He was merely being kind.
Marcus took the cloth from her hand and repeated the motions he’d seen her perform just moments before. While Adam remained asleep through these ministrations, Keelin blew out most of the candles that illuminated the bed. Then she curled herself up in a big chair next to the hearth.
She looked soft and vulnerable and Marcus wanted nothing more than to pull her close and hold her until she slept. Instead, he ran the wet cloth down Adam’s legs again and concentrated his thoughts on his young cousin’s plight.
“You’ve got a gentle touch, m’lord,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
A shudder ran through Marcus with her words. “Hmm,” was all he said. He ran the cloth down Adam’s other leg.
She burrowed deeper into the cushions of the chair, unaware of Marcus’s discomfiture. “Would ye say ’twas unusual for a man of your size and strength to have the patience to tend the sick?”
Marcus cleared his throat. ’Twas unsettling to be the object of her perusal, though he had to admit ’twas pleasant in some odd way. There might even be a hint of admiration in her tone. “On the battlefield, we men tended each other when necessary.”
“Battlefield?” Keelin asked.
Marcus nodded. “I was with King Henry in France.”
“But King Henry’s been dead more than six years,” Keelin said. “Ye couldn’t have been more than a lad yourself then.”
Marcus shrugged. “I was barely twenty when he died.”
Keelin said, “What was it like? Bein’ in a foreign place and fightin’ fer your life, over land that’s of no consequence to ye?”
He hadn’t considered it much in the past few years, though it had occupied much of his thoughts when he was in the muddy trenches, wearing armor that was heavy and hot, eating rations that were maggoty as often as not. “’Twas not pleasant,” he said, “but you should know something of that. You’re here in England, and fighting for your life.”
“Ach, but not on the battlefield,” she countered. “There’re no warhorses neighin’, or swords clashin’ around me.”
“But there could have been—there could still be yet,” he said, and then regretted his words when she appeared stricken. “Rest easy, Lady Keelin,” he said quickly, “you’re safe here at Wrexton.”
He watched as she covered her dismay with a shrug. She was a proud one and didn’t care for being beholden to him. He could see that she was rankled by needing his protection now.
In truth, Marcus wasn’t sure she did need his protection.
Nevertheless, she had it for now, and her presence at Wrexton would bring the Celts.
“How did you learn the healing skills?” Marcus asked, turning the discussion from himself. He preferred to listen to her speak rather than being the topic of the conversation.
“From Uncle Tiarnan,” she replied. “He was my father’s elder brother, and would have been chieftain after their father, but he was born lame.”
“So he could never lead your clan in war.”
She nodded. “But he was my father’s most trusted advisor. When my mother died, Uncle Tiarnan took me under his wing. He taught me all he knew.”
“So Tiarnan is the healer.”
“Aye,” Keelin replied. “I’m merely his pupil.”
They were silent for a few moments while Marcus continued to sponge Adam. “He feels cooler now.”
Keelin got up from her chair and went to Adam’s head. She placed one hand under his arm, the other on his head. “I believe you’re right, m’lord,” she said, as a small smile teased her lips. “The bathing seems to have worked.”
Marcus watched her form the words, but did not hear. His attention was riveted on Keelin’s mouth and the perfect white teeth exposed by her smile. He could take comfort from a touch of those lips on his own, and momentarily escape the trials and demands of his circumstances.
They were mere inches away. He could smell spearmint on her breath, feel the heat of her body next to his. He lowered his head and saw her eyelids drift closed as she leaned toward him.
What is happening to me? he wondered as he suddenly straightened. He was not in a panic and ready to bolt, nor were his hands sweating. He had not stuttered once, but had carried on a more than passable conversation with her.
Bewitchment. It could be nothing else.
Keelin blushed and quickly stepped away.
“Mayhap I will find my bed, m’lord,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. “Send for me if he worsens and I’ll see if aught can be done.”
