Читать книгу Celtic Bride - Margo Maguire - Страница 11

Whoever the riders were, friend or foe, Marcus was glad of the reprieve. He doubted he’d have been able to remain with Lady Keelin a moment longer without some terrible blunder. As it was, he was merely lucky he hadn’t trodden on her delicate feet, nor had he said anything inane.

At least he didn’t think he had.

The riders hailed the house and approached, identifying themselves in the firelight. They were the last of Nicholas Hawken’s men, those who’d been left to deal with the dead Celts. There was nothing new to report, so the knights of Wrexton and Kirkham alike settled down for the night, posting a guard over the bodies, and men to keep watch, leaving Marcus pacing restlessly at the perimeter of the camp.

’Twas his place to sit at Adam’s bedside for the night, but he was loath to return to the close quarters of the cottage. Spending the night with Keelin O’Shea—

He blushed with the very thought, even though there was nothing in it.

Marcus cursed silently. He was earl now, and it was time he took control of his ridiculous shyness whenever he was near a woman. Somehow, he had managed to speak coherently to Keelin O’Shea today. He could do it again.

He ought to be able to do it again.

Marcus heard the quiet voices of the men in camp, the horses nickering, the fire crackling. The sky was black and without stars. Rain tomorrow, he thought, knowing he was putting off the inevitable.

Finally, he picked up his saddle pack, gathered up his blankets, and his courage, and headed for the cottage.

Keelin gave Adam a draught of her precious valerian, then sat at the young boy’s bedside, watching over him as he drifted off to sleep. It was serene and peaceful in the little cottage, with her uncle’s quiet snores brushing softly over the silence. She could hear men’s voices outside, and knew there’d been no confrontation with the riders.

Marcus would soon return. She sensed no need to fear him, aware that he preferred to keep his distance from her. She did not blame him for despising her race—after all, her people were responsible for so many undeserved deaths that day. She only wished…well, at the very least, she wished he wouldn’t shrink away from her so blatantly.

The sudden presence of Marcus de Grant made Keelin realize how very alone she’d felt these last few years. Sure, she’d had Uncle Tiarnan all along, but it wasn’t the same as having her peers about. And it was not at all the same as having a man like Marcus de Grant.

Not that she had him, exactly. But Keelin had never felt so alive as she had when he’d held her in his arms.

To be sure, he’d carried her only because he was a man who understood chivalry, and she’d been as unsteady as a leaf in the autumn wind. Keelin knew she could expect nothing more from him than mere civility. Yet his very masculine touch, and his concern for her well-being touched something deep inside her, arousing feelings and sensations Keelin had never experienced before.

It made her yearn for something she could not have—or perhaps she would have it, she thought hopefully—once she returned to Ireland and learned what plans her father had made for her before his death.

In the flickering light from the hearth, Keelin unpacked her comb and a shawl. She loosened the laces of her kirtle, then slipped it off, keeping on a linen under-kirtle. Wrapping herself up in the thick woolen wrap, Keelin was satisfied that she was decently covered for the moment when Marcus de Grant returned.

For years, Keelin had managed to keep the ache of loneliness at bay but now it threatened to overwhelm her. She’d taken care of Tiarnan, moved them when the need arose, gathered food, bartered for goods in towns and villages, and kept as isolated as possible to avoid the Mageean mercenaries.

Never once had she allowed herself to think of what might have been, of the marriage her father had arranged for her, or the children she would already have borne. To think now of the years lost was too painful to bear.

She promised herself she would not succumb to tears now, not when her duty was so clear. She had Tiarnan and Adam to care for, and plans to make and packing to be done. There was no time to wallow in any foolish self-pity.

Marcus ducked to enter the cottage and found all was nearly as it had been when he’d left. The only difference was that now, he and Lady Keelin were essentially alone. No other knight guarded Adam, and the old uncle was asleep.

And the lady was missing a layer of clothes.

The scent of herbs filled the place, and the fire was warm. Lady Keelin looked soft and sleepy, with her dark hair flowing loosely about her shoulders. Her manner was subdued, quiet. There was an essential sadness about her that he had not marked before.

