Celtic Bride

by Margo Maguire

  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

  MARGO MAGUIRE

  Celtic Bride

  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.

  Contents

  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

  Prologue

  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.

  Loss of the spear would mean devastation for the O’Sheas. And Ruairc Mageean, the sworn enemy of Clann Ui Sheaghda, intended to have it.

  Every time Keelin touched Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she felt the magic of the spear. Its ancient power surrounded her and swept her into a cloud of sensations, each one stronger than the
last, making her intuitive abilities wildly acute, but draining her of her strength.

  ’Twas her burden, as well as her honor, to be gifted with the ability to use the spear.

  Drawing forth all her powers of concentration, Keelin sat down on a bed of pine needles and drew Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh from its sheath.

  Chapter One

  South of Chester, England

  Early winter, 1428

  The thick branches of the forest formed a pleasant canopy, high overhead. Dusty beams of sunlight slanted through the barren branches, lighting the dark recesses of the wood. It was late afternoon, and the riders pressed on, anxious to make Wrexton Castle before dark. Marcus de Grant rode alongside his father, tensing as Eldred once again brought up the only subject that could make Marcus tremble.

  Marriage.

  “There was a bounty of charming, young, marriageable ladies at Haverston Castle, Marcus,” Eldred de Grant said.

  “Father—”

  “I am growing no younger, my son, nor are you,” Eldred continued steadily. “One day you will be Earl of Wrexton in my stead, and I would wish for you to have a helpmate, a companion…a wife. A worthy woman such as your own mother, my Rhianwen.”

  That was Marcus’s own wish, as well, but he had yet to meet a woman with whom he was at his ease. Except for the wives of a few friends, Marcus found himself tongue-tied and clumsy around women. It was especially true with the young ladies of noble birth, those lovely, preening birds in their velvets and silks, with their maids and servants, their pouting lips, their softly curving bodies and their illogical demands.

  They were all so fragile, so delicate. So mysterious. Marcus was a soldier, not a courtier, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to court a woman. And with his burly build and superior strength, he worried that a mere touch of his clumsy hands could hurt them.

  “A wife, Uncle Eldred?” Marcus’s young cousin asked indignantly, riding up alongside his elders. The brash eleven-year-old, Adam Fayrchild, had been orphaned several years before, and Eldred, a man generous and kind to a fault, had taken him in, though their kinship was distant at best. “What need have we of a wife at Wrexton? All is in order, is it not? We have Cousin Isolda, as well as cooks and footmen and maids and—”

  “A man has need of heirs, young Adam,” Eldred said with a chuckle. “One day you’ll understand when you find your Eve.”

  “Find my what?” he asked, as his freckled nose crinkled, clearly not understanding the earl’s jest. “There was not one girl at Haverston, Uncle, whom I could endure for a single day, much less a whole month, or a year!”

  Marcus smiled, though Adam’s words made him aware of the deep loneliness he felt within his heart. Certainly he shared a warm closeness with his father, and he’d learned to treasure his precocious young cousin as well. But there was an emptiness inside that he’d felt acutely during the marriage festivities at Haverston Castle. More and more of his friends were wed now, and many of the young couples shared a bond that Marcus could only begin to fathom.

  And until he somehow managed to get over his terrible shyness with women, he could only look forward to a lifetime spent alone. Marcus knew he was not unpleasant to look upon, but women wanted to be charmed. They wanted to be—

  A wild cry from above, followed by a cacophony of barbarous calls, startled Marcus. Bearded barbarians dropped from the trees all around them, with swords and spears drawn. Marcus’s warhorse, long unaccustomed to the scent of blood and the fierce clang of iron, reared under him as the Wrexton travelers came under attack by these Celtic warriors. The entire Wrexton party was thrown into confusion, and several men were wounded before they were able to regain control of their mounts and draw their weapons.

  The Wrexton men were vastly outnumbered, and struggled desperately to wage battle against their strangely clad, barbaric foes. Swords and spears clashed all around, and Marcus watched with horror as his father was thrown from his horse, and set upon by the savage, foreign warriors who attacked them.

  No! Marcus’s heart cried out. Eldred de Grant was too strong, too vital to be cut down so heinously. It was impossible for Marcus to imagine a life without his father, a good and just man. He could not be dead!

  “Marcus! Your father!” Adam shouted. The young boy had used good sense so far, keeping himself behind Marcus and out of the fray, but the attackers came from all sides. The Wrexton knights were surrounded.

  Blindly, Marcus dismounted, grabbed Adam and stashed him in the safest place he could find, in the hollow of an old, felled tree. Then he hacked and slashed his way toward his father’s unmoving body.

  “My lord! Behind you!” one of the men called out before Marcus was able to reach Eldred. Marcus whirled and dealt with the fierce, red-haired attacker, dispatching him quickly. Another bearded warrior replaced the first, and Marcus gritted his teeth and continued the battle as the fight went on all around him.