Chapter Eight
Keelin fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when she awoke, she felt more refreshed than she had in ages. Not since her early childhood, before Mageean had begun his onslaught, had she felt so safe. She knew she owed this utterly foreign sense of peace to the security of Wrexton Castle.
The other feelings—the restlessness and yearning—she owed to Marcus de Grant.
He’d been about to kiss her when he’d changed his mind and drawn away from her. She’d felt his breath on her lips, smelled his familiar masculine scent, and seen a yearning and desire in his eyes that matched her own.
Yet he’d pulled away.
She swallowed hard and turned over in her bed. There were many reasons for the man to have pulled away. For one, he was now an earl. And by the looks of things at Wrexton, he was a powerful man. Marcus would likely begin his search for a wife who would bring further wealth or political power to Wrexton. He would have no interest in a romantic entanglement with an Irish nobody.
Besides, this Irish nobody was responsible for Eldred de Grant’s death. And though Marcus denied holding her responsible, she knew he would always associate her presence in England with his father’s death. Her own father would have done so, as would any number of other warriors. Marcus would be no different.
And then there was Keelin’s gift. Even the people of her clan, those who had known her since infancy, had difficulty accepting her second sight. If not a gift from the very devil himself, then surely ’twas an ancient curse heaped upon her family by the Tuatha De Danaan—the ancestors of the little people.
And if the O’Sheas themselves were doubtful of her, why should she expect anything more of Marcus de Grant?
’Twas still quite early. Birds were chirping in the courtyard, but the sunrise was a cold and gray one. More rain to come, Keelin thought, dismissing the vestiges of wishful thinking from her mind.
Ready now to face the day, she threw off the warm, woolen blanket and stood in the chilly room. She washed and dressed, then slipped out quietly to check on Tiarnan.
One of Cook’s helpers came to sit with Adam, and since the boy was resting quietly, Marcus took the opportunity to get out of the child’s sickroom and stretch his legs. Instead of making a clean escape though, he found himself lingering near the stair, waiting.
He did not wait long, for the object of his interest soon appeared in the dim gallery. Keelin O’Shea closed her own door quietly and made her way to another—that of her uncle—and went inside.
Marcus did not intend to speak to Lady Keelin. Nay, he had no idea what he wanted to say to her, though he had every confidence that something would come to him. Words had come last night, just as they had during the days they’d been stuck in her cottage with Adam and the men.
Marcus just stood on the stair until she’d gone, waiting for the usual flush of uneasiness to appear as it always did when he was confronted with a beautiful woman. It did not happen. Not this time, or any other time he’d been with Keelin O’Shea. Not since that first day.
Leaving strict instructions with the servant, Marcus left Adam’s room and headed out to the mews. ’Twas there he would clear his mind. Gerald, Wrexton’s falconer, had gone off to break his fast, so there was no one to disturb Marcus’s quiet time with the birds.
The pungent odor of the mews assailed him as he entered the large room. He lit several lamps, then walked across the gravel to where his largest birds
, a pair of gyrfalcons, were perched.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Bit off your jesses again, Guinevere? And you, Cleo. Have you grown lazy in my absence?”
He stroked the birds and talked to them while he assessed the condition of their wings and talons. Gerald kept the birds—the entire mews—in excellent condition. He was one of the best falconers in all of England, and Marcus valued the man immensely.
He walked past peregrines, sparrow hawks and merlins, then looked over his goshawks before arriving at the perch where two prized nestlings were situated. They had recently been captured and brought to Wrexton. “A fine set of merlins, you are,” he said, crouching down to the perch. Marcus had no doubt that a buyer would appear, once they were trained to the glove.
However, he would leave the training of these two to Gerald. There were too many other demands on Marcus at this time, from his new responsibilities as earl, to the intensification of his knights’ training. They had to be well prepared when the Celtic mercenaries arrived.
Marcus had no idea how long it would take before the Celts discovered Keelin’s location. With luck, the weather would deter them for a time, but Marcus had several precautions in mind, in case they reached Wrexton sooner rather than later.
