Читать книгу Celtic Bride - Margo Maguire - Страница 9

South of Chester, England

Early winter, 1428

The thick branches of the forest formed a pleasant canopy, high overhead. Dusty beams of sunlight slanted through the barren branches, lighting the dark recesses of the wood. It was late afternoon, and the riders pressed on, anxious to make Wrexton Castle before dark. Marcus de Grant rode alongside his father, tensing as Eldred once again brought up the only subject that could make Marcus tremble.

Marriage.

“There was a bounty of charming, young, marriageable ladies at Haverston Castle, Marcus,” Eldred de Grant said.

“Father—”

“I am growing no younger, my son, nor are you,” Eldred continued steadily. “One day you will be Earl of Wrexton in my stead, and I would wish for you to have a helpmate, a companion…a wife. A worthy woman such as your own mother, my Rhianwen.”

That was Marcus’s own wish, as well, but he had yet to meet a woman with whom he was at his ease. Except for the wives of a few friends, Marcus found himself tongue-tied and clumsy around women. It was especially true with the young ladies of noble birth, those lovely, preening birds in their velvets and silks, with their maids and servants, their pouting lips, their softly curving bodies and their illogical demands.

They were all so fragile, so delicate. So mysterious. Marcus was a soldier, not a courtier, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to court a woman. And with his burly build and superior strength, he worried that a mere touch of his clumsy hands could hurt them.

“A wife, Uncle Eldred?” Marcus’s young cousin asked indignantly, riding up alongside his elders. The brash eleven-year-old, Adam Fayrchild, had been orphaned several years before, and Eldred, a man generous and kind to a fault, had taken him in, though their kinship was distant at best. “What need have we of a wife at Wrexton? All is in order, is it not? We have Cousin Isolda, as well as cooks and footmen and maids and—”

“A man has need of heirs, young Adam,” Eldred said with a chuckle. “One day you’ll understand when you find your Eve.”

“Find my what?” he asked, as his freckled nose crinkled, clearly not understanding the earl’s jest. “There was not one girl at Haverston, Uncle, whom I could endure for a single day, much less a whole month, or a year!”

Marcus smiled, though Adam’s words made him aware of the deep loneliness he felt within his heart. Certainly he shared a warm closeness with his father, and he’d learned to treasure his precocious young cousin as well. But there was an emptiness inside that he’d felt acutely during the marriage festivities at Haverston Castle. More and more of his friends were wed now, and many of the young couples shared a bond that Marcus could only begin to fathom.

And until he somehow managed to get over his terrible shyness with women, he could only look forward to a lifetime spent alone. Marcus knew he was not unpleasant to look upon, but women wanted to be charmed. They wanted to be—

A wild cry from above, followed by a cacophony of barbarous calls, startled Marcus. Bearded barbarians dropped from the trees all around them, with swords and spears drawn. Marcus’s warhorse, long unaccustomed to the scent of blood and the fierce clang of iron, reared under him as the Wrexton travelers came under attack by these Celtic warriors. The entire Wrexton party was thrown into confusion, and several men were wounded before they were able to regain control of their mounts and draw their weapons.

The Wrexton men were vastly outnumbered, and struggled desperately to wage battle against their strangely clad, barbaric foes. Swords and spears clashed all around, and Marcus watched with horror as his father was thrown from his horse, and set upon by the savage, foreign warriors who attacked them.

No! Marcus’s heart cried out. Eldred de Grant was too strong, too vital to be cut down so heinously. It was impossible for Marcus to imagine a life without his father, a good and just man. He could not be dead!

“Marcus! Your father!” Adam shouted. The young boy had used good sense so far, keeping himself behind Marcus and out of the fray, but the attackers came from all sides. The Wrexton knights were surrounded.

Blindly, Marcus dismounted, grabbed Adam and stashed him in the safest place he could find, in the hollow of an old, felled tree. Then he hacked and slashed his way toward his father’s unmoving body.

“My lord! Behind you!” one of the men called out before Marcus was able to reach Eldred. Marcus whirled and dealt with the fierce, red-haired attacker, dispatching him quickly. Another bearded warrior replaced the first, and Marcus gritted his teeth and continued the battle as the fight went on all around him.

