Celtic Bride (17 page)

They had gone so far once before, in the inopportune location of the castle courtyard, with Keelin’s breath catching in her throat, her desire for him as great as what he had felt for her.

Had they not been interrupted by Beatrice’s untimely appearance, Marcus had no doubt they would have found a more private, secluded place. There, they would have explored each caress, each whispered touch. And Marcus would have been hard-pressed to honor his vow of celibacy.

He met Keelin’s sharp green gaze. Confusion was in her eyes, as well as worry and concern. She ached for the poor child as if it were her own, just as she had for Adam, and she worked as hard as any servant to do what she could for the infant.

Hesitating only slightly, she stepped over to him and placed a hand on his arm. “Marcus, would ye mind finding someone to go up to Adam’s chamber,” she asked, “and get my herb pouches? This wee
lass is going to need more than what I’ve got here, if I’m to help her.”

Marcus did not dread his anticipated confrontation with Isolda as he had the last time, and knew the role of earl was coming more naturally now. ’Twas true, he had not yet tested his new standing in war, nor in any political dealings with the ruling council in London, but at least in his own domain, Marcus felt his competence growing.

He left Keelin and walked through the great hall, surprised that he had not yet encountered Isolda. Summoning one of the maids, he asked the girl to find Isolda and send her to the lord’s study.

He walked to the far end of the hall and left, heading toward the chapel. There, a narrow, winding staircase took him to an upper level of the keep, just below the battlements. Marcus entered the chamber where all the past earls had dealt with Wrexton business.

The room was neither terribly small, for it served the Wrexton lords to hold meetings there, nor was it overly large. ’Twas a man’s room, with furnishings and masculine appointments that had suited a number of Wrexton’s earls before Marcus.

A handsome mahogany desk stood near the fireplace, with a large comfortable chair behind it. Mullioned windows provided better than adequate light during the day, and an iron ring holding several oil lamps hung over the desk so that it was possible to read or work by night.

The few books that Eldred had brought to Wrexton from Northaven Manor, as well as those belonging to the previous earl’s collection were stored here under lock and key. There were ancient tomes, along with a few more recently copied volumes, colorfully illustrated and bound in leather. ’Twas Marcus’s pride that he was able to read every one.

While he waited
for Isolda, he carefully paged through the large volume that rested on the desk. ’Twas a religious tome, a work his father had recently acquired and was in the process of reading before they’d left Wrexton on their fateful journey.

A particularly vile but colorful illustration of Satan startled him. Portrayed as a lewd, grinning satyr, the devil stood in the pits of hell, watching as a witch was burned at the stake.

With uncharacteristic disregard for the value of the book, Marcus slapped it shut. He did not care to see the image of a dark-haired maiden being ravaged by fire. Nor would he entertain thoughts about witches and devils. If the rest of this volume contained similar topics and illustrations, Marcus would lock it away at the bottom of the cupboard, never again to see the light of day.

Still disturbed by the image he’d see in the book, Marcus stalked to the window and looked down on the courtyard. Dark clouds rode low in the sky, and it was snowing again.

Where is Isolda?
he wondered impatiently.

He knew exactly what he intended to say to the woman, so he gave no further thought to it. He only wished he had an honorable offer of marriage in hand, and could get her settled somewhere soon.

Marcus wondered instead whether Tiarnan O’Shea supported or even knew of Keelin’s decision to return to her home. He wondered if the old man knew Keelin intended to leave him behind at Wrexton, under the care of strangers.

Not that Marcus felt like a stranger to Keelin or her uncle. They’d spent too many days together in the crowded little cottage
to be anything but familiar, and Marcus had developed a true fondness for the old man. He was unsure exactly what he felt for Keelin.

Was he a fool to discount the possibility of Keelin using sorcery?
It had seemed entirely likely only a few days before. She had known about Edward’s broken leg
before
he was carried into the cottage! She had healed Adam, when the boy’s chances for survival had been utterly dismal.

What magic was at work through her?

Marcus went back to the desk and opened the offensive book. He turned the pages until he found the one with the illustration that had shocked him. Silently reading the Latin text, he soon found himself sitting down in the large chair, studying what was known about witches and their habits.

When he finished, he was shaken by what he’d read, but he knew Keelin was not one of them.

Marcus could not imagine her killing a child and sacrificing it, not after seeing how tirelessly she’d worked to heal Adam, or the way she cared so tenderly for Annie’s infant. She prayed fervently and often, invoking the Irish saints as needed, never giving any sign of profaning the Eucharist or twisting the Mass to some evil purpose.

As for the Devil’s marks on her body, Marcus had to assume there were none, although at his first opportunity, he would verify that with his own eyes.

