“Where are you going?”
He bent toward the boy. “I’m just—just going outside to have a look around. To see that the horses are secure.” He patted the boy’s head and let himself out.
The Wrexton knights had extended the mule’s shelter with canvas from their tents, and the horses were tethered there, out of the worst of the rain.
There’d been no signs of interlopers, and Marcus thought it unlikely that the Celts would be wild enough to attempt travel in this weather. Even the animals of the forest sought shelter when it was this foul.
Marcus trained his thoughts on “normal” things. The horses, the weather, the provisions. He hoped Nicholas Hawken managed to stay ahead of the storm. He wondered if the bishop of Chester had left for Wrexton yet, or if the storm had held him up.
Mayhap he should ask Lady Keelin.
Damnation!
He could not avoid thinking of it any longer. What Tiarnan had said about Keelin’s uncanny ability was true. She had premonitions, and they were accurate.
What sorcery was this? Or was it sorcery at all? Could Keelin’s power be a blessing, as Tiarnan had claimed? Was it a gift from God, or was she cursed?
Marcus had seen nothing to indicate bedevilment. Nothing in any of Keelin’s actions smacked of witchery. She had been caring and kind with Adam and the wounded men, then had gone so far as to make the sign of the cross before attempting to set Edward’s leg bone. Would a woman who was an instrument of the devil do such a thing?
Marcus did not know what to think.
One thing was certain. His reaction to her was anything but commonplace. She had somehow managed to enthrall him quickly and completely. But how had she done this, if not by sorcery? Why was he unable to remember the faces of any of the young women at the wedding he’d just attended? Surely his memory was not so poor that he’d forget them in the course of a day. And how had she contrived to make it possible for him to speak to her without stammering? To touch her? Kiss her, even, and hold her body close to his through the night?
He still felt her presence acutely—a few minutes ago, he’d felt as if he were smothering in the close quarters of the cottage. He’d had to get out of there, to get away from her.
Marcus disliked the idea of bewitchment, but there was no reasonable, rational explanation for his wild attraction to the lovely black-haired lady who, even now, carefully tended his men’s ills.
“Ye realize, of course,” Tiarnan said, “I won’t be goin’ back with ye.”
“Back? To Ireland?” Keelin asked as she spooned more stew into her uncle’s bowl. Lord Marcus’s men lined the floor, wrapped in blankets. Some were dozing, some sleeping deeply. Snoring. Keelin kept glancing toward the door, expecting Marcus to come through at any time.
Expecting to see disgust and distrust in his eyes.
“Aye,” he replied. “Even the distance to Wrexton Castle may be too far for an old wreck like me.”
“There’ll be no more talk of leavin’ ye behind, Uncle.”
“Keely lass, ye must be reasonable about—”
“Nay,” she said. “There’s nothin’ reasonable about leavin’ ye here alone to fend for yourself.”
“Keelin—”
“Besides, I’ve a feelin’ about Wrexton. And you.”
“Oh?” Tiarnan asked, curious about Keelin’s “feeling.”
“’Tis only an inklin’, mind you,” Keelin said, her eyes losing their focus and turning inward, “but I see contentment for ye at Wrexton. A lovely, wee garden…with a stone bench. Sunshine…and you, Uncle. Ye’re sittin’ on that bench and it’s springtime. All the green things are the tiniest shoots….”
Tiarnan lay back and closed his eyes on the vision Keelin presented him. ’Twas enough to give him the hope he needed to go on.
Night fell, and Marcus de Grant did not return. Keelin wrapped up in a blanket and made herself comfortable against the wall near Adam’s bed, in case he should need her. She was weary after a long day of tending the wounded and injured men, but unable to sleep.
Marcus did not return until well into the night. Rather than having to withstand his scorn once again, Keelin feigned sleep, keeping her breathing steady and even so that he would not discover her wakeful state. She watched as he pulled off his sodden cloak and hung it on a peg by the fire. Keelin knew his tunic had to be wet, too, but Marcus left it on as he stepped back to Adam’s pallet and checked on the boy.
