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She saw color burst in his cheeks, then flush down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. His diffidence endeared him to her as much as his strong, powerful presence had done earlier.
Keelin would have touched the bit of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead, but she dropped her hand midway when Marquis Kirkham arrived in the clearing. He was tall and powerfully made, with a visage as fierce and dark as the very devil. Keelin could almost believe the man had routed the Celtic mercenaries single-handedly.
“What say you, Marcus?” the big nobleman said, slurring his words. Keelin realized the man was drunk! “I’ve been mopping up after you all day!”
Marcus did not respond to the man’s sarcasm, for he was accustomed to Kirkham’s brooding and sarcasm. Instead, he merely finished tying Keelin’s bandage in place. Keelin, however, took exception to the drunken newcomer’s speech. Such loose and foolish talk would never have gone unchallenged in her father’s keep. She stood and faced the man.
“M’lord,” she said firmly, “can ye not know of the young lord’s loss? His own father was slain this very day, yet here ye jest—”
“Is this true, Marcus?” the marquis asked earnestly. The captious mischief in his eyes faded and his posture straightened. “Did Eldred fall to those savages?”
Marcus gave a curt nod and turned away. Kirkham followed, and the two men disappeared from Keelin’s view.
Keelin sensed a terrible turmoil in the marquis, in spite of his drunkenness, but she was unable to understand any more of the man. Perhaps, she thought, he had good reason for overimbibing, but her intuition failed to give further insight.
She touched the bandage at her neck and thought again how close she’d come to losing her life. What would have happened to the clan then, if Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh was lost? Keelin’s urgency to return to Carrauntoohil doubled, though the means by which she was to get there were unclear. Somehow, Keelin would see her uncle safely to Wrexton, and then make the trip to Kerry on her own.
Marcus did not feel the chill of the early evening. He was never one to be subject to the cold, but in the last few minutes, he’d been suffused with heat.
It was entirely the woman’s fault.
He would have liked a few moments to himself to savor the experience of holding Keelin O’Shea. He’d have given himself time to think of her softness and the long, elegant lines of her neck, the gloss of her hair and the fire in her green eyes.
Instead, he strode into his campsite beside Nicholas Hawken, and told of his encounter with the barbarian mercenaries.
Nicholas sobered with Marcus’s words, and listened attentively, his brooding features never changing.
“I apologize, Marcus,” Nicholas finally said, bowing his head, “for my earlier gaffe. Eldred was a good and just man and I am sorry for your loss.”
Marcus acknowledged the condolence. “I sent a pair of men down to Chester to fetch the bishop. As soon as they return to Wrexton, he’ll say the requiem.”
“When will you leave here?”
“I’m unsure,” Marcus replied. “Adam is badly wounded. I expect Lady Keelin will know when it’s safe to move him.”
“What of this woman?”
Marcus looked up.
“By her own admission, she is the cause of all this grief, is she not?”
Marcus could not deny Nicholas’s words, but still, he did not see Keelin O’Shea as the party responsible for his father’s death. She was as much a victim as any of them.
“’Tis clear she is in need of protection,” Marcus said. “When Adam is able to be moved, Lady Keelin and her uncle will accompany us to Wrexton.”
There was silence for a moment, then the marquis let out a bark of sarcastic laughter and gave Marcus a hearty slap on the back. “Ever the chivalrous knight, eh, Wrexton?”
The knights and noblemen of Marcus’s acquaintance assumed that his refusal to use a woman for sport was due to a misplaced sense of honor. He’d been the brunt of many a jest over it, but had never seen fit to set them straight on the matter. He’d been dubbed “Marcus the Honorable,” but in most instances, ’twas more a slur than a compliment.
Young Adam tossed and turned fitfully. Keelin tended the lad, and saw to her uncle’s needs. She had no intention of telling Tiarnan about the Mageean mercenary who’d come back for her, nor did she mention the strange feelings that had come over her ever since the young Earl of Wrexton had entered her life. Her uncle had enough to do, just to get well.
Keelin saw that the men had put up several tents nearby, and they had a fire going. One of them was cooking, while Lord Wrexton stood tall, his golden hair nearly glowing in the firelight.
“Sir Henrie,” Keelin heard Lord Marcus say, his voice sending a baffling tingle of warmth through her. “At first light, you and Thomas leave with Arthur Pratt. Return to Wrexton. Inform them—” Marcus paused “—tell all of my father’s death. Have the steward begin preparations for his funeral.”
