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!”
“S
o 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.
’Twas his place to sit at Adam’s bedside for the night, but he was loath to return to the close quarters of the cottage. Spending the night with Keelin O’Shea—
He blushed with the very thought, even though there was nothing in it.
Marcus cursed silently. He was earl now, and it was time he took control of his ridiculous shyness whenever he was near a woman. Somehow, he had managed to speak coherently to Keelin O’Shea today. He could do it again.
He ought to be able to do it again.
Marcus heard the quiet voices of the men in camp, the horses nickering, the fire crackling. The sky was black and without stars. Rain tomorrow, he thought, knowing he was putting off the inevitable.
Finally, he picked up his saddle pack, gathered up his blankets, and his courage, and headed for the cottage.
Keelin gave Adam a draught of her precious valerian, then sat at the young boy’s bedside, watching over him as he drifted off to sleep. It was serene and peaceful in the little cottage, with her uncle’s quiet snores brushing softly over the silence. She could hear men’s voices outside, and knew there’d been no confrontation with the riders.
Marcus would soon return. She sensed no need to fear him, aware that he preferred to keep his distance from her. She did not blame him for despising her race—after all, her people were responsible for so many undeserved deaths that day. She only wished…well, at the very least, she wished he wouldn’t shrink away from her so blatantly.
The sudden presence of Marcus de Grant made Keelin realize how very alone she’d felt these last few years. Sure, she’d had Uncle Tiarnan all along, but it wasn’t the same as having her peers about. And it was not at all the same as having a man like Marcus de Grant.
Not that she had him, exactly. But Keelin had never felt so alive as she had when he’d held her in his arms.
To be sure, he’d carried her only because he was a man who understood chivalry, and she’d been as unsteady as a leaf in the autumn wind. Keelin knew she could expect nothing more from him than mere civility. Yet his very masculine touch, and his concern for her well-being touched something deep inside her, arousing feelings and sensations Keelin had never experienced before.
It made her yearn for something she could not have—or perhaps she would have it, she thought hopefully—once she returned to Ireland and learned what plans her father had made for her before his death.
In the flickering light from the hearth, Keelin unpacked her comb and a shawl. She loosened the laces of her kirtle, then slipped it off, keeping on a linen under-kirtle. Wrapping herself up in the thick woolen wrap, Keelin was satisfied that she was decently covered for the moment when Marcus de Grant returned.
For years, Keelin had managed to keep the ache of loneliness at bay but now it threatened to overwhelm her. She’d taken care of Tiarnan, moved them when the need arose, gathered food, bartered for goods in towns and villages, and kept as isolated as possible to avoid the Mageean mercenaries.
Never once had she allowed herself to think of what might have been, of the marriage her father had arranged for her, or the children she would already have borne. To think now of the years lost was too painful to bear.
She promised herself she would not succumb to tears now, not when her duty was so clear. She had Tiarnan and Adam to care for, and plans to make and packing to be done. There was no time to wallow in any foolish self-pity.
Marcus ducked to enter the cottage and found all was nearly as it had been when he’
d left. The only difference was that now, he and Lady Keelin were essentially alone. No other knight guarded Adam, and the old uncle was asleep.
And the lady was missing a layer of clothes.
The scent of herbs filled the place, and the fire was warm. Lady Keelin looked soft and sleepy, with her dark hair flowing loosely about her shoulders. Her manner was subdued, quiet. There was an essential sadness about her that he had not marked before.
Marcus handed the blankets to her, fumbling awkwardly when their hands met.
“M’lord?” she whispered.
“You can make up a pallet by the fire,” he explained, faltering when he looked into her deep-green eyes, thickly framed by dark lashes. “I—I’ll sit up with Adam.”
Keelin took the blankets. “All is well, then?” she asked softly. “The riders posed no threat?”
Marcus shook his head somberly, concerned about the suspicious brightness in Lady Keelin’s eyes. Not tears, he hoped. “Just Kirkham’s men returned from chasing Celts.”
“And…did they find any?”
“I’ve been assured that we will encounter no more of your countrymen.” Marcus sat down next to Adam’s bed. He did not see Keelin wince at the word. “How’s the lad?”
“I gave him a tonic t’ help him sleep,” she replied.
Marcus touched Adam’s brow. “There is no fever.”
Keelin agreed, but did not state what was obvious to both of them. Fever would come later. Discouraged, Marcus brushed Adam’s hair from his forehead. Life was so fragile, he thought, as the enormity of his loss became more real than it had been all day. His father lay lifeless outside, beneath a shroud on the hard, cold earth. If he lost Adam, too…
No. Marcus could not bear to dwell on that possibility. The day had been full of too much pain already.
He ran one hand across his face, then looked up as Lady Keelin spread a blanket on the hard earthen floor. She sat down upon it, arranging her legs modestly beneath her, then took a comb and ran it through her long, dark tresses.
More than willing to be distracted from his dismal thoughts, Marcus sat mesmerized, watching as the stiff tines caressed her scalp, then crackled through the dark silk of her hair. He could practically feel her soft locks caress his skin, and his body tensed in reaction to the sensations conjured by his mind. She was fully covered, but in her long-sleeved undershift covered by a simple woolen shawl, Keelin O’Shea seemed all but naked.
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