Celtic Bride (8 page)

“Nay, Keely
lass,” he said, turning onto his side. “Just let me sleep fer a bit and I’ll be good as new.”

Keelin doubted that, but took one of the tapers from Isolda and followed the other woman to another bed-chamber nearby.

“You sent for us, my lord?”

Marcus loosened the buckles of his hauberk and slipped it off. A tub of hot water awaited him, his bath before his father’s requiem. But first, business.

He looked at the young knights he’d summoned to his chamber and knew his choice had been correct. These two would be able to accomplish what was needed.

He pulled his linen tunic over his head and tossed it on the bed. “I have a special mission for the two of you,” he said.

“Aye, my lord?”

“You will travel to the land of the Irish,” he said as he sat and pulled off his leather boots. “Once there, you will make your way to a kingdom called Kerry. I would have you learn all there is to know of Keelin O’Shea and her uncle, and a warrior-chief called Ruairc Mageean.”

If the two knights were surprised or chagrined by Marcus’s orders, they did not show it. Each man merely nodded his agreement to take on the task assigned by their lord.

“Is this a matter to be kept secret, my lord?”

Marcus hesitated. He did not want the populations of Wrexton and Wales made aware that he was actively seeking information on these Celts, yet some discreet questions once they reached Ireland would not be amiss. After all, he could not tell them exactly how to get to Kerry, nor did he know how his men would be received if they galloped into Carrauntoohil without making their connection to Lady Keelin known.

After
saying as much to the men, and giving further instructions, the two knights departed and Marcus sat down and removed the rest of his clothes. He had no sooner dropped down into the tub near the hearth when Isolda burst into his chamber, followed by a pair of maids carrying towels and clean garments.

“Do not say me nay, Marcus,” Isolda said before Marcus could utter a sound. “I would serve you now in your mourning.”

“I-Isolda,” Marcus said, angered by this intrusion. He’d have stood and ushered her out of the room, but he was naked and unaccustomed to being in such a state in the presence of a lady. The fact that he was blushing profusely and that she could see it annoyed him immeasurably. “We have b-been over this before. I am in need of n-no assistance when I bathe.”

“But—”

“Leave me,” he said, and then he repeated the order more forcefully, so that there could be no mistaking his intentions.

Isolda stood rooted in place for the moment, her soft brown eyes traversing where they would, making Marcus grit his teeth with vexation. She had tried this ogling game five years before, when Eldred had become earl and they had moved into Wrexton Castle. Marcus had made it perfectly clear then, and on several occasions since, that he had no intention of becoming entangled with the former earl’s glorified housekeeper.

Nothing had changed.

He
knew Isolda had illusions of becoming the Countess of Wrexton. She’d hinted as much to Eldred all those years ago, and in fairness, Eldred had posed the question to Marcus. At the time, Marcus had been flattered but not at all ready to take a wife. Certainly not Isolda, whose cool, controlling manner did not appeal to him in the least.

Later, Isolda’s all-out attempt to inveigle a proposal of marriage had done nothing more than make Marcus acutely uncomfortable in her presence. Over the years, he had done everything in his power to keep his distance from the woman, just short of rudeness.

Marcus did not understand why his father’s predecessor had not found a husband for Isolda. As her only relative, it was the former earl’s duty to have made arrangements for her. Instead, he’d kept her at Wrexton as chatelaine.

After Marcus had made his disinterest clear, Eldred attempted to make a match for her, but Isolda refused all suitors. Clearly, she was not about to settle for anything less than Wrexton.

Marcus sighed. With Eldred’s death, there was no doubt in his mind that Isolda’s efforts to win him would be renewed.

S
moke
and incense filled the chapel.

The body of Eldred de Grant, Eleventh Earl of Wrexton, lay on a pallet outside the sacristy where the Bishop of Chester and the chamberlain celebrated the requiem.

Keelin gave thanks for the bright sunlight streaming through the colored glass of the windows, creating a luminescence that made her fairly breathless. The sacred figures in the glass seemed to glow, to move with the shifting light. It was as magical as anything Keelin had ever seen. In a gallery high above her, voices chanted music in such rich harmonies, it echoed through the vaulted ceiling of Wrexton Chapel and touched her soul.