Keelin watched as the young man took on the mantle of command, even as he girded himself against the pain of his grief. As she admired Marcus’s determined competency, Keelin recalled the day her own father had been killed. With Eocaidh O’Shea’s death, Ruairc Mageean had won the day, but Keelin’s flight from Kerry with the holy spear had saved the clan.
Again, Keelin wished for the warmth and security of Carrauntoohil Keep, and the company of her people. She’d been away four long years, years during which she’d become a woman, and had little contact with anyone other than Uncle Tiarnan. They had kept to themselves while in England, going into towns or villages rarely, only to barter for the supplies they needed. And though Tiarnan was a wise and wonderful uncle, Keelin missed the camaraderie of young people. She needed to establish a life for herself, not as a niece or a runaway, but as a wife. A mother. Chatelaine of a household.
“What sort of man is he, Keelin?” Tiarnan said, his words breaking into Keelin’s thoughts.
“Who, Uncle?”
“The young lord,” he replied. “De Grant.”
“Well, he’s—” Keelin hesitated “—he’s tall.”
“Aye, I could tell that.”
“And quiet, mostly,” she added. “Though he’s been out there givin’ orders to his men since before the sun set.”
“A good leader…”
“Aye, I suppose, though I doubt he’s been tested,” she said. “After all, his father, the earl before him, only passed away today.”
“Still and all, lass, a man either has the qualities of a leader or not,” Tiarnan said with finality. “What sort of looks has he?”
Keelin shivered, and quickly wrapped her arms about herself. Marcus de Grant had put her in mind of the childhood tales she’d heard of the fierce golden Vikings of old. Aye, his features were most pleasing, but his blush when she got too near, and the gentleness of his manner were most appealing. For all his size and obvious strength, Marcus de Grant was clearly not a cocky, overconfident male.
“Well? Would ye call him a handsome fellow?”
Keelin sighed. “I suppose ye could say so, Uncle Tiarnan.”
“What do ye mean, lass? Either he is or he is not. There’s no supposin’ about it.”
Before Keelin could give her uncle a more decisive answer, Adam spoke out.
“Marcus?” he cried weakly.
Keelin went to the bedside and sat down next to the lad. “He’s nearby, Adam,” she said. “Do ye need somethin’?” she asked as she sponged his brow.
“Marcus…”
She glanced up at Sir Roger, then sent the knight in search of the earl.
Keelin O’Shea was hiding something. Marcus was as sure of that as he was of his own name. Yet, rather than pursuing his suspicions, he avoided going into her cottage.
His courage—and his miraculous ability to speak to a lovely woman—had disappeared after she’d left him earlier. He doubted he’d be able to put two coherent words together in her presence again. He just hoped Adam and the other wounded men would not need to remain over-long at her cottage. The quarters were too close and Marcus knew it would be impossible to avoid her forever.
He wished he knew what she had not told him. He believed her tale that the Mageean fighters were after her, but he was sure there was more to it than a mere family rivalry. What did Mageean want—that he’d go to the trouble of chasing after Keelin O’Shea for four years?
Lust was a definite possibility, Marcus thought, tamping down his own libidinous thoughts. Most assuredly, Keelin O’Shea was capable of inspiring a man to go to great lengths to have her.
But if that were the case, it made no sense for her to withhold that information. Any other woman would have explained the situation, then thrown herself on his mercy and asked for his protection from the predatory Mageean.
Unless Mageean was her betrothed, and she was running from—
“My lord,” Sir Roger’s voice pierced the darkness.
Marcus turned to face the young man.
“The lady sent me to fetch you,” he said. “Young Adam is awake and asking for you.”
“How is he?” Marcus asked gravely.
“Better than expected, my lord,” the knight answered. “Though the Lady Keelin says he is in a great deal of pain and upset about your father.”
Marcus lowered his head. What comfort could he offer the boy? Eldred was dead, and there was no changing that. No going back. At least Marcus had managed to pull the arrow from Adam’s back, and had the help of Keelin O’Shea to deal with the wound afterward.
“’Twould be good for him to see you,” Sir Roger nudged.
Marcus gave a quick nod and headed toward the cottage. He ducked under the lintel and stood still by the doorway watching Keelin O’Shea gently mop his cousin’s brow with a wet cloth. Sitting on a stool next to the bed, she spoke softly to him as she ran the cloth over his forehead and cheeks, smoothing the boy’s hair back. Adam seemed completely relaxed.
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.”
Chapter Three
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.