Wrexton men continued to fall as Marcus battled, and he could see no end to it, no way to get to his father. Even so, the young lord had no intention of giving up. He would fight to the death wielding his own lethal broadsword until he cut down as many of these fierce warriors as was humanly possible.

“My lord! There are riders coming!” one of the men shouted.

“They’re Englishmen!”

“It’s Marquis Kirkham and his men!”

The barbarians became aware of the English reinforcements, and mounted a hasty retreat as the newly arrived knights gave chase.

When Marcus was free of his last opponent, he hurried to his father’s side, where one of the men had dragged him away from the battle. A glimmer of hope surfaced in Marcus’s heart as he saw movement in his father’s eyes. Marcus knelt beside the older man and took his hand.

“My son,” Eldred whispered.

Marcus could not speak. His throat was thick, his tongue paralyzed, and his vision oddly blurred as he noted the severity of Eldred’s wounds.

“Temper your grief…in my demise…Marcus,” Eldred gasped. “I go now…to join your mother. Know now….that I could not have had…more pride in a son…than I have in you….”

Eldred took his final breath, then commended his soul to heaven.

All was silent. Not one bird chirped, nor a leaf rustled in the still air.

The knights standing ’round knelt and crossed themselves, and gave words of sorrow and condolence to Marcus. The new lord of Wrexton barely heard their words. Only a few short moments before, he and his father had been engaged in their familiar discussion of Marcus’s unmarried state. How could all have changed so suddenly? How was it possible that Eldred was gone?

“My lord!” a voice in the distance called. “Quickly!” Marcus turned to see one of his men standing beside the thick, fallen oak where he’d hidden Adam. Dread crept up his spine as he stood and crossed the span.

Either the boy had crawled out of his hiding place, or he’d been dragged out. ’Twas no matter now, though, for the boy lay still upon the deep green moss, with an arrow protruding grotesquely from his back.

Marcus crouched next to him. Never had Adam seemed quite so small, never so vulnerable. “He’s breathing,” Marcus said.

“Aye, my lord,” Sir Robert Barry said, “but if we pull the arrow out, he’ll likely bleed to death.”

“’Twill be hours before we reach Wrexton!” Sir William Cole retorted. “He’ll die for certain if—”

“There is a small cottage nearby, if I remember aright. Down that hill, next to a brook,” Marcus said grimly. He looked up at the men of his party. “I will carry him,” he said as he carefully picked the boy up into his arms. “Bring my father.”

“Be at ease, Uncle,” Keelin O’Shea said quietly to her uncle Tiarnan as she lay a gentle hand on his pale brow. His coughing spells were steadily improving, but they still rattled the old man terribly. “I will protect the holy spear. No Mageean hand will ever be touchin’ Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.”

Worry weighed heavily in Keelin’s breast. She was shaken and weakened by the sights she’d seen early that morning, and knew ’twas time to move on again. She and Tiarnan could not stay when the Mageean warriors were so close.

It seemed so long since they’d fled Ireland, running from the ruthless mercenaries who had killed her father. Keelin renewed her determination to stay clear of them. She knew that to lose the ancient spear would mean her clan’s loss of its right to rule, and allow the ascendancy of the cruel and implacable chieftain of Clan Mageean.

Keelin would never let that happen. She had witnessed Ruairc Mageean’s barbarity once too often to allow it.

In order to elude Ruairc’s men, and keep Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh safe for her clan, she and Tiarnan had uprooted themselves and moved four times in the years since their flight to England. But wherever they made their home, true security eluded them. Ruairc Mageean’s warriors were never far away.

’Twas only Keelin’s strange powers of intuition that kept them two shakes ahead of the mercenaries.

“Here, Uncle Tiarnan,” she said, lifting the man’s head and tipping an earthen mug to his lips. “Have a wee sip.”

“Ah, lass,” Tiarnan rasped, “Go rest yerself. Ye touched the spear this mornin’ and I know what a strain that puts on ye.”

