Celtic Bride (10 page)

Never before had she felt such a need to escape. There had been a strong, nearly overwhelming sense of foreboding in Adam’s chamber, that grew as the day wore on. Keelin tried her best to get a clear grasp of it, but ’twas no use. She could not see exactly what misfortune would occur, though she sensed that, whatever ’twas, it did not directly involve Adam.

Keelin considered going to the building where her mule cart was stored and pulling
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
out of its hiding place. With one touch of the spear, visions would come to her. She knew, however, that the experience would drain her strength and keep her from caring for Adam.

Mayhap ’twould be better for now, to wait. After all, she and Tiarnan were safe at Wrexton. There wasn’t a Mageean soldier alive who could penetrate the castle wall without raising an alarm. And even if a whole company of Celtic mercenaries arrived inside Wrexton’s walls, Marcus de Grant and his men would meet them, arrow for arrow, and sword for sword.

At
least Adam was in good company now. Tiarnan was ensconced in a comfortable chair next to the bed, Kate stayed on to keep up the fire, and to run any necessary errands, and Marcus was there to keep watch over his young cousin.

It gave Keelin the opportunity to go outdoors for some badly needed fresh air, and to put a wee bit of space between herself and Lord Marcus, the man whose presence was becoming far too important to Keelin.

Young Kate had kept all the servants apprised of Adam’s condition every time she’d left the boy’s chamber, and told of all that was being done for him. When Keelin withdrew through the hall and into the kitchen, she was met by all who worked there—the servants who had known and loved Adam for years.

Cook asked Keelin about Adam and all the kitchen servants gathered ’round to hear her report. They shook their heads and clucked their tongues, saying they were grateful the boy had as gifted a healer as Keelin O’Shea to attend him.

Keelin was humbled by their confidence in her. And afraid. She was doing all she could for Adam, but knew it could very well not be enough.

She wrapped her cloak snugly around her, then slipped out of the castle and found her way to the gardens. She wanted a few moments of quiet and solitude to gather her thoughts, to compose herself.

Keelin did not want to become attached to these English people at Wrexton. For days, she’d fought against becoming emotionally entangled with them, fearing that any deeper involvement would make it wildly difficult to leave, to return to Ireland. But it was no use. She was losing the battle.

Recollections of her homeland were fading. Thoughts of her betrothed—an Irishman she did not know—paled when compared to the reality of Marcus de Grant. Keelin thought she would burst this morning when he’d wrapped her in his strong arms and comforted her though it was his own kin who lay near death. He had understood her frustration as well as her sadness.

Later, when
Uncle Tiarnan had come to help with Adam, Marcus had worked with her as if they’d been partners forever, sensing what she needed before she even spoke. All his movements bespoke of size and power, as well as competence and efficiency. He spoke to her with respect and consideration, lending credence to his denials that he held her responsible for the Celts’ attack.

Keelin observed Marcus’s every move with a fascination that bewildered her. She noticed small things about him—the way his eyes turned slightly down at the corners, the scar that creased his lower lip, the soft, smooth skin of his earlobes—things she would never have thought about twice in another man. And then there were his hands, large and well formed, and heavily sprinkled with red-gold hair. She wondered—

“Lady Keelin.”

Keelin whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice, deep and rich in timbre. She was certain he could read her thoughts just by the flush on her cheeks. His wonderful hair was bound at the base of his neck by a short leather cord, making the sharp angles of his cheek and jaw stand out prominently.

“M’lord?” It came out more of a croak than anything, though a tingling warmth surged through Keelin when the gaze of his light-blue eyes pierced her.

“I, uh…” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I wondered if aught was amiss. You…left Adam’s chamber so abruptly.”

“No, m’lord,” she
replied. “All is well. A-as it can be, at least. I just…well, I was just needin’ some air.”

Marcus closed the space between them. “There’s a frigid edge to the night,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Snow is coming.”

“But not today.”

“Some say we’re in for a harsh winter.”

Keelin nodded. She’d seen some of the signs herself.

“You’re not thinking of making the journey to Ireland yourself, are you?” Marcus asked after a moment’s hesitation. He seemed to surprise himself with the question as much as he took Keelin off guard.

“W-well, aye, m’lord,” she stammered. “’Twas my thought to go as soon as Adam is well enough….”

