Celtic Bride

by Margo Maguire

  “You wished to see me, Marcus?” Isolda asked as she entered the solar.

  Marcus folded his hands behind his back and stepped over to the window. He was unsure how to go about this, but hoped he would somehow manage to make the discussion agreeable for both of them. It felt strange to have summoned this woman—any woman—to his presence. He’d never done such a thing before, much less been required to take charge and direct the conversation.

  But he was earl now, and this was only the beginning of his obligations to all who dwelt at Wrexton.

  “Sit down, Isolda,” he said more calmly than he felt.

  She took a seat near the fire and smoothed her skirts over her lap. Marcus sensed an unusual nervousness about her.

  “I, er, I don’t believe I’ve ever known where you are from,” he said, uncomfortable with bluntly saying what was on his mind.

  “Wh-why, I was born in Lancashire, near Manchester,” she replied warily. A crease appeared between her brows. “My father was Baron Geoffrey Coule of Ellingham.”

  Marcus nodded. He paced away from the window, and then back to it. “So…you were raised on an estate?”

  “Yes, in sheep country,” she said. “Ours was the best wool in the county.”

  But Marcus did not care to speak of sheep or wool. He wanted to establish Isolda’s need for a husband and a domain of her own. Somewhere outside of Wrexton. “Ah. And the estate?” Marcus asked. “What happened to it upon your father’s death? Who holds it now?”

  “Marcus, I am not sure I understand your reason for these questions,” Isolda said, her arched brows wrinkling in puzzlement. “You’ve known me these last five years. I have no connection now to Ellingham. It has not been my home since Edmund Sandborn brought me here to Wrexton nearly ten years ago.”

  “I realize that, Isolda,” Marcus said, fully aware that he needed to change his tack. Mayhap the roundabout method was not the best. “Sandborn was a cousin of yours?”

  “Our mothers were cousins,” she replied. “And he apparently recalled their fondness for each other…”

  Marcus remembered Edmund Sandborn well, and could not imagine the former earl respecting any fondness his mother may have had for anyone. He’d been a spiteful, vindictive man and Marcus doubted any saintly motive for taking Isolda in. Still, Isolda was not to blame for Sandborn’s flaws.

  “A distant cousin holds my father’s estate now,” she said, standing. “He and his wife had seven children when he inherited, and no need for an eighth—me.”

  Marcus did a quick calculation. Isolda must have been seventeen or eighteen at the time of her father’s death and her displacement from her home. Marcus was not insensitive to her plight. ’Twas a difficult age to be left alone and friendless, without a protector. Why had Baron Coule not made any plans to get his daughter wed? Marcus could not understand how Isolda’s father could have been so remiss.

  “And—” he cleared his throat as he got to the point “—was there no young man, er…a suitor perhaps? Someone who…” That thought drifted when Marcus noticed Isolda’s stricken look.

  She shook her head. “Nay.” Her voice took on a breathless quality and Marcus was sure he heard a slight quavering. “Once my father died, I was completely alone. I h-had no one.”

  Marcus felt like a beast for making Isolda feel so vulnerable. That had not been his intention at all.

  “I thank God every day for Edmund Sandborn, and for Wrexton Castle,” she added. “Your father—”

  “Isolda.” Marcus turned and stalked away. “Some day you might wish to marry,” he said, “and if—when—you do so, I will provide a dowry.”

  “But Marcus, I have never wanted to live anywhere but Wrexton—”

  “I’m not suggesting that you leave….” Well, yes, that was exactly what he had intended, but the conversation was not going the way he’d planned. “Isolda, you must know you will always…have a home here at Wrexton if need be. But if—when you should decide—”

  “Thank you, Marcus. That is very reassuring,” she replied in a tight little voice as she walked to the door of the solar and put her hand on the latch. Clearly, she sought to avoid any unpleasantness, and thought to escape before Marcus had an opportunity to voice her worst fears. “But I have no—”

  “Isolda,” Marcus said, stopping her from leaving. “Please sit down. I have yet to finish what I intended to say.” He raked one hand through his hair as Isolda abruptly turned and tramped to the chair she had just vacated.