“I’m fit enough,” she said, lying. She was weak and shaky still, hours after she’d seen the sights. But she would not let Tiarnan know, for he fretted too much over her as it was.

“Ye must tell me what ye saw.” His poor eyes, opaque now with age, turned blindly toward his young niece, though in his mind’s eye, he could still see her fresh beauty. Cream-white skin like her mother’s, with a slight blush of roses upon her cheeks. Eyes as green as the fields of home and hair as black and silky as the deepest night. Keelin’s was not a fragile beauty, for she was tall, as tall as most men. And she’d grown into a strong and hardy lass.

His poor Keelin had no way of knowing that Ruairc Mageean wanted more than the spear. The scoundrel intended to take Keelin O’Shea herself when he stole Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, and make her his concubine. Aye, the fiend had lusted after the girl since he’d first seen her, back when she was all gangly legs and big green eyes.

If Mageean managed to abduct Keelin when he stole the holy spear, he would have a much greater chance of usurping Eocaidh O’Shea’s heir as high chieftain of all of Kerry. Aye, Tiarnan knew ’twas exactly what Mageean intended.

Nor was Mageean the only man in Kerry lusting after the lass. It pained Tiarnan to know that the girl had been promised in marriage to Fen McClancy, a neighboring chieftain. And this abomination had been done by her own father mere days before his death in battle, may he rest his bones and his detestable soul in peace, Tiarnan grudgingly prayed.

Keelin’s intended was not only an old man, near as old as Tiarnan himself, but a lecherous old daff, besides. Sure and he might be high chieftain of all that lay northeast of O’Shea land, but Tiarnan knew there were other ways to secure McClancy’s alliance without bartering Keelin to the old rascal.

Leave it to his brother, Eocaidh, the strong and capable one, never to see beyond the needs of the clan. He’d have abandoned his young daughter to old Mc-Clancy without a second thought. Though he must have known how Keelin would react to the betrothal for he had not informed her of his intentions before his death.

’Twas with sheer luck and a prayer that Tiarnan had been able to convince the elders to send Keelin away as guardian of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, instead of staying in Kerry and becoming Fen McClancy’s wife. Tiarnan sincerely hoped that in the years since he and Keelin had fled Ireland, the McClancy chieftain had met his death. Nay, ’twas not a malicious wish—Tiarnan truly wished the man a peaceful end, but an end, nonetheless.

And he truly hoped Keelin never learned of her father’s promise to Fen. ’Twould break the girl’s heart to know how little her father thought of her. ’Twas a miracle she’d never realized it—yet Keelin was surprisingly oblivious to the reality around her. For all her intuitive abilities, she often misunderstood the simplest motivations of others.

Ah, but she was young still. Time enough to learn of the treachery of men.

“Please, Uncle,” Keelin said, “save your breath now, and we will speak later. There is nothin’—”

“But there is, darlin’,” the old man said as he lay his head back on the soft pillow Keelin had made for him. “This is important, Keelin, and time is short. Listen to me now.”

“What is it, Uncle, that you’ve got to be saying to me rather than taking your rest?” Keelin asked somberly, pulling a low wooden stool close to the narrow pallet on which the man rested. ’Twas nippy with the late afternoon, though the single room of the cottage was pleasantly warm with a small fire burning in the grate. The aroma of the healing plants and herbs Keelin set out to dry was strong, but pleasing. Later, when Tiarnan was asleep, she would crush the leaves that were ready, and pack them away for their journey.

“The Mageean warriors are comin’,” he said without preamble. “I know it with a certainty, even without seein’ it as you do.”

Keelin frowned. Tiarnan was wise, but how could he know what she’d only just seen that morning? The visions had been shattering. Brutal Celtic mercenaries clashing with peaceful Englishmen. Horses screaming, the scent of blood hot and sweet in her nostrils. Mortal wounds, great sorrow. She could not say exactly when it would happen, only that it would happen, and it would be soon.

“They cannot be far now, lass,” Tiarnan said breathlessly, “and ye know it as well as I do m’self. We’ve been here too long. They must be close to findin’ us out.”

