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Marcus had never heard such a far-fetched tale. Yet he knew there were strange things in the world, things he had not personally experienced. There could very well be an ancient, magical spear that possessed some unexplained power, a power that Keelin somehow used.
He pulled Keelin closer into his embrace, as if to protect her from further harm. She was not as cold now, but her body was trembling. Tight coils of desire wrapped around him even now, as she lay unconscious in his arms.
Was it witchery? Or a blessing, as her uncle had said.
Marcus could see nothing but innocence now in Keelin’s delicate features, feel only vulnerability in her soft form as he cradled her under the blankets.
“She must have seen something momentous,” Tiarnan mused.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well…’tis not so easy a thing to explain,” the old man said. He rubbed his chin and chewed his lower lip. “In all the years since Keelin’s been me own true responsibility, only twice before has she been benumbed by a vision she’s seen without the aid of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.”
“Benumbed?”
“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “Made senseless. As ye see her now.”
Marcus nodded as he shifted Keelin in his arms.
“The first time was when the lass was a mere child,” he said, “and her brother was drowned.”
Marcus cringed. “What happened?”
“Aw, it pains me fiercely to recall the day when Brian O’Shea died,” Tiarnan said. “’Twas early spring. As elegant a day as we’d seen in many a week, with the sun burnin’ high and new greenery shootin’ up all around. Keely and I were within the walls Carrauntoohil Keep, with me at me work, and the lass playin’ with her rag babe.
“Most of the able-bodied men went out to hunt early that day, and the lads were left with more time than sense. They left Carrauntoohil and went to the river, swollen by then with the spring floods, and rushing faster than any of them realized.”
Marcus listened as Tiarnan O’Shea described the sudden pallor that had come over Keelin, then the violent shaking and unintelligible speech. Then the girl had lost consciousness, only to weep uncontrollably when she was finally roused.
“She’d seen Brian’s death,” Tiarnan said. “The vision had come upon her without warning, without so much as a touch of the spear.”
“And this had never happened before?”
“Nay,” the man said. “Not even to her mother. But Keelin’s gift is strong. None before her ever had the same clarity of visions that Keelin experiences.
“She saw as clearly as the lads who were there—poor Brian as he fell from the boat, tumbling into the rocky passage….”
Marcus was appalled at the thought of the child Keelin witnessing such a thing, but Tiarnan went on.
“’Twas death again that took hold of her…when her father, Eocaidh, was slain by Ruairc Mageean.”
“And you believe it’s happened again? That she’s seen another death?”
“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “Without touchin’ the spear, the lass senses things. She has premonitions. But when she actually holds it in her hands, there are visions. Colorful. Vivid.”
Marcus made no reply. He gazed down at the limp figure in his arms and tried to imagine how Satan could possibly do his evil work through Keelin and her visions. No answer came to him.
“If ye would be so good as to keep her warm, lad,” Tiarnan said, “just till the worst of it passes…”
Marcus had plenty of heat to spare. He glanced up at Adam, who lay still in the bed, and then slid down to make himself more comfortable with Keelin. He enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth, and waited.
Keelin regained full consciousness at dawn. She’d had moments of awareness through the night, when Lord Marcus rubbed her back and her shoulders and whispered quiet, soothing words to her, but she had been unable to respond.
Her mind was still muddled, and she could not piece together all of the events of the previous day, nor did she know how she’d come to be resting in the arms of Marcus de Grant.
He still held her close, though Keelin believed he dozed. His chest, pressed against her own, moved deeply and regularly. His strong arms still embraced her, though loosely, and Keelin, fully aware now, relished the feeling of security they brought.
Her face was eye level with the hollow where his neck met his chest, and the small hairs of his chest tickled her nose. Without thinking, Keelin burrowed her face in.
“Umm…” Marcus grunted. His arms tightened around her.
Keelin shivered, not from cold, but from an altogether strange sensation, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Oddly compelled, she moved against him, eliciting another groan. Marcus’s muscles flexed against her, and one of his hands made circles on her back, pulling her closer to him. She knew he was not quite awake as she breathed in the scent of him. The smell of fresh river water, his chain hauberk, his linen, and something altogether different…something that was distinctly…Marcus.
Her body felt every inch of his where they touched, and she had the inexplicable urge to taste him. Her mouth was a mere breath away from his chest and she could easily—
Shocked by her own wanton whimsy, Keelin would never be so bold as to attempt such a thing. No matter how strong the impulse.
She sensed the moment when he came fully awake. His body tensed and he pulled slightly away from her.
“Ah, you’re awake, then?” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat as he spoke.
Keelin nodded. It was still unclear how she’d come to be lying among these thick woolen blankets in Marcus de Grant’s arms. She remembered parts of the previous evening, Marcus’s hands working on the knot at her neck—his kiss, and the way her bones had seemed to melt….
Cormac!
