Celtic Bride

by Margo Maguire

  As he searched for the trail that would lead to her, Marcus knew he could not give her up without fighting for her.

  He picked up his pace. Regardless of her ultimate decision, his first battle would be here, in England. He had to get to Keelin before the bastard with the mismatched eyes could cause her any harm.

  Keelin realized she’d made a terrible mistake in coming out on her own. Not even her prayers to Saints Bridget and Patrick could save her now. She would freeze to death in the hills so close to Wrexton, that if it were a summer day, she could probably run to the castle on her own two legs in half the time it had taken to ride this far.

  Keelin wanted to weep, but knew that tears were useless. She was well and truly lost, and there was nothing to do but go on, as long as her poor horse could continue. If she had any kind of luck, they would go on until dawn, and perhaps there would be enough light to find some kind of shelter.

  In the meantime, there was no choice but to—to—Keelin shook her head. She squinted her eyes to clear her vision. Something tall and dark loomed in the distance. ’Twas larger than a man on horseback…a building…but Keelin could not see if it was the barn she’d seen in her premonition.

  She felt danger all around, the same as she had sensed in her vision, and knew this was the place. The spear would be here. She hoped the villain who’d stolen it, was not.

  Glancing ‘round as she approached the neglected barn, Keelin saw no one. The horse, sensing shelter, plodded ahead with a lighter step and quicker pace. When they reached the yard, Keelin was frozen too stiff to move right away. Shivering violently, she made slow, deliberate movements, and finally managed to dismount.

  The door was shut, but the place was quite obviously deserted. Bare trees surrounded the barn, with branches laden with long icicles, just as she’d seen in her vision.

  The only thing missing was the blood on the ground.

  Keelin desperately hoped she would be gone before any blood was shed. Feeling more fortunate than she had any right to be, Keelin waded through a deep snowdrift until she reached the door. It was stuck shut.

  Besides being frozen to the core, she felt weak and exhausted. She had little strength left. Pushing with all her might, she could not manage to get the door open. Unaware that she was weeping, Keelin knew her one chance for survival was in getting that door open, getting herself inside and making a fire.

  With renewed strength and determination, she threw herself against the door once again, and when it burst open, Keelin fell in a heap on the packed dirt floor. She felt immediate relief, however, in getting out of the wind, and knew she had to get her horse inside, as well. Once she got a fire started, there would be a chance of survival.

  Sounds of movement behind her startled Keelin and she whirled around, only to find that her horse was pushing his way inside. She gave a tremulous smile at his good sense, then got to her feet and shoved the door closed behind him. Then she started looking for fuel.

  There was absolutely nothing of value in the barn. A few sticks of broken wood lay strewn about the floor, so at least there was something to use for making a fire.

  Still chilled to the bone and shivering beyond control, Keelin managed to gather some of the scraps and toss them into the fire pit. Once she got a fire started, she stood close and tried to warm herself.

  Steam rose from her wet clothing. She would have to remove it soon, but could not face doing it until the barn warmed up. ’Twas, unfortunately, a rather large room, and would be difficult to heat. Especially with holes in the thatching and cracks in the walls.

  An old, rusted anvil lay on the floor near the fire pit, along with some useless, broken tools. Rotting leather straps hung from hooks on one wall. Looking ‘round, Keelin could see that a smith had once worked here. Fleetingly, she wondered what had happened to him.

  The horse nickered and shook himself, throwing wet chunks of snow all over the room, forcing Keelin’s attention on her present situation. “Aye, well, ’tis sorry I am that I haven’t any grain for ye, lad,” she said with chattering teeth. “I’ve nothin’ for myself, either, ye know.”

  The horse snorted and shook again, as if unsatisfied with Keelin’s answer.

  Keelin glanced around again. While there was nothing to eat, at least she could quench her thirst with melted snow. And besides, she did not intend to stay long, only until daylight, when she would return to Wrexton and get help. At least that was—

  The door whipped open.

