Celtic Bride

by Margo Maguire

  She knew that was only the first of her battles. She had to try to settle her body, too, a difficult task after Marcus’s sweet seduction.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Who do you think has become chieftain in Cormac’s place, Uncle?” Keelin asked, pacing before the fire in Tiarnan’s chamber. ’Twas early yet, though the servants had been stirring quietly for quite some time. The worst of the storm had passed sometime during the night, and men were already clearing the baileys and courtyards of snow.

  “Ach, lass, I could not say,” Tiarnan replied from his bed, “though Eirc and Laoghaire are worthy men.”

  “But Uncle Tiarnan, Eirc and Laoghaire are mere lads! The O’Sheas need—”

  “They were lads when we left Carrauntoohil, Keely,” Tiarnan retorted. “They’re men now.”

  She was silent as she considered his words. True enough, four years was a long time. An eternity, Keelin thought, without friends or family. And in four years both of the O’Shea cousins mentioned by Tiarnan would have become men. Especially if the raids and warfare had continued.

  Terrible times had a way of maturing the shallowest youth.

  “And how do you suppose the clan fares without Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh?” she asked speculatively.

  “About as well as any clan does without it,” Tiarnan answered. “They’ll be usin’ their wits and good sense to get by.”

  Keelin traced the carved wood of the mantel with one finger, unaware of the satisfied expression on Tiarnan’s face.

  “And how long do ye suppose they’ll be gettin’ by without the spear?”

  Tiarnan shrugged. “Fer as long as necessary, I imagine.”

  “And what about me?” she asked, returning to the bed and sitting next to the old man. “How long can they manage without the O’Shea seer?”

  “Keely lass,” Tiarnan said. “Are ye gettin’ at somethin’ here? Are ye so anxious to leave Wrexton and get back to—”

  “No!” she replied, standing abruptly. “I mean…oh, Uncle, I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

  “Keelin…”

  “Everything seemed so simple before…”

  “Before…?”

  “Before Marcus,” she replied quietly.

  “Do ye care for him, lass?”

  “Oh, aye,” Keelin replied, dashing stupid tears away. “I care. But my duty to the clan couldn’t be clearer. I cannot stay at Wrexton.”

  “And does Marcus want ye to stay?”

  Keelin nodded. “He asked me to.”

  Tiarnan sighed. Four years ago, he’d have stood up and insisted that Keelin return to Carrauntoohil with Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh as soon as it was possible.

  However, Tiarnan’s perspective had changed drastically over time. In his four years of travels, he’d seen and experienced so much that was beyond the realm of his life at Carrauntoohil, he could easily imagine his people learning to function without the spear. Or the seer.

  Even now, without the vision of his eyes, Tiarnan could see that life at Wrexton agreed with Keelin. Marcus de Grant cared for the lass, something Fen McClancy would never do, nor could McClancy treat Keelin to the kind of life she would have here at Wrexton.

  Tiarnan could not bear to think what would become of the lass if she fell into Mageean’s hands. And there was grave danger of that if she left the protection of Wrexton to journey all the way to Kerry.

  Yet who was he to say? Keelin was the one with the gift of the second sight. ’Twas her judgment that had to be trusted in this instance, and not the sentimental yearnings of an old man.

  For, as much as he wished that Keelin’s happiness and well-being could take precedence, he knew they did not. ’Twas the welfare and prosperity of Clann Ui Sheaghda that had to come first and foremost.

  “Keely lass,” he finally said, his brow furrowed and troubled, “I’m wishin’ I had the answer fer ye, but I don’t. When all is said and done, ye must follow yer heart.”

  “Nay, Uncle,” Keelin cried. “I cannot trust my heart.”

  The loud crash of a slamming door startled the two, and Keelin went to see what was amiss. A short way down the gallery, in front of Keelin’s chamber door, stood Annie with her infant in her arms. Her eyes were downcast, and the babe was wailing. Isolda towered over her, with hands on her hips, and rage in her eyes.

