They were both transfixed, neither moving

Until the chamber door shut.

Keelin suddenly came to her senses and attempted to cover herself with her hands. Marcus should not be in her chamber. No man had ever seen her unclothed.

He took a step toward her.

“Marcus…” she whispered, unable to keep from wanting what she could not have.

She had no will of her own when he looked at her. Her hands dropped to her sides when he reached for her.

“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, taking her hand as she rose from the tub.

Nothing in Keelin’s life had prepared her for the surge of emotions that coursed through her now. She felt feverish, though she knew she should have been cold after stepping out of the bath. Instead, she felt heat—nay, ’twas more than mere heat, ’twas a sweltering fire that consumed her….

Celtic Bride

Harlequin Historical #572

Praise for Margo Maguire’s previous titles

Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

—Rendezvous

“A warm-hearted tale…Ms. Maguire skillfully draws the reader into her deftly woven tale.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Bride of Windermere

“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…THE BRIDE OF WINDERMERE will fit into your weekend just right.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“A wonderful story…experience the emotions and trials of these individuals as they travel on their journey. This one is a must.”

—Rendezvous

#571 THE WIDOW’S LITTLE SECRET

Judith Stacy

#573 THE LAWMAN TAKES A WIFE

Anne Avery

#574 LADY POLLY

Nicola Cornick

Celtic Bride

Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

Celtic Bride #572

This book is for Mom, a Celtic Bride herself.

Thanks for the stories of the McCarthys, the Deans,

the Lannens, the Flynns and all the rest of our Irish kin.

And thanks especially for telling me about

Uncle Billy who could charm warts off—but only

under the big oak tree next to the cemetery,

and under a full moon.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Prologue

Early Winter

West Cheshire, England

The Year of Our Lord 1428

The night was a long, troubled one, allowing little rest or comfort for Keelin O’Shea. Plagued by half-remembered dreams and terrible nightmares, Keelin’s remarkable intuitive abilities made her aware that she and her uncle Tiarnan were in danger. The Mageean warriors were near. She had no choice now but to take her clan’s ancient spear from its hiding place, and by touching the priceless relic, try to gain some clarity of their situation.

Some day, Keelin thought, some day soon, she would end her exile. She would return to Ireland and wed the man chosen years before by her father, Eocaidh O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. What a comfort it would be to have a strong and confident champion to care for her, and protect her; what a relief not to be looking over her shoulder at every turn, nor jumping at creaks and shadows. What joy to return to the home she had always called her own.

Tears came to Keelin’s eyes as thoughts of her clan pierced her heart. The lonely, isolated existence she and Tiarnan had lived for the past four years had finally worn her down. She could not remain in this foreign land any longer.

’Twas not an ideal time for travel, with winter nearly upon them, but there were precious few coins left of the purse Tiarnan had brought when they’d fled Ireland. If they did not go now, who was to say there’d be any left when it came time to buy their passage across the Irish Sea?

Keelin knew she would lose what wits she had if circumstances forced her to stay away from her beloved home for another season. She longed to know how her clan fared after the battle that had killed her father, that final blow that had sent her and Tiarnan fleeing across Ireland with the Sheaghda spear. She desperately yearned for the company of her young cousins and the lasses of the village at Carrauntoohil.

’Twas not that she didn’t care for Uncle Tiarnan. Quite the contrary—Keelin loved the old man as much as ’twas possible to love another soul. But there was no youth or vigor left in him. Their survival depended solely on Keelin’s abilities, and the task had become far too daunting for a young lass.

Keelin slipped off her narrow pallet and looked over at Tiarnan. The old man was still sound asleep, with eyes closed, his white-bearded jaw slack. ’Twas just as well that he slept. He’d barely recovered from the lung fever and was still weak. It would not do at all for him to get up now, only to fret and worry when Keelin took the spear into her hands and channeled all her energy toward the second sight that had kept them safe during their years of exile.

Keelin’s intuition was seldom wrong. In her sleep, she’d sensed that the Mageean enemies were close by, and she knew there was little time to waste. It was of minor importance where they headed—they just had to get away from the abandoned cottage they’d worked so hard to make their own.

Keelin wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, then added more peat to the fire before stepping quietly outside into the chilly morning. The faint glow of the approaching dawn lit Keelin’s path and she found her way easily to the back of the cottage where she had fashioned a crude shelter for their mule, and a place to keep the mule-wain and her meager tools. ’Twas nothing fancy, merely an extension to the roof of the cottage, to keep the mule out of the worst of the weather.

By touch, Keelin found the mule-wain and ran her hands across the rough wood, searching for the narrow hiding place she’d made. She could only hope that the support board she’d hollowed out would continue to serve as a secure cache for the precious spear that had been entrusted to her. With luck, no one would ever think to look for the sleek obsidian spear in such an obvious, yet devious hiding place.

Keelin found the metal latch and slid it aside, then reached two slender fingers into the opening to draw out the leather-sheathed spear that was once touched by the goddess of old. Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, as the spear was called by Keelin’s clan, had been given to a Sheaghda chieftain eons ago, in the dark years before the Vikings came, even before the Druids practiced their magic. Over the ages, the beautiful, black spear had become the symbol of Sheaghda dominance in Kerry.

Loss of the spear would mean devastation for the O’Sheas. And Ruairc Mageean, the sworn enemy of Clann Ui Sheaghda, intended to have it.

Every time Keelin touched Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she felt the magic of the spear. Its ancient power surrounded her and swept her into a cloud of sensations, each one stronger than the last, making her intuitive abilities wildly acute, but draining her of her strength.

’Twas her burden, as well as her honor, to be gifted with the ability to use the spear.

Drawing forth all her powers of concentration, Keelin sat down on a bed of pine needles and drew Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh from its sheath.

Chapter One

South of Chester, England

Early winter, 1428

The thick branches of the forest formed a pleasant canopy, high overhead. Dusty beams of sunlight slanted through the barren branches, lighting the dark recesses of the wood. It was late afternoon, and the riders pressed on, anxious to make Wrexton Castle before dark. Marcus de Grant rode alongside his father, tensing as Eldred once again brought up the only subject that could make Marcus tremble.

Marriage.

“There was a bounty of charming, young, marriageable ladies at Haverston Castle, Marcus,” Eldred de Grant said.

“Father—”

“I am growing no younger, my son, nor are you,” Eldred continued steadily. “One day you will be Earl of Wrexton in my stead, and I would wish for you to have a helpmate, a companion…a wife. A worthy woman such as your own mother, my Rhianwen.”

That was Marcus’s own wish, as well, but he had yet to meet a woman with whom he was at his ease. Except for the wives of a few friends, Marcus found himself tongue-tied and clumsy around women. It was especially true with the young ladies of noble birth, those lovely, preening birds in their velvets and silks, with their maids and servants, their pouting lips, their softly curving bodies and their illogical demands.

They were all so fragile, so delicate. So mysterious. Marcus was a soldier, not a courtier, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to court a woman. And with his burly build and superior strength, he worried that a mere touch of his clumsy hands could hurt them.

“A wife, Uncle Eldred?” Marcus’s young cousin asked indignantly, riding up alongside his elders. The brash eleven-year-old, Adam Fayrchild, had been orphaned several years before, and Eldred, a man generous and kind to a fault, had taken him in, though their kinship was distant at best. “What need have we of a wife at Wrexton? All is in order, is it not? We have Cousin Isolda, as well as cooks and footmen and maids and—”

“A man has need of heirs, young Adam,” Eldred said with a chuckle. “One day you’ll understand when you find your Eve.”

“Find my what?” he asked, as his freckled nose crinkled, clearly not understanding the earl’s jest. “There was not one girl at Haverston, Uncle, whom I could endure for a single day, much less a whole month, or a year!”

Marcus smiled, though Adam’s words made him aware of the deep loneliness he felt within his heart. Certainly he shared a warm closeness with his father, and he’d learned to treasure his precocious young cousin as well. But there was an emptiness inside that he’d felt acutely during the marriage festivities at Haverston Castle. More and more of his friends were wed now, and many of the young couples shared a bond that Marcus could only begin to fathom.

And until he somehow managed to get over his terrible shyness with women, he could only look forward to a lifetime spent alone. Marcus knew he was not unpleasant to look upon, but women wanted to be charmed. They wanted to be—

A wild cry from above, followed by a cacophony of barbarous calls, startled Marcus. Bearded barbarians dropped from the trees all around them, with swords and spears drawn. Marcus’s warhorse, long unaccustomed to the scent of blood and the fierce clang of iron, reared under him as the Wrexton travelers came under attack by these Celtic warriors. The entire Wrexton party was thrown into confusion, and several men were wounded before they were able to regain control of their mounts and draw their weapons.

The Wrexton men were vastly outnumbered, and struggled desperately to wage battle against their strangely clad, barbaric foes. Swords and spears clashed all around, and Marcus watched with horror as his father was thrown from his horse, and set upon by the savage, foreign warriors who attacked them.

No! Marcus’s heart cried out. Eldred de Grant was too strong, too vital to be cut down so heinously. It was impossible for Marcus to imagine a life without his father, a good and just man. He could not be dead!

“Marcus! Your father!” Adam shouted. The young boy had used good sense so far, keeping himself behind Marcus and out of the fray, but the attackers came from all sides. The Wrexton knights were surrounded.

Blindly, Marcus dismounted, grabbed Adam and stashed him in the safest place he could find, in the hollow of an old, felled tree. Then he hacked and slashed his way toward his father’s unmoving body.

“My lord! Behind you!” one of the men called out before Marcus was able to reach Eldred. Marcus whirled and dealt with the fierce, red-haired attacker, dispatching him quickly. Another bearded warrior replaced the first, and Marcus gritted his teeth and continued the battle as the fight went on all around him.