Apparently satisfied to find Adam sleeping soundly and his fever no worse, Marcus removed his woolen tunic and the linen he wore underneath. He took a cloth from his pack, then made his way through the men to stand by the fire, drying himself.
Keelin watched as Lord Marcus bent over the kettle that hung in the fireplace, then found a bowl and spoon, and ladled a serving of the stew that still simmered there. He pulled on a dry tunic, then crouched near the fire to eat.
To Keelin, he appeared as weary as she felt.
This is how it would be when she had her own husband, she thought. Her man would return late from his labors and find the food she’d left him. He would eat, then remove his clothes and crawl into bed with her. The movement of the bed, and mayhap the heat of his body, would wake her. Perchance he would even rouse her with a gentle touch, and then…
Would it be as wondrous as the feelings Marcus had roused in her the night before? Could the touch of any man kindle the wild sensations he’d wrought in her? This, Keelin would soon discover, for when she returned to Kerry, she had no doubt she would wed the man her father chose for her.
Tiarnan had always insisted he knew nothing of her intended bridegroom. Keelin suspected that was not quite true, but no amount of pestering had gotten her an answer to her query. She was still as ignorant as ever about the man her father intended for her.
There were several prosperous men around Carrauntoohil—any one of whom would be a suitable husband, Keelin thought. Though she could not imagine the caresses of any of them, she trusted that her father had chosen the best man for her. After all, the daughter of a mighty chieftain could not wed for love or mere attraction. ’Twas her duty to strengthen the clan, especially now that Cormac was dead.
Keelin wondered how her clan would survive now. Her vision had not shown her whether Mageean had taken over Carrauntoohil Keep, or if the Sheaghda clan had held him off.
Keelin sighed with frustration. For all that she’d seen in her vision the previous night, it had not been nearly enough. She could not keep from dwelling on Cormac’s death, and the questions regarding the fate of her clan. If only she could get back to Kerry now, and return Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh to her people, then Clann Ui Sheaghda might have a chance of withstanding another attack by Mageean.
Keelin knew her wish was unrealistic. She had to force herself to be patient. She did not know when they would leave for Wrexton, or how soon thereafter she’d be able to leave Tiarnan. No matter how desperately she strained to “see,” she could not force a vision. It had never worked that way.
Chapter Six
’Twas four days before the weather permitted Marcus and his entourage to leave Keelin O’Shea’s cottage in the woods.
In many ways, Marcus felt he’d miss the little house. It had been warm and snug against the cold, and the sharing of close quarters with his men would come to an end once they reached Wrexton Castle.
So would his proximity to Keelin O’Shea.
He had tried to keep his eyes off her, to keep his mind from returning to those moments when he’d held her. But countless times he found himself following her graceful movements as she cared for Adam and the men. More than once, she caught him watching her, and her lovely green eyes held his.
Heat permeated Marcus’s body in those moments and it was all he could do to keep from taking her outside to find a bit of privacy where he could mold his body to hers, and explore her mouth again with his own lips, his teeth and tongue.
Luckily for them both, the frigid rain never abated.
&nb
sp; On the fourth morning, when the sun finally broke through, Marcus decided it was their best opportunity to try to get to Wrexton. Normally, it would be only about a two-hour ride. But with the mule-wain and the wounded men, they’d be lucky to make it in four.
Lady Keelin packed her herbs into the trunk that held her belongings, and one of the men tied it to the back of the wain. She packed nothing that resembled a spear, though Marcus could not imagine Keelin leaving behind something so precious to her.
It was there somewhere.
“M’lord, will ye carry Adam to the wain?” Keelin asked when all was ready.
Marcus carefully lifted Adam from the pallet where he’d lain these past four days and carried the boy to the mule-wain. He knew it would be a rough ride, but Keelin had done all that was possible to make it comfortable for the injured child.
“Do you think we’ll be back for Uncle Eldred’s funeral?” Adam asked. Keelin had given him a draught of something that would make him drowsy throughout the ride, but he was still awake.