  “Your employment is belowstairs, is it not?” the chatelaine demanded in a clear, even tone.

  “Yes, my lady, but—”

  “Lady Isolda, please,” Keelin interjected, coming to Annie’s rescue. She took the babe from the servant’s arms and turned to face Isolda. “’Tis no trouble fer me to look at the wee—”

  “I’ll not have servants pestering the guests above-stairs,” she hissed, barely containing her ire.

  Annie sputtered, “Oh, but—”

  “And no impudent speech from—”

  “I’d rather be pestered by servants,” Keelin said evenly, “than wrongly instructed on the true protocol for approachin’ a bishop.”

  Isolda’s mouth opened, then shut. She raised her chin defiantly, then let it drop as she lost some of her cocky confidence. Her eyes darted to one side, then the other, finally resting on Marcus, who had suddenly appeared in the gallery behind Keelin. In a panic, she quickly withdrew before he could confront her as he was wont to do of late.

  “Ye’re lookin’ fer me, Annie?” Keelin said, turning to the young mother. She was unaware of Marcus’s presence behind her.

  “Yes, my lady,” she whispered, unsure now, how to behave. With the mistress angry and off in a huff, and the lord bearing down on them from—

  “How’s our wee lassie this morn?” Keelin asked, cuddling the child, who had finally quit her clamoring. “She’s not so wheezy today.”

  “No, sh-she’s much improved,” Annie said, “but I was hoping you’d have more of that archangel powder you put in the boiling water, ma’am.”

  “Ach, aye,” Keelin said offhandedly, as though nothing untoward had happened, though she was unsettled by the interchange with Isolda. She opened the door to her chamber. “I’ve plenty of it, as well as the lungwort, and yer welcome to it, Annie.”

  “Oh, my lady,” the servant said, tentatively following Keelin into her chamber, “you’ve been so very kind to me and mine. If there’s ever anything—”

  “Nay,” Keelin replied wistfully. “Just be gettin’ our wee Peg well again. That’ll be enough for me.”

  Estate business kept Marcus occupied for a goodly portion of the day. He welcomed the activities that kept him from acting precipitously with Keelin, and gave him time to reflect on his course of action with the stubborn Irishwoman.

  He considered ignoring Isolda’s behavior, then concluded he had no choice but to speak to her about her treatment of Keelin, and of the servants. There was no telling how long it would take to find her a suitable husband, to get her wed and settled in her own home. No matter how much he dreaded having to deal with the woman, it was his duty to do so, and to do it soon.

  Rather than sending servants to look for the chatelaine, Marcus climbed a back staircase and headed for the solar, where he knew Isolda spent much of her time. He reached the heavy oaken door and heard voices raised within. Female voices, raised in anger. His hand hesitated at the door latch, but he steeled all his new-found courage and lifted the handle.

  There was a sudden silence when he opened the door and stepped in.

  Isolda was sitting in a chair near the fire, hastily wiping tears from her cheeks. Her companion, Beatrice, stood nearby, with her back to Marcus, so he was unable to see her expression.

  Isolda stood suddenly, knocking over the small embroidery frame where a partially finished altar cloth was draped.

  “Marcus! I—I—Was there something you needed?” she stammered. Clearly, it was an effort for her to regain her usual composure.

  Marcus moved farther into the room and righted Isolda’s sewing. He did not know what had just transpired between Isolda and Beatric
e, nor did he think it concerned him. But as Beatrice turned to leave the solar, he bid her to remain and hear what was said.

  “This will concern you as well, Beatrice,” he said. “Please remain and hear what I’ve come to say.”

  The older woman bowed her head and folded her hands under her sleeves. Marcus was still unable to read any expression on her face, though it was no matter to him. He intended to make himself absolutely clear to both of them. If it helped to have Beatrice present, then so be it. Surely, her presence would not hinder his purpose.