  Marcus was vastly uncomfortable but he pressed on, in spite of the exasperated look on Isolda’s face. He knew he had to take charge of the situation now or he would never manage to make his intentions known to Isolda. “I feel ’tis time to find a husband for you,” he said finally.

  The exasperated look changed to astonishment and her face went white. Marcus turned around so he could not see her, and thus be put off his purpose. “You have managed Wrexton well,” he continued, “but there will come a time when…er, when I will take a wife.”

  A sharp intake of breath stopped him momentarily, but he went on.

  “It would not do to have two ladies—” he paced away from her “—I mean, my own lady wife would naturally become the Lady of Wrexton—”

  Marcus was cut short by Isolda’s gasp, and her abrupt flight from the room.

  Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Marcus had certainly never given Isolda any hope that he would have her to wife, although he suspected his father allowed her to stay at Wrexton as a last resort. Eldred likely assumed that if Marcus did not manage to find his own wife, he would settle for Isolda.

  And, to Eldred’s thinking, Isolda as a wife would have been better than none.

  Marcus disliked hurting Isolda, but he felt ’twas better to say something now, and allow her to become accustomed to the idea of leaving Wrexton. He would send messages to Chester with Bishop Delford, and to the counties beyond, informing prospective bridegrooms of Isolda’s availability, and the dowry she would bring.

  “Where is Keelin?” Marcus asked when he went to see Adam a short time later. The boy was conscious, but so weak that he was unable to sit up unaided, unable to feed himself.

  “She left here nigh an hour ago,” Tiarnan replied. His brows were furrowed into a frown. “She said nothin’ about where she was goin’ though somethin’ was troublin’ the lass.”

  “What was it?”

  Tiarnan shook his head. “That, I don’t know,” he replied. “And I asked her, too, but she told me ’twas nothin’.”

  “What do you think, Tiarnan?” Marcus asked. “Has she…sensed something she doesn’t want to tell you?”

  “That may be, lad,” Marcus said. “Though, what it might be is a mystery to me. She’s never held back from me before.”

  Marcus knew she intended to leave. Perhaps that’s what it was. Her plans to leave Tiarnan at Wrexton and go on to Ireland alone were making her anxious.

  Those plans made Marcus anxious, as well, though he forced himself not to dwell on it.

  Instead, he talked to Adam, who responded weakly, and answered the boy’s questions about Eldred’s funeral. ’Twas a long and dismal interlude.

  Keelin searched nearly every building in the bailey, but found no sign of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh. She did not want to have to return to the keep and tell Tiarnan the spear was lost until she had turned Wrexton Castle upside down with her searching.

  At dusk, she found herself entering the mews, the building where all of Wrexton’s hunting birds were housed. She felt a bit like a thief in the night, sneaking into the mews as she’d done at Carrauntoohil, for her father would never allow anyone but his handlers near his precious birds.

  She had loved them, those fierce, majestic creatures of the sky. She never felt sorry for their captivity, except during the training, which Keelin felt was unduly harsh. Otherwise, they were petted and fed, and well rewarded for their hunting prowess.

  “Evening, my lady,” Gerald Falconer sa
id, taking Keelin by surprise. She had not seen the man in the shadows.

  Keelin greeted him, and, realizing she was not going to be chastised for trespassing where she was not wanted, she turned and looked around.

  This building was much larger than the mews at Carrauntoohil, and was home to a great many more birds than her father ever kept. There was gravel underfoot—another difference. At home, her father had had coarse sand brought in to cover the floors. It had been necessary for Keelin to cover her tracks whenever she’d sneaked out, so no one would notice that a small intruder had invaded the birds’ sanctuary.

  Everything here was in perfect order. A workbench lined one wall where leather-working tools were neatly arranged. Linen socks and bells sat on the table, while leather jesses and leashes were looped and hanging on hooks above the bench.

  Keelin looked beyond the bench. The birds were magnificent and in her admiration of all that she saw, Keelin momentarily forgot about her search for Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.