She dearly wished she could have held
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
while she experienced this Mass, but knew such a thing would be construed badly.

Marcus stood with his back to her, his shoulders broad and straight, his light hair gleaming. The other lord—the marquis who had escorted the body back to Wrexton—stood beside him on one side, and Isolda Coule on the other.

The chapel was jammed with people. Keelin observed that some weeping was going on, though not by the principal mourners. She supposed it was the village women, and perhaps some of the castle servants who wept for the fallen nobleman, though Keelin saw many a man with a teary eye. Clearly, Marcus’s father was well-loved if only quietly mourned.

Realizing
that Irish funerals were nothing like this solemn, highly dignified Mass, Keelin wondered what chaos had broken out at the funeral of her own father. She and Tiarnan had fled before Eocaidh had even been laid in his grave. They’d had no choice but to go, for the ruthless Ruairc Mageean had been primed to carry off
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
before Clann Ui Sheaghda had had a chance to recover from the shock of Eocaidh’s death.

Luckily, they’d foiled Mageean that time, and all during the four long, lonely years since then. Now, with Cormac’s death at Mageean’s hand, the clan would be foundering. It was imperative for Keelin to get
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
back to Carrauntoohil to provide the confidence the spear would bring. Unfortunately, she could not leave immediately.

Adam’s condition had worsened during the journey to the castle, and Keelin knew she would be needed here for the next few days, at least. Perhaps even a week. She would not be able to leave the boy until she was certain he was healing.

Tiarnan needed her for the time being, too, although his condition was better than it had been before the arrival of Lord Marcus and his men. Keelin could only pray his health would continue thus, especially once she was away and no longer able to care for him.

She forced her attention back to the Mass, clearing her mind of all thoughts of her journey to Kerry. Centering her awareness and her prayers on the man whose body rested on the bier in front of the congregation, Keelin could not help but remember her own father. And as she bowed her head, she offered prayers for Eocaidh O’Shea—the man whose funeral she had not been able to attend.

It
had been four distant years ago, Keelin told herself. Time enough for the grief to have abated. Yet it had not. She felt the sorrow rise from her chest and take hold in her throat, burning there, just as it had on the day she’d watched Ruairc Mageean cut Eocaidh down.

There’d never been time to mourn her father. Tiarnan and the elders of the clan had met and conferred hastily. Within hours of Eocaidh’s death, Keelin and Tiarnan were on horseback, racing toward the coast and a ship that awaited them. They’d sailed immediately, skirting the southern coast and heading east. Landing finally on the English coast, they managed to elude Mageean’s men for months.

Keelin blinked away the tears she was not even aware were present and looked up.

Though Mass was over, the bishop continued with the prayers for the dead and the chamberlain gently swung the censer over the body. The tang of incense was strong, the somber chanting of the choir haunting.

Wrexton’s men-at-arms lifted the body and carried it to the back of the chapel, with the Church dignitaries following. Marcus and Marquis Kirkham walked behind, and Keelin was near enough to see that Lady Isolda had placed her hand on Marcus’s arm.

The sight of that touch should not have disturbed Keelin. Her own connection to the young earl was merely a peripheral one, as opposed to Isolda’s. Keelin was a temporary resident of Wrexton and would take her leave as soon as it was feasible.

Besides, there was a bridegroom awaiting her at home, in Kerry. The kiss she’d shared with Marcus de Grant had been nothing but an aberration, a moment’s diversion from life’s cruelest realities. The connection she’d felt between them was merely her imagination.

Keelin looked down at the floor anyway, unwilling to let her eyes rest on that contact between Marcus and Isolda any longer than necessary.

’Twas past midnight and Marcus was glad of the few hours sleep he’d managed before being awakened by a footman. The days of cramped quarters in Keelin O’Shea’s tiny cottage gave him a new appreciation for his spacious chamber and the large comfortable bed upon which he was currently sprawled.