Adam’s fever was worse. The boy was drenched in sweat and groaning and muttering incoherently.
Luckily, Tiarnan seemed to have recovered from the previous day’s long journey, and was enjoying the comfort and company afforded by his new residence. This gave Keelin the freedom she needed to attend Adam.
Keelin sent for Lady Isolda to help her with the boy, but word came back that Isolda was unavailable. Marcus was on the training grounds with his men. Keelin knew no one else in the castle, no one else to call on for help.
She looked up at the cook’s helper who was still in the room, and smiled ruefully. “’Tis you and I, then, Kate,” Keelin said. “You’ll have to hold him while I deal with this.”
Keelin opened the wound again and drained it while Kate struggled to hold him still. Partway through the procedure, Adam lost consciousness, so Keelin finished quickly, then dressed the wound. With Kate’s help, she bathed him, hoping to cool the fever, and pulled the soiled linens off the bed.
“Stay here a bit, Katie,” Keelin said, “while I take these down to the laundress.”
“Oh, no, my lady!” Kate protested. It was not the place of a noble guest to cart dirty linens to the back kitchens. “I’ll carry these.”
Keelin gathered them into a pile and overruled the young helper. “I’d like ye to stay here with Adam for the moment, Kate,” she said, “while I get a thing or two that I’ll be needin’ from the cook. Then I must speak to my uncle. I won’t be long.”
With that, she carried the bundle out of the room and down the steps. She got instructions from a footman on where the laundry was to be taken, and headed toward the back of the great hall.
“Lady Keelin!” Isolda cried from her chair next to the great hearth. “I do not know how it’s done in Ireland,” she said indignantly, “but servants fetch and carry here at Wrexton.”
“Aye. Well…I’ll be speakin’ to the cook and since I was headin’ this way anyway—”
“Nonsense!” Isolda protested. “You there! Bill! Come and take this—this—” She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the blood and other discolorations. “Help Lady Keelin.”
The young footman rushed to take Keelin’s burden. “I thank ye, Bill,” she said as the young man rushed off, then turned back to Isolda. “Would ye direct me to the kitchen, please?”
Isolda gave her a dubious look, then pointed toward the oaken door that led to the cook’s domain. “That way.”
Keelin nodded once then left her hostess, puzzling over the woman’s disdainful attitude. Surely Lady Isolda had not been so cold last night when they’d arrived? Keelin did not know what offense she had committed—other than having carried soiled linen through the hall.
A flurry of activity met Keelin’s eyes as she entered the main kitchen. Preparations were underway for all the meals of the day, and Wrexton fed a multitude of people. Keelin hated to interrupt the cook, but saw no other alternative.
“Good mornin’ to ye,” she said.
“And to you, my lady,” the cook replied. He was respectful, but not cowed by the presence of a noble visitor. “Is there aught I can do for you?”
“Aye, there is.”
Keelin spent some time working with Wrexton’s cook, getting what she needed for Adam, and for Tiarnan. By the time she left the kitchen, she was laden with clean linens, and a tray containing a light meal for her uncle, as well as a special broth for Adam.
She had also gained the respect of Wrexton’s formidable cook.
“Let me get one of the boys to help you carry—”
“Nay,” Keelin said, sailing out of the room. “’Twill be quicker this way. Besides, they all have their own work.”
Wrexton’s cook scratched his head as his puzzled gaze followed her. He’d never known one of his betters to perform a task that could be done by another. This Lady Keelin was a rare one, he thought, watching her as she turned and backed out of the doorway.
Marcus entered with Sir William and Sir Robert just as Lady Keelin backed her way into the hall. She smiled at young Bill, the footman who pulled the door open for her, but graciously refused his offer of help.
Isolda stood near the hearth with a maid who was cleaning away some of the soot and ashes; both women seemed oblivious to Keelin, though Marcus could not see how they missed her. She had laughed aloud—her pleasing voice echoing through the cavernous hall.