  Wrexton men continued to fall as Marcus battled, and he could see no end to it, no way to get to his father. Even so, the young lord had no intention of giving up. He would fight to the death wielding his own lethal broadsword until he cut down as many of these fierce warriors as was humanly possible.

  “My lord! There are riders coming!” one of the men shouted.

  “They’re Englishmen!”

  “It’s Marquis Kirkham and his men!”

  The barbarians became aware of the English reinforcements, and mounted a hasty retreat as the newly arrived knights gave chase.

  When Marcus was free of his last opponent, he hurried to his father’s side, where one of the men had dragged him away from the battle. A glimmer of hope surfaced in Marcus’s heart as he saw movement in his father’s eyes. Marcus knelt beside the older man and took his hand.

  “My son,” Eldred whispered.

  Marcus could not speak. His throat was thick, his tongue paralyzed, and his vision oddly blurred as he noted the severity of Eldred’s wounds.

  “Temper your grief…in my demise…Marcus,” Eldred gasped. “I go now…to join your mother. Know now….that I could not have had…more pride in a son…than I have in you….”

  Eldred took his final breath, then commended his soul to heaven.

  All was silent. Not one bird chirped, nor a leaf rustled in the still air.

  The knights standing ’round knelt and crossed themselves, and gave words of sorrow and condolence to Marcus. The new lord of Wrexton barely heard their words. Only a few short moments before, he and his father had been engaged in their familiar discussion of Marcus’s unmarried state. How could all have changed so suddenly? How was it possible that Eldred was gone?

  “My lord!” a voice in the distance called. “Quickly!” Marcus turned to see one of his men standing beside the thick, fallen oak where he’d hidden Adam. Dread crept up his spine as he stood and crossed the span.

  Either the boy had crawled out of his hiding place, or he’d been dragged out. ’Twas no matter now, though, for the boy lay still upon the deep green moss, with an arrow protruding grotesquely from his back.

  Marcus crouched next to him. Never had Adam seemed quite so small, never so vulnerable. “He’s breathing,” Marcus said.

  “Aye, my lord,” Sir Robert Barry said, “but if we pull the arrow out, he’ll likely bleed to death.”

  “’Twill be hours before we reach Wrexton!” Sir William Cole retorted. “He’ll die for certain if—”

  “There is a small cottage nearby, if I remember aright. Down that hill, next to a brook,” Marcus said grimly. He looked up at the men of his party. “I will carry him,” he said as he carefully picked the boy up into his arms. “Bring my father.”

  “Be at ease, Uncle,” Keelin O’Shea said quietly to her uncle Tiarnan as she lay a gentle hand on his pale brow. His coughing spells were steadily improving, but they still rattled the old man terribly. “I will protect the holy spear. No Mageean hand will ever be touchin’ Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.”

  Worry weighed heavily in Keelin�
�s breast. She was shaken and weakened by the sights she’d seen early that morning, and knew ’twas time to move on again. She and Tiarnan could not stay when the Mageean warriors were so close.

  It seemed so long since they’d fled Ireland, running from the ruthless mercenaries who had killed her father. Keelin renewed her determination to stay clear of them. She knew that to lose the ancient spear would mean her clan’s loss of its right to rule, and allow the ascendancy of the cruel and implacable chieftain of Clan Mageean.

  Keelin would never let that happen. She had witnessed Ruairc Mageean’s barbarity once too often to allow it.

  In order to elude Ruairc’s men, and keep Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh safe for her clan, she and Tiarnan had uprooted themselves and moved four times in the years since their flight to England. But wherever they made their home, true security eluded them. Ruairc Mageean’s warriors were never far away.

  ’Twas only Keelin’s strange powers of intuition that kept them two shakes ahead of the mercenaries.

  “Here, Uncle Tiarnan,” she said, lifting the man’s head and tipping an earthen mug to his lips. “Have a wee sip.”

  “Ah, lass,” Tiarnan rasped, “Go rest yerself. Ye touched the spear this mornin’ and I know what a strain that puts on ye.”

  “I’m fit enough,” she said, lying. She was weak and shaky still, hours after she’d seen the sights. But she would not let Tiarnan know, for he fretted too much over her as it was.

  “Ye must tell me what ye saw.” His poor eyes, opaque now with age, turned blindly toward his young niece, though in his mind’s eye, he could still see her fresh beauty. Cream-white skin like her mother’s, with a slight blush of roses upon her cheeks. Eyes as green as the fields of home and hair as black and silky as the deepest night. Keelin’s was not a fragile beauty, for she was tall, as tall as most men. And she’d grown into a strong and hardy lass.

  His poor Keelin had no way of knowing that Ruairc Mageean wanted more than the spear. The scoundrel intended to take Keelin O’Shea herself when he stole Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, and make her his concubine. Aye, the fiend had lusted after the girl since he’d first seen her, back when she was all gangly legs and big green eyes.