Celtic Bride (18 page)

“We are well suited, Keelin,” Marcus continued. “If you agree, I will speak to your uncle—”

Keelin dropped her hands and gave a quick shake of her head. “Marcus, I cannot,” she said, unaware of the tears that began to spill from her eyes. Her chin quivered, but she did not allow her emotions to decide the moment. “Ye know that I am committed to returnin’ to Kerry.”

“Keelin, we—”

“My duty is clear,” she said, brushing at her tears. He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed. “I cannot abandon my clan now, at the moment when they’ve the gravest need for
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.
”

“Is there no one else who can guide your clan, Keelin?” Marcus asked dolefully. “No other way than through the power of the spear?”

“Not for the O’Sheas,” she whispered unhappily. “Never for the O’Sheas.”

“You would
sacrifice what we have—and a future between us—for the clan?”

She pulled her hand away and stood abruptly. “Do ye not see, Marcus?” she cried. “’Tis not my choice. Clann Ui Sheaghda has always had
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.
And a soothsayer. My mother, and her mother before her…”

Marcus remained silent as he knelt in the place where she left him. He sensed that there was naught he could do to change her mind…at least not yet.

But he had a few ideas.

Gathering his tunic in his hands, he stood. He considered taking the few steps that would lead him back to Keelin, but decided against it. ’Twould be all or nothing between them, and he was counting on
all.

Deep in thought, and profoundly frustrated, he left her chamber quietly. He closed her door and made his way to his own chamber, unmindful of the intruding eyes that watched from the darkened end of the gallery.

One thing he knew for certain, though. There was no devil’s mark upon her body.

Keelin gave up her mien of composure when she heard the door latch. She crumpled to the floor and allowed her tears to flow freely.

Emotions warred within her. She could not give Marcus what they both wanted, not when what they desired most would come at the cost of the clan’s security, of its most treasured traditions.

Yet what was she to do, when his offer was what she most craved in all her life: to be a valued and cherished wife? There was no reason to assume that the husband chosen by Eocaidh would be at all pleasing to her. A coarse and corrupt chieftain would have suited Eocaidh if only
the man wielded enough power, controlled enough land…hated Ruairc Mageean. Her prospective bridegroom’s regard for her would have no bearing on his suitability.

On the contrary, if she remained at Wrexton as Marcus’s wife, he would care for her as no one had ever done before. She would share his hopes and dreams, would bear his children, and grow old with the lord of Wrexton.

She would be his lady, not merely his chattel.

This line of thinking was fruitless, she thought dejectedly, and unworthy of a Kerry noblewoman. She dried her eyes, then went to the bed where a delicate linen gown had been laid out for her. Slipping it on, Keelin crawled into bed and struggled to settle her mind.

She knew that was only the first of her battles. She had to try to settle her body, too, a difficult task after Marcus’s sweet seduction.

“W
ho do you think
has become chieftain in Cormac’s place, Uncle?” Keelin asked, pacing before the fire in Tiarnan’s chamber. ’Twas early yet, though the servants had been stirring quietly for quite some time. The worst of the storm had passed sometime during the night, and men were already clearing the baileys and courtyards of snow.

“Ach, lass, I could not say,” Tiarnan replied from his bed, “though Eirc and Laoghaire are worthy men.”

“But Uncle Tiarnan, Eirc and Laoghaire are mere lads! The O’Sheas need—”

“They were lads when we left Carrauntoohil, Keely,” Tiarnan retorted. “They’re men now.”

She was silent as she considered his words. True enough, four years was a long time. An eternity, Keelin thought, without friends or family. And in four years both of the O’Shea cousins mentioned by Tiarnan would have become men. Especially if the raids and warfare had continued.

Terrible times had a way of maturing the shallowest youth.

“And how do
you suppose the clan fares without
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh?
” she asked speculatively.

“About as well as any clan does without it,” Tiarnan answered. “They’ll be usin’ their wits and good sense to get by.”

Keelin traced the carved wood of the mantel with one finger, unaware of the satisfied expression on Tiarnan’s face.

“And how long do ye suppose they’ll be gettin’ by without the spear?”

Tiarnan shrugged. “Fer as long as necessary, I imagine.”

“And what about me?” she asked, returning to the bed and sitting next to the old man. “How long can they manage without the O’Shea seer?”

“Keely lass,” Tiarnan said. “Are ye gettin’ at somethin’ here? Are ye so anxious to leave Wrexton and get back to—”

“No!” she replied, standing abruptly. “I mean…oh, Uncle, I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

“Keelin…”

“Everything seemed so simple before…”

“Before…?”