With pleasure.

“Lord Marcus?”

“Enter,” Marcus replied to the summons.

One of the footmen stepped inside the chamber and informed Marcus that Lady Isolda was nowhere to be found.

“The storm
worsens by the minute, my lord,” he added. “Baron Albin Selby and his family are here seeking refuge.”

Marcus remembered meeting Selby a few years earlier, but he was not on familiar terms with the man. Nonetheless, Wrexton was known for its hospitality. That would not change with Eldred’s death. “Find suitable chambers for them, Mathiew, and see that they are fed and made comfortable.”

“Yes, my lord,” Mathiew replied as he turned to leave. “Ah, Lord Marcus…there are others…several knights, a few peddlers…some freemen….”

“We’ve room enough, Mathiew, and stores to spare, I believe. See them situated in the hall.”

Marcus stood and joined the servant as he headed for the stairway. He wanted to see the strangers in the hall for himself and assess the likelihood of trouble.

“Send one of the boys to fetch Sir Robert,” Marcus said to Mathiew, “and ask him to join me in the hall.” He intended to take no chances. Several Wrexton knights would remain in the hall until the storm passed and the strangers went on their way. Though he had no reason to believe any of his “guests” would be hostile, Marcus knew that with enough boredom and sufficient ale, the friendliest of males could become dangerous.

He did not forget about Isolda, though ’twas obvious his discussion with her would have to wait. Time enough to set her in her place.

T
he weather
worsened as the day progressed. A fierce wind whipped around towers and battlements, and whistled through the courtyard and baileys. Brittle branches of centuries-old trees creaked and snapped in the gale, littering the frozen ground far below. An icy rain began to fall, pelting anyone who could not avoid outdoor commerce.

The river that flowed along the rounded curtain of Wrexton Castle slowed, dammed up by accumulating ice. ’Twas a sight not seen at Wrexton in more than a decade, but the signs of winter had been particularly severe this year. None of the old folk were surprised by the early storm, and many had remarked on the portents they’d seen ever since the autumn harvest.

By late afternoon, more weary, half-frozen travelers had arrived, seeking refuge within the warm walls of Wrexton Keep. Marcus accepted all, fully aware that any who remained out in such inclement weather did so at risk to their lives.

None of the servants grumbled over the extra work, for it took their minds from the dire plight of Annie’s child.

Keelin, too, was glad
of something to do, though it pained her that the activity was at the expense of the wee babe in her arms. She’d sent the infant’s mother off to sleep awhile, along with her husband, John. The young couple had not had much rest in the last few days, and Keelin suspected that would continue until Peg was better.

Meanwhile, Keelin held the babe in the only position in which she was able to breathe. The child was not in quite so much distress now, thanks to the concoction of archangelica and lungwort that Keelin had steamed and gotten the child to inhale. And for good measure, Keelin had rubbed freshly churned butter into the babe’s chest and made the sign of the cross three times over it. Now, all they could do was wait.

“How is she?” Marcus asked, startling Keelin. She hadn’t heard him enter the pantry.

“A wee bit better, I think,” she replied.

“You must be tired,” he said, pushing away from the doorjamb and walking in.

“Aye,” Keelin answered. “’Tis wearyin’ to deal with a sick babe for hours. It wears on yer nerves, if ye know what I mean. Ye worry that ye haven’t done all ye can…or that you’ve done it all, but it won’t be enough….”

“Whatever happens, Keelin—”

“Don’t be sayin’ it, Marcus,” she said fiercely. “I’ll hear nothin’ about what might or mightn’t happen.”

Marcus ran a hand across Keelin’s jaw, cupping her chin. “You’ve done everything you can for now,” he said. “Why don’t you let me hold her awhile, and you rest your arms.”

“Ye’d do that, Marcus?” she asked, surprised by his offer.

“Of course,” he replied. “Hand her to me.”

His big hands
were awkward with the wee child, but with a minimum of fuss, he settled the babe against his shoulder. It took no stretch of the imagination to think of Marcus, one day nurturing his own child, a beautiful wee blond nursling like little Peg.

Keelin turned quickly away and busied herself with the pan of cooled water. She tamped down the flurry of emotions that flooded through her at the sight of Marcus, holding the child so gently, knowing that his own little towheaded darlings would be born and bred long after she returned to Kerry.

Until now, she had trained her attention solely on getting home to Kerry, and had avoided thinking of leaving Wrexton. And Marcus. Now, the thought of Marcus and the life he would pursue after she was gone caused overwhelming pain.

