But this was ever so much more pleasurable.
Keelin wished her hands were free so that she could touch Marcus. She yearned to run her fingers through his golden hair, to learn the contours of his face by touch. She longed to feel the heat of his body against her own. Keelin knew, though, that if she moved away to set the nestling down, the mood would be broken.
So she contented herself with the feel of Marcus’s lips on hers, the pressure of his hands on her shoulders. His scent, which was now so familiar to Keelin, was wholly Marcus’s—clean, masculine. She heard his breath, coming no more easily than her own, and felt the texture of his skin. Keelin felt surrounded by him, by glorious sensations. She sighed into his mouth, and the kiss changed.
One of his hands moved to cradle her head. His lips opened, compelling Keelin to open hers. Without hesitation, he invaded her mouth, drawing a sensual moan from the back of Keelin’s throat. She was floating in a sea of sensations.
Never before had she felt like this, as if she were cherished beyond reason, enfolded in Marcus’s strength. ’Twas what she needed after years of forced isolation—years of loneliness and yearning.
’Twas what she would have once she returned to Carrauntoohil and wed the man to whom she was promised.
Abruptly, she broke away from Marcus. She could not do this with him—to him. She cared too much, both for Marcus and for her own sanity, to allow their emotions to carry them away. Soon she would leave Wrexton, and she wanted to take her heart with her.
The short leather cord that belonged to Marcus—that even now lay between her breasts—would go with her, to remind her of what might have been, if she had not borne the responsibility of being Eocaidh’s daughter.
Marcus stood alone in the mews, looking at the small merlin Keelin had awkwardly placed in his hands before she fled. He felt fortunate that his hands were not shaking, for he could not recall another occasion in which he felt his soul had been so completely exposed and vulnerable.
What witchery was this? How did Keelin O’Shea manage to pry him open and flay him raw time and again like a master tanner?
Marcus knew without a doubt what would have happened had Keelin remained with him in the mews. He had thought himself above such base behavior, yet he’d been more than ready to consummate their attraction for one another. What had happened to his honor, his sense of chivalry?
Sorcery, was it?
Marcus did not know whether it was sorcery or not, nor was there anyone whom he could trust with his questions. Normally, a man in Marcus’s position would consult his priest. Wrexton’s chamberlain, however, was not a particularly tolerant cleric. Father Pygott interpreted ecclesiastical law too literally, in Marcus’s opinion, allowing no deviation from what he perceived as truth. And, as Marcus had often seen when his father or the steward conducted hallmote, truth was not always obvious.
The priest’s judgment could be swayed either for or against Keelin, and Marcus was aware that the man had no love of “foreigners.” He doubted Keelin would fare well under the chamberlain’s scrutiny. Marcus would have to take care that Father Pygott did not get wind of Keelin’s “magic” spear, or of her visions that predicted the future.
The more Marcus thought on it, the more he was convinced that Pygott would not accept any explanation of Keelin’s talent, outside his realm of experience. She would be condemned out of hand.
Keelin was not in the great hall when Marcus went inside. However, Isolda and Beatrice stood in a far corner, talking together in hushed tones, while Beatrice’s hands gestured emphatically.
A maid happened by, and Isolda immediately took her to task over some infraction, her voice rising harshly, loud enough for Marcus to hear. He winced at the severity of her tone, but had no interest in involving himself in their domestic difficulties. Soon enough, he would find a husband for Isolda, then she and her companion would be gone from Wrexton forever.
As he escaped up the great stone stairs, he only hoped that Wrexton’s staff could hold out until then.
Chapter Twelve
Keelin was glad for once, that Uncle Tiarnan could not see her. She knew her lips were swollen and her cheeks flushed with the passion she and Marcus had shared in the mews. She doubted Tiarnan would approve of any sort of liaison with Marcus, and did not want him to see how foolish she had been.
She had no future here at Wrexton, and well she knew it. She raised a hand to her breast, where Marcus’s leather cord lay nestled between her breasts, and acknowledged for the first time that she did wish it otherwise. But soon the twisted slip of cord would be all that she’d have to remember him.