Wrexton men continued to fall as Marcus battled, and he could see no end to it, no way to get to his father. Even so, the young lord had no intention of giving up. He would fight to the death wielding his own lethal broadsword until he cut down as many of these fierce warriors as was humanly possible.

“My lord! There are riders coming!” one of the men shouted.

“They’re Englishmen!”

“It’s Marquis Kirkham and his men!”

The barbarians became aware of the English reinforcements, and mounted a hasty retreat as the newly arrived knights gave chase.

When Marcus was free of his last opponent, he hurried to his father’s side, where one of the men had dragged him away from the battle. A glimmer of hope surfaced in Marcus’s heart as he saw movement in his father’s eyes. Marcus knelt beside the older man and took his hand.

“My son,” Eldred whispered.

Marcus could not speak. His throat was thick, his tongue paralyzed, and his vision oddly blurred as he noted the severity of Eldred’s wounds.

“Temper your grief…in my demise…Marcus,” Eldred gasped. “I go now…to join your mother. Know now….that I could not have had…more pride in a son…than I have in you….”

Eldred took his final breath, then commended his soul to heaven.

All was silent. Not one bird chirped, nor a leaf rustled in the still air.

The knights standing ’round knelt and crossed themselves, and gave words of sorrow and condolence to Marcus. The new lord of Wrexton barely heard their words. Only a few short moments before, he and his father had been engaged in their familiar discussion of Marcus’s unmarried state. How could all have changed so suddenly? How was it possible that Eldred was gone?

“My lord!” a voice in the distance called. “Quickly!” Marcus turned to see one of his men standing beside the thick, fallen oak where he’d hidden Adam. Dread crept up his spine as he stood and crossed the span.

Either the boy had crawled out of his hiding place, or he’d been dragged out. ’Twas no matter now, though, for the boy lay still upon the deep green moss, with an arrow protruding grotesquely from his back.

Marcus crouched next to him. Never had Adam seemed quite so small, never so vulnerable. “He’s breathing,” Marcus said.

“Aye, my lord,” Sir Robert Barry said, “but if we pull the arrow out, he’ll likely bleed to death.”

“’Twill be hours before we reach Wrexton!” Sir William Cole retorted. “He’ll die for certain if—”

“There is a small cottage nearby, if I remember aright. Down that hill, next to a brook,” Marcus said grimly. He looked up at the men of his party. “I will carry him,” he said as he carefully picked the boy up into his arms. “Bring my father.”

“Be at ease, Uncle,” Keelin O’Shea said quietly to her uncle Tiarnan as she lay a gentle hand on his pale brow. His coughing spells were steadily improving, but they still rattled the old man terribly. “I will protect the holy spear. No Mageean hand will ever be touchin’ Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.”

Worry weighed heavily in Keelin’s breast. She was shaken and weakened by the sights she’d seen early that morning, and knew ’twas time to move on again. She and Tiarnan could not stay when the Mageean warriors were so close.

It seemed so long since they’d fled Ireland, running from the ruthless mercenaries who had killed her father. Keelin renewed her determination to stay clear of them. She knew that to lose the ancient spear would mean her clan’s loss of its right to rule, and allow the ascendancy of the cruel and implacable chieftain of Clan Mageean.

Keelin would never let that happen. She had witnessed Ruairc Mageean’s barbarity once too often to allow it.

In order to elude Ruairc’s men, and keep Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh safe for her clan, she and Tiarnan had uprooted themselves and moved four times in the years since their flight to England. But wherever they made their home, true security eluded them. Ruairc Mageean’s warriors were never far away.

’Twas only Keelin’s strange powers of intuition that kept them two shakes ahead of the mercenaries.

“Here, Uncle Tiarnan,” she said, lifting the man’s head and tipping an earthen mug to his lips. “Have a wee sip.”

“Ah, lass,” Tiarnan rasped, “Go rest yerself. Ye touched the spear this mornin’ and I know what a strain that puts on ye.”

“I’m fit enough,” she said, lying. She was weak and shaky still, hours after she’d seen the sights. But she would not let Tiarnan know, for he fretted too much over her as it was.

“Ye must tell me what ye saw.” His poor eyes, opaque now with age, turned blindly toward his young niece, though in his mind’s eye, he could still see her fresh beauty. Cream-white skin like her mother’s, with a slight blush of roses upon her cheeks. Eyes as green as the fields of home and hair as black and silky as the deepest night. Keelin’s was not a fragile beauty, for she was tall, as tall as most men. And she’d grown into a strong and hardy lass.

His poor Keelin had no way of knowing that Ruairc Mageean wanted more than the spear. The scoundrel intended to take Keelin O’Shea herself when he stole Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, and make her his concubine. Aye, the fiend had lusted after the girl since he’d first seen her, back when she was all gangly legs and big green eyes.

If Mageean managed to abduct Keelin when he stole the holy spear, he would have a much greater chance of usurping Eocaidh O’Shea’s heir as high chieftain of all of Kerry. Aye, Tiarnan knew ’twas exactly what Mageean intended.

Nor was Mageean the only man in Kerry lusting after the lass. It pained Tiarnan to know that the girl had been promised in marriage to Fen McClancy, a neighboring chieftain. And this abomination had been done by her own father mere days before his death in battle, may he rest his bones and his detestable soul in peace, Tiarnan grudgingly prayed.

Keelin’s intended was not only an old man, near as old as Tiarnan himself, but a lecherous old daff, besides. Sure and he might be high chieftain of all that lay northeast of O’Shea land, but Tiarnan knew there were other ways to secure McClancy’s alliance without bartering Keelin to the old rascal.

Leave it to his brother, Eocaidh, the strong and capable one, never to see beyond the needs of the clan. He’d have abandoned his young daughter to old Mc-Clancy without a second thought. Though he must have known how Keelin would react to the betrothal for he had not informed her of his intentions before his death.

’Twas with sheer luck and a prayer that Tiarnan had been able to convince the elders to send Keelin away as guardian of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, instead of staying in Kerry and becoming Fen McClancy’s wife. Tiarnan sincerely hoped that in the years since he and Keelin had fled Ireland, the McClancy chieftain had met his death. Nay, ’twas not a malicious wish—Tiarnan truly wished the man a peaceful end, but an end, nonetheless.

And he truly hoped Keelin never learned of her father’s promise to Fen. ’Twould break the girl’s heart to know how little her father thought of her. ’Twas a miracle she’d never realized it—yet Keelin was surprisingly oblivious to the reality around her. For all her intuitive abilities, she often misunderstood the simplest motivations of others.

Ah, but she was young still. Time enough to learn of the treachery of men.

“Please, Uncle,” Keelin said, “save your breath now, and we will speak later. There is nothin’—”

“But there is, darlin’,” the old man said as he lay his head back on the soft pillow Keelin had made for him. “This is important, Keelin, and time is short. Listen to me now.”

“What is it, Uncle, that you’ve got to be saying to me rather than taking your rest?” Keelin asked somberly, pulling a low wooden stool close to the narrow pallet on which the man rested. ’Twas nippy with the late afternoon, though the single room of the cottage was pleasantly warm with a small fire burning in the grate. The aroma of the healing plants and herbs Keelin set out to dry was strong, but pleasing. Later, when Tiarnan was asleep, she would crush the leaves that were ready, and pack them away for their journey.

“The Mageean warriors are comin’,” he said without preamble. “I know it with a certainty, even without seein’ it as you do.”

Keelin frowned. Tiarnan was wise, but how could he know what she’d only just seen that morning? The visions had been shattering. Brutal Celtic mercenaries clashing with peaceful Englishmen. Horses screaming, the scent of blood hot and sweet in her nostrils. Mortal wounds, great sorrow. She could not say exactly when it would happen, only that it would happen, and it would be soon.

“They cannot be far now, lass,” Tiarnan said breathlessly, “and ye know it as well as I do m’self. We’ve been here too long. They must be close to findin’ us out.”

Keelin quickly assessed the humble cottage. How would she manage to pack their meager belongings, reinforce the hiding place of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, and get her weak and ailing uncle away before Ruairc Mageean’s warriors came? And where would they go this time? Was it wise to attempt to return home now?

Last time they’d run, Tiarnan had still been able to see a bit. He’d not seemed so terribly old, nor so feeble as he was now. Would he manage the journey across Wales and down to the sea?

And the visions…Something, Keelin wasn’t sure quite what, but something was going on at Carrauntoohil Keep. Her urgency to go back was no longer a mere yearning to go home. She was filled with a foreboding that would not rest until she returned the sacred spear to her clan and saw for herself that all was well.

“Listen to me, Keely lass,” Tiarnan said calmly, sensing his niece’s rising panic. She was young, a mere nineteen years, and though Tiarnan considered her second sight a gift, he knew it was difficult for her. The visions always left her weakened, distraught and drained, even if she tried to hide it from him. “You must take Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and go away from here before—”

“Nay, Uncle,” Keelin cried abruptly. “I will not leave ye.”

“Keelin—”

“The warriors have been thwarted for now. I’ll not be leavin’ this place without ye. I can pack us up,” she said quickly, “and you’ll ride in the wain when ’tis time.”

“Keely,” Tiarnan said, closing his eyes wearily. It tried his soul to know that he’d soon send the lass away, to journey on alone, but no amount of prayers to the Holy Virgin or any of the saints had availed him. His chest pained him something terrible, and the cough…Well, he had no doubt the cough would be the death of him.

Keelin’s clear green eyes were bright with tears that overflowed their bounds. She took both her uncle’s hands in her own and raised them to her cheek. “I will move us to another place, a safer place where—”

“Do ye not understand, love?” Tiarnan said weakly, feeling her tears on his hands. “I am not well enough to travel, and ye must get away before it’s too late.”

“Nay, Uncle!” she cried. “There is time.”

“Keelin,” Tiarnan said, “even if there were time, ye don’t need an old wreck like me holdin’ ye back. Now, go on with ye. Start to pack up yer things and—”

Tiarnan paused and cocked his head slightly.