  “Isolda, your treatment of Lady Keelin is abominable,” he began. “You have maligned and insulted her—No,” he said, negating her attempt to dispute his words, “do not deny your wrongdoing. I have seen your petty meanness with my own eyes.” And from this morning’s confrontation outside Keelin’s room, he deduced another slight of which he’d been unaware until now.

  He did not care to think what other objectionable incidents Keelin had suffered and not mentioned to him.

  “My lord, Isolda has—”

  “I will be heard on this, once and for all,” Marcus interjected when Beatrice tried to speak. “If you do not cease in your efforts to discredit Lady Keelin, then I will be forced to send you away before a suitable bridegroom is found for you.”

  “But Marcus—”

  “Nay, I do not wish to be unkind, Isolda,” he said firmly, “but you leave me little choice. I cannot—I will not allow you to offend my guests any further.”

  “I beg your pardon, Marcus,” Isolda said. Her eyes were downcast and, other than the white-knuckled grip she had on her own hands, she gave all outward appearances of calm. “I—I never meant…That is, I…”

  “Please. Do not offer any excuses at this late date,” Marcus said. “Just bear in mind that I will tolerate no further unkindness toward Lady Keelin or her uncle, nor will I allow you to continue tyrannizing the servants as you’ve done since my father’s death.

  “A suitable husband will be found for you, Isolda. As I told you before, I will provide a generous marriage portion for you, so you need not worry that you will be shabbily wed.”

  Neither woman said anything in response to Marcus’s dictum, but stood silently with eyes downcast.

  “It may be some weeks before a suitable husband is found,” he said in closing, “but in the meanwhile, I would expect that you comport yourself more kindly and benevolently than you have done of late.” He remained only a moment more, considering whether to add anything more. Deciding he’d said enough, he turned and exited the solar.

  As anxious as he was to leave the women’s domain, he took no notice of the inflamed insolence that crossed Beatrice’s face when he closed the door after him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You are not too cold for our lesson?” Marcus asked Keelin as they walked out to the shooting range. She had been reluctant to come out and practice shooting the bow, but somehow, he’d talked her into putting on a warm cloak and traipsing out to the area where his men did their target practice.

  Most of the walkways had been cleared of ice and snow, so it wasn’t difficult to get to the remote area behind the keep, where no one could be hurt by a stray arrow.

  “Nay, Marcus,” Keelin replied honestly. “’Tis good to be out of doors for a change.”

  In truth, the last two days’ confinement had chafed at Keelin, even though the company had been highly entertaining.

  Among the various travelers who’d come to take shelter from the storm was a troupe of mummers. These men, along with some of their families, were in the process of making the rounds of the wealthy western estates, putting on plays for the approaching Yule season. They were en route to Wrexton when the storm came upon them, and they trudged ahead, making it to the keep just as the worst of the weather befell them.

  Since that time, they’d performed twice for the gathered company, to the delight of all.

  And all the while, Marcus had kept his distance. He had made no further advances toward Keelin since the night of their encounter in her chamber, though her emotions were in just as much turmoil as before.

  She missed him.

  Oh, aye, she’d kept herself busy. After all, Adam still needed her careful tending, and so did wee Peg. But no amount of work could keep her thoughts from returning to the intimate moments they’d shared by the fire in her chamber, when she’d all but given herself to him.

  “See the red cloth tied around that big oak?” Marcus asked, stopping Keelin where she stood.

  She nodded, squinting, looking into the distance. “Aye.”

  “’Twill be your first target,” he said. “After you master this one, we will move on to the farther ones.”

  Keelin wet her lips nervously. She brushed her hair back, then lifted the bow and nocked the arrow just as Marcus had shown her before.

  “Nay, Keelin,” he said, coming around behind her. “You are too tense. Remember how I showed you before? Loosen your joints.” He put both hands on her shoulders, sending a thrill of anticipation down her spine. She forced herself to concentrate on the bow, the arrow, the target, but all she could think of was Marcus: his touch, his taste, the texture of his skin.

  “That’s better,” he said, though Keelin did not see any improvement. If anything, she was more tense. “Now train your eyes on the target. Raise the bow a bit.”