“Before Marcus,” she replied quietly.

“Do ye care for him, lass?”

“Oh, aye,” Keelin replied, dashing stupid tears away. “I care. But my duty to the clan couldn’t be clearer. I cannot stay at Wrexton.”

“And does Marcus want ye to stay?”

Keelin nodded. “He asked me to.”

Tiarnan sighed. Four years ago, he’d have stood up and insisted that Keelin return to Carrauntoohil with
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
as soon as it was possible.

However, Tiarnan’s perspective had changed drastically over time. In
his four years of travels, he’d seen and experienced so much that was beyond the realm of his life at Carrauntoohil, he could easily imagine his people learning to function without the spear.
Or the seer.

Even now, without the vision of his eyes, Tiarnan could see that life at Wrexton agreed with Keelin. Marcus de Grant cared for the lass, something Fen McClancy would never do, nor could McClancy treat Keelin to the kind of life she would have here at Wrexton.

Tiarnan could not bear to think what would become of the lass if she fell into Mageean’s hands. And there was grave danger of that if she left the protection of Wrexton to journey all the way to Kerry.

Yet who was he to say? Keelin was the one with the gift of the second sight. ’Twas her judgment that had to be trusted in this instance, and not the sentimental yearnings of an old man.

For, as much as he wished that Keelin’s happiness and well-being could take precedence, he knew they did not. ’Twas the welfare and prosperity of Clann Ui Sheaghda that had to come first and foremost.

“Keely lass,” he finally said, his brow furrowed and troubled, “I’m wishin’ I had the answer fer ye, but I don’t. When all is said and done, ye must follow yer heart.”

“Nay, Uncle,” Keelin cried. “I cannot trust my heart.”

The loud crash of a slamming door startled the two, and Keelin went to see what was amiss. A short way down the gallery, in front of Keelin’s chamber door, stood Annie with her infant in her arms. Her eyes were downcast, and the babe was wailing. Isolda towered over her, with hands on her hips, and rage in her eyes.

“Your employment
is belowstairs, is it not?” the chatelaine demanded in a clear, even tone.

“Yes, my lady, but—”

“Lady Isolda, please,” Keelin interjected, coming to Annie’s rescue. She took the babe from the servant’s arms and turned to face Isolda. “’Tis no trouble fer me to look at the wee—”

“I’ll not have servants pestering the guests above-stairs,” she hissed, barely containing her ire.

Annie sputtered, “Oh, but—”

“And no impudent speech from—”

“I’d rather be pestered by servants,” Keelin said evenly, “than wrongly instructed on the true protocol for approachin’ a bishop.”

Isolda’s mouth opened, then shut. She raised her chin defiantly, then let it drop as she lost some of her cocky confidence. Her eyes darted to one side, then the other, finally resting on Marcus, who had suddenly appeared in the gallery behind Keelin. In a panic, she quickly withdrew before he could confront her as he was wont to do of late.

“Ye’re lookin’ fer me, Annie?” Keelin said, turning to the young mother. She was unaware of Marcus’s presence behind her.

“Yes, my lady,” she whispered, unsure now, how to behave. With the mistress angry and off in a huff, and the lord bearing down on them from—

“How’s our wee lassie this morn?” Keelin asked, cuddling the child, who had finally quit her clamoring. “She’s not so wheezy today.”

“No, sh-she’s much improved,” Annie said, “but I was hoping you’d have more of that archangel powder you put in the boiling water, ma’am.”

“Ach, aye,” Keelin said offhandedly, as though nothing untoward
had happened, though she was unsettled by the interchange with Isolda. She opened the door to her chamber. “I’ve plenty of it, as well as the lungwort, and yer welcome to it, Annie.”

“Oh, my lady,” the servant said, tentatively following Keelin into her chamber, “you’ve been so very kind to me and mine. If there’s ever anything—”

“Nay,” Keelin replied wistfully. “Just be gettin’ our wee Peg well again. That’ll be enough for me.”

Estate business kept Marcus occupied for a goodly portion of the day. He welcomed the activities that kept him from acting precipitously with Keelin, and gave him time to reflect on his course of action with the stubborn Irishwoman.

He considered ignoring Isolda’s behavior, then concluded he had no choice but to speak to her about her treatment of Keelin, and of the servants. There was no telling how long it would take to find her a suitable husband, to get her wed and settled in her own home. No matter how much he dreaded having to deal with the woman, it was his duty to do so, and to do it soon.

Rather than sending servants to look for the chatelaine, Marcus climbed a back staircase and headed for the solar, where he knew Isolda spent much of her time. He reached the heavy oaken door and heard voices raised within. Female voices, raised in anger. His hand hesitated at the door latch, but he steeled all his new-found courage and lifted the handle.