  At first thought Keelin believed she hadn’t closed it well enough against the wind, but quickly realized her error.

  The thief had arrived.

  “Well, well, well…” His voice echoed ominously in the cavernous space.

  Keelin recognized him at once. He was the knight with the strange eyes. One blue, one brown. She shivered, and not only with the cold.

  “Lost my way for a bit back there,” the man said as he came into the humble shelter. “But I caught onto your tracks and followed you here.”

  He looked too cold to be a real threat to her now, but Keelin knew that could change at any minute. Her eyes darted around for something to use as a weapon, but there were only the rusted, broken tongs on the earthen floor next to the anvil. She was at the thief’s mercy.

  He threw his pack down beside the fire pit, and approached.

  Keelin stepped away, eyeing the pack. Her spear was there. She had only to circle around the man and grab it. Then…What? She could not go back out in the frigid weather, even if she could get her horse out with her.

  She was trapped. By the weather as well as the man.

  “Ain’t it just cozy-like?” the knight smiled unpleasantly as he sidled up to the fire. “Right nice of you to heat the place up.”

  As long as she kept her distance, she did not see how the rogue would be able to harm her. At the very least, she should be able to keep the horse between them.

  But she had to get to the spear.

  “The old hag was right about this place,” the man said as he reached into his pack. He drew out a tin cup and set it on the hearth, acting as if all was well with the world.

  His confidence shook Keelin. “Wh-what old hag?” she asked.

  “The one what wears the white headrail,” he answered, rummaging through his belongings. “Acts like some kind o’ saint, she does.”

  “Beatrice?” Keelin asked. Isolda’s companion was the only old woman at Wrexton who always wore a white wimple.

  “Yeh. That was her name, all right.”

  “Beatrice sent you here?”

  The knight barked out an obnoxious chortle. “Sent me here? Yeh, that and a bit more.”

  Keelin eyed the fire and wished the thief would move away so she could get closer to it. “Wh-what more?”

  In reply, he dumped a handful of coins on the stone hearth. Grinning broadly, he added Keelin’s jeweled knife and brooch to the pile. Keelin shuddered at the look of blatant glee in those disturbing eyes.

  “Might take a while to get rid of that spear,” he said. “Don’t know of anybody who’d want it. But these…” he said, gesturing toward Keelin’s valuables.

  “You can have it all,” Keelin said, “but the spear. That’s the only thing I—”

  His peel of laughter stopped her. “I can have it all?” he asked in a derisive tone. “My dear lady, I do have it all. Even more than you’ve guessed.”

  Keelin swallowed hard. How could she have thought she had any bargaining power with this man? He had the advantage—in every way.

  “But Lord Marcus won’t—”

  “Aw, but the earl is out chasing his falcons!” the man laughed. “Won’t be available to rescue his poor lady.”

  “You!” Keelin cried. “You took the falcons?”

  He shook his head. “My brother and some fool he found to help him. Quite a nice diversion, wouldn’t you say?”

  Keelin shook her head in dismay.

  “The old lady had everything figured. Once Ned has gone
far enough, he’ll leave the birds for the earl to find.” The man started to move toward Keelin again, and she backed away, circling the room. “He’ll be so occupied with his precious falcons that by the time he checks on you…ah, well…”

  “No.”

  The thief merely chuckled at Keelin’s denial of all he’d said, and continued to stalk her. “Ah, good. All this talk has warmed me up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The snow let up just enough for Marcus to increase his pace. He rode toward a deserted dell that lay just outside Wrexton property, across the Welsh border. There was a deserted old barn there, and with luck, Keelin’s horse had made for the shelter, as cold and unwelcoming as it might be.

  At worst, it was the place where the thief had sought refuge, the only place for miles where Keelin could also find shelter.

  After too many hours in the saddle, in the worst weather Marcus could remember, it was still deep night. At least, it seemed to be night, though Marcus was not sure morning would look much different if the storm kept up.