  Marcus leaned close and put one hand on her bow arm, pulling up slightly to correct her aim. Keelin felt his rough jaw as it brushed her cheek. She closed her eyes and inhaled, relishing his scent, and the feel of his strong arm around her. Her heart pounded in her chest and she was certain Marcus could feel it if only he would lean a wee bit closer.

  Marcus was not unaffected by her nearness, but he was determined to remain in safe territory with Keelin. Instinct told him he would have to hold back in order to win her, though every minute away from her was pure torture.

  They’d sat through hours of the stranded Baron, Albin Selby’s, anecdotes, and though the stories were pleasing enough, Marcus would have preferred to spend as many hours alone somewhere with Keelin. He could think of nothing but peeling away her clothing and then tasting every inch of her.

  If he thought the time away from her was torture, the minutes with her were worse. He did not know how he would manage to keep to his plan when she tempted him so.

  “Let it loose,” he said quietly in her ear.

  The arrow flew, and met its mark an instant later. It did not quite hit the target, but at least it was close.

  He had not moved away from her, and had no intention of doing so, either. At least not until he was certain his proximity was having the desired effect.

  “I missed,” she said, turning slightly. Her lips were achingly close to his. When he felt her breath coming in short pants, he let her go.

  Marcus cleared his painfully thickened throat. “’Twas not bad,” he said, reaching for another arrow, “for a novice.”

  Keelin did not reply, but turned back to the target and, if Marcus was not mistaken, she had to force herself to concentrate on the target ahead. She took the arrow from him and they repeated the process, only this time, Marcus pressed himself more closely against her body. He breathed his instructions into her ear. He called her sweetheart when the use of her name would have sufficed.

  She missed the target again.

  In frustration, Keelin turned around and reached for her own arrow this time. From her fierce expression, Marcus could not be sure she would not turn and shoot him, but she lined herself up with the target again, concentrated on her stance and her form, took aim.

  Marcus smiled.

  Keelin shot.

  When the arrow hit the target, Keelin gave out a cry of glee, turned and threw her arms around Marcus. “I did it!”

  “That you did, love,” he replied, giving a quick kiss to her nose. ’Twas all he could do to stop there. Nonetheless, he managed to force himself.

  Detaching himself from her embrace, Marcus a
sked, “Will you try it again?”

  “Aye. I will.”

  Snow began to fall again an hour later, and since it interfered with the visibility of the target, Marcus and Keelin had to abandon their target practice.

  ’Twas none too soon for Marcus. He’d had difficulty keeping his hands to himself even after she’d mastered the technique necessary for shooting. She had a way of muttering to herself that made him want to laugh, but he’d been prudent enough to keep his mirth to himself, especially after he sensed her rising frustration with the tactics he was using on her.

  Marcus smiled to himself as he picked up the quiver of arrows and his own longbow. His onslaught of Keelin’s senses was working just as he’d planned—even better, if he considered the effect it was having on him.

  Well aware that he’d only won a small skirmish, Marcus turned and headed back to the keep beside Keelin. He placed one hand at the small of her back, enjoying tremendously the sense of possession that gesture gave him.

  He felt a tremor sweep through her when he touched her. Ah, he thought, victory will be truly sweet.

  “Do ye mind if I bring in some of these holly sprigs, Marcus?” Keelin asked, stopping by a stand of the evergreens. “I know ye mourn yer father, but ’tis nigh on Yuletide and…well, I wouldn’t mind hanging a few to remember the season.”

  “Not at all, Keelin,” Marcus replied. “In fact, when we return to the keep, I’ll send some of the men out to bring in a few pine boughs for the great hall as well.”

  Keelin smiled with delight.

  “We have another custom here in England,” Marcus said. “We gather mistletoe, and hang it from the lintels—”

  “Oh, aye,” Keelin said with enthusiasm. “In Kerry, we gather it, too, and its magic protects the children.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, ye hang it over the wee babes’ cradles and the faeries won’t steal them.”