“And your uncle?” Marcus asked. He took hold of the edges of her cloak and pulled them together so that his hands—those big, gentle, hair-roughened hands—hovered over her heart.

“I m-meant to have him stay h-here,” she said, feeling the heat of his body, the intensity of his eyes, “with y-ye, m’lord.”

M
arcus’s eyes
never left hers, and Keelin was certain he could feel the pounding of her heart under his hands. She leaned forward, as if pulled by some unseen magnetic force, needing his touch as much as she needed her next breath.

“’Tis not a good time of year for travel,” he breathed.

“Aye, sure and I know it, m’lord, but—”

Words and thoughts halted abruptly as Marcus’s mouth touched hers. Keelin’s eyes closed to savor the featherlight touch. Her hands slipped out of her cloak and came to rest on Marcus’s waist as he deepened the kiss.

Keelin’s heart pounded as Marcus opened his hands. His palms skimmed her chest, grazing her collarbone, moving lower, setting every nerve on edge, until he reached the sensitive peaks of her breasts. At the same time, his tongue invaded her mouth, sending Keelin to another level of sensation.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Keelin was aware that her back was pressed against a tree. Marcus’s body, hard and solid against her own, caressed the soft length of her. She felt his heat and power with every shift of his muscles, every movement of his hands.

Keelin’s arms
went around him, pulling him tightly against her. She could not think, but only feel the exquisite sensations pulsing through her, and wish that it could be more, that her skin could be bared to his touch, and his mouth could follow the path of his hands. She moaned her frustration, entirely caught up in the moment, oblivious to anything but Marcus.

Marcus’s mouth dipped to the exquisitely sensitive flesh below her ear, then traveled down her neck, feasting on the notch where her collarbones met. His hands stopped their gentle assault only once, to push her cloak back off her shoulders. Loosening the laces to her kirtle, Marcus slipped one hand inside and stroked her until she whimpered.

Keelin bit her lip to keep from crying out both her pleasure and the astonishment it caused. Never had she guessed that the touch of a man’s hands could make her brain wither and her bones melt. Incapable of conscious thought, instinct gave Keelin the desire to please him, too. She slid her hands down until they rested on his buttocks. The muscles were firm but yielding to her touch, and Marcus gave out a harsh sigh of his own when her fingers tested his brawny form.

A sharp intake of breath on a muffled cry from somewhere behind pulled them from their sensuous haze. Keelin’s hands dropped to her sides, while Marcus turned slightly to see who stood behind them. After a quick glance, he turned back to Keelin and pulled her cloak back over her shoulders to cover her disheveled clothes.

Keelin felt like a naughty child, caught in a thoroughly wicked act. And, while her emotions were certainly in turmoil, Keelin knew down to the roots of her soul that kissing Marcus could never be wicked.

The
woman who stood glaring at Marcus and Keelin was much older, Keelin thought, peering around Marcus’s broad shoulder to see. Her hair and neck were fully covered by a white linen wimple, but her eyes gave away her age. Her hostility was palpable, Keelin thought, but the woman finally had the good grace to look away. After a moment she turned in a huff and stalked away.

Embarrassed once again, Keelin fumbled with the laces of her kirtle. When Marcus moved her hands aside and tied them, she could feel the tension in his body. The look in his eyes was at once forbidding, yet intriguing.

He did not speak, only kept his eyes locked with hers, his hands steady on the fastening of the laces. Clearly, a struggle was going on within him. Keelin did not know the cause of his discontent, only that he was mightily displeased.

She could only guess whether or not
she
was the cause of his displeasure. She doubted it, at least not this time. All had been well—more than well, she thought with a sigh—until the old woman had interrupted their tryst. Keelin could only conclude that the woman in the head-rail was the cause of Marcus’s ire.

His eyes suddenly softened. Rather than speaking, his customary reticence prevailed. He raised one hand to cup her head, and caressed her cheek with one thumb, sending shivers of delight through Keelin.

It was over all too quickly. Marcus dropped his hand and took her arm. Together, they started walking through the garden toward the castle keep.

“Who
was that woman?” Keelin asked as they approached the door of the back kitchen.

“That was Beatrice. Isolda Coule’s maid,” he said, scowling. “A companion.”