Keelin looked up and saw him as she walked, their eyes meeting for one exhilarating moment. He’d not heard her laughter before, and the sound lightened his troubled heart. And seeing her look at him that way, from across the—
Keelin suddenly tripped. The tray she carried flew up into the air, along with all its contents. Keelin herself fell to the floor amid the clanging of bowls, spoons and knives. Marcus rushed ahead to help her while Isolda began to scold the maid for leaving her broom in Lady Keelin’s path.
Marcus vaguely heard their argument as he reached Keelin and helped her to her feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
Shaken and embarrassed by the fall, Keelin frowned and shook her head. “What a mess. I’m sorry to have caused such a fine ruckus, Lord Marcus. I’m not usually so—”
“⁔Tis naught,” he replied, motioning to footmen to help clear up the mess. He turned and spoke to Bill. “Go back to the kitchen and have Cook replace what was ruined.”
He led Keelin to a chair before the hearth and made her sit.
“Truly, m’lord,” she protested, “I am fine. And I must return to Adam. The poisons are back in his wound and he’s feverish again.”
Lines of worry creased Marcus’s forehead. He glanced at the steps at the far end of the hall, then back at Keelin. “If you’re certain you’re unhurt…”
“Stupid maid,” Isolda said after she’d finished dressing down the girl whose carelessness had caused Keelin to fall. “Let me see your hands.”
Keelin lifted her hands and Isolda turned them palms up. She hovered over the small scrapes on the heels of Keelin’s hands and when she began to fuss over supposed injuries to Keelin’s knees, Keelin stood abruptly.
“I thank ye for your concern, Lady Isolda,” she said, “but ’tis nothin’. Please trouble yourself no further on my account.” She started to walk away before Isolda could further detain her and realized that Marcus followed right behind her.
“Is Adam awake?” Marcus asked. At least he would allow her to go on and forget her embarrassment.
“Nay, m’lord,” Keelin replied, oblivious to Isolda, who stood where they’d left her, looking after them with her hands on her hips. “He was, for a short while this mornin’, but the pain and the fever…”
Marcus took Keelin’s arm as they climbed the stairs. His touch was as much a shock as the
look they’d exchanged when he’d come into the hall. She kept her eyes down, however, and walked carefully, unwilling to repeat her clumsy performance in the hall.
She would never understand how she’d neglected to notice the broom handle in her path. She could have sworn the way was clear.
“I’ve done all I know how to do for Adam,” she said. “I’ve used lady’s mantle and germander, but the wound continues to fester.”
They reached the top of the stairs and Marcus released her arm. They went into Adam’s room together. “Ah, my lady,” Kate said, rising from her crouch by the fire. “He hasn’t stirred a bit, though he’s hot.”
Keelin brushed one hand over Adam’s forehead and frowned. Turning away, she poured water into a basin and handed it to Marcus. “Would ye mind bathin’ him, m’lord?” she asked, then went to her satchel to pull out several leather pouches. Finding the one she wanted, she poured a gray powder into her hand, then dumped it into a cup. Adding water, she stirred it, then went to the head of Adam’s bed.
“Adam, can ye hear me?”
A quiet moan was the only response.
“Take a sip, lad,” Keelin said as she spooned some of the mixture into his mouth. He swallowed and she sighed, relieved that at least she would be able to get this medicine into him. With luck, it would help to cool him.
An hour later, the fever still raged. If Adam’s condition did not improve, and quickly, the boy could die.
“I need my uncle,” she finally said.
Marcus heard the quiet desperation in Keelin’s voice and forced himself to stay calm.
“Shall I get the priest, my lord?” Kate asked.
Angered by the suggestion that Adam would need the Last Sacrament, Marcus snapped at the girl. “No! Go and see to it that Lord Tiarnan is escorted here, at once.”
“Yes, my lord,” Kate replied, cowed by Marcus’s uncharacteristic show of temper.
“Surely there’s no harm in askin’ the priest to come,” Keelin said gently, putting one slender hand on Marcus’s brawny one.
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