledge sending hot flames of arousal through him. He’d never experienced anything like this, and knew he never would again, without Keelin O’Shea.

Abruptly, and without warning, Keelin broke away. She gave a quick shake of her head. “Nay, Marcus,” she whispered, working to regain her composure. “What I feel—” She stopped, then began again. “’Tis no matter what we might want….” One crystal tear dropped past the barrier Keelin worked so hard to maintain.
“Please!”
she cried, then turned and hurried to her own chamber.

Marcus stood alone in the gallery and watched Keelin make her escape. He had not wanted to upset her, but only make her understand the depth of what he felt for her. She was his. If ever there
was a woman made who was meant for him, Keelin O’Shea was the one.

He ran one hand across his mouth and over his whisker-roughened jaw. He knew the timing was bad—he should not be thinking of love and marriage when his father’s body was barely cold in his grave. Yet Marcus knew Eldred would not begrudge him this. For years, his father had despaired of Marcus ever finding a suitable wife, one he could love as Eldred had loved Rhianwen.

Now that he’d found the right woman, Marcus was not about to let her leave without fighting for her.

K
eelin dried her
tears and looked down at herself. She was wearing the same plain, brown kirtle she’d worn on the hunt, and could see nothing wrong with it. ’Twas well made and clean.

To be sure, the gown was not in the height of style, nor would Keelin ever have considered wearing it to the earl’s table. But it had been purely practical to wear while out on the hunt. ’Twould have been utterly foolish to wear one of her better gowns for tramping over the countryside with the falcons and dogs.

She sniffed again, and fought a new onslaught of tears. The ugly brown kirtle was the least of her worries.

Her growing feelings for Marcus would do nothing but cause further heartache for both of them. They both knew she had no choice but to return to Kerry. The clan needed her, never so desperately as now, with Cormac’s death.

And there was a man in Ireland waiting to wed her. Keelin knew her father had chosen a fine, powerful chieftain for her husband, and ’twas her duty to go to him as soon as she was able. The O’Sheas would need every alliance
possible in order to thwart Mageean and his plans to subjugate Clann Ui Sheaghda.

It did not matter that Keelin’s heart was becoming too deeply involved at Wrexton. For the duration of her stay, she would take pains to avoid Marcus. No matter how difficult ’twould be, she would go out of her way to show Marcus that she was unaffected by him, by his kisses, his touch. She would discourage his attentions whenever possible.

The fire was nearly nonexistent in the grate, so Keelin added more peat. She did not doubt that Isolda had given orders to the servants to stay out of her chamber, for there were none of the usual amenities she had become accustomed to at Wrexton.

After all of Isolda’s attempts to discredit her—and the lady had been quite good at it, if truth be told—Keelin finally understood how threatening her presence was to Isolda. The woman had a secure position at Wrexton, as long as the lord did not take a wife, and it probably seemed to Isolda that Marcus would soon remedy his bachelor state.

Keelin wiped the tears from her eyes and hoped Isolda would leave her alone once she learned her position was safe.

“Ye don’t say, lad!” Tiarnan replied when Marcus told him of Keelin’s exploits. He kept his voice down because Adam was asleep, but couldn’t contain his joy for Keelin and the fine day she must have had. “She learned to shoot a longbow?”

Marcus smiled. “Yes, she did,” he said. “And with some practice, she’ll become quite adept.”

“She’s got the height fer it,” Tiarnan remarked proudly.

True
enough, Marcus thought. Her height was perfect. As were her eyes, her smile, her hair. Her hands were soft and feminine, yet strong and competent. And the rest of her…

“And what of the falcons?” Tiarnan asked. “Me brother never let her near his own birds, but Keelin had a passion for ’em. Sneaked into Eocaidh’s mews whenever she was able.”

“She did very well with the birds, Tiarnan,” Marcus answered. “Handled them as if she were born to it.”

“Well, that she was!” Tiarnan said. “If only me fool brother had realized what a prize he had in that lass. If only…”

Marcus frowned. “Keelin and her father were…at odds with one another?” he asked, anxious to learn anything he could about Keelin.

Tiarnan sighed, shaking his head. “’Tis not so easy to explain. Ye had to have known Eocaidh. Me brother was a born leader. He had a fierce devotion to the clan and to his duty.”

Now, at least, Marcus could understand where Keelin got it. But doubted he’d accept any excuse for the man’s indifference to his daughter.

“To Eocaidh, the good of the clan came before all else,” Tiarnan said. “Even before the happiness of his only child.”

Tiarnan stopped speaking for a moment and mulled over his words. By the old man’s expression, Marcus could see that he was deep in thought. But the direction of those thoughts was a mystery.