Oh, dear God and all the saints, she suddenly remembered. Cormac O’Shea was slain! And the deed was done by Ruairc Mageean.
Keelin pushed herself up from their cozy nest and became dizzy with the sudden movement. She went back down on her knees.
“Easy,” Marcus said as he helped to lower her down.
“Keely lass?” Tiarnan questioned from his bed.
“Aye, Uncle,” she replied. She kept her head down. She could not bear to look up at Marcus and see the revulsion she knew he must feel. She remembered clearly now. He’d kissed her, and then she’d “gone to black” on him. What must he think of her?
“How are ye, now?” Tiarnan asked, propping himself up on one elbow and facing her as if he could see her.
“I’m all right, Uncle Tiarnan,” she answered as she moved to stand again. “The lad…is he…?”
“Still sleeping,” Marcus replied. “I checked him not long ago.”
“No bleedin’ from the wound?” Keelin asked, finally looking up at him. She did not see revulsion, but that could mean only one thing. That he had a rare gift for hiding his emotions.
“No,” Marcus replied to her question. “And there’s no fever yet, either. Whatever you gave him made him sleep soundly.”
“’Tis a blessing indeed,” Tiarnan interjected while Keelin studied Marcus surreptitiously.
She recalled how he pulled away from her as soon as he’d awakened, and knew how he must feel, having been forced to spend the night sharing his heat with an aberrant woman of questionable sanity. No man outside Clann Ui Sheaghda could possibly understand the “gift” that was passed from mother to daughter in her family for generations.
Keelin stepped away from Marcus and went to Adam’s bedside. She knew that Tiarnan was anxious to know what she’d seen, but the vision was still too raw to speak of those things. She would talk to him later, after her heart and mind settled down.
She lit a tallow candle and listened. Adam’s breathing was soft. There was no unhealthy sound or irregularity to it. His forehead was not hot when she touched it, but seemed to be of normal temperature. She pulled the blanket down and peeled the dressing away from the wound. It looked just as it had the day before.
As Keelin made a new paste of lady’s mantle and spread it over the wound, she heard sounds of the men outside rousing themselves. There were wounded men out there, too, she remembered, men whose injuries she should tend.
After viewing Adam’s wound, and seeing that all was well in hand, Marcus let himself out of the cottage and went out to the area where the men were camped. No changes there, so he went on to the river where he sat down with his back against an ancient willow.
He felt shaky this morn. ’Twas not so much from lack of sleep, but from hours of lying thigh to thigh, and breast to chest with Keelin O’Shea. The most alluring woman he’d ever met, she was the only one he’d ever slept with—and ’twas a far more intimate experience than the one shared with a harlot years before when he was with King Henry’s army in France.
They’d been camped at Troyes, just before King Henry signed the treaty that should have brought peace to the two countries. Marcus and all the rest of the English knights were jubilant. Victory was theirs. Henry would wed the daughter of the French king, and be made king of France upon Charles’s death.
The wine flowed, and women made their way into the victors’ camp. Marcus drank more than he ever had before, and more than he had since. And, he allowed himself to be seduced by a woman who wanted his coin.
Marcus had not been entirely naive. He’d spent a whole night learning what a woman expected of a lover, from a cocotte who did not particularly care for him, nor he for her. Though he had experienced a great deal of physical pleasure, he’d gone away with an intense emptiness inside. He had chosen not to share himself so cheaply again.
Until Keelin O’Shea, not that any sort of conjugal sharing with the Lady Keelin would be a cheap affair.
Chapter Five
Marcus sat at the river’s edge. He washed and shaved, just as he’d done every other morning of his adult life. But today there was a significant difference. Now, he was Earl of Wrexton. Eldred was dead.
A new wave of anguish swept over him. His father had always been solid as one of the ramparts of Wrexton Castle. Eldred and Marcus had been as close as a pair of friends, yet Eldred had clearly been Marcus’s mentor. They’d worked together to repair Wrexton—the castle as well as the estate—after the death of the last earl. They’d wrought wonderful changes and Wrexton was more prosperous than ever before.
Yet the holding had just lost its true master.
Marcus dropped his head into his hands and allowed the sorrow to flow through his soul. If only Adam hadn’t been injured as well, he thought, then this grief would not be quite so hard to bear. As it was, he did not know if Adam would survive. He did not know when he’d be able to return to Wrexton. Nor did he know if he would ever wear the mantle of earl as well as his father had done.
A soft footfall interrupted Marcus’s dismal thoughts. He got to his feet and turned to see Nicholas Hawken approaching on the path.
“’Twas a quiet night,” the marquis said.
It had been anything but quiet, but Marcus said nothing of the way he’d passed the hours. He still didn’t know what to make of it himself. Besides all else that troubled him, his blood still burned for the woman whose body had been pressed so close to his through the night, but he dared not pursue that chain of thought.
The two men walked together, surveying the area for signs of intruders. Celtic prowlers.