Duty had never been so onerous before. Even when Keelin had been required to flee her home and clan, she’d done so without question. Somehow, that had changed. For the first time in her life, her heart was no longer with Clann Ui Sheaghda. She did not dare think where it lay now.

“Keelin?”

She blinked back the tears that had started to form, and turned to him. “I’ll just—”

“What is it?” Marcus asked, his dear brow furrowed with concern. “You’re troubled.”

“Nay, Marcus,” she replied brightly, lifting the pan of water. “Will you open that door for me?”

“Only when you tell me what has upset you.”

“’Tis just the babe…I’m worried….”

“Set the pan down, Keelin,” Marcus said. “There is no rush to empty it, and I would have you rest a few moments
before I must leave you again. The storm has brought both vagabonds and highborn to our doors, and soon I will have to deal with the chaos in the hall.”

Keelin swallowed the lump in her throat as she replaced the pan on the table. A flood of vague images clouded her vision, and she shook them away before they could cause her any further anguish. She had no desire to see the future, had
never
wanted this strange power that not only plagued and terrified her, but made her the repository of all her clan’s hopes and dreams.

’Twas too much for one person to bear.

What of her own hopes and dreams, the secret desires she’d always nurtured in her heart? Did they mean nothing at all? Was she to deny her growing need and desire for Marcus de Grant, and all the love and security he could provide?

“We both have much to do, Marcus. I—I must go and see to Adam,” Keelin stammered. “I’ve not looked in on him yet, and he’s bound to wonder.”

By the time Isolda made her appearance in the hall, the visitors had been fed and were settling themselves down to endure a long night. The Selby family—Baron Albin, his wife and two daughters—had retired to their chambers in the south tower. Marcus was about to look in on Adam, hoping he would find Keelin there.

He considered stopping to have words with Isolda then and there, but decided against it. Morning would be soon enough.

Marcus found Tiarnan sitting with Adam as the boy drifted off to sleep. He was sure the old man had been entertaining the boy again with stories of his youth, along with magical tales of Ireland’s glorious, enchanted past. Keelin was not in sight.

“Yer lad is on
the mend, Marcus,” Tiarnan said quietly, “though it’ll be a few more days before he’ll be sittin’ up without too much discomfort.”

Marcus could see that that was true. The boy’s color was nearly normal and he was resting peacefully for a change.

Marcus sat down quietly next to him and gently ran his hand over the sleeping boy’s head.

“The lad’s had a hard way to go,” Tiarnan said.

“Yes, he has,” Marcus said, thinking of the incident that had brought Adam to this state. “You and Keelin have done so much.”

“Think nothin’ of it, lad,” Tiarann replied. “’Twas nothin’ but our Christian duty. Though I’m glad things have worked out as they have.”

“Meaning?”

“That Keely lass is safe here at Wrexton,” Tiarnan said. “Mageean’s mercenaries cannot harm her here.”

True enough. The weather would hold them off for a time, but Marcus’s army was well prepared, and he now knew exactly how he would deal with Mageean’s men.

“You know she plans to return to Kerry,” he said.

Tiarnan pursed his lips in thought. “I suspected the lass would get it in her head to go when she saw the vision of Cormac’s death. She’ll be certain the clan needs her now.”

“But the weather will hold her here.”

“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “Fer a time.”

That was what Marcus feared. He knew there was a limited amount of time to win her, and to overcome her strong sense of duty. Deep in thought, Marcus did not notice that Tiarnan was preoccupied with his own thoughts. They sat together in silence until Tiarnan finally spoke.

“I…er…I’m hopin’ no harm befalls
the lass when she touches the spear.”

Marcus jerked his gaze back to Tiarnan. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “When she touches the spear, will its power weaken her just as the vision did the night she saw Cormac’s death?”

“Aye, lad,” Tiarnan replied. The old man clearly sensed Marcus standing and stepping over to the door. “As soon as she touches
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
she’ll become weak and insensible. I don’t like for her to do it alone—”

Marcus was gone before Tiarnan could finish. He settled back in his chair to pass the hours at Adam’s side and hoped he had done the right thing, leading the young lord to Keelin…

Ach, time was wastin’, Tiarnan thought. Nothin’ but duty and pain, and then more pain awaited Keelin in Kerry. ’Twas time to take action.

The servants practically begged to be allowed to carry water for Keelin’s bath. She had worked so tirelessly from morning until night for Annie’s babe, and the child seemed to be breathing easier now. Half the servants believed she was specially blessed with healing powers. Little Peg’s parents thought she was a gift from God.

Keelin merely wanted to bathe and go to bed. Any thoughts she might have had about touching the spear had fled. She knew she had to be at her best when she tapped into the power of
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
and she was anything but at her peak.