“Keely lass?” Tiarnan said.
“Aye, Uncle,” she replied, “’tis me.” She hardly recognized her own voice, laced as it was with the tears she struggled so diligently to hold back. No doubt Tiarnan would hear the difference.
“What ails ye, lass?” Tiarnan asked.
“Oh, ’tis nothin’,” Keelin replied. Now that she knew Marcus had Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, all should be well. She fought tears as she looked over at Adam, lying pale and weak in his bed. “How are ye, Adam?” she asked.
“Better, Keelin,” Adam replied. “Uncle Tiarnan has been telling me all about Kerry and Carraun…Carrauntoohil. Is it really as magical a place as he says?”
“Ach, aye, lad,” she said, smiling tearfully as she sat on the bed next to him. She took one of his hands in hers. “Every wee bit of it.”
“Might I go there someday?”
“’Tis a long and arduous journey,” Keelin said. “Not a voyage to be taken on a whim.”
“Will you ever go back?” Adam asked.
Keelin nodded. “Aye,” she said quietly. “I must. My people need me.”
“Why?” Adam asked. “You’ve been away a long time. Can they not do without you awhile longer?”
Can they not, indeed? Keelin thought, then quickly corrected her thinking. The O’Sheas needed her now during these troubled times.
With Cormac’s death, they would be feeling vulnerable and lost, especially without Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh. The spear had seen Clann Ui Sheaghda through the worst of times across untold ages, even before Saint Patrick, when the Tuatha De Danaan still trod upon on Irish soil.
Keelin forced a smile onto her lips. “Ye know I wouldn’t dream of leavin’ until you’re fully well again.”
“You won’t?” he said in a sad tone, with a wee bit of wariness to it.
“Nay, Adam. I promise I’ll be here with ye until you’re able to be up and about.”
The promise seemed to placate the lad, and he relaxed enough to doze. Keelin knew it meant she’d have to stay on at Wrexton a good week or more, too many days of trying to avoid Marcus.
’Twas something her heart did not want her to do.
She sat near the lad and wondered about the spear. What had kept her from sensing its presence earlier? As soon as she’d come into the keep, she’d felt its presence again, and would have been able to locate it even if she’d not known that Marcus had it hidden somewhere.
A light knock at the door brought Keelin to her feet. A footman stood in the gallery with a message from Lord Marcus for Lady Keelin and Lord Tiarnan.
The honor of their presence was requested in the great hall for a feast in honor of Bishop Delford.
When the footman left, Keelin turned to look at Tiarnan. He was smiling. “Ah, ’tis a nice gesture, to be sure,” he said, “but ye’ll have to go without me, Keely lass. I’m not up to it.”
Keelin thought of facing Marcus again so soon after their interlude in the mews, and did not know if she was up to it, either.
The gathering in the great hall was somber as would be expected after the death of Wrexton’s lord. Only two musicians were present, playing the harp and the mournful viele. Marcus was grateful there would be no singing this night, for he wanted the meal over and done early, without any vocal lamentations of his father’s death, no extended prayer ceremony by the bishop.
; ’Twas not that he did not mourn his father. On the contrary, Marcus felt Eldred’s absence acutely, especially these last days since they’d returned to Wrexton. Marcus did not know if he could ever rule his domain as well as his wise and benevolent father had done.
Keelin and her uncle had not yet arrived in the hall. Marcus knew that his request for her presence had been issued late, though he doubted she would take offense at the breach of courtesy that was implied. Keelin’s views on etiquette were quite different from those of the English ladies of his acquaintance.
All of Wrexton’s high-ranking knights and their ladies were present in the hall, as well as several officials from Wrexton Town, including the reeve and sheriff and their wives. As the guests arrived and the hall became more crowded, Marcus positioned himself near the dais where he could keep an eye on the stone stairs of the keep, the place where he would see Keelin as she descended.
He craved her presence beyond all reason, sensing that she would support and encourage him through his first formal meal as Lord of Wrexton.