There was a sudden silence when he opened the door and stepped in.

Isolda was sitting in a chair near the fire, hastily wiping tears from her cheeks. Her companion, Beatrice, stood nearby, with her
back to Marcus, so he was unable to see her expression.

Isolda stood suddenly, knocking over the small embroidery frame where a partially finished altar cloth was draped.

“Marcus! I—I—Was there something you needed?” she stammered. Clearly, it was an effort for her to regain her usual composure.

Marcus moved farther into the room and righted Isolda’s sewing. He did not know what had just transpired between Isolda and Beatrice, nor did he think it concerned him. But as Beatrice turned to leave the solar, he bid her to remain and hear what was said.

“This will concern you as well, Beatrice,” he said. “Please remain and hear what I’ve come to say.”

The older woman bowed her head and folded her hands under her sleeves. Marcus was still unable to read any expression on her face, though it was no matter to him. He intended to make himself absolutely clear to both of them. If it helped to have Beatrice present, then so be it. Surely, her presence would not hinder his purpose.

“Isolda, your treatment of Lady Keelin is abominable,” he began. “You have maligned and insulted her—No,” he said, negating her attempt to dispute his words, “do not deny your wrongdoing. I have seen your petty meanness with my own eyes.” And from this morning’s confrontation outside Keelin’s room, he deduced another slight of which he’d been unaware until now.

He did not care to think what other objectionable incidents Keelin had suffered and not mentioned to him.

“My lord, Isolda has—”

“I will be heard on this, once and for all,” Marcus interjected when Beatrice tried to speak. “If you do not cease in
your efforts to discredit Lady Keelin, then I will be forced to send you away
before
a suitable bridegroom is found for you.”

“But Marcus—”

“Nay, I do not wish to be unkind, Isolda,” he said firmly, “but you leave me little choice. I cannot—I
will not
allow you to offend my guests any further.”

“I beg your pardon, Marcus,” Isolda said. Her eyes were downcast and, other than the white-knuckled grip she had on her own hands, she gave all outward appearances of calm. “I—I never meant…That is, I…”

“Please. Do not offer any excuses at this late date,” Marcus said. “Just bear in mind that I will tolerate no further unkindness toward Lady Keelin or her uncle, nor will I allow you to continue tyrannizing the servants as you’ve done since my father’s death.

“A suitable husband will be found for you, Isolda. As I told you before, I will provide a generous marriage portion for you, so you need not worry that you will be shabbily wed.”

Neither woman said anything in response to Marcus’s dictum, but stood silently with eyes downcast.

“It may be some weeks before a suitable husband is found,” he said in closing, “but in the meanwhile, I would expect that you comport yourself more kindly and benevolently than you have done of late.” He remained only a moment more, considering whether to add anything more. Deciding he’d said enough, he turned and exited the solar.

As anxious as he was to leave the women’s domain, he took no notice of the inflamed insolence that crossed Beatrice’s face when he closed the door after him.

“Y
ou are not too
cold for our lesson?” Marcus asked Keelin as they walked out to the shooting range. She had been reluctant to come out and practice shooting the bow, but somehow, he’d talked her into putting on a warm cloak and traipsing out to the area where his men did their target practice.

Most of the walkways had been cleared of ice and snow, so it wasn’t difficult to get to the remote area behind the keep, where no one could be hurt by a stray arrow.

“Nay, Marcus,” Keelin replied honestly. “’Tis good to be out of doors for a change.”

In truth, the last two days’ confinement had chafed at Keelin, even though the company had been highly entertaining.

Among the various travelers who’d come to take shelter from the storm was a troupe of mummers. These men, along with some of their families, were in the process of making the rounds of the wealthy western estates, putting on plays for the approaching Yule season. They were en route to Wrexton when the storm came upon them, and they
trudged ahead, making it to the keep just as the worst of the weather befell them.

Since that time, they’d performed twice for the gathered company, to the delight of all.

And all the while, Marcus had kept his distance. He had made no further advances toward Keelin since the night of their encounter in her chamber, though her emotions were in just as much turmoil as before.

She missed him.

Oh, aye, she’d kept herself busy. After all, Adam still needed her careful tending, and so did wee Peg. But no amount of work could keep her thoughts from returning to the intimate moments they’d shared by the fire in her chamber, when she’d all but given herself to him.

“See the red cloth tied around that big oak?” Marcus asked, stopping Keelin where she stood.

She nodded, squinting, looking into the distance. “Aye.”