  “D’ye think Lord Marcus would mind if I went along inside?”

  Gerald shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “The birds are well trained. They’re not easily ruffled.”

  Keelin walked to the far end and spoke quietly to the gyrfalcons, perched together at shoulder height. They eyed her curiously, but she put them at ease with her soft, musical voice.

  Resting on other perches of various heights were peregrines and sakers, as well as the smaller goshawks and sparrow hawks. “Oh, my,” Keelin whispered, spying a pair of nestlings. She crouched down to the nest where the two looked at her with stunned eyes. “Look at you. How lovely ye’ll be when you’re grown.”

  “I had hopes of them growing to be fierce, rather than lovely,” Marcus said as he approached, his footsteps crunching the gravel.

  Keelin smiled. “Ach, and they will be, m’lord. Just look at them!”

  But Marcus preferred looking at her.

  She was disheveled, and had spots of dirt on her clothes and a smudge on her cheek, as if she had been helping to clean up the stable mess. Marcus wouldn’t put that possibility beyond her.

  She must have washed her hair, for it shone darkly in the gloaming, and showed no signs of the blood that had matted it the night before. His hands ached to touch the silky mass, left loose and uncovered just to tempt him.

  “Your pardon, my lord,” the falconer said.

  Marcus and Keelin turned in unison.

  “I’ll be going now,” Gerald said as he pulled up his hood and wrapped his cloak tightly around. “We hunt tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes,” Marcus replied. “At first light if weather permits.”

  Gerald gave a quick nod. “Likely to be cold, but no snow yet.”

  Marcus agreed that snow was unlikely, but gave no further thought to Gerald or the morrow. Keelin O’Shea occupied his full attention. He enjoyed watching her with the falcons. He felt completely at ease with her, though that did not surprise him now, as it would have a mere week ago.

  Her body was slender and graceful, her hands kind yet able. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and interest and Marcus could think of nothing but touching her.

  “Your head…” he said. “The wound does not trouble you?”

  “Nay,” she replied. “At least, not much. Did I thank ye for helpin’ me yestereve?”

  Marcus nodded, her smile rendering him speechless.

  “My own father kept birds at Carrauntoohil,” she said, standing up again. She smelled spicy, like the herbs she kept in her leather pouches. Her lips were full, moist. It seemed more like a week rather than a mere day since he’d kissed them.

  “Did you ever hunt with him?” he asked just to keep her there, to keep her talking.

  “Nay,” Keelin replied with a sour laugh. “He was not one to allow a woman—or me, a mere lass—near his birds.” Then a thought suddenly dawned on her and she sobered. “Do you mind, Marcus? That I’m here among your fine falcons?”

  He shook his head. “Of course not,” he replied, then thought of a reason to keep her at Wrexton, if only for a few more days. “Mayhap you would care to join us on the morrow?”

  “And hunt, ye mean?” Keelin asked, her eyes sparkling with delight.

  Marcus nodded.

  “Oh, aye, Marcus!” she said. “There’s nothin’ that would please me better.”

  “Then it’s settled. What is it?” he asked, noticing a sudden change in Keelin’s joy.

  “Ach, ’tis a grievous matter,” she replied, her delicate brows furrowing in a troubled frown, “and I nearly forgot.” She turned away from him, wringing her hands before her.

  “I’ve lost something precious that belongs to my clan,” she said.

  “Ah…would it be the sacred spear your uncle spoke of?”

  “Aye, Marcus, and it’s missing,” Keelin said with surprise. She had not realized Tiarnan had told him of the spear. “I thought I hid it so cleverly, yet someone found it and—”

  “Luckily, ’twas I who found it,” Marcus interjected.

  Keelin looked stunned. She made the sign of the cross and muttered a quiet thanks to Saints Bridget and Patrick.