Keelin quickly assessed the humble cottage. How would she manage to pack their meager belongings, reinforce the hiding place of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, and get her weak and ailing uncle away before Ruairc Mageean’s warriors came? And where would they go this time? Was it wise to attempt to return home now?

Last time they’d run, Tiarnan had still been able to see a bit. He’d not seemed so terribly old, nor so feeble as he was now. Would he manage the journey across Wales and down to the sea?

And the visions…Something, Keelin wasn’t sure quite what, but something was going on at Carrauntoohil Keep. Her urgency to go back was no longer a mere yearning to go home. She was filled with a foreboding that would not rest until she returned the sacred spear to her clan and saw for herself that all was well.

“Listen to me, Keely lass,” Tiarnan said calmly, sensing his niece’s rising panic. She was young, a mere nineteen years, and though Tiarnan considered her second sight a gift, he knew it was difficult for her. The visions always left her weakened, distraught and drained, even if she tried to hide it from him. “You must take Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and go away from here before—”

“Nay, Uncle,” Keelin cried abruptly. “I will not leave ye.”

“Keelin—”

“The warriors have been thwarted for now. I’ll not be leavin’ this place without ye. I can pack us up,” she said quickly, “and you’ll ride in the wain when ’tis time.”

“Keely,” Tiarnan said, closing his eyes wearily. It tried his soul to know that he’d soon send the lass away, to journey on alone, but no amount of prayers to the Holy Virgin or any of the saints had availed him. His chest pained him something terrible, and the cough…Well, he had no doubt the cough would be the death of him.

Keelin’s clear green eyes were bright with tears that overflowed their bounds. She took both her uncle’s hands in her own and raised them to her cheek. “I will move us to another place, a safer place where—”

“Do ye not understand, love?” Tiarnan said weakly, feeling her tears on his hands. “I am not well enough to travel, and ye must get away before it’s too late.”

“Nay, Uncle!” she cried. “There is time.”

“Keelin,” Tiarnan said, “even if there were time, ye don’t need an old wreck like me holdin’ ye back. Now, go on with ye. Start to pack up yer things and—”

Tiarnan paused and cocked his head slightly.

“What?” Keelin asked, alarmed at the way her uncle had tuned his ear to some distant sound that she could not yet hear. “What is it?”

“Someone’s comin’,” the man replied. “Horses…men on foot.”

“Oh, saints bless me!” Keelin cried, standing up abruptly from her perch. “How could I have been so wrong? They’re here? Now?”

“I doubt it’s them, darlin’,” Tiarnan said with the calm that comes with age. “But we’ve no choice but to wait and see, now.”

Keelin swallowed hard. They’d always kept well ahead of the Mageeans before. Never even got close to a confrontation. Yet here she stood frozen in her skin. She was barely able to move, unable to guide her uncle away from the cottage to hide. ’Twas no way for Eocaidh O’Shea’s daughter to behave, and she knew it.

“Do ye hear the voices now, lass?”

Keelin gave a slight nod, unmindful for the moment, that Tiarnan could not see her.

At least they would not find Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she thought. ’Twas well hidden again, and she would never tell where to find it. Allowing the holy spear to fall into Mageean hands would be the worst possible calamity.

Rage would not serve Marcus now. His desire to accompany Kirkham and his men as they chased down and killed the barbarians in the wood was great, but the need to get Adam to shelter was even more imperative.

With great care, Marcus carried the boy down the hill. The distance to the little cottage was a good deal longer than he remembered, perhaps because of the added burden of the injured boy in his arms. He tried to concentrate only on getting Adam to safety, to a place where his wound could be tended. Any other thoughts of the terrible moments in the wood would bring agony anew.

Four men of their party were dead, and another two seriously wounded. The others had minor injuries. As Marcus walked, surrounded by his men, he was aware that even now, a few of the Wrexton men were gathering the bodies of his father and his other fallen comrades, and would follow along shortly.

Why had they been attacked, Marcus wondered. He could not imagine any reason why foreign fighters would be on English soil, attacking a peaceful English party. It made no sense at all.