“What?” Keelin asked, alarmed at the way her uncle had tuned his ear to some distant sound that she could not yet hear. “What is it?”

“Someone’s comin’,” the man replied. “Horses…men on foot.”

“Oh, saints bless me!” Keelin cried, standing up abruptly from her perch. “How could I have been so wrong? They’re here? Now?”

“I doubt it’s them, darlin’,” Tiarnan said with the calm that comes with age. “But we’ve no choice but to wait and see, now.”

Keelin swallowed hard. They’d always kept well ahead of the Mageeans before. Never even got close to a confrontation. Yet here she stood frozen in her skin. She was barely able to move, unable to guide her uncle away from the cottage to hide. ’Twas no way for Eocaidh O’Shea’s daughter to behave, and she knew it.

“Do ye hear the voices now, lass?”

Keelin gave a slight nod, unmindful for the moment, that Tiarnan could not see her.

At least they would not find Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she thought. ’Twas well hidden again, and she would never tell where to find it. Allowing the holy spear to fall into Mageean hands would be the worst possible calamity.

Rage would not serve Marcus now. His desire to accompany Kirkham and his men as they chased down and killed the barbarians in the wood was great, but the need to get Adam to shelter was even more imperative.

With great care, Marcus carried the boy down the hill. The distance to the little cottage was a good deal longer than he remembered, perhaps because of the added burden of the injured boy in his arms. He tried to concentrate only on getting Adam to safety, to a place where his wound could be tended. Any other thoughts of the terrible moments in the wood would bring agony anew.

Four men of their party were dead, and another two seriously wounded. The others had minor injuries. As Marcus walked, surrounded by his men, he was aware that even now, a few of the Wrexton men were gathering the bodies of his father and his other fallen comrades, and would follow along shortly.

Why had they been attacked, Marcus wondered. He could not imagine any reason why foreign fighters would be on English soil, attacking a peaceful English party. It made no sense at all.

It had been fortuitous that Nicholas Hawken, the Marquis Kirkham, had arrived when he did to rout the attackers. As cocky and irreverent as the man was, Marcus knew Nicholas could always be counted upon in a fray. And without Hawken, the Wrexton party would have been utterly doomed.

One of Marcus’s men knocked on the door of the humble cottage, which was opened by a young woman who kept to the shadows of the interior. Marcus carried Adam into the room and, with help from one of the men, gently laid the boy on a bed. A white-bearded man lay silent on another bed at the opposite end of the room.

“I’ll need hot water,” Marcus said as he drew out his knife. He started cutting away the boy’s doublet as he spoke. “And some clean cloths. Edward, hold his arms. Roger, take his feet while I pull the arrow.”

Keelin pitied the poor wee mite whose body was pierced by the arrow. Nevertheless, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that it was not Mageean’s men upon them. She sensed Mageean’s presence strongly, and the turmoil and despair of these men. But no immediate danger.

Keelin stood near Tiarnan’s pallet and watched quietly as the English lord took care of his small charge and issued orders. The man was tall, and he’d had to duck as he entered the cottage. Even now as he knelt next to the wounded boy, his size seemed to take up half the room.

His hair was the lightest gold she’d ever seen. With deft fingers, the young lord quickly unfastened his tunic of chain mail, and one of his men helped him remove the heavy hauberk, leaving his broad shoulders loosely clothed in a sweat-dampened, but finely embroidered white linen tunic. He pushed his sleeves up and leaned toward the child lying on the bed, leaving his powerful forearms bared to Keelin’s gaze. Then he crossed himself in silent prayer and spoke quietly to the insensible boy.

“I’m sorry, lad, for what I must do,” he said steadily, “but we’ve no choice in the matter, and you must be brave.” And then he muttered under his breath, “As must I.”

Keelin’s heart went out to the young man who was so obviously shaken. These were the Englishmen she’d seen in her vision this morning, and though she’d not recognized their faces, she understood the measure of their sorrow, their terrible grief. She knew they had lost several of their comrades today, as well as one in particular who held a special place in their hearts.

She could do no less than to help them.

Going to the corner opposite her bed, Keelin opened the small trunk that contained her things. She had a few linen tunics and an old chemise that could be torn into strips. Taking out the items she needed, she made bandages for the boy.

When that was finished, she sorted through her leather pouches and took out the dried plants she would need. She’d learned the healing arts so well from her uncle that she had no need of his advice in choosing her medicines. Poterium Sanguisorba to help stop the bleeding, and lady’s mantle to keep the wound from festering.

When Keelin turned back to the Englishman, the arrow was out. The boy’s back was bleeding freely as Keelin stood beside the lord and placed a white cloth onto the wound. She applied pressure. The child moaned.

“Adam…” the lord said shakily.

Keelin could feel the heat and strength of the man next to her. She looked up at his strong profile—the long, straight nose, his square jaw, and unwavering sky-blue eye—and wondered if there was a man in all Ireland who would give her the care and attention that this man gave to the young boy at hand.

Certainly there was, she reminded herself. The man to whom she was betrothed would care for her as none had ever done before. Eocaidh would have seen to it. Many a time had Keelin asked Tiarnan about her betrothed, but her uncle had always skirted the question, never quite answering her. Keelin had finally given up asking, for ’twas entirely possible he did not know. The council of elders had the final word, and they might not have included Tiarnan in their decision.

“’Tis a good sign, m’lord,” Keelin said in a quiet voice. “His groanin’.”

He looked at her then, noticing her for the first time. He blushed deeply and his eyes darted away.

“E-Edward,” the golden English lord said to the knight who stood near the door, intentionally turning his attention from her. Then he cleared his throat and continued. “See if there is a physician in the v-village down the road and fetch him if—”

“I am a healer, m’lord,” Keelin said, spreading her leather satchels on the bed next to the boy. “And I have all I need to tend the poor wee lad.” She opened the pouches, pouring some dark powder into a small dish, then adding water. She mixed the two into a paste and then bid the English lord to lift the bandage from the boy’s back.

“Ach, ’tis a grievous wound,” she said as she spread some of the paste into the deep gash, “made ever more dangerous by its proximity to the spine.”

She didn’t tell him that the kidney was nearby as well, and that she hoped it hadn’t been nicked by the arrow. As it was, the boy would be lucky not to bleed to death slowly, from the inside.

Marcus could only stare at her graceful hands as they worked. In a few short moments, his life had been tossed upside down, his father killed dead in the field and poor Adam gravely wounded and lying in a peasant’s hut that was inhabited by an old man and a beautiful woman who was obviously no common peasant.

Nor was she English.

Her presence here made no sense. It occurred to Marcus that she might be connected somehow to the vicious warriors who had attacked them in the wood. Were those men her personal army? Was that why they had attacked? To keep her safe?

He thought it odd, too, that she had not seemed surprised by his arrival with Adam and the others. Was this kind of occurrence commonplace in her experience?

No, he realized. It could not be. They were not so very far from Wrexton now, and Marcus was sure he’d have heard of a band of wild, foreign warriors guarding one small cottage.

But who was she?

The woman wore a simple, but finely made kirtle of wool dyed deep green, and her dark hair lay long and silky upon her back. She moved majestically, with grace and purpose, as she laid gentle, competent hands on his young cousin. She spoke softly to Adam, with her strangely musical accent, even though it was unclear whether or not the boy could hear.

She had the mien of a queen, yet here she was, in this place—this small cottage that was little better than a peasant’s hovel. And Marcus felt as tongue-tied and awkward as he’d ever felt in the presence of a lady.

“M’lord,” said the grizzled old man on the bed at the opposite end of the room.

Marcus turned and walked toward him, noticing that the old fellow still beckoned. It was then that he realized the man was blind.

“Ye must allow my niece to do what she thinks is best,” he said, his words accented even more thickly than the woman’s, “for you could ask for no greater healer on English or Irish soil than Keelin O’Shea.”

“Is that who she is? Your niece?” Marcus asked, much more at ease now that he was not standing quite so close to the girl. He let out a slow breath as he watched her continue to stitch the wound in Adam’s back.

“Aye, Keelin O’Shea of Kerry, she is,” the old man said. “And me, I’m her uncle. Tiarnan O’Shea at yer service. Or I will be, once I’m up on m’ feet again.”

“Kerry…That would be…an Irish province?” Marcus asked, barely listening to the reply. He raked his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He was painfully aware that somewhere outside his father lay still in death, his body covered by a shroud and under the guardianship of his men.

Marcus was numb with grief and anger, and did not know how he would function, how he would assume the role of earl, and command these men. How would he get his father and the rest of his fallen knights back to Wrexton and into hallowed ground? And what of Adam? ’Twas obvious the boy could not travel, nor could Marcus leave him here with strangers.

“Kerry’s more a region, lad,” Tiarnan replied, oblivious to the young lord’s consternation. “A fierce and proud land of Munster in the southwest of Ireland, wi’ loughs and craggy hills galore.”

Marcus made no reply, for he was lost in thought. The old man took his silence for worry about Keelin and her handling of the wounded boy. “Truly, ye can trust her, lad,” Tiarnan said. “She’s got a gift for the healin’.”

“I can only pray you’re right,” Marcus said as he turned away and stalked out of the cottage. Roger and Edward remained within, and Marcus knew he could trust either man to come to him if further trouble arose.

He looked up at the sky and breathed deeply, wondering how such a beautiful day could have been destroyed so quickly, by such ugliness.

’Twas years since Marcus had engaged in battle. Five years, to be precise, since he’d returned home from the French wars to find his mother ill and dying. After her death, he’d stayed on at Wrexton with his father, never returning to France.

Wrexton was at war with no one. The campaign in France had little bearing on what happened here, so far in the west country. There were no border disputes or skirmishes with neighboring knights to account for any violence. He and Eldred had developed good rapport with the Welsh who lived on the land adjacent to Wrexton, and Marcus had had no reason to expect a vicious ambush from foreign knights.