Marcus hugged the boy closer as he carried him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I sent Sir Roger on to Wrexton to tell them our plans. If the funeral has not yet been said, the bishop will await our arrival.”
Marcus placed the boy carefully into the wain alongside Tiarnan. The other wounded men, and Sir Edward, with his broken leg, occupied the rest of the space, leaving no room for Keelin. She had no choice but to ride one of the wounded knights’ horses.
The destrier was impossibly huge. Keelin did not know whether she would be able to mount the massive beast, much less ride him. She’d never done a lot of riding, and had not mounted a horse at all in the years since she’d come to England.
As they made ready to leave, Keelin stood eyeing the horse, oblivious to Marcus’s curious glance.
“Do you ride?” he asked, startling Keelin.
She turned slightly, keeping the horse in her sight, and replied, “A wee bit, back home. But it’s been several years.”
“If you, er…” Marcus turned and looked at the mule-wain as if to remind himself that there truly was no more room for Keelin. “If you are uncomfortable with…er…you could ride with me,” he finally said.
She would have liked nothing better than to ride within the security of his capable arms, but knew she could not. Not when he had taken such pains over the last few days to keep his distance.
She’d told herself repeatedly that it did not hurt. That his aversion to her made no difference.
“Thank you, m’lord,” she said quietly, ignoring the thickening in her throat. “If you’ll but give me a boost, I will ride this beast all the way to Wales if I must.”
Again, Marcus hesitated, and Keelin knew he was loath to touch her. She felt tears burn the backs of her eye sockets and turned away. Quickly gathering the reins in her hand Keelin led the horse to the stump where she’d sat when Marcus had tended the cut in her neck. She would mount this animal, she thought, and Marcus de Grant could keep his precious distance.
“My lady,” Marcus said, standing as big and bold as you please, in Keelin’s way.
“Please do not trouble yourself, m’lord,” she said. “I can manage this way.”
She saw him blush to the tips of his ears before she turned to step up on the stump. Then, before she knew what was happening, Marcus had her by the waist and was lifting her onto the destrier.
The air went out of her as she landed on the horse’s back, and Marcus handed the reins to her. “Can you…? Er, this saddle is—”
“’Twill serve,” she replied breathlessly, settling her legs on one side of the horse. “I thank you, m’lord.”
Marcus had never felt so exposed. Riding with a wain-load of wounded men, a woman who was ill at ease on horseback, and only two other capable knights, he kept one eye on the trail ahead and the other on the trees above. An attack by the Celts now would be fatal.
He and Roger had scoured the territory just after dawn and had found no signs of recent travelers in the area, so Marcus had deemed it safe to leave the cottage. The sooner he got Adam and the others to Wrexton, the better.
He had not forgotten the feel of Lady Keelin’s supple body beneath his hands as he’d lifted her onto her mount. Nor had he missed the ease and grace with which she moved, arranging herself sidesaddle, in the manner of a lady.
Though she was well covered now in her hooded cloak, Keelin had not worn a veil or wimple these last days, leaving her hair long and free, and visible to his appreciative eye. Marcus had never realized how sensual a woman’s hair was, or how his hands could itch with the desire to touch it.
Marcus knew he had to rein in these thoughts. Lady Keelin’s hair, her gentle hands and her appealing feminine form were not his concern. He had only to concentrate on getting them safely to Wrexton. When that was accomplished, he could mount his attack on the Celts who had killed his father.
He had considered using Lady Keelin and her uncle as bait to lure the Celts to Wrexton, but quickly realized that would not be necessary. As long as the Celts believed Keelin possessed the magic spear, they would continue to seek her.
They would eventually find her at Wrexton, and fall into Marcus’s trap.
Keelin would be fully protected. Whatever her connection to the spear, whether it be bewitchment or blessing, Marcus intended that she come to no harm with his plan. It was not up to him to judge her worth, or the state of her soul. He would provide shelter for her and the old Irishman, and when all was resolved, she would be free to go.