It had been fortuitous that Nicholas Hawken, the Marquis Kirkham, had arrived when he did to rout the attackers. As cocky and irreverent as the man was, Marcus knew Nicholas could always be counted upon in a fray. And without Hawken, the Wrexton party would have been utterly doomed.

One of Marcus’s men knocked on the door of the humble cottage, which was opened by a young woman who kept to the shadows of the interior. Marcus carried Adam into the room and, with help from one of the men, gently laid the boy on a bed. A white-bearded man lay silent on another bed at the opposite end of the room.

“I’ll need hot water,” Marcus said as he drew out his knife. He started cutting away the boy’s doublet as he spoke. “And some clean cloths. Edward, hold his arms. Roger, take his feet while I pull the arrow.”

Keelin pitied the poor wee mite whose body was pierced by the arrow. Nevertheless, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was not Mageean’s men upon them. She sensed Mageean’s presence strongly, and the turmoil and despair of these men. But no immediate danger.

Keelin stood near Tiarnan’s pallet and watched quietly as the English lord took care of his small charge and issued orders. The man was tall, and he’d had to duck as he entered the cottage. Even now as he knelt next to the wounded boy, his size seemed to take up half the room.

His hair was the lightest gold she’d ever seen. With deft fingers, the young lord quickly unfastened his tunic of chain mail, and one of his men helped him remove the heavy hauberk, leaving his broad shoulders loosely clothed in a sweat-dampened, but finely embroidered white linen tunic. He pushed his sleeves up and leaned toward the child lying on the bed, leaving his powerful forearms bared to Keelin’s gaze. Then he crossed himself in silent prayer and spoke quietly to the insensible boy.

“I’m sorry, lad, for what I must do,” he said steadily, “but we’ve no choice in the matter, and you must be brave.” And then he muttered under his breath, “As must I.”

Keelin’s heart went out to the young man who was so obviously shaken. These were the Englishmen she’d seen in her vision this morning, and though she’d not recognized their faces, she understood the measure of their sorrow, their terrible grief. She knew they had lost several of their comrades today, as well as one in particular who held a special place in their hearts.

She could do no less than to help them.

Going to the corner opposite her bed, Keelin opened the small trunk that contained her things. She had a few linen tunics and an old chemise that could be torn into strips. Taking out the items she needed, she made bandages for the boy.

When that was finished, she sorted through her leather pouches and took out the dried plants she would need. She’d learned the healing arts so well from her uncle that she had no need of his advice in choosing her medicines. Poterium Sanguisorba to help stop the bleeding, and lady’s mantle to keep the wound from festering.

When Keelin turned back to the Englishman, the arrow was out. The boy’s back was bleeding freely as Keelin stood beside the lord and placed a white cloth onto the wound. She applied pressure. The child moaned.

“Adam…” the lord said shakily.

Keelin could feel the heat and strength of the man next to her. She looked up at his strong profile—the long, straight nose, his square jaw, and unwavering sky-blue eye—and wondered if there was a man in all Ireland who would give her the care and attention that this man gave to the young boy at hand.

Certainly there was, she reminded herself. The man to whom she was betrothed would care for her as none had ever done before. Eocaidh would have seen to it. Many a time had Keelin asked Tiarnan about her betrothed, but her uncle had always skirted the question, never quite answering her. Keelin had finally given up asking, for ’twas entirely possible he did not know. The council of elders had the final word, and they might not have included Tiarnan in their decision.

“’Tis a good sign, m’lord,” Keelin said in a quiet voice. “His groanin’.”

He looked at her then, noticing her for the first time. He blushed deeply and his eyes darted away.

“E-Edward,” the golden English lord said to the knight who stood near the door, intentionally turning his attention from her. Then he cleared his throat and continued. “See if there is a physician in the v-village down the road and fetch him if—”

“I am a healer, m’lord,” Keelin said, spreading her leather satchels on the bed next to the boy. “And I have all I need to tend the poor wee lad.” She opened the pouches, pouring some dark powder into a small dish, then adding water. She mixed the two into a paste and then bid the English lord to lift the bandage from the boy’s back.