“’Twill be your first target,” he said. “After you master this one, we will move on to the farther ones.”

Keelin wet her lips nervously. She brushed her hair back, then lifted the bow and nocked the arrow just as Marcus had shown her before.

“Nay, Keelin,” he said, coming around behind her. “You are too tense. Remember how I showed you before? Loosen your joints.” He put both hands on her shoulders, sending a thrill of anticipation down her spine. She forced herself to concentrate on the bow, the arrow, the target, but all she could think of was Marcus: his touch, his taste, the texture of his skin.

“That’s better,” he said, though Keelin did not see any improvement. If anything, she was more tense. “Now train your eyes on the target. Raise the bow a bit.”

Marcus leaned
close and put one hand on her bow arm, pulling up slightly to correct her aim. Keelin felt his rough jaw as it brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes and inhaled, relishing his scent, and the feel of his strong arm around her. Her heart pounded in her chest and she was certain Marcus could feel it if only he would lean a wee bit closer.

Marcus was not unaffected by her nearness, but he was determined to remain in safe territory with Keelin. Instinct told him he would have to hold back in order to win her, though every minute away from her was pure torture.

They’d sat through hours of the stranded Baron, Albin Selby’s, anecdotes, and though the stories were pleasing enough, Marcus would have preferred to spend as many hours alone somewhere with Keelin. He could think of nothing but peeling away her clothing and then tasting every inch of her.

If he thought the time away from her was torture, the minutes
with
her were worse. He did not know how he would manage to keep to his plan when she tempted him so.

“Let it loose,” he said quietly in her ear.

The arrow flew, and met its mark an instant later. It did not quite hit the target, but at least it was close.

He had not moved away from her, and had no intention of doing so, either. At least not until he was certain his proximity was having the desired effect.

“I missed,” she said, turning slightly. Her lips were achingly close to his. When he felt her breath coming in short pants, he let her go.

Marcus cleared his painfully thickened throat. “’Twas not bad,” he said, reaching for another arrow, “for a novice.”

Keelin did not reply, but
turned back to the target and, if Marcus was not mistaken, she had to force herself to concentrate on the target ahead. She took the arrow from him and they repeated the process, only this time, Marcus pressed himself more closely against her body. He breathed his instructions into her ear. He called her sweetheart when the use of her name would have sufficed.

She missed the target again.

In frustration, Keelin turned around and reached for her own arrow this time. From her fierce expression, Marcus could not be sure she would not turn and shoot
him,
but she lined herself up with the target again, concentrated on her stance and her form, took aim.

Marcus smiled.

Keelin shot.

When the arrow hit the target, Keelin gave out a cry of glee, turned and threw her arms around Marcus. “I did it!”

“That you did, love,” he replied, giving a quick kiss to her nose. ’Twas all he could do to stop there. Nonetheless, he managed to force himself.

Detaching himself from her embrace, Marcus asked, “Will you try it again?”

“Aye. I will.”

Snow began to fall again an hour later, and since it interfered with the visibility of the target, Marcus and Keelin had to abandon their target practice.

’Twas none too soon for Marcus. He’d had difficulty keeping his hands to himself even after she’d mastered the technique necessary for shooting. She had a way of muttering to herself that made him want to laugh, but he’d been prudent enough to keep his mirth to himself, especially
after he sensed her rising frustration with the tactics he was using on her.

Marcus smiled to himself as he picked up the quiver of arrows and his own longbow. His onslaught of Keelin’s senses was working just as he’d planned—even better, if he considered the effect it was having on
him.

Well aware that he’d only won a small skirmish, Marcus turned and headed back to the keep beside Keelin. He placed one hand at the small of her back, enjoying tremendously the sense of possession that gesture gave him.

He felt a tremor sweep through her when he touched her.
Ah,
he thought,
victory will be truly sweet.

“Do ye mind if I bring in some of these holly sprigs, Marcus?” Keelin asked, stopping by a stand of the evergreens. “I know ye mourn yer father, but ’tis nigh on Yuletide and…well, I wouldn’t mind hanging a few to remember the season.”

“Not at all, Keelin,” Marcus replied. “In fact, when we return to the keep, I’ll send some of the men out to bring in a few pine boughs for the great hall as well.”

Keelin smiled with delight.

“We have another custom here in England,” Marcus said. “We gather mistletoe, and hang it from the lintels—”

“Oh, aye,” Keelin said with enthusiasm. “In Kerry, we gather it, too, and its magic protects the children.”

“How is that?”

“Well, ye hang it over the wee babes’ cradles and the faeries won’t steal them.”

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?”