Knights? If that’s what they were.

Not even the French were so barbaric. What armor these men wore was primitive. They were unwashed and unshaven, with hair pulled into thongs and hanging down the length of their backs. Their language was strange and guttural, and completely unfamiliar to him. He’d thought them Celts before, and now, knowing that the cottage woman and her uncle were Irish, he wondered what the connection was. There had to be one.

And God help Tiarnan O’Shea and his niece if they were in any way a party to the day’s hideous slaughter.

Marcus walked around to the far side of the cottage where the men had set up tents. It was there they would spend the night, where the wounded men would be tended. He did not know how many nights they would stay, or when it would be possible for Adam to travel to Wrexton Castle.

But he would have to get his father home soon, for burial on Wrexton land.

There was a briskly flowing brook near the cottage, and Marcus walked down a beaten path to get to it. He pulled off his tunic and crouched down, dunking his head in the water. Somehow, he had to clear his thoughts.

Keelin finished tending the lad, then put away her medicines and bandages. She washed her hands in a basin of fresh water, then went over to speak quietly to her uncle.

“Sleep awhile now,” she told him, knowing that the worry and then the excitement of visitors had exhausted him. “I must go out for a bit, but I’ll be back to see to ye soon.”

She had to talk to the Englishman.

Stepping outside, Keelin was surprised and dismayed to see so many knights milling about near the mule-wain. She assured herself that there was no danger of one of the men discovering the spear, but it made her uncomfortable to see them standing so close to it.

Keelin calmed herself. With a definite plan in mind, she approached one of the men and asked where the young lord might be found, and was given a direction to follow. She took the path to the brook, skirting a partially hidden nest of baby snipes, and stopped short when she saw him.

There was a strange fluttering in her belly and a heaviness in her chest as she watched this primal young man, standing half-naked on the bank. She felt hot all over, as though her skin were on fire. Her heart pounded as if she’d swallowed some of her own foxglove powder.

If she’d ever seen so well developed a man, Keelin could not remember it. If she’d ever noticed how low a man’s chausses hung on his hips, or how the muscles in his arms stood out, the memories were lost to her.

His upper body and hair were wet and he threw his head back as she’d seen wild animals do, half expecting him to shake all over to dry himself. Keelin’s mouth went dry as she watched. She forgot to breathe.

And then he saw her.

He took a sudden step back and plopped his booted foot right into the brook. To make matters worse, he lost his balance and fell on his rump. Saints above, the man had a lovely blush, as well as a good deal other attributes, Keelin thought as she rushed down to the water to give him a hand up. He’d gone a lovely pink right to the ends of his ears.

“Well, if ’twas a bath ye wanted…” she said in jest.

Silently, the blond Goliath got to his feet and stepped up and out of the wee river. Keelin realized he was in no mood for humor. Nor was he inclined to be friendly to her. She could understand that. She was Irish, after all, same as the men who’d attacked the young lord’s party. Had the situation been reversed, and English mercenaries attacked a group of her father’s men…Well, Keelin was certain that no Englishman would be safe from Eocaidh O’Shea’s wrath.

“The lad is sleepin’ now,” she said somberly, breaking the tension his silence created. He’d been full of orders to his men when he’d first arrived, when the boy had needed quick attention, but was clearly loath to speak to her.

“’Twill be some time, though,” she said, “before we know how he fares….”

The man nodded curtly and headed up the path toward the cottage. It appeared to Keelin that he wanted nothing to do with her.

This would never do. She had a request to make, an urgent one. This young lord was the answer to a prayer, if only she could get him to agree to escort her and Uncle Tiarnan away. With Tiarnan’s health being what it was, this stern giant was her only hope. She’d find a way to leave Tiarnan in this man’s care, and then go on to Kerry herself. She needed to know what was going on at Carrauntoohil.

“Wait!” she commanded. And got his attention at last.

He stopped and half turned toward her.

“I am Keelin O’Shea, daughter of Eocaidh, high chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda.” When he made no response, she said, “I believe ’tis my right to know the name of my guest.”

He cleared his throat. “M-Marcus de Grant,” he finally said haltingly. “With my father’s death this afternoon, I am…I am the new Earl of Wrexton.”

’Twas just as she thought. This was no ordinary Englishman, and Keelin was glad she’d given her full credentials. Marcus de Grant was a high nobleman, and a man grieving for his own father. Now, if only she could persuade him to take her and Tiarnan to his lands.

“My condolences on your loss,” she said earnestly, walking toward him. The poor man was obviously shaken by his father’s death. “’Tis not an easy thing to lose your family.”

Marcus doubted he’d ever felt so awkward before. As he stood half-naked on the path, with the O’Shea woman bearing down on him, he wanted to drop his sodden tunic and run. Run from everything—his new position in life, the responsibility he felt for Adam, the death of his father. And he would most certainly run from this exquisite black-haired lady, whose regal manner had him typically tied into knots.

At the same time, he sensed that the woman spoke from experience, that she’d known loss herself, and it was that feeling that gave him the impetus to reply to her statement. “No, i-it isn’t easy,” he said woodenly.

“And the lad, m’lord? Who is Adam?” she asked as they began to walk abreast of each other.

“My cousin,” Marcus replied as he moved to keep some distance between them.

“Not meanin’ to be impertinent, m’lord,” she continued, “but how did all this happen? What befell your party?”

“I had hoped you would have some insight into that,” Marcus said, surprising himself at his loquacity. He hadn’t stammered at all, and somehow had managed to say exactly what was on his mind, in spite of the directness of her forest-green gaze, her exquisitely curved form and the tantalizing spicy scent that seemed to emanate from her.

“Me?” she asked, apparently stunned, for she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Celtic warriors attacked us in the wood north of here,” he said. “Another party of Englishmen arrived in time to rout them, but not before they killed four of our men and wounded several others besides Adam.”

Keelin O’Shea pressed a hand to the center of her chest, drawing his eyes to her softly rounded bosom. She muttered a couple of unintelligible words, and then to his amazement, she said, “I’ve been worried somethin’ of this nature would happen sooner or later.”

“You know about them—the warriors?” he asked, stunned by her admission, even though he’d already made the connection.

Keelin set her jaw and inclined her head and Marcus had the distinct impression that she intended to duck the question. Her evasiveness angered him and he took hold of her arm.

“What of those Celts?” he demanded, his anger rising to the surface again, even as he became aware of her softness. “Will they return? Are there more of them lurking somewhere, waiting for—”

“No!” Keelin replied irritably, pulling her arm away. “At least I greatly doubt it. The Mageean warriors have never split up to search…they’ve always traveled together, as one….”

“Go on.”

“They’re Ruairc Mageean’s men. And they are after me,” she said dejectedly. “They’ve been chasin’ after my uncle and me for the last four years. We’ve been hidin’ out here in England, movin’ on whenever the need arose.”

Marcus could not afford to be self-conscious or bashful now. Keelin O’Shea had the answers to his questions. She had information about the warriors who’d killed his father, and he intended to find out what she knew. For the first time in his life, he was not entirely tongue-tied and overwhelmed by his nearness to a beautiful woman. Though he still felt deathly uncomfortable, he found he could speak to her—touch her, even—without freezing up like a branch in an ice storm. On the contrary. He felt as if the flames of Hades were consuming him bit by bit. “Who is Ruairc Mageean?”

“Well…” Keelin swallowed hard, taken aback by the lord’s anger. Sure, she could see he’d leashed the powerful emotion, but ’twould be a terrible thing if ever he let it free. ’Twas obvious that now was not the time to make her request. In fact, she realized belatedly, it might be better to leave the man alone entirely for now. “’Tis a long story, but suffice it to say that Mageean is a rival of my family. A cruel and heartless man who would possess all of Munster if only…”

“If only…?” Lord Wrexton asked, his anger barely concealed.

“If only he had the power to do so,” she said uneasily as she turned abruptly and headed up the path to the cottage.

Marcus stood watching as her slender form was swallowed up in the thick woods, but his relief at being left alone was short-lived. Within a few short minutes of Keelin O’Shea’s departure, there was a bloodcurdling, feminine scream from somewhere deep in the wood.

He dropped his tunic in the dirt and ran.

Chapter Two

Keelin managed to walk only a short way up the path when she was accosted. Her filthy attacker slapped one hand over her mouth and the other across the middle of her body. Then he dragged her through the woods in the opposite direction of her cottage, away from any help at all.

She kicked and scratched frantically at the villain who hauled her mercilessly across the dense forest growth, but her actions were of no avail. She could not get herself free from the man, except for one short instant when she managed to let out a desperate screech.

The Celtic warrior wrapped her hair tightly around his hand and, speaking in Gaelic, told her in no uncertain terms to keep silent. Pain ripped through Keelin’s scalp as the man brutally yanked and resumed his terrible pace through the forest.

Keelin couldn’t think clearly, yet a thousand disconnected thoughts ran through her mind as she clawed at the man’s hands. Would the warrior kill her? Who would care for Uncle Tiarnan then? What would happen to Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh? Had her cry been loud enough for anyone to hear?

“Let the woman go!”

The Celt suddenly stopped and whirled around. Holding Keelin in front of him like a shield, he faced Marcus de Grant, who appeared like a golden giant out of the woods to challenge him.

“Be still, Keelin,” Marcus de Grant growled. Startled once again by the young earl’s sudden appearance, Keelin felt the cold, steel blade at her throat and knew that her life depended on keeping still.

“Give me Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and I will free you,” the warrior demanded.

“Níl!” Keelin cried.

Lord Wrexton’s sword was drawn and he was ready to engage the Irishman, but Keelin was afraid the young lord could do nothing while the mercenary held her this way, with one hand tightly tangled in her hair, the other on the knife. If de Grant attacked, Keelin would surely be killed.