“Ach, ’tis a grievous wound,” she said as she spread some of the paste into the deep gash, “made ever more dangerous by its proximity to the spine.”

She didn’t tell him that the kidney was nearby as well, and that she hoped it hadn’t been nicked by the arrow. As it was, the boy would be lucky not to bleed to death slowly, from the inside.

Marcus could only stare at her graceful hands as they worked. In a few short moments, his life had been tossed upside down, his father killed dead in the field and poor Adam gravely wounded and lying in a peasant’s hut that was inhabited by an old man and a beautiful woman who was obviously no common peasant.

Nor was she English.

Her presence here made no sense. It occurred to Marcus that she might be connected somehow to the vicious warriors who had attacked them in the wood. Were those men her personal army? Was that why they had attacked? To keep her safe?

He thought it odd, too, that she had not seemed surprised by his arrival with Adam and the others. Was this kind of occurrence commonplace in her experience?

No, he realized. It could not be. They were not so very far from Wrexton now, and Marcus was sure he’d have heard of a band of wild, foreign warriors guarding one small cottage.

But who was she?

The woman wore a simple, but finely made kirtle of wool dyed deep green, and her dark hair lay long and silky upon her back. She moved majestically, with grace and purpose, as she laid gentle, competent hands on his young cousin. She spoke softly to Adam, with her strangely musical accent, even though it was unclear whether or not the boy could hear.

She had the mien of a queen, yet here she was, in this place—this small cottage that was little better than a peasant’s hovel. And Marcus felt as tongue-tied and awkward as he’d ever felt in the presence of a lady.

“M’lord,” said the grizzled old man on the bed at the opposite end of the room.

Marcus turned and walked toward him, noticing that the old fellow still beckoned. It was then that he realized the man was blind.

“Ye must allow my niece to do what she thinks is best,” he said, his words accented even more thickly than the woman’s, “for you could ask for no greater healer on English or Irish soil than Keelin O’Shea.”

“Is that who she is? Your niece?” Marcus asked, much more at ease now that he was not standing quite so close to the girl. He let out a slow breath as he watched her continue to stitch the wound in Adam’s back.

“Aye, Keelin O’Shea of Kerry, she is,” the old man said. “And me, I’m her uncle. Tiarnan O’Shea at yer service. Or I will be, once I’m up on m’ feet again.”

“Kerry…That would be…an Irish province?” Marcus asked, barely listening to the reply. He raked his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He was painfully aware that somewhere outside his father lay still in death, his body covered by a shroud and under the guardianship of his men.

Marcus was numb with grief and anger, and did not know how he would function, how he would assume the role of earl, and command these men. How would he get his father and the rest of his fallen knights back to Wrexton and into hallowed ground? And what of Adam? ’Twas obvious the boy could not travel, nor could Marcus leave him here with strangers.

“Kerry’s more a region, lad,” Tiarnan replied, oblivious to the young lord’s consternation. “A fierce and proud land of Munster in the southwest of Ireland, wi’ loughs and craggy hills galore.”

Marcus made no reply, for he was lost in thought. The old man took his silence for worry about Keelin and her handling of the wounded boy. “Truly, ye can trust her, lad,” Tiarnan said. “She’s got a gift for the healin’.”

“I can only pray you’re right,” Marcus said as he turned away and stalked out of the cottage. Roger and Edward remained within, and Marcus knew he could trust either man to come to him if further trouble arose.

He looked up at the sky and breathed deeply, wondering how such a beautiful day could have been destroyed so quickly, by such ugliness.

’Twas years since Marcus had engaged in battle. Five years, to be precise, since he’d returned home from the French wars to find his mother ill and dying. After her death, he’d stayed on at Wrexton with his father, never returning to France.

Wrexton was at war with no one. The campaign in France had little bearing on what happened here, so far in the west country. There were no border disputes or skirmishes with neighboring knights to account for any violence. He and Eldred had developed good rapport with the Welsh who lived on the land adjacent to Wrexton, and Marcus had had no reason to expect a vicious ambush from foreign knights.

Knights? If that’s what they were.

