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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.
Chapter Two
Keelin managed to walk only a short way up the path when she was accosted. Her filthy attacker slapped one hand over her mouth and the other across the middle of her body. Then he dragged her through the woods in the opposite direction of her cottage, away from any help at all.
She kicked and scratched frantically at the villain who hauled her mercilessly across the dense forest growth, but her actions were of no avail. She could not get herself free from the man, except for one short instant when she managed to let out a desperate screech.
The Celtic warrior wrapped her hair tightly around his hand and, speaking in Gaelic, told her in no uncertain terms to keep silent. Pain ripped through Keelin’s scalp as the man brutally yanked and resumed his terrible pace through the forest.
Keelin couldn’t think clearly, yet a thousand disconnected thoughts ran through her mind as she clawed at the man’s hands. Would the warrior kill her? Who would care for Uncle Tiarnan then? What would happen to Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh? Had her cry been loud enough for anyone to hear?
“Let the woman go!”
The Celt suddenly stopped and whirled around. Holding Keelin in front of him like a shield, he faced Marcus de Grant, who appeared like a golden giant out of the woods to challenge him.
“Be still, Keelin,” Marcus de Grant growled. Startled once again by the young earl’s sudden appearance, Keelin felt the cold, steel blade at her throat and knew that her life depended on keeping still.
“Give me Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and I will free you,” the warrior demanded.
“Níl!” Keelin cried.
Lord Wrexton’s sword was drawn and he was ready to engage the Irishman, but Keelin was afraid the young lord could do nothing while the mercenary held her this way, with one hand tightly tangled in her hair, the other on the knife. If de Grant attacked, Keelin would surely be killed.
De Grant stood at the ready, slightly crouched, and slowly began to circle Keelin and the Irishman. Somehow, in the depths of her distress, Keelin wondered what he could possibly do to free her.
She heard a strange, strangled sound, and realized it had come from her own throat. The mercenary pulled her hair even tighter and turned to keep Wrexton in front of him, though Keelin could feel that he was slightly off balance. She was too frightened to act, and so she moved with him, taking care not to jar herself against the knife.
“You’ll never leave these woods alive, Celt!” Marcus taunted. “Let her go and I’ll spare you! Drop—”
A loud crack split the air behind her, and the Irishman yelped. Keelin was thrown forward, onto her knees, facedown in the dirt.
Amidst the sudden shouts of men, and confusion all around her, Keelin came as close to fainting as if she’d just experienced a powerful vision. Heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, she was helped to her feet, then pulled off them again when her knees buckled. As she fell to the ground, she heard the clash of swords, the grunts of men fighting for their lives. Suddenly, all was silent. De Grant lifted her into his naked arms and carried her to the path that led to her cottage.
The young lord was quiet as he carried her faultlessly through the woods. Trembling, Keelin wrapped her hands around his neck and held on, treasuring the unfamiliar sensations of safety and security. It had been years since anyone had protected her, or helped her in any way. The warrior had killed a man to protect her.
She gazed up at Lord Wrexton, whose eyes were locked straight ahead, and took notice of the short, red-blond whiskers that covered his jaw and neck. She’d never seen any young man up so close, had certainly never before appreciated the strong lines and muscles of a warrior’s physique. Yet she’d found herself gaping at this powerful man more than once in the short hours since he’d crashed in on her life. She had never thought a man beautiful before, yet now…
She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut out the thoughts that would surely cause her nothing but trouble. How the man could have such an effect, and so quickly, was a mystery to Keelin.
Marcus got her back to the cottage and the place where his men were encamped. He eased her down onto the stump of a great oak, and tilted her chin with one hand as his men gathered round. “You’re bleeding,” he said, oblivious to her appreciative gaze, and astonished that she’d come to no harm. The Celt had been quick to raise his sword against Keelin. ’Twas by the grace of God that Marcus had been quicker, though he’d achieved little satisfaction in killing the Celt.
With a surprisingly steady hand, Marcus touched the injury on Keelin’s neck, assessing its severity.
“The knave cut me?” Keelin asked, surprised. Yet another odd feeling rose in her, much more intense than anything she’d experienced so far, one that seemed to be the result of the earl’s gentle touch. But how could that be? She’d never heard of such a thing.
“Aye,” Marcus replied. “He sliced you when you fell.”
“Wh-what happened back there?” Keelin asked. She felt shaky and light-headed now that the threat was done. “How did I…Why did the scoundrel let me loose?”
“We heard your scream,” Marcus began. One of his men handed him a clean cloth and a stoppered crock of ointment that he used to daub at the thin slice on her neck. “I came after you, as did Marquis Kirkham—the Englishman who routed the Celts after they attacked our party.”
Keelin furrowed her brow and shook her head in puzzlement. “Where did the marquis come from? How did he—”
“I know as little as you, my lady,” Marcus replied. “Kirkham arrived in the woods behind you and the Celt, just about the time I got there.”
“Aye, my lord,” one of the men said. “Lord Kirkham rode up just as we heard the lady cry out.”
“I kept the Celt distracted,” Marcus continued, “while Kirkham used his whip on the man.”
“That was the crackin’ sound that made him drop me?”
Marcus nodded. “Kirkham has a fondness for the whip,” he said, “though he’s a skilled swordsman as well.”
Keelin winced at the stinging caused by the ointment. “Sword or whip,” she said as he wrapped a clean length of cloth around her neck. “I’m grateful to the man for comin’ along when he did.” Then Keelin stayed his hand with one of her own as she looked into his light-blue eyes. “You have my thanks as well, Lord Wrexton.”