“You spoke once of Keelin’s brother.”

“Aye, Brian,” Tiarnan said. “All Eocaidh’s hopes rested in the lad. The day he drowned…’twas as if Eocaidh lost all he’d had in the world.”

“And Keelin?”

“It took a year or more, but
Eocaidh finally realized that all hopes for his line rested in his daughter,” Tiarnan said. “He began to look for a man who would be a suitable husband.”

It was a long moment before Marcus could voice his question. “And did Eocaidh find one?”

“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “And to this day, the man awaits Keelin’s return.”

Tiarnan’s health improved significantly in the days spent at Wrexton. The efficient chimneys as well as the freedom from worry had done wonders for him. He still coughed, but not with the same frequency as before, and it didn’t rattle him so badly when he had one of his spells.

He’d begun to hope for a wee bit more time.

He damned his loss of sight and the fact that his blindness made it necessary to concentrate all the more on the subtler signs given by a person: tone of voice, meaningful pauses, sighs. ’Twas all terribly wearying.

The young earl stayed only long enough to satisfy himself of Adam’s condition, then to verify that someone would be along to help Tiarnan to his room. Then he wandered out, most likely to seek his own chamber, and the necessary quietude to think over what Tiarnan had said.

Marcus de Grant had given him very few clues, yet the old man sensed clearly that the young earl was disturbed by the knowledge of a husband waiting for Keelin in Kerry. Mayhap there was hope here.

In the days since the Englishmen happened upon their wee cottage in the wood, Tiarnan had learned more than enough about the de Grant men, and life at Wrexton, to know
that Keelin could be happy here. Even without having the second sight, he knew that nothing but pain and disillusionment awaited Keelin at Carrauntoohil. If Fen McClancy still lived, she would be forced to wed the old lecher and produce an heir joining the McClancy and O’Shea clans.

If not, then Clann Ui Sheaghda would make an oracle of her in the manner of the Druids, Tiarnan thought as he crossed himself piously, and Keelin would never have the things she longed for, the things she deserved for her happiness.

Either way, the lass would be thrust once again into a land deeply ravaged by warfare and strife. As before, she would be but a mere instrument used to bolster the clan’s spirit. No one would recognize that she was a young woman with needs and yearnings of her own.

Ach, aye, Tiarnan wanted the clan to survive and prosper. He knew his duty was to return his niece and the sacred spear to Carrauntoohil. But not at the cost of Keelin’s happiness…her very life. The O’Sheas could get along without the gift of Keelin’s second sight. Mayhap someone else who had the skill to tap into the power of
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
would surface.

With a decision not easily made, Tiarnan roused the footman who slept at the end of Adam’s bed, and bid the man to help him to his chamber. He doubted he would rest easily tonight.

Morning brought a slightly warmer temperature, as well as an ankle-deep layer of snow. And while it made quite a beautiful scene as Keelin gazed out her chamber window, it would make travel difficult.

The strong foreboding was back, more potent than before. It crawled up her spine and gripped the back of her neck with
icy fingers, just as it always did when some danger was upon them. But what was it now? Surely not Mageean’s warriors, come to attack Wrexton? They would not be so bold, nor so foolish, she thought.

What could be making her feel so uneasy?

’Twas time, Keelin knew. Though touching it would make her weak and practically useless to Adam today, she knew it was time to use the power of
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
and try to discover what disaster was upon them.

She went back to the bed and pulled the mattress up, dreading, as always, the contact with the mysterious power within the spear. She hesitated a moment, and stood gazing at the leather-sheathed artifact. It was right where she’d left it, resting along one edge of the bed frame.

A quiet tap at the door startled Keelin and made her drop the mattress back into place.

“Begging your pardon, Lady Keelin,” a young maid said. “I’d never be so brazen as to disturb you….” The girl glanced back into the gallery behind her, then twisted her hands, clearly ill at ease.

“Yer not disturbin’ me, Lizzie,” Keelin said. “What is it, then?”

“My sister’s babe,” the maid explained. “The child’s got the ague and it worsens with every day. We’re worried that—that—”

“Do ye want me to have a look at the babe, Lizzie?”

“Oh, please, my lady,” the girl replied gratefully, “would you be so kind?”

“Ach, aye,” Keelin said. She had mixed feelings about abandoning
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
for the moment, but her aversion to touching the spear won out. “’Tis no trouble a’tall. Where is the child?”