Yet she was still troubled by the intuitive awareness that something was wrong, or something disagreeable was about to happen.

Footmen had stoked the fire and placed the tub near it, so it looked
warm and inviting. Keelin disrobed, then stepped into the tub and sat in the waist-high water.

She released a long, satisfied sigh and leaned back.

The only way she could sit was with her knees folded under her, which she did gratefully, since it was not often that the luxury of a full, hot bath was offered. She suspected the soap sitting on the lip of the tub had been purloined from another lady—Isolda perhaps—but Keelin was not about to question it now.

She took the lovely scented stuff and lathered up, fully enjoying the luxury of the bath and a few stolen moments of relaxation.

When the door to her chamber flew open, Keelin sat rigidly in place. Marcus could not have looked more startled than she felt. They were both transfixed, neither moving.

Until the chamber door shut behind Marcus.

Keelin suddenly came to her senses and attempted to cover herself with her hands. Marcus should not be in her chamber, especially under these circumstances. No man had ever seen her unclothed, and Keelin knew that was an intimacy reserved for the one who would be her husband.

He took a step toward her.

“Marcus…” she whispered, unable to keep from wanting what she could not have.

She had no will of her own when he looked at her that way. Her hands dropped to her sides when he reached for her.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, taking her hand as she rose from the tub.

Nothing in Keelin’s life had prepared her for the surge of emotions that coursed through her now. She felt feverish, though she knew she should have been cold after stepping out
of the bath. Instead, she felt heat—nay, ’twas more than mere heat, ’twas a sweltering fire that consumed her now.

Keelin knew she should reach for the long linen drying cloth, but could not make her hands obey her will. Her gaze never left Marcus’s cool, blue eyes now darkened with ardor.

“Keelin.”

His hands were on her shoulders. When his head dipped and his lips caught her mouth, wild sensations careened through her. His scent filled her.

Keelin leaned into his body, shocked to feel rough cloth and leather against her naked skin. Still, ’twas more wondrous than anything that had ever happened to her before.

Marcus pulled the combs out of Keelin’s hair, allowing it to fall free. He slid his hands down her sides, marveling at the softness of her skin, her quivering response to his touch.

With only the slightest coaxing, she opened her mouth to him, exploring him as he did her. He heard a sound and thought it might have been his own voice, though his mind was so far gone, he could not be certain of anything but Keelin. Touching her, loving her.

He felt powerful enough to enfold her with his body, to hold her and protect her always. But she began unlacing his tunic and suddenly he was pulling it over his head, then looking down at her breasts, the tips brushing lightly against his chest.

“Yer a beautiful man, Marcus,” she murmured, kissing his throat. It became impossible to swallow. “When I first saw ye by the wee stream near my cottage,” she said, her lips moving downward, “I knew I’d never seen anything as lovely
as you, all muscle-bound and golden.”

As her tongue touched one flat male nipple, Marcus nearly lost control.

“I wanted to touch you then,” she continued, “but—”

“Keelin, you cannot understand what your words do to me,” Marcus rasped. “Or your touch, your body…so soft, so…”

Their mouths melded once again. Marcus inched away just far enough to slip his hands between them. He covered her breasts, then touched the sensitive peaks with his thumbs, making her tremble with sensuous delight. He shivered, too, and realized he was at the edge of his control.

This was not what he’d intended when he’d come to her. His vow of celibacy, made all those years ago in France, was not meant to be broken on a whim. He was a man of honor, a knight sworn to the Code of Chivalry. He would win this woman as his wife, and not seduce her like some lowborn camp follower.

He broke away from her, reaching for the linen towel. He wrapped it around her with care, avoiding her questioning eyes. A few small oil lamps were burning, and the fire glowed, lending a gentle radiance to the chamber. All was silent, but for the howling of the wind outside.

When Keelin was modestly covered, Marcus guided her to a cushioned chair near the fire. He made her sit, then knelt before her and took her hand.

“Keelin,” he said, finally looking into her puzzled eyes. He let out one frustrated laugh in an anguished bark. “You are more to me than any woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “I would not dishonor you by seducing you, here in
your chamber where you ought to be immune from any such advances.

“Instead, I would ask for your hand in marriage, and pray that you become my wife.”

Gauging by her expression, she was stunned.

Marcus could not blame her for her confusion—one minute he was devouring her like a starving man, then suddenly he had her covered, neck to toe, and was on his knees offering for her hand.

A single crease formed between her brows and pain took possession of her eyes. She started to speak more than once, but in the end, seemed incapable of it. Instead, she cupped the side of his face with one smooth palm, sending shivers of desire through him. He forced himself to maintain control, to do what was right and honorable.