Father Pygott and Bishop Delford stood near Marcus, speaking of local church matters. Marcus paid little heed to the two clerics. He could think only of Keelin, and keeping her at Wrexton until he was able to sort out his feelings for her.
She was not indifferent to him, of that he was certain. He may not have kissed a multitude of maidens, but he was nonetheless capable of determining her interest, her arousal. He knew she hungered for his touch as greatly as he craved hers.
If only she did not feel compelled to return to Ireland so quickly, Marcus would have time to court her properly. He would present her with gifts befitting her station, and provide feasts where minstrels would sing her praises. He would win her and keep her at Wrexton.
Yet he understood duty. And Keelin’s duty to her clan was clear—at least it was clear to Keelin.
Isolda hovered nearby. Marcus sensed that she intentionally avoided him, but he gave little attention to her slight. Instead, he noticed that she was more short-tempered than usual with the servants, causing at least one young maid to run out of the hall in tears.
No matter that he intended find another home for her, Marcus could not allow Isolda’s abuse of the castle servants to continue. Her anger at him and her situation did not give her liberty to mistreat those below her.
Marcus took his leave of Bishop Delford and began to make his way toward Isolda, but Keelin suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Marcus halted.
She was breathtaking in her simplicity.
She hesitated for just an instant before she began to descend, but Marcus caught her eye and she started down, moving gracefully. She was nothing short of majestic. Wearing a simple velvet gown of a deep blue that hugged her slender frame, she was more elegant than any other lady in the hall. Her hair was bound at her nape, with a few sprigs of white and green somehow threaded there. Her head was bare otherwise.
A pattern of interlocking gold stitching trimmed her neckline, setting off the fine bones of her neck, and a modest décolletage. A golden girdle of the same pattern encircled her hips, swaying mesmerizingly with each step she took.
Keelin’s skin was pale in the candlelight, though a flush of color graced her high cheeks. Her eyes glittered green fire, taking in all that she saw around her. Her mouth was full. It was red and inviting, and Marcus could think only of their softness, their sensuous heat.
Marcus guided her to him through the power of his will and his eyes on her.
He wanted to intercept her before introducing her to the bishop, in order to inform her of the expected protocol, but Isolda caught Keelin’s arm and led her to the bishop herself. Isolda performed the introductions, as though Keelin were the honored guest, then took a step back and waited with an odd gleam in her eye.
Marcus saw Isolda stiffen when Keelin knelt to kiss Delford’s ring and receive his blessing. He did not understand the subtleties of the interchange, but was pleased to see that Keelin followed the appropriate proprieties without having to be prompted. He should not have expected anything less of her.
Isolda recovered herself quickly and began to speak, awkwardly interrupting Keelin’s compliment on the bishop’s requiem for Eldred de Grant. “’Twas inspirin’, yer eminence,” Keelin said in spite of Isolda, “and an honor to share the Mass with all who mourn Lord Eldred.”
Marcus saw Delford warm to the compliment. The bishop continued to converse with Keelin, much to Isolda’s dismay, and turned to walk with her to their places at the main table on the dais. Marcus followed, as did the rest of the guests, and waited for the bishop to bless the meal while he puzzled over Isolda’s behavior.
The music stopped as Delford stood to give his blessing. When the bishop finished, the music resumed, and servants began to carry in trays laden with food. Isolda reappeared, carrying a tray with four gold chalices, which she carefully set before Marcus, Bishop Delford, Keelin and herself.
In spite of himself, Marcus had to give credit to Isolda for her graciousness. She had been chatelaine of Wrexton a long time, and knew her role very well. No doubt the goblets were filled with the castle’s best wine and Isolda would subtly hint for Marcus to toast Bishop Delford.
Keelin took a deep breath to steady herself. Uncle Tiarnan had advised her to relax and be natural, and that all would be well. From the first, though, the evening had not boded well.