After dressing quickly, Marcus hurried to Adam’s room to see why Lady Keelin had summoned him. He entered to find the room brightly lit with extra candles. Adam lay prone, and unconscious, with Keelin standing at his bedside. The boy’s wound was uncovered, and Marcus winced when he looked at it.

“Praise God and all the saints,” Keelin said quietly. She seemed more than pensive. She was worried. “The wound has festered, my lord. I’ll need your help when I drain it.”

She wore the same deep-green gown he’d seen her in earlier, at his father’s funeral. Her hair was unbound as he was accustomed to seeing it, and the silky, dark curtain made Marcus’s fingers burn to touch it.

God’s teeth!
He’d just buried his father, young Adam was lying near death, and here he was thinking of Keelin O’Shea’s hair! He curled his fingers into his fists and subdued the inappropriate urge.

Marcus wondered if Keelin had gotten any rest at all since coming to Wrexton, and denigrated himself for neglecting her. The discoloration of the fine skin under her eyes only added to his guilt. He realized that while he’d spent the afternoon playing host to the bishop, conferring with Wrexton’s steward, and seeing to his falcons in the mews, Keelin had been attending his family as well as her own.

Keelin
had kept to herself all day. ’Twas true, she had come to his father’s funeral, but she’d disappeared immediately afterward. She’d been moved by the ritual—he’d seen her wipe away tears more than once, but he detected a deep sorrow within her, something she’d managed to keep well hidden until then. Clearly, Keelin O’Shea kept her own counsel. Marcus had never known anyone like her.

“M’lord?” she asked. “Mayhap I should have summoned an—”

“No, no,” Marcus said, looking down at Adam. “What would you have me do?”

“Go on up near his head,” she replied quietly. “Hold him gently, and speak to him. I doubt this will be a particularly agreeable experience for the lad.”

Her brogue rolled pleasantly over him as it had done over the past days. Mayhap she was no more than she appeared—merely a displaced Irish noblewoman who had a talent for seeing the future. He could only pray that it was so.

Marcus rubbed the rough planes of his face with his hands, then knelt next to the boy. “Adam,” he said. There was no response, so he looked up at Keelin.

“I gave him somethin’ to ease the pain,” she said as she pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “He’ll be drowsy, but speak to him anyway.”

Marcus
gave a quick nod. “Adam,” he repeated, touching the boy’s head. “He’s burning up!”

“Aye. The wound has festered and now it’s causin’ fever,” she said. “That’s why I must drain the poison out.”

Lady Keelin seemed to have things well in hand, so Marcus spoke quietly to Adam while Keelin did what was necessary to the wound. The boy squirmed and moaned weakly, but did not seem fully coherent.

Still, Marcus held his shoulders and arms, and talked to him, giving the kind of reassurances he’d seen Keelin give him and the injured men over the last few days. Keelin did what was necessary, then finally cleaned the wound and slathered a green paste over it.

“How’s he farin’?”

“Fainted, I think,” Marcus replied.

“’Tis better that way,” Keelin said. “It had to hurt him somethin’ fierce.” She washed her hands, then began to wrap clean linen around Adam’s torso. ’Twas an awkward task. “Would ye mind helpin’ to lift him, m’lord?”

Marcus moved to the opposite side of the bed and slipped his hands under the boy, reaching to take the roll of bandage from Keelin. He did not expect the shock of heat that flashed through him when their hands touched.

He looked up and met her eyes, and saw the same kind of awareness there. Quickly, she pulled her hands out and reached for the bandage that he was ready to hand her, acting as if nothing had passed between them.

’Twas for the best, of course. She was merely a visitor at Wrexton, a woman whose very presence would lure the Celtic assassins. And when they came, Marcus planned to be ready for them.

There was that strangeness about her, too. He knew ’twas her odd powers that made him so uneasy. He still had not figured out how the lady could seem so devout in her prayers, yet keep him so completely in her thrall. For enthralled, he was—utterly and completely, which was one of the reasons he’d stayed away from the keep all afternoon and evening.