“I don’t understand,” Keelin said. “Is Isolda your kin? Your—”

“Nay. She is no kin of mine, but a distant cousin of the man who was earl before my father,” Marcus replied. “She came to Wrexton several years ago, with Beatrice, and has never left.”

“Yer father was a kind man, Marcus,” Keelin said quietly, “to give her leave to stay.”

Marcus did not reply, but his expression showed his appreciation for her insight. Eldred
had
been kind, taking pity on the impoverished gentlewoman to whom he owed nothing. Marcus did not know if he would ever be as beneficent a lord.

He did not feel particularly beneficent at the moment. In fact, he could have wrung Beatrice’s neck. He had a suspicion that Isolda knew he had found Keelin in the garden and had sent Beatrice out to intercept them. Interrupt them.

Marcus did not understand why Eldred had not insisted that Isolda marry one of her suitors. Surely Eldred would have preferred to get her out from underfoot at Wrexton. Though he felt unkind and petty for thinking these thoughts, Marcus did not have the same level of patience and charity possessed by his father.

As soon as possible, Marcus would see what could be done about marrying her off.

“Marcus,” Keelin said, stopping. She put a hand on Marcus’s arm. “Do ye smell smoke?”

Marcus stood still for only an instant, then looked up sharply. “The stables!”

Keelin
was right behind Marcus as he ran through the courtyard across the lower bailey to the source of the dark-gray smoke that was billowing up and away in the wintry breeze. Men were already throwing buckets of water on the stacks of burning hay stored behind the stable. Keelin took an empty bucket and ran to the well where she waited in line to refill it.

“My lord!” Boswell, the stable marshal cried when he saw Marcus. “Your stallion and the pregnant mares were moved out right away. The lads are getting the rest of the horses now.”

Grateful that Boswell had seen to his prized mares and the stud, Marcus ordered men to splash the wall of the stable with water to keep sparks from taking hold. But it was already too late. Sparks flashed up on the thatched roof and the fire was rapidly spreading.

The marshal and several grooms were leading horses to safety. Keelin could hear the frantic neighing of the panicked animals, and she left her place near the well to go help.

The marshal was preoccupied, so Keelin did not bother to speak to him. Instead, she entered the smoke-filled stable. Pulling a corner of her cloak up to cover her mouth and nose, she ran to the farthest stall and opened the door. Speaking calmly to the frightened horse, she quickly slipped a bridle over his head and led him out to safety.

Confusion reigned in the bailey. Men and women were shouting and running in all directions, and animals milled about while the stable marshal tried to establish a holding pen for them. The ground was a muddy mess now, from the water being poured over the building and all the feet and hoofs trampling through. Everyone pitched in to help wherever they could.

A young
boy took the horse’s reins from Keelin’s hands and she returned to the burning building. She discovered her own mule in a stall, far to the back of the stable, rearing and baying in terror. Using her voice to calm him, Keelin approached cautiously, even though it was imperative that she hurry. She had no intention of being trampled by her own mule, and she knew how to handle him.

“My lady!” a man’s voice called. “Quickly!”

“Aye,” she called back, keeping her eyes on the mule. There was no choice but to be quick about it.

Knowing full well ’twould be now or never, Keelin unlatched the gate to the stall and went to step in, but before she made another move, a sharp crack across the back of her head made everything go black.

There were too many timber buildings in the bailey. If the fire spread, ’twould be a disaster, especially as they approached the depths of winter. Supplies would be burned, as well as living quarters for the soldiers and servants of Wrexton.

Marcus could only be grateful there hadn’t been more damage. Most everything but the stable remained intact. No humans had been seriously injured, and his mares, Frieda and Isabella, both about to foal, had been spared. As had Gregor, the sire of many a fine warhorse.

Marcus had not seen Keelin for some time, not since she’d left the water carriers to help move the horses to safety. There’d been no hesitation about her actions as she’d pitched right in to help wherever she was needed.

She’d done the same when he and his men had arrived at her cottage, and again here at Wrexton, when Adam’s condition had worsened. Quite unusual for a noblewoman. He’d certainly not seen Lady Isolda in the vicinity of any of their recent troubles.

Marcus
turned his attention back to the shovel in his hands. A battalion of knights worked alongside him to dig a ditch around the yard where the burning hay had been stored. He’d been told that all the animals were freed from the stable, so they’d given up on the fire that burned its roof. If they could just contain the area of damage, they would rebuild when they were able to obtain supplies.