De Grant stood at the ready, slightly crouched, and slowly began to circle Keelin and the Irishman. Somehow, in the depths of her distress, Keelin wondered what he could possibly do to free her.

She heard a strange, strangled sound, and realized it had come from her own throat. The mercenary pulled her hair even tighter and turned to keep Wrexton in front of him, though Keelin could feel that he was slightly off balance. She was too frightened to act, and so she moved with him, taking care not to jar herself against the knife.

“You’ll never leave these woods alive, Celt!” Marcus taunted. “Let her go and I’ll spare you! Drop—”

A loud crack split the air behind her, and the Irishman yelped. Keelin was thrown forward, onto her knees, facedown in the dirt.

Amidst the sudden shouts of men, and confusion all around her, Keelin came as close to fainting as if she’d just experienced a powerful vision. Heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, she was helped to her feet, then pulled off them again when her knees buckled. As she fell to the ground, she heard the clash of swords, the grunts of men fighting for their lives. Suddenly, all was silent. De Grant lifted her into his naked arms and carried her to the path that led to her cottage.

The young lord was quiet as he carried her faultlessly through the woods. Trembling, Keelin wrapped her hands around his neck and held on, treasuring the unfamiliar sensations of safety and security. It had been years since anyone had protected her, or helped her in any way. The warrior had killed a man to protect her.

She gazed up at Lord Wrexton, whose eyes were locked straight ahead, and took notice of the short, red-blond whiskers that covered his jaw and neck. She’d never seen any young man up so close, had certainly never before appreciated the strong lines and muscles of a warrior’s physique. Yet she’d found herself gaping at this powerful man more than once in the short hours since he’d crashed in on her life. She had never thought a man beautiful before, yet now…

She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut out the thoughts that would surely cause her nothing but trouble. How the man could have such an effect, and so quickly, was a mystery to Keelin.

Marcus got her back to the cottage and the place where his men were encamped. He eased her down onto the stump of a great oak, and tilted her chin with one hand as his men gathered round. “You’re bleeding,” he said, oblivious to her appreciative gaze, and astonished that she’d come to no harm. The Celt had been quick to raise his sword against Keelin. ’Twas by the grace of God that Marcus had been quicker, though he’d achieved little satisfaction in killing the Celt.

With a surprisingly steady hand, Marcus touched the injury on Keelin’s neck, assessing its severity.

“The knave cut me?” Keelin asked, surprised. Yet another odd feeling rose in her, much more intense than anything she’d experienced so far, one that seemed to be the result of the earl’s gentle touch. But how could that be? She’d never heard of such a thing.

“Aye,” Marcus replied. “He sliced you when you fell.”

“Wh-what happened back there?” Keelin asked. She felt shaky and light-headed now that the threat was done. “How did I…Why did the scoundrel let me loose?”

“We heard your scream,” Marcus began. One of his men handed him a clean cloth and a stoppered crock of ointment that he used to daub at the thin slice on her neck. “I came after you, as did Marquis Kirkham—the Englishman who routed the Celts after they attacked our party.”

Keelin furrowed her brow and shook her head in puzzlement. “Where did the marquis come from? How did he—”

“I know as little as you, my lady,” Marcus replied. “Kirkham arrived in the woods behind you and the Celt, just about the time I got there.”

“Aye, my lord,” one of the men said. “Lord Kirkham rode up just as we heard the lady cry out.”

“I kept the Celt distracted,” Marcus continued, “while Kirkham used his whip on the man.”

“That was the crackin’ sound that made him drop me?”

Marcus nodded. “Kirkham has a fondness for the whip,” he said, “though he’s a skilled swordsman as well.”

Keelin winced at the stinging caused by the ointment. “Sword or whip,” she said as he wrapped a clean length of cloth around her neck. “I’m grateful to the man for comin’ along when he did.” Then Keelin stayed his hand with one of her own as she looked into his light-blue eyes. “You have my thanks as well, Lord Wrexton.”

She saw color burst in his cheeks, then flush down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. His diffidence endeared him to her as much as his strong, powerful presence had done earlier.

Keelin would have touched the bit of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead, but she dropped her hand midway when Marquis Kirkham arrived in the clearing. He was tall and powerfully made, with a visage as fierce and dark as the very devil. Keelin could almost believe the man had routed the Celtic mercenaries single-handedly.

“What say you, Marcus?” the big nobleman said, slurring his words. Keelin realized the man was drunk! “I’ve been mopping up after you all day!”

Marcus did not respond to the man’s sarcasm, for he was accustomed to Kirkham’s brooding and sarcasm. Instead, he merely finished tying Keelin’s bandage in place. Keelin, however, took exception to the drunken newcomer’s speech. Such loose and foolish talk would never have gone unchallenged in her father’s keep. She stood and faced the man.

“M’lord,” she said firmly, “can ye not know of the young lord’s loss? His own father was slain this very day, yet here ye jest—”

“Is this true, Marcus?” the marquis asked earnestly. The captious mischief in his eyes faded and his posture straightened. “Did Eldred fall to those savages?”

Marcus gave a curt nod and turned away. Kirkham followed, and the two men disappeared from Keelin’s view.

Keelin sensed a terrible turmoil in the marquis, in spite of his drunkenness, but she was unable to understand any more of the man. Perhaps, she thought, he had good reason for overimbibing, but her intuition failed to give further insight.

She touched the bandage at her neck and thought again how close she’d come to losing her life. What would have happened to the clan then, if Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh was lost? Keelin’s urgency to return to Carrauntoohil doubled, though the means by which she was to get there were unclear. Somehow, Keelin would see her uncle safely to Wrexton, and then make the trip to Kerry on her own.

Marcus did not feel the chill of the early evening. He was never one to be subject to the cold, but in the last few minutes, he’d been suffused with heat.

It was entirely the woman’s fault.

He would have liked a few moments to himself to savor the experience of holding Keelin O’Shea. He’d have given himself time to think of her softness and the long, elegant lines of her neck, the gloss of her hair and the fire in her green eyes.

Instead, he strode into his campsite beside Nicholas Hawken, and told of his encounter with the barbarian mercenaries.

Nicholas sobered with Marcus’s words, and listened attentively, his brooding features never changing.

“I apologize, Marcus,” Nicholas finally said, bowing his head, “for my earlier gaffe. Eldred was a good and just man and I am sorry for your loss.”

Marcus acknowledged the condolence. “I sent a pair of men down to Chester to fetch the bishop. As soon as they return to Wrexton, he’ll say the requiem.”

“When will you leave here?”

“I’m unsure,” Marcus replied. “Adam is badly wounded. I expect Lady Keelin will know when it’s safe to move him.”

“What of this woman?”

Marcus looked up.

“By her own admission, she is the cause of all this grief, is she not?”

Marcus could not deny Nicholas’s words, but still, he did not see Keelin O’Shea as the party responsible for his father’s death. She was as much a victim as any of them.

“’Tis clear she is in need of protection,” Marcus said. “When Adam is able to be moved, Lady Keelin and her uncle will accompany us to Wrexton.”

There was silence for a moment, then the marquis let out a bark of sarcastic laughter and gave Marcus a hearty slap on the back. “Ever the chivalrous knight, eh, Wrexton?”

The knights and noblemen of Marcus’s acquaintance assumed that his refusal to use a woman for sport was due to a misplaced sense of honor. He’d been the brunt of many a jest over it, but had never seen fit to set them straight on the matter. He’d been dubbed “Marcus the Honorable,” but in most instances, ’twas more a slur than a compliment.

Young Adam tossed and turned fitfully. Keelin tended the lad, and saw to her uncle’s needs. She had no intention of telling Tiarnan about the Mageean mercenary who’d come back for her, nor did she mention the strange feelings that had come over her ever since the young Earl of Wrexton had entered her life. Her uncle had enough to do, just to get well.

Keelin saw that the men had put up several tents nearby, and they had a fire going. One of them was cooking, while Lord Wrexton stood tall, his golden hair nearly glowing in the firelight.

“Sir Henrie,” Keelin heard Lord Marcus say, his voice sending a baffling tingle of warmth through her. “At first light, you and Thomas leave with Arthur Pratt. Return to Wrexton. Inform them—” Marcus paused “—tell all of my father’s death. Have the steward begin preparations for his funeral.”

Keelin watched as the young man took on the mantle of command, even as he girded himself against the pain of his grief. As she admired Marcus’s determined competency, Keelin recalled the day her own father had been killed. With Eocaidh O’Shea’s death, Ruairc Mageean had won the day, but Keelin’s flight from Kerry with the holy spear had saved the clan.

Again, Keelin wished for the warmth and security of Carrauntoohil Keep, and the company of her people. She’d been away four long years, years during which she’d become a woman, and had little contact with anyone other than Uncle Tiarnan. They had kept to themselves while in England, going into towns or villages rarely, only to barter for the supplies they needed. And though Tiarnan was a wise and wonderful uncle, Keelin missed the camaraderie of young people. She needed to establish a life for herself, not as a niece or a runaway, but as a wife. A mother. Chatelaine of a household.

“What sort of man is he, Keelin?” Tiarnan said, his words breaking into Keelin’s thoughts.

“Who, Uncle?”

“The young lord,” he replied. “De Grant.”

“Well, he’s—” Keelin hesitated “—he’s tall.”

“Aye, I could tell that.”

“And quiet, mostly,” she added. “Though he’s been out there givin’ orders to his men since before the sun set.”

“A good leader…”

“Aye, I suppose, though I doubt he’s been tested,” she said. “After all, his father, the earl before him, only passed away today.”

“Still and all, lass, a man either has the qualities of a leader or not,” Tiarnan said with finality. “What sort of looks has he?”

Keelin shivered, and quickly wrapped her arms about herself. Marcus de Grant had put her in mind of the childhood tales she’d heard of the fierce golden Vikings of old. Aye, his features were most pleasing, but his blush when she got too near, and the gentleness of his manner were most appealing. For all his size and obvious strength, Marcus de Grant was clearly not a cocky, overconfident male.

