Margo Maguire - Celtic Bride

Marcus knew her touch would tie him into knots. Just the thought of those slender hands on his—

“Marcus!” Adam’s young voice sounded harsh and strained.

Marcus moved away from the door and went to the boy. It seemed that all color was washed from Adam’s face. The bandage on his back was thick and ominous. “You’re awake,” he said inanely, putting a gentle hand on his head.

“Sit here, m’lord,” Keelin said, rising from the stool. She laid a hand on his arm before turning and stepping away, and Marcus nearly knocked over the stool with the shock of heat he felt from her skin.

“Marcus?” Adam asked. Marcus took his cousin’s small hand in his. “Is your father…did Uncle Eldred d-die?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes,” he breathed.

“It cannot be!” the boy protested feebly. “I loved him!”

“So did I, Adam,” Marcus whispered. “So did I.”

“When I think of it,” Adam said, “I…” He swallowed. “It makes me want to weep.”

“Then weep, lad,” Marcus said quietly. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Adam closed his eyes and rested for a moment before speaking again. “Do you ever cry, Marcus?”

Keelin stayed by her uncle and tried to give their visitors the privacy the moment required, but it was no use. She could not help but hear the child’s forthright questions and she strained to hear the knight’s answer.

“Aye, Adam,” he finally said, his strong voice wavering as he spoke. “I do.”

Keelin resisted the urge to go to Lord Wrexton and wrap him in the peace and comfort of her arms. Earlier, she’d realized that he was ill at ease with her, and she did not wish to discomfit him any further. Yet her heart reached out to these two, whose lives had been shattered by the events of this day. Events caused by the enemies of her clan.

Uncle Tiarnan squeezed her hand and Keelin looked away. After a time, Marcus’s faltering voice addressed her. “Lady Keelin, how long before Adam can travel?” he asked without turning away from the boy.

Keelin let go of her uncle’s hand and approached the child’s bed. “Two days, m’lord,” she said. “He shouldn’t be moved for two days.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Keelin shrugged. She just knew. “Two days’ healin’ time and he’ll be able to ride for some miles on a soft pallet without breakin’ open the wound.”

The young lord shook his head. “Two days is a long time. If the barbarian army returns—”

“It won’t, m’lord,” Keelin said with certainty.

He looked up at her then, his eyes so light, so wary. Keelin sensed no immediate danger, but he had no reason to believe her, especially since the lone Celt had shown up, putting a lie to her earlier avowal that the Celts would never split up.

But Keelin had no intention of explaining her strange talent to Marcus. Being a Celt was enough reason for him to hate her. She would give no cause for him to suspect her of sorcery, too.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Then be ready to leave this place in two days,” he said with a tone of command. “You and your uncle will travel with us to Wrexton.”

“We’ll be ready, m’lord,” Keelin said, relieved. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She could get Uncle Tiarnan settled within the safety of Wrexton’s walls, then make the journey to Kerry herself. “How great a distance is it to Wrexton, m’lord?” she asked.

Marcus cleared his throat and backed away from Keelin as he spoke. “’Twould be only a few hours ride if we weren’t slowed by the wounded, but now—”

A quiet, but urgent tap sounded on the cottage door. Sir Edward opened it to one of the Wrexton knights.

“My lord,” the man said, doffing his helm. “Riders approach.”

Keelin gasped and Lord Marcus stood immediately, one strong, competent hand going for the sword at his side. “The men are ready?” he asked, with utter confidence. There was no faltering hesitation about him now.

“Aye, my lord,” the knight replied, “for anything.”

“Then let us see who approaches.”

“Is it those warriors—coming back?” Adam asked fearfully after Lord Marcus had left.

Keelin went to him. “No, lad,” she said, “at least I don’t think so.” She was sure she’d have sensed danger if any were upon them. Though she did not know who the riders were, she did not feel any threat. “Uncle?”

Tiarnan shook his head. “I’ve no idea, lass.”

“Well, then,” she said to Adam as she hugged her arms tightly around herself and sat down next to the boy, “we shall just have to await your cousin’s return for news.”

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.