“Down in
the pantry with her mam,” the maid said. “If you’d follow me…”

The pantry was a small and tidy room just behind the kitchen, kept warm by the adjacent cook fires. Lining the walls were shelves stacked with foodstuffs, crocks of spice and oil, bags of wheat flour, corn and barley. Barrels of ale stood along each wall.

Keelin could hear the wee babe’s wheeze when she entered the room.

“Oh, my lady, ’tis good of you to come,” the young mother cried. “I don’t know what’s to become of my poor little Peg.”

Keelin went to the mother and child, and placed her hand on the infant’s back. “Has she been wheezy all along?” she asked.

“Nay, for two days, she had a terrible wracking cough. Then last night, nigh on midnight, the wheezing started and then the fever, and she hasn’t opened her eyes to me since.”

Tears streamed down the mother’s distraught face. Keelin could not deny that the illness was serious. ’Twas not a good sign that the infant had been insensible for hours. She had fever, and there was a swelling in the throat causing the harsh sound that came with every breath.

Keelin did not know if there was anything she could do for the babe that would help her.

Nevertheless, she would try.

“Do ye mind if I take her from ye for a moment?” Keelin asked, touching the child’s downy blond hair.

“Please…”

With Eldred’s death, all the lord’s responsibilities became Marcus’s. He had lived at Wrexton with his father all
through the five years of Eldred’s earldom, and the two men had learned together what was expected of the earl, what the earl could expect in return.

Marcus knew he would soon need to travel to the other estates of his domain, but there was more than enough business needing his full attention at Wrexton Castle for the moment.

Town affairs kept Marcus occupied most of the morning. He and Wrexton’s steward had ridden out in the snow just after daybreak, to meet with the bailiff. By the time they returned to the keep, the morning sun was high and glistened brightly on the new snow.

’Twas cheerful looking—not at all the kind of setting he would have chosen to sit Isolda down and straighten her out. Yet it had to be done, and the sooner, the better.

Marcus headed for the keep, and the kitchen, where he believed he would find Isolda hounding the staff.

He was determined to speak to her now, before any further incidents occurred—either with the castle servants or Lady Keelin. For the duration of Isolda’s time remaining at Wrexton, Marcus would not allow her to continue her blatant harassment of Keelin. He would deal with her now, directly, just as his father would have done, just as he should have done when he’d first spoken to her.

He was learning. Everyone tested his limits, from the town bailiff to Wrexton’s steward. And they were learning that he was as reasonable as his father before him. And that his limits were not to be pushed.

Marcus entered the kitchen through the back entrance, and found a decided lack of activity there. Several servants stood about, yet no one seemed to be occupied with any of the tasks that were essential to feeding the multitude of people housed at the keep.

“What is it?” he asked Cook, certain
that Isolda had caused yet another set of problems. “What’s happened?”

“’Tis Annie’s new babe,” Cook replied. “The child has taken ill and—”

“Annie?” Marcus asked. “John’s wife?” He remembered the occasion of the girl’s marriage to one of Wrexton’s footmen nearly a year before. It had been an opportunity for Eldred to ride Marcus, in a purely good-natured manner, about his own unmarried state.

Annie had grown big with child soon after, and Eldred had forbidden her to continue working so hard at the keep. He saw to it that Isolda found small tasks for the girl, to keep her occupied and happy.

Marcus knew Eldred had seen to a baptismal gift for the child only a few weeks ago.

“Yes, m’lord,” Cook replied. “Lady Keelin is there, doing what she can for the little girl.”

That Keelin was involved did not come as a surprise to Marcus. He’d taken note of her friendly interactions with the servants, and while the Wrexton staff remained respectful, they were agreeable and comfortable with her. ’Twas very different from their dealings with Isolda, especially of late.

“Where are they?”

Cook gestured with a tilt of his head. “In the pantry, m’lord.”

When Marcus arrived and looked through the doorway of the small room, he saw Keelin standing in the center with her back to him.

Her hair was caught in a thick rope of braid that hung down the center of her back, and she was clad in the deep-green gown she’d been wearing when he’d first seen her. The fabric
hugged her body closely, from her neck to her hips, then flowed loosely to the floor.

From where he stood, he could not see what Keelin was doing, but a strange odor permeated the room and there was steam rising from a large pan on the table.

“Take her now, Annie, and hold her over the pan,” Keelin said, turning. She caught sight of Marcus and a sudden flush brightened her cheeks.

Keelin’s reaction warmed him, too. For a moment, he imagined that everyone else was gone from the room, and he was alone with Keelin. He would touch her gently. Run one finger from the nape of her neck, down her spine, then brush his lips across the bright color on her cheeks. She’d be quick to respond, especially when he spanned her waist with his hands and met her lips with his own.