  He rode on, oblivious to the cold, worried to the depths of his soul for Keelin’s safety. He prayed as he’d never prayed before, that she was safely situated in the old barn in the dell, and that the rogue knight, Bren, was nowhere near.

  The miles passed at a crawl and the chill finally penetrated Marcus’s layers. His face was numb and his brows caked with snow by the time he reached the rise that overlooked the barn.

  All Marcus’s battle instincts came to life.

  A horse, still saddled, huddled close to the building. It could not be the one Keelin had taken. Marcus knew she would not have left the animal untended in the harsh weather.

  His heart sank. He must have missed her somehow.

  Marcus drew his sword and approached quietly. The only person likely to be in the barn was the thief who’d stolen Keelin’s spear.

  That thought was contradicted by a sudden scream that pierced the night. Keelin!

  Marcus spurred his horse forward, dismounting as he reached the entrance. He fairly flew through the tracks in the snow and flung the door open. The flickering light was just enough for Marcus to see Keelin sprawled out on the floor near the hearth, with her clothes in tatters, and her attacker hovering just over her.

  The man roared up at Marcus’s interruption and tried to yank Keelin up in front of him to use as a shield. She resisted, barely evading his grasp.

  “Marcus!” she cried. Her chest heaved with terror as she held the shreds of her gown in place. She was effectively cornered, though, and unable to get to him.

  Marcus’s blood boiled with rage. How dare the knave lay his hands on Keelin!

  Keelin tried to move away from behind the knight, but he spread both arms and leered at Marcus. “I could do her a fair amount o’ damage b’fore I go, m’lord.”

  “Let her step away,” Marcus said threateningly. His sword was drawn and poised, but ’twas not his way to skewer an unarmed man. Still, if he made one move toward Keelin…

  “Don’t move, m’lady,” the rogue commanded. His strange eyes darted around the room, looking for some solution to his predicament. He could not move away from Keelin without risking a confrontation with Marcus. Yet if he harmed the lady…

  Clearly the man understood his peril. There was naught for him to do but lower his arms and allow Keelin to move, else feel the point of Marcus’s blade.

  Suddenly, and without warning, the man swooped down and grabbed the jeweled knife he’d dropped on the hearth. In one motion he stood, arcing the knife toward Marcus, in a desperate attempt to render a killing blow.

  The knife glanced off Marcus’s chest and it fell to the floor with a thud. The thief quickly bent over and retrieved the knife, lunging at Marcus from his crouched position.

  Marcus dodged the blow, but as the man fell to the ground, he wrapped one arm around Marcus’s legs and tried to pull him over, thrusting with the knife at the same time. Marcus was taken off balance, and as the thief jabbed the knife, Marcus ran him through with his sword.

  There was not a sound in the barn until Marcus heard a small whimper. Looking up at Keelin, he threw down his sword and went to her, gathering her into his arms, drying her tears with his cloak.

  “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered into his chest. “I was never so frightened—”

  “Hush,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. “’Tis over now. You’re safe.”

  “Aye,” she sniffed. “Safe. But what of you? Your leg—”

  “’Tis naught,” he replied quietly, though the rage of battle still rushed through his blood.

  Marcus calmed himself with the knowledge that the primary danger was past. True, they still had to survive the storm that raged outside, and naught had changed between him and Keelin. She had her precious spear back, and would return to Kerry as soon as she had the chance.

  Marcus remained silent, not saying any of the things that burned in his heart, but merely holding her close, relishing the softness of her body, the gentle purity of her soul. Mayhap there was something he could—

  The horse snorted, startling them both, and Keelin let out a sobbing laugh. “I brought him inside with me,” she said against his chest. “There was nothin’ else to do with him.”

  Marcus nodded. Then Keelin began to weep in earnest, though she hardly made a sound. He rubbed her back and whispered comforting words as he absorbed her tears, praying with every fiber of his being, that he would find a way to convince her to stay.