Earlier, Isolda had come to her chamber under the guise of seeing that Keelin’s maid was performing satisfactorily. Isolda spoke to Keelin of English custom, and what she could expect during the evening’s festivities. She instructed Keelin to perform a courtly curtsey for the bishop, and to remain silent unless the bishop or Marcus spoke to her.
She had eyed Keelin’s gown and asked, “Have you no better apparel for Wrexton’s great hall?”
Keelin had shaken her head self-consciously and Isolda had remarked that the blue velvet would have to do, but that Keelin could not enter the hall with her head uncovered. Before leaving Keelin, she sent the maid to fetch a headrail from Beatrice, and told Keelin to put it on before coming down to the hall.
When the maid brought it, the yellowed wimple smelled of onions. Even the maid wrinkled her nose at the distasteful thing.
Keelin had been shaken by the subtle hostility she received from Isolda. She had done nothing to warrant such ire, and she did not understand what made Isolda dislike her so. Dismissing the maid, Keelin went to Tiarnan for some reassurance before going down to the hall.
’Twas fortunate indeed that Uncle Tiarnan had taken her in hand, and spoken of what would be expected from an Irish princess. Had she followed Isolda’s advice, she’d have made an utter fool of herself.
“Uncle, are ye certain I’m not to be givin’ his eminence my curtsey?” Keelin had asked.
“Ach, no, child,” Tiarnan retorted. “’Twould be a grave insult to do so. And mind, ye only be sippin’ yer wine down there, Keely lass,” he’d said. “Yer not accustomed to strong drink and ’twill make ye silly.”
Keelin doubted anything could do that, for she’d never felt less silly in her life. She’d been intentionally tutored by Isolda Coule to appear the buffoon. Keelin could only guess at the reason why, and not very well at that. She had too little experience of the world’s subtleties to understand why Isolda would wish her ill.
She’d walked down the gallery with her emotions in upheaval. ’Twas not a pleasant thing to be so disliked, especially when she’d spent so many years yearning for the company of others like herself—like Isolda.
When she reached the top of the stone stairs, a strong sense of foreboding had slammed into Keelin. She managed to keep her composure, but the ominous presentiment persisted, growing stronger with every step.
At first Keelin worried that something would happen to Adam. After all, his condition was still very precarious. He was weak and still feverish, although he showed definite signs of improvement. Yet that did not seem to be the cause of her uneasy feelings.
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No, ’twas something else, but what it was, Keelin could not even venture to guess.
Isolda’s place was at Marcus’s left hand, and though Keelin thought she saw him pause when Isolda took her place, he said nothing. Food was placed on the table and Keelin took her seat next to Bishop Delford. The music, which had resumed after the prayer, stopped when Marcus raised his goblet to toast Bishop Delford. He said a few complimentary words, and then everyone in the hall stood and lifted their cups to the cleric.
Keelin stood with the rest and turned, then lifted her own goblet. Instantly, the thing slid from her hand, narrowly missing the bishop and herself. Splashing wine everywhere, it clanged to the table, causing a deep red stain to appear—both on the white cloth as well as on Keelin’s face.
’Twas greased, she thought as she tried to maintain her dignity. She smiled and muttered an apology, but was mortified by the accident. Servants arrived with cloths to clean up the spill and Keelin rubbed her hands together. Though they were damp with the spilled wine, she was certain they were oily, too.
“’Tis no matter, my child,” Delford said in reply to Keelin’s apology. “No harm done.”
Yet she could feel all eyes upon her. Everyone in the hall had to be aware of Keelin’s blunder and it was all she could do to seat herself again and pretend that all was well.
“Lady Keelin and her uncle have agreed to remain at Wrexton until Adam is better,” Marcus said, quickly speaking up to fill the silence caused by Keelin’s disaster. “We have no healer here, and their skills have been well tested with my young cousin.” His eyes were more than kind, they held the solace and succor Keelin desperately needed to see her through the calamity.
“Ah, yes,” Delford said, “the boy was gravely wounded. ’Tis a blessing he yet lives.”
“God’s will be done,” Isolda muttered.
“True enough, gracious lady,” Delford said.
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