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 t
he 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.”
“Lady Keelin told me that the Marquis Kirkham took Uncle Eldred to Wrexton.”
Marcus nodded as he put his hand on Adam’s forehead. The boy was hotter than before. He looked over at Keelin, who nodded slightly. Fever.
“Will we go to Wrexton for the requiem?” Adam asked.
“We’ll try, Adam,” Marcus replied. “For now, just concentrate on getting well.”
The boy acquiesced and lay quietly as Lady Keelin got up and went to the hearth. Here, she picked up a long wooden spoon and stirred the steaming contents of the cookpot. “How many of your men are left here, m’lord?” Keelin asked quietly.
Marcus stifled a yawn. The last twenty-four hours had taken their toll. When Nicholas Hawken left, he’d taken most of the Wrexton men with him. Marcus and the remaining men made a thorough search of the surrounding area, making certain that no enemies or other intruders were near. “Four, in addition to these men,” he replied, indicating the two on pallets near the fire. “They’re keeping watch.”
“You must be weary, m’lord,” Keelin said, “after the night ye had. There’s room enough for ye to stretch out your blankets here and rest awhile.”
Marcus blushed at the mention of the night he’d had. He thought there was a brighter tinge of pink on Lady Keelin’s face, too, and wondered what she thought of the whole incident. He hadn’t heard any description of the vision she’d seen before her collapse, nor had either of them discussed the fact that they’d spent the night entwined in each other’s arms. As though by not speaking of it, it hadn’t happened.
There was, however, no doubt in Marcus’s mind that it had very much happened.
He took a pair of blankets from the table and settled himself down by Adam’s bed. Too weary to think any more on it, he fell quickly asleep.
“Keely lass,” Tiarnan said, “sit yerself down half a minute and have a talk with yer old uncle.”
Keelin glanced around the cottage and saw that everyone except Tiarnan was dozing. She could put it off no longer. She pulled a stool up next to Tiarnan’s bed and told him all she’d seen when the vision overtook her.
Marcus opened his eyes to the sound of a fierce wind lashing around the cottage. Surprisingly, it remained snug and warm inside. He sat up, wondering how long he’d slept. The men outside needed to be relieved of their watch and a chance to come in and warm themselves.
He watched as Lady Keelin knelt beside one of the knights and wrapped a clean length of cloth around his shoulder wound. She spoke quietly to him, reassuring the man that the wound was clean and he’d not lose the arm to putrefaction. She was gentle and kind with the knight, and fully aware of his worries. She bolstered his spirits with her smiles and kind words.
Then she turned to the other fellow who lay in front of the fire and wiped his brow with a cloth from the water bowl next to him. Her kirtle molded to her breasts as she moved, and Marcus could practically feel her long, graceful fingers as they moved along the knight’s skin.
His mouth went dry.
Keelin leaned over to wet the cloth again, and stopped short. Her body jerked suddenly, as if she’d been hit from behind. Then her eyes darkened, and she knelt unmoving, her attention concentrated on some unseen thing.
An instant later, she was in motion again. She got up from her knees and began to rearrange things, making more free space before the fire. Then she helped one of the wounded men to shift one side.
“What is it, Lady Keelin?” the fellow asked.
“Oh, ’tis nothin’,” she said. “Just makin’ a wee bit more room for…for…”
Marcus cleared his throat just then, and got to his feet.
“Oh, Lord Marcus,” Keelin said, stepping carefully through the cottage to reach him. She put one hand on his arm. “I’m afraid there’s to be more bad news….” She spoke so quietly that the other occupants of the cottage would not hear.
He looked at her skeptically.
“One of yer men has been thrown from his horse,” she said, her brow furrowing with concentration. “He’s hurt…I’m not sure…I think he’s…” She shook her head. “Two men are carryin’ him even now toward the cottage. They could use more help—”
Suddenly, voices were audible outside the cottage and Marcus turned and pulled open the door. Just as Keelin had said, Sir Edward was being carried between two men, his left leg hanging limp between them.
A shudder ran through Marcus that had nothing at all to do with the frigid air and freezing rain that blew inside. He turned and gazed at Keelin with perplexed, narrowed eyes.
“Here,” Keelin said, quickly turning away from the look Marcus gave her. She felt as if she’d been struck. “Put him down here near the fire.”
The injured man groaned with pain as the two knights eased him down to the floor by the fire. “His horse slipped, my lord,” one of the knights explained. “The ground is
icy in spots and with the rain coming down in sheets it’s difficult to see.”
“His leg’s broken,” the other knight said.
Marcus used his knife to cut away the man’s hose and occupied himself looking at the leg while Keelin mixed one of her powders into water. How could she have known? It was impossible, yet he had not imagined the way she’d been physically struck by the premonition. Nor could he forget the words she’d said just before the three men had come into the cottage.
Keelin took the mug to Edward and held it to his lips, helping him drink. “’Tis but a wee bit of valerian to ease the pain and help ye to relax while the bone is set,” she said. “’Twill make it easier. On all of us.”
She helped him to lie back, then knelt opposite Marcus. “We’ll be needin’ two splints,” she said to the men. “There’s wood behind the cottage near the mule wain,” she added. “Somethin’ back there’s bound to work.”
Sir Edward groaned when Keelin ran her hands along his leg. To Marcus, she seemed to have the gentlest touch, though his mind was still spinning with what he’d just witnessed. How could he trust anything he saw or heard anymore?
“Have ye any leather strips, m’lord?” she asked, looking up at him.
Marcus gathered his wits and replied in the affirmative.
With help, Keelin had set Edward’s leg. Then she managed to get him to eat some of the hot stew. The other men would remain inside now, even though it was close quarters. There would be no intruders on the prowl in this weather, no good reason to keep men out in the cold and wet.
Marcus had to get out, though, to get some air. He needed to gain some distance between himself and Keelin O’Shea. He pulled a warm woolen tunic over his linen shirt, and quickly dug his cloak out of his pack.
“Marcus?” Adam asked.
“Yes, Adam,” Marcus replied, ashamed that he’d considered skulking out without speaking to the boy who had been awakened by Edward’s groans of pain.
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