Not even the French were so barbaric. What armor these men wore was primitive. They were unwashed and unshaven, with hair pulled into thongs and hanging down the length of their backs. Their language was strange and guttural, and completely unfamiliar to him. He’d thought them Celts before, and now, knowing that the cottage woman and her uncle were Irish, he wondered what the connection was. There had to be one.

And God help Tiarnan O’Shea and his niece if they were in any way a party to the day’s hideous slaughter.

Marcus walked around to the far side of the cottage where the men had set up tents. It was there they would spend the night, where the wounded men would be tended. He did not know how many nights they would stay, or when it would be possible for Adam to travel to Wrexton Castle.

But he would have to get his father home soon, for burial on Wrexton land.

There was a briskly flowing brook near the cottage, and Marcus walked down a beaten path to get to it. He pulled off his tunic and crouched down, dunking his head in the water. Somehow, he had to clear his thoughts.

Keelin finished tending the lad, then put away her medicines and bandages. She washed her hands in a basin of fresh water, then went over to speak quietly to her uncle.

“Sleep awhile now,” she told him, knowing that the worry and then the excitement of visitors had exhausted him. “I must go out for a bit, but I’ll be back to see to ye soon.”

She had to talk to the Englishman.

Stepping outside, Keelin was surprised and dismayed to see so many knights milling about near the mule-wain. She assured herself that there was no danger of one of the men discovering the spear, but it made her uncomfortable to see them standing so close to it.

Keelin calmed herself. With a definite plan in mind, she approached one of the men and asked where the young lord might be found, and was given a direction to follow. She took the path to the brook, skirting a partially hidden nest of baby snipes, and stopped short when she saw him.

There was a strange fluttering in her belly and a heaviness in her chest as she watched this primal young man, standing half-naked on the bank. She felt hot all over, as though her skin were on fire. Her heart pounded as if she’d swallowed some of her own foxglove powder.

If she’d ever seen so well developed a man, Keelin could not remember it. If she’d ever noticed how low a man’s chausses hung on his hips, or how the muscles in his arms stood out, the memories were lost to her.

His upper body and hair were wet and he threw his head back as she’d seen wild animals do, half expecting him to shake all over to dry himself. Keelin’s mouth went dry as she watched. She forgot to breathe.

And then he saw her.

He took a sudden step back and plopped his booted foot right into the brook. To make matters worse, he lost his balance and fell on his rump. Saints above, the man had a lovely blush, as well as a good deal other attributes, Keelin thought as she rushed down to the water to give him a hand up. He’d gone a lovely pink right to the ends of his ears.

“Well, if ’twas a bath ye wanted…” she said in jest.

Silently, the blond Goliath got to his feet and stepped up and out of the wee river. Keelin realized he was in no mood for humor. Nor was he inclined to be friendly to her. She could understand that. She was Irish, after all, same as the men who’d attacked the young lord’s party. Had the situation been reversed, and English mercenaries attacked a group of her father’s men…Well, Keelin was certain that no Englishman would be safe from Eocaidh O’Shea’s wrath.

“The lad is sleepin’ now,” she said somberly, breaking the tension his silence created. He’d been full of orders to his men when he’d first arrived, when the boy had needed quick attention, but was clearly loath to speak to her.

“’Twill be some time, though,” she said, “before we know how he fares….”

The man nodded curtly and headed up the path toward the cottage. It appeared to Keelin that he wanted nothing to do with her.

This would never do. She had a request to make, an urgent one. This young lord was the answer to a prayer, if only she could get him to agree to escort her and Uncle Tiarnan away. With Tiarnan’s health being what it was, this stern giant was her only hope. She’d find a way to leave Tiarnan in this man’s care, and then go on to Kerry herself. She needed to know what was going on at Carrauntoohil.

“Wait!” she commanded. And got his attention at last.

He stopped and half turned toward her.

“I am Keelin O’Shea, daughter of Eocaidh, high chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda.” When he made no response, she said, “I believe ’tis my right to know the name of my guest.”

He cleared his throat. “M-Marcus de Grant,” he finally said haltingly. “With my father’s death this afternoon, I am…I am the new Earl of Wrexton.”