Marcus handed the blankets to her, fumbling awkwardly when their hands met.

“M’lord?” she whispered.

“You can make up a pallet by the fire,” he explained, faltering when he looked into her deep-green eyes, thickly framed by dark lashes. “I—I’ll sit up with Adam.”

Keelin took the blankets. “All is well, then?” she asked softly. “The riders posed no threat?”

Marcus shook his head somberly, concerned about the suspicious brightness in Lady Keelin’s eyes. Not tears, he hoped. “Just Kirkham’s men returned from chasing Celts.”

“And…did they find any?”

“I’ve been assured that we will encounter no more of your countrymen.” Marcus sat down next to Adam’s bed. He did not see Keelin wince at the word. “How’s the lad?”

“I gave him a tonic t’ help him sleep,” she replied.

Marcus touched Adam’s brow. “There is no fever.”

Keelin agreed, but did not state what was obvious to both of them. Fever would come later. Discouraged, Marcus brushed Adam’s hair from his forehead. Life was so fragile, he thought, as the enormity of his loss became more real than it had been all day. His father lay lifeless outside, beneath a shroud on the hard, cold earth. If he lost Adam, too…

No. Marcus could not bear to dwell on that possibility. The day had been full of too much pain already.

He ran one hand across his face, then looked up as Lady Keelin spread a blanket on the hard earthen floor. She sat down upon it, arranging her legs modestly beneath her, then took a comb and ran it through her long, dark tresses.

More than willing to be distracted from his dismal thoughts, Marcus sat mesmerized, watching as the stiff tines caressed her scalp, then crackled through the dark silk of her hair. He could practically feel her soft locks caress his skin, and his body tensed in reaction to the sensations conjured by his mind. She was fully covered, but in her long-sleeved undershift covered by a simple woolen shawl, Keelin O’Shea seemed all but naked.

Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, Marcus cleared the inexplicable thickening from his throat, and turned away. It would be well for him to consider his plans for the future rather than lusting after Keelin O’Shea.

In two days, they would return to Wrexton where Adam could recover in his own bed, with “Cousin” Isolda Coule and the other women of the castle to tend him. The Bishop of Chester would say Eldred’s requiem, and the first of the de Grants would be laid to rest in the Wrexton crypt, for his father had inherited the earldom from Edmund Sandborn, a distant cousin.

Then somehow, life would go on. Winter would soon be upon them and—

“M’lord,” Keelin’s soft voice broke the silence.

He turned to see that she’d finished combing her hair and was now struggling to untie the bandage at her throat.

“It seems to be knotted,” she said in a low tone as she stood and walked over to Marcus. “It’s chafin’ somethin’ fierce and I’d have it off if ye’ll help me.”

Marcus rose from his seat, aware that he ought to do more than nod his agreement, but she stood so close that his throat closed up. His hands burned, felt as though they were blistering even as he raised them to the cloth at her neck.

“I think some o’ the threads must have unraveled,” she said in a small voice as he finally touched her, “and tangled in the knot.”

She was tall for a woman, the top of her head reaching as high as his nose, so he hardly had to bend to reach her. Marcus trained his attention fully on the knot, but could not avoid noticing a slight trembling in her chin. His fingers stilled and he ventured a look at her face, enthralled as she blinked one crystal tear from her eye.

She began to turn away to cover her tears, but Marcus cupped her chin and kept her from moving. The sense that she was just as vulnerable as he, was overwhelming. He rubbed a thumb over the errant tear, and drew his head down toward hers, unerringly seeking her lips, as if he were a well-practiced lover who had kissed a hundred maidens.

Their mouths met tentatively at first. Marcus kissed her softly, then pulled back slightly to allow a small space between their lips. Then the wondrous contact occurred again and Marcus deepened the kiss, enthralled by the amazing heat and sensual pleasure in this simple touching of mouths.

Yet it was anything but simple. Keelin made a sound, deep in her throat, and Marcus felt her hands slip up his chest, then around his neck, and into the long hair at his nape, causing an unparalleled torrent of sensations. He slid his arms around her and pulled her to him, crushing her breasts to his chest, sharing the chaos that was merely the wild beating of their hearts.