“Well? Would ye call him a handsome fellow?”

Keelin sighed. “I suppose ye could say so, Uncle Tiarnan.”

“What do ye mean, lass? Either he is or he is not. There’s no supposin’ about it.”

Before Keelin could give her uncle a more decisive answer, Adam spoke out.

“Marcus?” he cried weakly.

Keelin went to the bedside and sat down next to the lad. “He’s nearby, Adam,” she said. “Do ye need somethin’?” she asked as she sponged his brow.

“Marcus…”

She glanced up at Sir Roger, then sent the knight in search of the earl.

Keelin O’Shea was hiding something. Marcus was as sure of that as he was of his own name. Yet, rather than pursuing his suspicions, he avoided going into her cottage.

His courage—and his miraculous ability to speak to a lovely woman—had disappeared after she’d left him earlier. He doubted he’d be able to put two coherent words together in her presence again. He just hoped Adam and the other wounded men would not need to remain over-long at her cottage. The quarters were too close and Marcus knew it would be impossible to avoid her forever.

He wished he knew what she had not told him. He believed her tale that the Mageean fighters were after her, but he was sure there was more to it than a mere family rivalry. What did Mageean want—that he’d go to the trouble of chasing after Keelin O’Shea for four years?

Lust was a definite possibility, Marcus thought, tamping down his own libidinous thoughts. Most assuredly, Keelin O’Shea was capable of inspiring a man to go to great lengths to have her.

But if that were the case, it made no sense for her to withhold that information. Any other woman would have explained the situation, then thrown herself on his mercy and asked for his protection from the predatory Mageean.

Unless Mageean was her betrothed, and she was running from—

“My lord,” Sir Roger’s voice pierced the darkness.

Marcus turned to face the young man.

“The lady sent me to fetch you,” he said. “Young Adam is awake and asking for you.”

“How is he?” Marcus asked gravely.

“Better than expected, my lord,” the knight answered. “Though the Lady Keelin says he is in a great deal of pain and upset about your father.”

Marcus lowered his head. What comfort could he offer the boy? Eldred was dead, and there was no changing that. No going back. At least Marcus had managed to pull the arrow from Adam’s back, and had the help of Keelin O’Shea to deal with the wound afterward.

“’Twould be good for him to see you,” Sir Roger nudged.

Marcus gave a quick nod and headed toward the cottage. He ducked under the lintel and stood still by the doorway watching Keelin O’Shea gently mop his cousin’s brow with a wet cloth. Sitting on a stool next to the bed, she spoke softly to him as she ran the cloth over his forehead and cheeks, smoothing the boy’s hair back. Adam seemed completely relaxed.

Marcus knew her touch would tie him into knots. Just the thought of those slender hands on his—

“Marcus!” Adam’s young voice sounded harsh and strained.

Marcus moved away from the door and went to the boy. It seemed that all color was washed from Adam’s face. The bandage on his back was thick and ominous. “You’re awake,” he said inanely, putting a gentle hand on his head.

“Sit here, m’lord,” Keelin said, rising from the stool. She laid a hand on his arm before turning and stepping away, and Marcus nearly knocked over the stool with the shock of heat he felt from her skin.

“Marcus?” Adam asked. Marcus took his cousin’s small hand in his. “Is your father…did Uncle Eldred d-die?”

Marcus nodded. “Yes,” he breathed.

“It cannot be!” the boy protested feebly. “I loved him!”

“So did I, Adam,” Marcus whispered. “So did I.”

“When I think of it,” Adam said, “I…” He swallowed. “It makes me want to weep.”

“Then weep, lad,” Marcus said quietly. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Adam closed his eyes and rested for a moment before speaking again. “Do you ever cry, Marcus?”

Keelin stayed by her uncle and tried to give their visitors the privacy the moment required, but it was no use. She could not help but hear the child’s forthright questions and she strained to hear the knight’s answer.

“Aye, Adam,” he finally said, his strong voice wavering as he spoke. “I do.”

Keelin resisted the urge to go to Lord Wrexton and wrap him in the peace and comfort of her arms. Earlier, she’d realized that he was ill at ease with her, and she did not wish to discomfit him any further. Yet her heart reached out to these two, whose lives had been shattered by the events of this day. Events caused by the enemies of her clan.

Uncle Tiarnan squeezed her hand and Keelin looked away. After a time, Marcus’s faltering voice addressed her. “Lady Keelin, how long before Adam can travel?” he asked without turning away from the boy.

Keelin let go of her uncle’s hand and approached the child’s bed. “Two days, m’lord,” she said. “He shouldn’t be moved for two days.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Keelin shrugged. She just knew. “Two days’ healin’ time and he’ll be able to ride for some miles on a soft pallet without breakin’ open the wound.”

The young lord shook his head. “Two days is a long time. If the barbarian army returns—”

“It won’t, m’lord,” Keelin said with certainty.

He looked up at her then, his eyes so light, so wary. Keelin sensed no immediate danger, but he had no reason to believe her, especially since the lone Celt had shown up, putting a lie to her earlier avowal that the Celts would never split up.

But Keelin had no intention of explaining her strange talent to Marcus. Being a Celt was enough reason for him to hate her. She would give no cause for him to suspect her of sorcery, too.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Then be ready to leave this place in two days,” he said with a tone of command. “You and your uncle will travel with us to Wrexton.”

“We’ll be ready, m’lord,” Keelin said, relieved. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She could get Uncle Tiarnan settled within the safety of Wrexton’s walls, then make the journey to Kerry herself. “How great a distance is it to Wrexton, m’lord?” she asked.

Marcus cleared his throat and backed away from Keelin as he spoke. “’Twould be only a few hours ride if we weren’t slowed by the wounded, but now—”

A quiet, but urgent tap sounded on the cottage door. Sir Edward opened it to one of the Wrexton knights.

“My lord,” the man said, doffing his helm. “Riders approach.”

Keelin gasped and Lord Marcus stood immediately, one strong, competent hand going for the sword at his side. “The men are ready?” he asked, with utter confidence. There was no faltering hesitation about him now.

“Aye, my lord,” the knight replied, “for anything.”

“Then let us see who approaches.”

“Is it those warriors—coming back?” Adam asked fearfully after Lord Marcus had left.

Keelin went to him. “No, lad,” she said, “at least I don’t think so.” She was sure she’d have sensed danger if any were upon them. Though she did not know who the riders were, she did not feel any threat. “Uncle?”

Tiarnan shook his head. “I’ve no idea, lass.”

“Well, then,” she said to Adam as she hugged her arms tightly around herself and sat down next to the boy, “we shall just have to await your cousin’s return for news.”

Chapter Three

Whoever the riders were, friend or foe, Marcus was glad of the reprieve. He doubted he’d have been able to remain with Lady Keelin a moment longer without some terrible blunder. As it was, he was merely lucky he hadn’t trodden on her delicate feet, nor had he said anything inane.

At least he didn’t think he had.

The riders hailed the house and approached, identifying themselves in the firelight. They were the last of Nicholas Hawken’s men, those who’d been left to deal with the dead Celts. There was nothing new to report, so the knights of Wrexton and Kirkham alike settled down for the night, posting a guard over the bodies, and men to keep watch, leaving Marcus pacing restlessly at the perimeter of the camp.

’Twas his place to sit at Adam’s bedside for the night, but he was loath to return to the close quarters of the cottage. Spending the night with Keelin O’Shea—

He blushed with the very thought, even though there was nothing in it.

Marcus cursed silently. He was earl now, and it was time he took control of his ridiculous shyness whenever he was near a woman. Somehow, he had managed to speak coherently to Keelin O’Shea today. He could do it again.

He ought to be able to do it again.

Marcus heard the quiet voices of the men in camp, the horses nickering, the fire crackling. The sky was black and without stars. Rain tomorrow, he thought, knowing he was putting off the inevitable.

Finally, he picked up his saddle pack, gathered up his blankets, and his courage, and headed for the cottage.

Keelin gave Adam a draught of her precious valerian, then sat at the young boy’s bedside, watching over him as he drifted off to sleep. It was serene and peaceful in the little cottage, with her uncle’s quiet snores brushing softly over the silence. She could hear men’s voices outside, and knew there’d been no confrontation with the riders.

Marcus would soon return. She sensed no need to fear him, aware that he preferred to keep his distance from her. She did not blame him for despising her race—after all, her people were responsible for so many undeserved deaths that day. She only wished…well, at the very least, she wished he wouldn’t shrink away from her so blatantly.

The sudden presence of Marcus de Grant made Keelin realize how very alone she’d felt these last few years. Sure, she’d had Uncle Tiarnan all along, but it wasn’t the same as having her peers about. And it was not at all the same as having a man like Marcus de Grant.

Not that she had him, exactly. But Keelin had never felt so alive as she had when he’d held her in his arms.

To be sure, he’d carried her only because he was a man who understood chivalry, and she’d been as unsteady as a leaf in the autumn wind. Keelin knew she could expect nothing more from him than mere civility. Yet his very masculine touch, and his concern for her well-being touched something deep inside her, arousing feelings and sensations Keelin had never experienced before.

It made her yearn for something she could not have—or perhaps she would have it, she thought hopefully—once she returned to Ireland and learned what plans her father had made for her before his death.

In the flickering light from the hearth, Keelin unpacked her comb and a shawl. She loosened the laces of her kirtle, then slipped it off, keeping on a linen under-kirtle. Wrapping herself up in the thick woolen wrap, Keelin was satisfied that she was decently covered for the moment when Marcus de Grant returned.

For years, Keelin had managed to keep the ache of loneliness at bay but now it threatened to overwhelm her. She’d taken care of Tiarnan, moved them when the need arose, gathered food, bartered for goods in towns and villages, and kept as isolated as possible to avoid the Mageean mercenaries.