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone lurking about,” Marcus finally said. “No signs of a fire, no tracks.”
“My men must have gotten all of those rotters,” he said. “All but the one who doubled back here yesterday.”
Marcus shrugged. ’Twas often how it went in battle. Amid the confusion of battle, one man could slip away with ease. Certainly that was how the lone Celt had managed to elude Hawken’s men.
A chill wind blasted through the trees. Marcus glanced up and saw heavy low clouds in the distant sky. ’Twould begin raining soon. Perhaps a freezing rain, for it had turned so much colder during the night.
Talk around Wrexton town was that they were in for a particularly harsh winter. ’Twas the reason Eldred had gotten his party on the road so soon after the wedding at Haverston Castle, rather than staying for the lengthy festivities planned by Lord Haverston. Eldred dreaded getting caught away from home in an early storm.
Eyeing the ominous clouds above him, Marcus wondered how long the poor weather would last and whether or not it would interfere with their return to Wrexton.
“Marcus,” Hawken said. He bent his head and folded his hands behind his back as he spoke. “My men and I will be heading back to Kirkham today. We can easily go by way of Wrexton. I would be honored to carry your father…and the others…home if you wish.”
Marcus was astonished by Nicholas’s offer. The man was usually rude and crass, with little consideration of aught but his own amusement. Yet Marcus knew the man was plagued by his own inner demons which drove him to excesses.
His offer was well-timed. Marcus realized it might not be possible for him to escort his father’s body as he’d intended. Better, perhaps, to get Eldred transported within Wrexton’s walls and go on with the solemn requiem even if Marcus became waylaid.
“I appreciate your offer, Nicholas,” Marcus said. “Perhaps ’twould be better if you carried my father home.”
Nicholas glanced at the sky and Marcus could read the other man’s thoughts. He’d have to hurry in order to stay ahead of the storm.
The two men walked back to the riverbank where Marcus had left his leather pack, and found two of his men gathering reeds and rushes in large burlap bags.
“What are you two about?” Nicholas asked.
“Lady Keelin bade us collect stuffing to make pallets for the wounded men,” one of the men replied.
“She said it’s too cold and damp for them to remain in tents,” the other said, “and she’d rather have them indoors where it’s warm and dry, where she can tend them.”
Nicholas but raised an eyebrow, then headed up the path to where his men were camped.
“Move his bed here,” Lady Keelin said to the men who’d come in to help rearrange the cottage. The weather had turned cold, and a piercing rain had begun to fall, so she’d made up pallets for the two wounded Wrexton men and had them brought inside where they’d be warm and relatively comfortable.
She had not seen Lord Marcus since he’d left the cottage much earlier, nor had she spoken yet to Tiarnan about the devastating sights she’d seen the previous night.
She sighed. He would not allow her to avoid him forever.
While organizing the cottage so there’d be room for the men, she pondered her moments under the blankets with Lord Marcus, dwelling on the strange sensations caused by his close proximity, by his scent and by the touch of his big hands stroking her back. She’d never experienced anything so exhilarating, and at the same time, confusing.
She was strongly attracted to the young man, but Keelin knew her destiny was in Ireland. Not only was she betrothed to the man her father had chosen for her in Kerry, but after seeing Cormac’s fate in the vision, Keelin knew she had no choice but to return to Carrauntoohil. Whoever became chieftain would have desperate need of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, in order to prevail over Mageean.
Keelin renewed her vow to see Tiarnan settled at Wrexton Castle, then somehow get herself across the Irish Sea before the snows began. She would ignore the confusing feelings and sensations that coursed through her whenever Marcus de Grant was near.
’Twas time to return home to see what could be done about Mageean.
The cottage should have smelled like an infirmary. Instead, the pleasing aroma of herbs and spices met Marcus’s nose as he entered the hut. A kettle of stew simmered over the fire, and men slept on soft, stuffed pallets near the hearth.
Old Tiarnan was awake and propped up somehow, and Keelin sat next to Adam, speaking quietly to the boy.
She wore the green kirtle again, laced tightly against a narrow waist and full, high breasts. The linen under-kirtle, with which Marcus was so familiar by now, was visible above the low neck of the green wool, and her fine white skin showed above that. Delicate bones slashed across both sides of her shoulders. She was exquisite.
“Oh, aye,” Keelin said, after halting a moment when Marcus entered, “’twill be a mighty warrior’s scar. And if ever yer tunic’s raised, all who see your back will know you’ve seen battle.”
“Who is come?” Adam asked weakly.
“’Tis Lord Marcus,” Keelin replied, “come to see how ye fare.”
“How do you fare, lad?”
“Lady Keelin says I am perfect, Marcus,” Adam replied weakly. “She said I am stronger and braver than any lad in Carrauntoohil—that’s her village in Ireland.”
“I daresay the lady is correct,” Marcus replied. “Though I don’t know the lads of…Carrauntoohil.”