Every muscle clenched. Every bone turned to ash. Marcus wished there was no barrier between them, that he could feel her soft, warm flesh pulsing against his own. He could go on forever like this, tasting her, craving more. She was like a fever, raging in his blood, heating his flesh, burning his soul. He’d never experienced anything like it, nor—

He pulled his mouth away suddenly. This was insane! Adam lay here wounded, and there was Eldred…

Keelin.

She stood perplexed, looking into his eyes. Both remained silent for a long moment, then they both spoke at once.

“I apologize, my lady.”

“M’lord, I—”

Then, except for Tiarnan’s soft snores, there was silence again.

“Why do you weep?” Marcus asked when he’d regained a measure of control.

Keelin turned away shakily. “’Tis nothin’, m’lord,” she said casually, as if handsome young lords arrived at her door and kissed her senseless once a month. “Only the day, and the terrible things in it.”

Marcus could still see the hurt in her eyes. And something more. Bewilderment? He was mightily bewildered himself, after sharing that kiss. It had been utterly intoxicating. Bewitching.

Her perfect skin was flushed with color now, and the devastating sadness gone from her eyes. Now, her delicate brows arched with wonder.

Keelin’s blood felt as though it were on fire. As she struggled to compose herself, she tried to understand Marcus’s withdrawal, and his apology for kissing her. She did not know how he could be sorry for such a kiss, unless, by her inexperience, she had somehow made it unpleasant for him.

He did not look displeased, though, Keelin thought as she looked up at him. His chest moved as if he’d just run a race, and his eyes were still intent upon her. The touch of his lips had been entirely unexpected. Soft, yet firm and warm, too, as warm as the sun in midsummer.

His chest, when it was pressed against her, was so very different from her own soft form, that it had pleased her beyond anything she’d ever known, and shaken her senses as thoroughly as any vision she’d ever had. Marcus de Grant was truly the most fascinating man she’d ever encountered, in England or Ireland. She could fasten her attention on his fine features for all eternity.

But as Keelin stood gazing at Marcus, her vision began to cloud. She blinked her eyes rapidly, and gave a quick shake of her head, but the haziness only increased. With utter dismay, Keelin realized the sensations were the same as those she experienced when a vision was upon her. She bit back a cry and backed away from Marcus, struggling to regain her proper senses—her senses of this world, not the misty, unreality of her intuition.

’Twas no use. Instead of Marcus’s handsome face before her eyes, she saw her cousin’s, the fierce and deadly Cormac O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. And though Keelin could still dimly discern the walls of her snug English cottage and the meager furniture within, the gray skies of Kerry began to show more clearly than her true surroundings. Marcus’s comely face began to fade from her vision….

She heard the clang of steel meeting steel, and knew she was witnessing a battle, though whether past or future, she could not say. She watched as Cormac fought ferociously against his opponent, his formidable muscles bulging with every strike of his blade. He lunged and strained, ducked and spun, but his enemy soon gained the advantage and knocked Cormac to the muddy ground.

“No,” she whispered, trembling. The little cottage was gone from her sight now, only the landscape around Carrauntoohil Keep remained. The smell of blood was thick and there were mournful wails to be heard. Black smoke billowed from the huts in the village, and choked Keelin’s lungs.

Cormac was violently disarmed. Keelin heard a satisfied grunt, then watched as a shiny steel blade pierced through Cormac’s leather-clad chest, killing him instantly.

Keelin shrank from the sight of Cormac’s murder, but could not shut out the images, the sounds, the smells. She’d have run far away if her feet would have carried her, but they were rooted to the ground where she stood.

Two powerful hands grasped the hilt of the killing sword. One strong leg moved, and a booted foot stepped on Cormac’s lifeless chest as the sword was yanked out.

Then Keelin heard a Gaelic shout of victory, and saw the face of the man who’d shouted, the one who held the bloody sword high above his head.

’Twas Ruairc Mageean.