’Twas just as she thought. This was no ordinary Englishman, and Keelin was glad she’d given her full credentials. Marcus de Grant was a high nobleman, and a man grieving for his own father. Now, if only she could persuade him to take her and Tiarnan to his lands.

“My condolences on your loss,” she said earnestly, walking toward him. The poor man was obviously shaken by his father’s death. “’Tis not an easy thing to lose your family.”

Marcus doubted he’d ever felt so awkward before. As he stood half-naked on the path, with the O’Shea woman bearing down on him, he wanted to drop his sodden tunic and run. Run from everything—his new position in life, the responsibility he felt for Adam, the death of his father. And he would most certainly run from this exquisite black-haired lady, whose regal manner had him typically tied into knots.

At the same time, he sensed that the woman spoke from experience, that she’d known loss herself, and it was that feeling that gave him the impetus to reply to her statement. “No, i-it isn’t easy,” he said woodenly.

“And the lad, m’lord? Who is Adam?” she asked as they began to walk abreast of each other.

“My cousin,” Marcus replied as he moved to keep some distance between them.

“Not meanin’ to be impertinent, m’lord,” she continued, “but how did all this happen? What befell your party?”

“I had hoped you would have some insight into that,” Marcus said, surprising himself at his loquacity. He hadn’t stammered at all, and somehow had managed to say exactly what was on his mind, in spite of the directness of her forest-green gaze, her exquisitely curved form and the tantalizing spicy scent that seemed to emanate from her.

“Me?” she asked, apparently stunned, for she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Celtic warriors attacked us in the wood north of here,” he said. “Another party of Englishmen arrived in time to rout them, but not before they killed four of our men and wounded several others besides Adam.”

Keelin O’Shea pressed a hand to the center of her chest, drawing his eyes to her softly rounded bosom. She muttered a couple of unintelligible words, and then to his amazement, she said, “I’ve been worried somethin’ of this nature would happen sooner or later.”

“You know about them—the warriors?” he asked, stunned by her admission, even though he’d already made the connection.

Keelin set her jaw and inclined her head and Marcus had the distinct impression that she intended to duck the question. Her evasiveness angered him and he took hold of her arm.

“What of those Celts?” he demanded, his anger rising to the surface again, even as he became aware of her softness. “Will they return? Are there more of them lurking somewhere, waiting for—”

“No!” Keelin replied irritably, pulling her arm away. “At least I greatly doubt it. The Mageean warriors have never split up to search…they’ve always traveled together, as one….”

“Go on.”

“They’re Ruairc Mageean’s men. And they are after me,” she said dejectedly. “They’ve been chasin’ after my uncle and me for the last four years. We’ve been hidin’ out here in England, movin’ on whenever the need arose.”

Marcus could not afford to be self-conscious or bashful now. Keelin O’Shea had the answers to his questions. She had information about the warriors who’d killed his father, and he intended to find out what she knew. For the first time in his life, he was not entirely tongue-tied and overwhelmed by his nearness to a beautiful woman. Though he still felt deathly uncomfortable, he found he could speak to her—touch her, even—without freezing up like a branch in an ice storm. On the contrary. He felt as if the flames of Hades were consuming him bit by bit. “Who is Ruairc Mageean?”

“Well…” Keelin swallowed hard, taken aback by the lord’s anger. Sure, she could see he’d leashed the powerful emotion, but ’twould be a terrible thing if ever he let it free. ’Twas obvious that now was not the time to make her request. In fact, she realized belatedly, it might be better to leave the man alone entirely for now. “’Tis a long story, but suffice it to say that Mageean is a rival of my family. A cruel and heartless man who would possess all of Munster if only…”

“If only…?” Lord Wrexton asked, his anger barely concealed.

“If only he had the power to do so,” she said uneasily as she turned abruptly and headed up the path to the cottage.

Marcus stood watching as her slender form was swallowed up in the thick woods, but his relief at being left alone was short-lived. Within a few short minutes of Keelin O’Shea’s departure, there was a bloodcurdling, feminine scream from somewhere deep in the wood.

He dropped his tunic in the dirt and ran.