Keelin
tied the bandage in place, then dipped a clean cloth into a basin of water. Uncovering one of Adam’s legs, she wiped it down with water. She repeated the process on the opposite side, then again with his arms.

“What else can I do?” Marcus asked.

“Naught, m’lord,” Keelin replied. “I was just wantin’ ye nearby in case he awoke fully and needed ye. Yer presence gives the lad comfort.”

“Then let me bathe him,” Marcus said, walking around to where she stood. “You should find your bed—” he blushed and floundered “—er, you must be weary.”

He stood near enough for her to see the fine green lines that rimmed the blue of his eyes, and the golden tips of his lashes. “Aye,” she said breathlessly. “I am. But I’ll be stayin’ ’til I’m sure the lad’s improvin’.”

“I am grateful to you for your tireless care of my cousin,” he said. The utter formality of his tone made him sound insincere, as if he spoke out of courtesy, and not from his heart.

“Aw, he’s a dear lad,” she replied, “and I don’t like to see him laid so low. Besides, ’twas my people who caused—”

“Lady Keelin, you know that I do not hold you responsible for Adam’s injuries, or my father’s death.”

Keelin turned away. She knew no such thing. How could he not blame her, she wondered, when it was her very presence in England that had caused Mageean’s mercenaries to be in the vicinity.

He
was merely being kind.

Marcus took the cloth from her hand and repeated the motions he’d seen her perform just moments before. While Adam remained asleep through these ministrations, Keelin blew out most of the candles that illuminated the bed. Then she curled herself up in a big chair next to the hearth.

She looked soft and vulnerable and Marcus wanted nothing more than to pull her close and hold her until she slept. Instead, he ran the wet cloth down Adam’s legs again and concentrated his thoughts on his young cousin’s plight.

“You’ve got a gentle touch, m’lord,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.

A shudder ran through Marcus with her words. “Hmm,” was all he said. He ran the cloth down Adam’s other leg.

She burrowed deeper into the cushions of the chair, unaware of Marcus’s discomfiture. “Would ye say ’twas unusual for a man of your size and strength to have the patience to tend the sick?”

Marcus cleared his throat. ’Twas unsettling to be the object of her perusal, though he had to admit ’twas pleasant in some odd way. There might even be a hint of admiration in her tone. “On the battlefield, we men tended each other when necessary.”

“Battlefield?” Keelin asked.

Marcus nodded. “I was with King Henry in France.”

“But King Henry’s been dead more than six years,” Keelin said. “Ye couldn’t have been more than a lad yourself then.”

Marcus
shrugged. “I was barely twenty when he died.”

Keelin said, “What was it like? Bein’ in a foreign place and fightin’ fer your life, over land that’s of no consequence to ye?”

He hadn’t considered it much in the past few years, though it had occupied much of his thoughts when he was in the muddy trenches, wearing armor that was heavy and hot, eating rations that were maggoty as often as not. “’Twas not pleasant,” he said, “but
you
should know something of that. You’re here in England, and fighting for your life.”

“Ach, but not on the battlefield,” she countered. “There’re no warhorses neighin’, or swords clashin’ around me.”

“But there could have been—there could still be yet,” he said, and then regretted his words when she appeared stricken. “Rest easy, Lady Keelin,” he said quickly, “you’re safe here at Wrexton.”

He watched as she covered her dismay with a shrug. She was a proud one and didn’t care for being beholden to him. He could see that she was rankled by needing his protection now.

In truth, Marcus wasn’t sure she
did
need his protection.

Nevertheless, she had it for now, and her presence at Wrexton would bring the Celts.

“How did you learn the healing skills?” Marcus asked, turning the discussion from himself. He preferred to listen to her speak rather than being the topic of the conversation.

“From Uncle Tiarnan,” she replied. “He was my father’s elder brother, and would have been chieftain after their father, but he was born lame.”

“So
he could never lead your clan in war.”

She nodded. “But he was my father’s most trusted advisor. When my mother died, Uncle Tiarnan took me under his wing. He taught me all he knew.”

“So Tiarnan is the healer.”

“Aye,” Keelin replied. “I’m merely his pupil.”