Margo Maguire - Celtic Bride

They were both transfixed, neither moving

Until the chamber door shut.

Keelin suddenly came to her senses and attempted to cover herself with her hands. Marcus should not be in her chamber. No man had ever seen her unclothed.

He took a step toward her.

“Marcus…” she whispered, unable to keep from wanting what she could not have.

She had no will of her own when he looked at her. Her hands dropped to her sides when he reached for her.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, taking her hand as she rose from the tub.

Nothing in Keelin’s life had prepared her for the surge of emotions that coursed through her now. She felt feverish, though she knew she should have been cold after stepping out of the bath. Instead, she felt heat—nay, ’twas more than mere heat, ’twas a sweltering fire that consumed her….

Celtic Bride

Harlequin Historical #572

Praise for Margo Maguire’s previous titles

Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

—Rendezvous

“A warm-hearted tale…Ms. Maguire skillfully draws the reader into her deftly woven tale.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Bride of Windermere

“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…THE BRIDE OF WINDERMERE will fit into your weekend just right.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“A wonderful story…experience the emotions and trials of these individuals as they travel on their journey. This one is a must.”

—Rendezvous

#571 THE WIDOW’S LITTLE SECRET

Judith Stacy

#573 THE LAWMAN TAKES A WIFE

Anne Avery

#574 LADY POLLY

Nicola Cornick

Celtic Bride

Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

Celtic Bride #572

This book is for Mom, a Celtic Bride herself.

Thanks for the stories of the McCarthys, the Deans,

the Lannens, the Flynns and all the rest of our Irish kin.

And thanks especially for telling me about

Uncle Billy who could charm warts off—but only

under the big oak tree next to the cemetery,

and under a full moon.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Early Winter

West Cheshire, England

The Year of Our Lord 1428

The night was a long, troubled one, allowing little rest or comfort for Keelin O’Shea. Plagued by half-remembered dreams and terrible nightmares, Keelin’s remarkable intuitive abilities made her aware that she and her uncle Tiarnan were in danger. The Mageean warriors were near. She had no choice now but to take her clan’s ancient spear from its hiding place, and by touching the priceless relic, try to gain some clarity of their situation.

Some day, Keelin thought, some day soon, she would end her exile. She would return to Ireland and wed the man chosen years before by her father, Eocaidh O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. What a comfort it would be to have a strong and confident champion to care for her, and protect her; what a relief not to be looking over her shoulder at every turn, nor jumping at creaks and shadows. What joy to return to the home she had always called her own.

Tears came to Keelin’s eyes as thoughts of her clan pierced her heart. The lonely, isolated existence she and Tiarnan had lived for the past four years had finally worn her down. She could not remain in this foreign land any longer.

’Twas not an ideal time for travel, with winter nearly upon them, but there were precious few coins left of the purse Tiarnan had brought when they’d fled Ireland. If they did not go now, who was to say there’d be any left when it came time to buy their passage across the Irish Sea?

Keelin knew she would lose what wits she had if circumstances forced her to stay away from her beloved home for another season. She longed to know how her clan fared after the battle that had killed her father, that final blow that had sent her and Tiarnan fleeing across Ireland with the Sheaghda spear. She desperately yearned for the company of her young cousins and the lasses of the village at Carrauntoohil.

’Twas not that she didn’t care for Uncle Tiarnan. Quite the contrary—Keelin loved the old man as much as ’twas possible to love another soul. But there was no youth or vigor left in him. Their survival depended solely on Keelin’s abilities, and the task had become far too daunting for a young lass.

Keelin slipped off her narrow pallet and looked over at Tiarnan. The old man was still sound asleep, with eyes closed, his white-bearded jaw slack. ’Twas just as well that he slept. He’d barely recovered from the lung fever and was still weak. It would not do at all for him to get up now, only to fret and worry when Keelin took the spear into her hands and channeled all her energy toward the second sight that had kept them safe during their years of exile.

Keelin’s intuition was seldom wrong. In her sleep, she’d sensed that the Mageean enemies were close by, and she knew there was little time to waste. It was of minor importance where they headed—they just had to get away from the abandoned cottage they’d worked so hard to make their own.

Keelin wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, then added more peat to the fire before stepping quietly outside into the chilly morning. The faint glow of the approaching dawn lit Keelin’s path and she found her way easily to the back of the cottage where she had fashioned a crude shelter for their mule, and a place to keep the mule-wain and her meager tools. ’Twas nothing fancy, merely an extension to the roof of the cottage, to keep the mule out of the worst of the weather.

By touch, Keelin found the mule-wain and ran her hands across the rough wood, searching for the narrow hiding place she’d made. She could only hope that the support board she’d hollowed out would continue to serve as a secure cache for the precious spear that had been entrusted to her. With luck, no one would ever think to look for the sleek obsidian spear in such an obvious, yet devious hiding place.

Keelin found the metal latch and slid it aside, then reached two slender fingers into the opening to draw out the leather-sheathed spear that was once touched by the goddess of old. Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, as the spear was called by Keelin’s clan, had been given to a Sheaghda chieftain eons ago, in the dark years before the Vikings came, even before the Druids practiced their magic. Over the ages, the beautiful, black spear had become the symbol of Sheaghda dominance in Kerry.