Luckily, a light drizzle had begun, squelching the fire in the thatch. Marcus knew that it would likely smolder for hours, even with the rain, but at least it would not spread.

“Lord Marcus!” The tone of Alan Boswell’s voice was alarming. Boswell, the stable marshal, was a man not generally given to excited outbursts.

Marcus dropped his shovel and met the man partway. “’Tis your lady, my lord!” he said, grabbing Marcus’s arm and leading him to a storage shed well removed from the fray.

“My lady? Keelin O’Shea?”

“Aye, my lord,” Boswell replied. “She’s been hurt. Knocked unconscious by a falling beam or some such. One of the lads found her and we carried her here.”

Marcus entered the shed. His heart lurched as he dropped to his knees next to Keelin, who lay unmoving on the dirt floor. Her eyes were open, although she looked dazed. There was blood in her hair.

He took her hand in one of his own. “Keelin,” he said quietly, his tone belying the concern he felt.

“Marcus?” she asked, her eyes finally coming into focus. A sudden spasm of coughing overtook her. “What happened?” she asked once she was able to catch her breath. She suddenly thought of the spear that had been so well hidden. “Oh! The fire! Did the sheds burn? Was anything…?”

“Nay, Keelin,” Marcus
said, alarmed by her panic. “The fire was confined to the stable.”

She relaxed visibly, then asked about her mule.

Marcus glanced up at the groom.

“One of the other lads got it out,” he said.

Without discussion, Marcus lifted Keelin into his arms and carried her toward the keep. The fire was under control, and besides, there was nothing more important at the moment than getting Keelin safely into her bed, where the cut on her head could be tended.

“I’m capable of walkin’, m’lord,” Keelin admonished, wrapping her arms about his neck, the action contradicting her words. Her eyes seemed soft and sensual, though Marcus knew the effect was the result of the blow to her head.

Still, he drank in the tantalizing sensation of her arms clasped around him as he walked, and would have prolonged the contact if it had not been quite so urgent to get her somewhere warm and dry. He would see to the cut on her head himself, he thought, as there was no healer at Wrexton besides Keelin herself. Even Tiarnan could not help her since he could not see.

Marcus carried her through the hall and before they reached the stairs, Isolda Coule caught up to them.

“Marcus!” she cried. “What happened?”

“Lady Keelin was hurt in the fire,” he replied without stopping. “Walk ahead of us, Isolda, and open Keelin’s chamber door.”

Isolda did as she was told, although she cast a disparaging glance at them as she went. She entered the room, then pulled open the bed curtains, giving Marcus the space to lay Keelin gently on the bed.

“Bishop
Delford awaits you in the solar, Marcus,” Isolda said. “He has been expecting to see you all afternoon but you were—”

“Detained, putting out the fire that destroyed our stable,” Marcus said with some impatience. Good God, could these people within the keep have had no idea of the catastrophe in the bailey? “Get some water and clean cloths, Isolda,” he said. “And tell Delford that I shall attend him after I’ve seen to Lady Keelin.”

Isolda sniffed at his curt tone, but turned and left Keelin’s room in a flurry of displeasure.

“Marcus, I can tend myself,” Keelin protested, pushing herself up from the bed.

A wave of dizziness overtook her and she dropped back to the bed, wincing as her injured head landed.

“Lie still, Keelin,” Marcus said as he sat on the bed next to her. An overpowering sense of protectiveness overcame him. It was intensely disturbing to see her hurt. It went beyond the kind of caring he should have had for any guest, yet he could not understand how this depth of feeling had come to pass in such a short time.

Bewitched he might be, but he felt no grasp of Satan’s hand in it. On the contrary, whenever Keelin O’Shea was in his arms, Marcus felt he was in the hands of God and all His saints.

Keelin was worn-out. She knew she should try to sleep, but the day’s events had stirred her emotions into an uproar. Light-headed though she was, she climbed out of bed and made her way to the fireplace. Marcus had stoked the fire nicely before leaving, so it was blazing cozily. Keelin sat down on the chair near the hearth, and drew her feet up under her. She wrapped her hand around the short leather cord that had bound Marcus’s hair earlier.

Somehow, it
had wound up in her hand.