  “I knew you must have brought it to Wrexton, so I checked your mule cart and found it there,” Marcus said. He had reasoned that the cart was the only place it could be. When he found it, he’d considered withholding it from her, just to keep her at Wrexton. But that would not have been an honorable thing to do. Marcus would not keep her at Wrexton by coercion. “’Twas hidden quite ingeniously,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ve been so worried,” she said, placing one hand over her heart. Her relief was nearly palpable. “I was sure a thief must’ve taken it, and I’d have to be tellin’ Uncle Tiarnan what a dolt I was for leavin’ it in that storage shed.”

  “’Tis safe in my chamber,” he said. “It can remain where it is, or I can give it to you to keep.”

  “Aye, I thank ye, m’lord, but I will take it myself, if ye don’t mind.”

  Marcus did mind, though he knew it was foolish. Keelin was accustomed to trusting no one but herself. It should not be construed as a personal affront that she wanted the spear in her own keeping.

  Marcus lit several tallow lamps to ward off the growing darkness. He wanted to be able to see her.

  “Will you be puttin’ socks on these chicks soon?” Keelin asked as Marcus came back to where she stood.

  “Yes.” They would cover each bird in a linen sack that was open at both ends for their heads and feet, and begin the chicks’ training. “Gerald will start the training within the next few days,” he added as he set his lamp down and crouched next to the nest. “We got them when they were newly hatched, so they’ve had time to become accustomed to us. They’re quite tame.”

  The baby merlins tipped their heads and cheeped as Marcus came nearer. Keelin watched as he picked one up in those big hands of his.

  “Males or females?” Keelin asked, a little breathlessly.

  “Females are the hunters,” Marcus replied.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “They’re bigger, and much more aggressive than the males,” he added.

  Keelin quirked her head. “Would ye be teasin’ me, Marcus?” In all her life, she’d never thought of females as being the fiercer of the species, although she supposed it made sense. After all, ’twas the mother who had to see to the feeding and safekeeping of her young.

  He shook his head as he lifted his hands to hers. “Open your hands,” he said.

  She did so, and he gently placed the nestling in the cradle she created next to her bosom.

  “So soft,” she said.

  When Marcus did not reply, she looked up. He stood so close, and was gazing at her in a way that made her feel as if her bones were melting. Candlelight flickered and the tiny feet of the merlin in her hand tickled.

  If only he would kiss her again as he had in the courtyard. Keelin could feel his breath, the heat of his body, standing so near. Aye, ’twas a wo
ndrous thing to hold such a wild creature in her hands, but ’twas her heart that beat savagely in her chest. She knew that only Marcus’s touch could quell the fierce longing that she felt.

  Yet she knew it should not be. It could not be. She was destined to leave Wrexton and take Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh to Carrauntoohil. She was Eocaidh O’Shea’s daughter, and her clan needed her.

  “Will you be puttin’ leashes on these two?” she asked, her voice no longer her own, but unfamiliar with its soft and husky timbre.

  “Yes,” Marcus replied as he moved closer.

  “And bells, as well?” she whispered, her body leaning toward his without the slightest conscious effort.

  “Yes,” Marcus replied, his lips so close to hers that she could feel his breath upon them.

  “And will you be sealin’ their eyes?” She protected the nestling she held as Marcus moved even closer, tipping his head toward her own, to meet her lips in a kiss.

  “’Tis likely,” he said absently. His mind was not on the training of his birds.

  “What?” Keelin demanded, pulling back and looking up at him. “You’d sew their eyes closed in order to bend them to your will?”

  Chagrined, Marcus realized he’d said the wrong thing. How was he to know she would be offended by birds having their eyelids sewn shut—if only temporarily. He put his hands on her shoulders to keep her from pulling away.

  “’Twill be up to Gerald,” he said firmly. “Occasionally it is necessary to seal the eyes. But not always.”

  “Oh,” Keelin said, embarrassed. She glanced down at the wee thing in her hands. ’Twas not her business how he trained the poor creatures, and she should not have spoken out. “My pardon, m’lord, ’tis just—”

  He captured her lips then.

  Keelin was taken by surprise, but she quickly responded with all the passion that dwelt in her. She leaned into him, taking care not to crush the small bird in her hands, but allowing the tips of her breasts to touch his chest. The result reminded her of the extraordinary reaction she always had when she touched Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.