Never once had she allowed herself to think of what might have been, of the marriage her father had arranged for her, or the children she would already have borne. To think now of the years lost was too painful to bear.

She promised herself she would not succumb to tears now, not when her duty was so clear. She had Tiarnan and Adam to care for, and plans to make and packing to be done. There was no time to wallow in any foolish self-pity.

Marcus ducked to enter the cottage and found all was nearly as it had been when he’d left. The only difference was that now, he and Lady Keelin were essentially alone. No other knight guarded Adam, and the old uncle was asleep.

And the lady was missing a layer of clothes.

The scent of herbs filled the place, and the fire was warm. Lady Keelin looked soft and sleepy, with her dark hair flowing loosely about her shoulders. Her manner was subdued, quiet. There was an essential sadness about her that he had not marked before.

Marcus handed the blankets to her, fumbling awkwardly when their hands met.

“M’lord?” she whispered.

“You can make up a pallet by the fire,” he explained, faltering when he looked into her deep-green eyes, thickly framed by dark lashes. “I—I’ll sit up with Adam.”

Keelin took the blankets. “All is well, then?” she asked softly. “The riders posed no threat?”

Marcus shook his head somberly, concerned about the suspicious brightness in Lady Keelin’s eyes. Not tears, he hoped. “Just Kirkham’s men returned from chasing Celts.”

“And…did they find any?”

“I’ve been assured that we will encounter no more of your countrymen.” Marcus sat down next to Adam’s bed. He did not see Keelin wince at the word. “How’s the lad?”

“I gave him a tonic t’ help him sleep,” she replied.

Marcus touched Adam’s brow. “There is no fever.”

Keelin agreed, but did not state what was obvious to both of them. Fever would come later. Discouraged, Marcus brushed Adam’s hair from his forehead. Life was so fragile, he thought, as the enormity of his loss became more real than it had been all day. His father lay lifeless outside, beneath a shroud on the hard, cold earth. If he lost Adam, too…

No. Marcus could not bear to dwell on that possibility. The day had been full of too much pain already.

He ran one hand across his face, then looked up as Lady Keelin spread a blanket on the hard earthen floor. She sat down upon it, arranging her legs modestly beneath her, then took a comb and ran it through her long, dark tresses.

More than willing to be distracted from his dismal thoughts, Marcus sat mesmerized, watching as the stiff tines caressed her scalp, then crackled through the dark silk of her hair. He could practically feel her soft locks caress his skin, and his body tensed in reaction to the sensations conjured by his mind. She was fully covered, but in her long-sleeved undershift covered by a simple woolen shawl, Keelin O’Shea seemed all but naked.

Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, Marcus cleared the inexplicable thickening from his throat, and turned away. It would be well for him to consider his plans for the future rather than lusting after Keelin O’Shea.

In two days, they would return to Wrexton where Adam could recover in his own bed, with “Cousin” Isolda Coule and the other women of the castle to tend him. The Bishop of Chester would say Eldred’s requiem, and the first of the de Grants would be laid to rest in the Wrexton crypt, for his father had inherited the earldom from Edmund Sandborn, a distant cousin.

Then somehow, life would go on. Winter would soon be upon them and—

“M’lord,” Keelin’s soft voice broke the silence.

He turned to see that she’d finished combing her hair and was now struggling to untie the bandage at her throat.

“It seems to be knotted,” she said in a low tone as she stood and walked over to Marcus. “It’s chafin’ somethin’ fierce and I’d have it off if ye’ll help me.”

Marcus rose from his seat, aware that he ought to do more than nod his agreement, but she stood so close that his throat closed up. His hands burned, felt as though they were blistering even as he raised them to the cloth at her neck.

“I think some o’ the threads must have unraveled,” she said in a small voice as he finally touched her, “and tangled in the knot.”

She was tall for a woman, the top of her head reaching as high as his nose, so he hardly had to bend to reach her. Marcus trained his attention fully on the knot, but could not avoid noticing a slight trembling in her chin. His fingers stilled and he ventured a look at her face, enthralled as she blinked one crystal tear from her eye.

She began to turn away to cover her tears, but Marcus cupped her chin and kept her from moving. The sense that she was just as vulnerable as he, was overwhelming. He rubbed a thumb over the errant tear, and drew his head down toward hers, unerringly seeking her lips, as if he were a well-practiced lover who had kissed a hundred maidens.

Their mouths met tentatively at first. Marcus kissed her softly, then pulled back slightly to allow a small space between their lips. Then the wondrous contact occurred again and Marcus deepened the kiss, enthralled by the amazing heat and sensual pleasure in this simple touching of mouths.

Yet it was anything but simple. Keelin made a sound, deep in her throat, and Marcus felt her hands slip up his chest, then around his neck, and into the long hair at his nape, causing an unparalleled torrent of sensations. He slid his arms around her and pulled her to him, crushing her breasts to his chest, sharing the chaos that was merely the wild beating of their hearts.

Every muscle clenched. Every bone turned to ash. Marcus wished there was no barrier between them, that he could feel her soft, warm flesh pulsing against his own. He could go on forever like this, tasting her, craving more. She was like a fever, raging in his blood, heating his flesh, burning his soul. He’d never experienced anything like it, nor—

He pulled his mouth away suddenly. This was insane! Adam lay here wounded, and there was Eldred…

Keelin.

She stood perplexed, looking into his eyes. Both remained silent for a long moment, then they both spoke at once.

“I apologize, my lady.”

“M’lord, I—”

Then, except for Tiarnan’s soft snores, there was silence again.

“Why do you weep?” Marcus asked when he’d regained a measure of control.

Keelin turned away shakily. “’Tis nothin’, m’lord,” she said casually, as if handsome young lords arrived at her door and kissed her senseless once a month. “Only the day, and the terrible things in it.”

Marcus could still see the hurt in her eyes. And something more. Bewilderment? He was mightily bewildered himself, after sharing that kiss. It had been utterly intoxicating. Bewitching.

Her perfect skin was flushed with color now, and the devastating sadness gone from her eyes. Now, her delicate brows arched with wonder.

Keelin’s blood felt as though it were on fire. As she struggled to compose herself, she tried to understand Marcus’s withdrawal, and his apology for kissing her. She did not know how he could be sorry for such a kiss, unless, by her inexperience, she had somehow made it unpleasant for him.

He did not look displeased, though, Keelin thought as she looked up at him. His chest moved as if he’d just run a race, and his eyes were still intent upon her. The touch of his lips had been entirely unexpected. Soft, yet firm and warm, too, as warm as the sun in midsummer.

His chest, when it was pressed against her, was so very different from her own soft form, that it had pleased her beyond anything she’d ever known, and shaken her senses as thoroughly as any vision she’d ever had. Marcus de Grant was truly the most fascinating man she’d ever encountered, in England or Ireland. She could fasten her attention on his fine features for all eternity.

But as Keelin stood gazing at Marcus, her vision began to cloud. She blinked her eyes rapidly, and gave a quick shake of her head, but the haziness only increased. With utter dismay, Keelin realized the sensations were the same as those she experienced when a vision was upon her. She bit back a cry and backed away from Marcus, struggling to regain her proper senses—her senses of this world, not the misty, unreality of her intuition.

’Twas no use. Instead of Marcus’s handsome face before her eyes, she saw her cousin’s, the fierce and deadly Cormac O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. And though Keelin could still dimly discern the walls of her snug English cottage and the meager furniture within, the gray skies of Kerry began to show more clearly than her true surroundings. Marcus’s comely face began to fade from her vision….

She heard the clang of steel meeting steel, and knew she was witnessing a battle, though whether past or future, she could not say. She watched as Cormac fought ferociously against his opponent, his formidable muscles bulging with every strike of his blade. He lunged and strained, ducked and spun, but his enemy soon gained the advantage and knocked Cormac to the muddy ground.

“No,” she whispered, trembling. The little cottage was gone from her sight now, only the landscape around Carrauntoohil Keep remained. The smell of blood was thick and there were mournful wails to be heard. Black smoke billowed from the huts in the village, and choked Keelin’s lungs.

Cormac was violently disarmed. Keelin heard a satisfied grunt, then watched as a shiny steel blade pierced through Cormac’s leather-clad chest, killing him instantly.

Keelin shrank from the sight of Cormac’s murder, but could not shut out the images, the sounds, the smells. She’d have run far away if her feet would have carried her, but they were rooted to the ground where she stood.

Two powerful hands grasped the hilt of the killing sword. One strong leg moved, and a booted foot stepped on Cormac’s lifeless chest as the sword was yanked out.

Then Keelin heard a Gaelic shout of victory, and saw the face of the man who’d shouted, the one who held the bloody sword high above his head.

’Twas Ruairc Mageean.

Chapter Four

Marcus caught Lady Keelin as she fell, and carried her to the blanket on the floor. Unconscious now, she continued to shake violently, as if she had fever and chills combined. Marcus covered her with one of the blankets.

He did not understand what was wrong. One moment, they were both standing stunned by their kiss, the next, her eyes were wide, and dilated to black, and she was trembling and whimpering. He was not so naive to think it had been his kiss that had affected her so, but he could not imagine what had come over her.

He frowned as he shook her gently, and rubbed her hands to revive her, but his efforts changed nothing. She was deeply unconscious. And the longer she stayed that way, he felt the worse it would be for her.

Seeing no alternative, Marcus reluctantly arose and stepped to the bedside of her uncle. Quickly, he roused the older man from a deep sleep.

“What is it? Keely?” Tiarnan asked groggily. “Are ye—”

“Wake up, old man,” Marcus said, keeping his voice down. “Something came over Keelin a while ago. She was fine one moment, and the next…”

“The next?” the man prodded, frowning with worry.

“I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “Her eyes went black and she stood there, staring….”