Keelin shifted in her saddle.
The ride was grueling, especially for one unaccustomed to it. Keelin could see that the men in the mule-wain were in pain, though Adam slept for most of the journey. Every time the wooden wheels of the wain went over a bump in the road, Sir Edward went white, and groaned in agony as the movement jarred his leg.
The sight of Wrexton Castle in the distance did not come too soon for any of them.
Much larger and grander than the Sheaghda stronghold at Carrauntoohil, Wrexton Keep stood solid and strong within its high curtain walls. A wide, swift-flowing river bordered one side of the castle wall, and a small village lay beyond. It was a welcoming place after hours of riding in the cold and damp.
As they approached the village, people came out of their homes and greeted Marcus, giving words of condolence and encouragement. He dismounted, directing the rest of his party to continue on through the castle gate, while he stayed to speak to the villagers.
Marcus reminded Keelin of her father just then, big and burly, with a commanding presence and a demeanor fit for a warrior king. She had seen a gentle side to Marcus—something her father had not possessed—but she knew it would be a mistake to think it meant he was soft.
Marcus de Grant could be as hard and unyielding as Eocaidh O’Shea.
They rode past several wooden buildings before reaching the keep, and Keelin observed everything she saw with a keen eye. Stables, barracks, storage huts and several low buildings she could not identify were laid out in the upper bailey, as well as a chapel and other sturdy timber structures in the lower bailey, nearer the keep.
She recognized Sir Roger as he approached, along with several of Wrexton’s other knights. Immediately, they set to moving the wounded men to the barracks, and carrying Adam to his quarters. As soon as Sir William had assisted Keelin from her horse, she helped Tiarnan from the wain, then took his arm and supported him as they slowly climbed the stone steps of the keep. Lame since birth, his gait was even more unsteady now with age and infirmity. Lack of sight did not improve matters, either.
“Sir William,” Keelin said, “where will my wain and mule be kept?”
“Why, my lady,” he replied with some surprise, “your mule will be stabled with the other mules—opposite the knights’ horses.”
“And…the wain?” she asked, not wanting to sound too anxious, but determined to know where she’d find Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh when she returned for it later.
She preferred to keep its existence secret and would not risk taking it out now, where anyone could see it.
“’Twill be stored with the other carts and wagons in yon low building next to the stable,” he replied. “But you needn’t worry—I’ll have men carry your trunk to your chamber as soon as the wounded men are settled.”
“My thanks, Sir Will,” Keelin said, satisfied that the man had taken her interest in the wain as concern over her belongings. When she found a suitable hiding place within her chamber in the keep, she would make her way to the storage shed and take Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.
“The place has a massive feel to it, lass,” Tiarnan said.
“Aye, you’ve got a good sense about you, Uncle. ’Tis massive,” she replied. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“Bigger than Carrauntoohil Keep is it?”
Keelin stole another look around as she reached the immense carved oak doors. “Aye,” she said. “And well-tended.” Then she added quietly, “The Wrexton lord must have wealth to spare.”
The oaken doors opened just then and Keelin was greeted by a young, well-dressed woman.
“Lady Keelin,” Sir Will said, tipping his head in the direction of the woman, “Lady Isolda Coule, chatelaine of Wrexton.”
Isolda greeted Keelin graciously, in spite of the plain introduction, and bid her to enter. Keelin wondered who Lady Isolda was—whether an impoverished relation of Marcus de Grant, or perhaps more…. A widowed sister? His betrothed?
“Chambers have been made ready for you and your uncle, my lady,” Isolda said as she led them through the great hall. Keelin was struck by Isolda’s proprietary air underneath her benevolent manner. “I will have refreshments sent up as soon as you are settled.”
“I thank ye,” Keelin replied. The subtle hostility in Isolda’s attitude should not have troubled her. It had no bearing on anything to do with Keelin. As soon as Tiarnan was settled, and Adam healed, she intended to leave Wrexton Castle and make her way west. She could only pray that, when she arrived at the coast, the weather would permit her crossing.
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