Margo Maguire - Celtic Bride

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.