  “Oh, Marcus,” Keelin finally said. “Can ye forgive me for bein’ such a fool?”

  Marcus took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. Then he tipped his head and kissed her. “My only care is that you’re safe. The rogue did not harm you?”

  “Thanks only to you,” she said. “I should never have left the castle. But I was so afraid I would never get Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh back, and you were gone.”

  Marcus turned away and surveyed the room. He did not want to think about the damnable spear now, nor the risks Keelin had taken to recover it. He could not dwell on the fact that she intended to leave him to carry the spear to her homeland.

  “Keelin…” he said, looking back at her. He swallowed and considered what to say. He pulled off his glove and ran one hand along her jaw, one finger across her quivering lips. “Wait here while I deal with all this,” he finally said, his emotions too raw to talk rationally with her now.

  He let her go and walked over to the man who lay dead near the fire. Grabbing his hands without ceremony, Marcus dragged him outside.

  He pulled him to a snow-covered mound that looked like it had once been a building—probably a cottage, but at least it had been made of stone and wood. Here, he would do what was decent, covering the man, protecting his body from wild animals.

  A sound made Marcus turn toward the barn, and he saw Keelin outside in the snow, leading the horses toward the door. There would soon be quite a crowd inside.

  Keelin looked at the bloody trail in the tramped-down snow and shuddered. She drew the horses inside, then closed the door against the wind and added a few more sticks of wood to the fire. She picked up her belongings, the knife and the pin, and the pouch of coins, and put them with Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh in a corner.

  Keelin herded the horses to the back wall where they stood patiently, resting and gathering warmth from each other. She did not begrudge sharing the space with the animals, especially since their heat helped to make the drafty old barn seem snug. She hauled their saddles off and dried them with their thick blankets, and wished there was more than a few handfuls of old straw to give them.

  Inside the thief’s pack, Keelin found some bread, along with a block of cheese. There were two bottles of ale and some dried apricots and apples. Along with the blankets and other supplies Marcus had brought, they should be able to survive there for several days.

  Keelin hoped that would not be necessary. She knew that by morning, Tiarnan would know she was missing and
assume the worst. She did not want him to worry longer than necessary.

  And Marcus…She knew now that she could never leave him.

  When the thief had grabbed her knife and gone for him, Keelin had experienced a terror unlike anything she’d ever known. The thought of Marcus dying had taught her that life would not be worth living without him.

  She would see to it that Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh was restored to Clann Ui Sheaghda, but afterward, Keelin fully intended to return to Marcus. She would live out her days as his wife, at Wrexton.

  That is, if he would have her. Mayhap Marcus would not want a wife who behaved as foolishly as she. She knew he was angry—he’d hardly spoken a word to her, and his body had seemed as tense as a coiled spring.

  She could not blame him. She had been worse than foolish to go out in the storm alone. Witless was the word that came to mind.

  The door blew open just then and Marcus appeared. He picked up one of the saddles and propped it against the door to make it difficult to open from outside, then he joined Keelin by the fire.

  Wordlessly, he pulled off his wet cloak and tunic, and stood in the firelight wearing only his hauberk and chausses. Keelin watched as he unbuckled the fastenings of the hauberk and pulled it off, leaving him in his plain, white linen shirt.

  Keelin’s throat went dry. She had fought against her attraction to Marcus from the beginning. She’d resisted taking note of his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his tight hips and powerful thighs. But in the space of the last hour, all that resistance had vanished.

  “Marcus—”

  “Keelin—”

  They spoke at once, then stopped, awkwardly.

  “Please,” Marcus said quietly. “Go on.”

  Keelin blushed then. She took a step closer, until she could feel his breath on her face.

  “I was wrong,” she said simply, looking into his eyes. They were hazed with puzzlement, but he did not speak. Nor did he touch her.

  With her fingers, Keelin brushed his hair back off his forehead. “I cannot return to Carrauntoohil,” she said without taking her hand away. “At least, not without ye, Marcus.”