Tiarnan coughed fitfully, then struggled to a sitting position, holding his chest all the while. “Did she start tremblin’ and whimperin’?”

Marcus nodded, thanking heaven that the man seemed to recognize what had happened, though he did not care much for the look of concern on Tiarnan’s face. “She did.”

“Ach, no. ’Tis too soon for another one,” he muttered dejectedly to himself. “’Twas a vision she was havin’,” the old man said to Marcus. “Was she holdin’ the spear, or just—”

“What spear?” Marcus asked, frustrated by the old man’s riddles. Beautiful Keelin was lying near death, and her uncle could only ask foolish—

“Oh, saints, ’twas straight from Keelin herself, then. And the power of it knocked her flat?”

“The power of what?” Marcus asked frantically, glancing back at Keelin’s trembling form under the blanket. “I don’t understand, O’Shea.”

“Nay, ye wouldn’t, lad,” Tiarnan replied, shivering. “’Tis cold tonight. Best ye wrap the lass up in blankets, then hold her close and give her some o’ yer own heat. And I’ll be explainin’ as well as I can.”

More than happy to comply with the man’s instructions, Marcus wedged his big body down between Keelin and the wall, then pulled her up into his arms and wrapped her snugly in the blankets. Her color was deathly pale and she felt cold as a wintry night. It was difficult for Marcus to fathom that this was the same hot, vibrant body he’d held only a few minutes before. “Speak, then, O’Shea. Tell me what ails her.”

Tiarnan succumbed to another coughing fit, so it was a few moments before he was able to begin his tale. Finally, though, he cleared his throat and spoke while Marcus sat holding Keelin, sharing his warmth.

“The lass has a ‘gift,’ ye might say,” Tiarnan said, “though she doesn’t quite see it that way.”

“What gift? Speak plainly, old man!”

“’Tis the sight,” Tiarnan explained. “Ever since she was a tiny lass, she’s been able to see what others cannot. In my clan, it’s called the ‘second sight.’ Here in England, ye may call it by another name.

“But whatever words ye use for it, Keelin has a powerful intuition that tells her of things that are to come. And when she touches Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, the power increases beyond anything ye, or even I could understand.”

“What’s this Ga Buidhe—”

“Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh is our clan’s sacred spear. Many years ago—even before Saint Patrick trod on Irish turf—’twas given to an ancient O’Shea chieftain by Diarmaid, consort of the sun goddess. And don’t ye be thinkin’ ’tis a pagan thing. ’Twas blessed by Saint Bridget herself when Cathair Sheaghda was but a lad.”

“Enough childish fairy tales, O’Shea,” Marcus said, annoyed and frustrated that the man would not get to the point. “What ails Lady Keelin? How can I help her?”

“Ach, there’s nothin’ ye can do, but keep her warm now, and hear the tale so ye’ll understand what’s come over her.”

“Get on with it then, and be clear about it.”

“Keelin has always been able to see and know of events before they ever happen,” Tiarnan said. “Just like her mother, she is. She ‘sees’ danger comin’—whatever it may be—and gets us quickly out of harm’s way.”

“Do you mean to say that Lady Keelin is bewitched?”

“Nay, lad,” Tiarnan said with aggravation. “’Tis not bewitchment at all! The lass is blessed!”

Marcus looked down at Keelin’s deathly still features. Cursed was more like it, though he had no wish to believe her soul possessed by the devil.

Yet she had certainly bewitched him. Suddenly, he realized why he had been able to speak to Keelin, touch her, kiss her, when in all his previous twenty-six years, he’d hardly been able to look at a young woman without tripping over himself to escape her presence.

“’Tis a rare gift, one that Keelin’s mother possessed before her, and her mother, and on from ancient times.”

Marcus had never heard such a far-fetched tale. Yet he knew there were strange things in the world, things he had not personally experienced. There could very well be an ancient, magical spear that possessed some unexplained power, a power that Keelin somehow used.

He pulled Keelin closer into his embrace, as if to protect her from further harm. She was not as cold now, but her body was trembling. Tight coils of desire wrapped around him even now, as she lay unconscious in his arms.

Was it witchery? Or a blessing, as her uncle had said.

Marcus could see nothing but innocence now in Keelin’s delicate features, feel only vulnerability in her soft form as he cradled her under the blankets.

“She must have seen something momentous,” Tiarnan mused.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well…’tis not so easy a thing to explain,” the old man said. He rubbed his chin and chewed his lower lip. “In all the years since Keelin’s been me own true responsibility, only twice before has she been benumbed by a vision she’s seen without the aid of Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.”

“Benumbed?”

“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “Made senseless. As ye see her now.”

Marcus nodded as he shifted Keelin in his arms.

“The first time was when the lass was a mere child,” he said, “and her brother was drowned.”

Marcus cringed. “What happened?”

“Aw, it pains me fiercely to recall the day when Brian O’Shea died,” Tiarnan said. “’Twas early spring. As elegant a day as we’d seen in many a week, with the sun burnin’ high and new greenery shootin’ up all around. Keely and I were within the walls Carrauntoohil Keep, with me at me work, and the lass playin’ with her rag babe.

“Most of the able-bodied men went out to hunt early that day, and the lads were left with more time than sense. They left Carrauntoohil and went to the river, swollen by then with the spring floods, and rushing faster than any of them realized.”

Marcus listened as Tiarnan O’Shea described the sudden pallor that had come over Keelin, then the violent shaking and unintelligible speech. Then the girl had lost consciousness, only to weep uncontrollably when she was finally roused.

“She’d seen Brian’s death,” Tiarnan said. “The vision had come upon her without warning, without so much as a touch of the spear.”

“And this had never happened before?”

“Nay,” the man said. “Not even to her mother. But Keelin’s gift is strong. None before her ever had the same clarity of visions that Keelin experiences.

“She saw as clearly as the lads who were there—poor Brian as he fell from the boat, tumbling into the rocky passage….”

Marcus was appalled at the thought of the child Keelin witnessing such a thing, but Tiarnan went on.

“’Twas death again that took hold of her…when her father, Eocaidh, was slain by Ruairc Mageean.”

“And you believe it’s happened again? That she’s seen another death?”

“Aye,” Tiarnan replied. “Without touchin’ the spear, the lass senses things. She has premonitions. But when she actually holds it in her hands, there are visions. Colorful. Vivid.”

Marcus made no reply. He gazed down at the limp figure in his arms and tried to imagine how Satan could possibly do his evil work through Keelin and her visions. No answer came to him.

“If ye would be so good as to keep her warm, lad,” Tiarnan said, “just till the worst of it passes…”

Marcus had plenty of heat to spare. He glanced up at Adam, who lay still in the bed, and then slid down to make himself more comfortable with Keelin. He enveloped her in a cocoon of warmth, and waited.

Keelin regained full consciousness at dawn. She’d had moments of awareness through the night, when Lord Marcus rubbed her back and her shoulders and whispered quiet, soothing words to her, but she had been unable to respond.

Her mind was still muddled, and she could not piece together all of the events of the previous day, nor did she know how she’d come to be resting in the arms of Marcus de Grant.

He still held her close, though Keelin believed he dozed. His chest, pressed against her own, moved deeply and regularly. His strong arms still embraced her, though loosely, and Keelin, fully aware now, relished the feeling of security they brought.

Her face was eye level with the hollow where his neck met his chest, and the small hairs of his chest tickled her nose. Without thinking, Keelin burrowed her face in.

“Umm…” Marcus grunted. His arms tightened around her.

Keelin shivered, not from cold, but from an altogether strange sensation, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. Oddly compelled, she moved against him, eliciting another groan. Marcus’s muscles flexed against her, and one of his hands made circles on her back, pulling her closer to him. She knew he was not quite awake as she breathed in the scent of him. The smell of fresh river water, his chain hauberk, his linen, and something altogether different…something that was distinctly…Marcus.

Her body felt every inch of his where they touched, and she had the inexplicable urge to taste him. Her mouth was a mere breath away from his chest and she could easily—

Shocked by her own wanton whimsy, Keelin would never be so bold as to attempt such a thing. No matter how strong the impulse.

She sensed the moment when he came fully awake. His body tensed and he pulled slightly away from her.

“Ah, you’re awake, then?” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat as he spoke.

Keelin nodded. It was still unclear how she’d come to be lying among these thick woolen blankets in Marcus de Grant’s arms. She remembered parts of the previous evening, Marcus’s hands working on the knot at her neck—his kiss, and the way her bones had seemed to melt….

Cormac!

Oh, dear God and all the saints, she suddenly remembered. Cormac O’Shea was slain! And the deed was done by Ruairc Mageean.

Keelin pushed herself up from their cozy nest and became dizzy with the sudden movement. She went back down on her knees.

“Easy,” Marcus said as he helped to lower her down.

“Keely lass?” Tiarnan questioned from his bed.

“Aye, Uncle,” she replied. She kept her head down. She could not bear to look up at Marcus and see the revulsion she knew he must feel. She remembered clearly now. He’d kissed her, and then she’d “gone to black” on him. What must he think of her?

“How are ye, now?” Tiarnan asked, propping himself up on one elbow and facing her as if he could see her.

“I’m all right, Uncle Tiarnan,” she answered as she moved to stand again. “The lad…is he…?”

“Still sleeping,” Marcus replied. “I checked him not long ago.”

“No bleedin’ from the wound?” Keelin asked, finally looking up at him. She did not see revulsion, but that could mean only one thing. That he had a rare gift for hiding his emotions.

“No,” Marcus replied to her question. “And there’s no fever yet, either. Whatever you gave him made him sleep soundly.”

“’Tis a blessing indeed,” Tiarnan interjected while Keelin studied Marcus surreptitiously.

She recalled how he pulled away from her as soon as he’d awakened, and knew how he must feel, having been forced to spend the night sharing his heat with an aberrant woman of questionable sanity. No man outside Clann Ui Sheaghda could possibly understand the “gift” that was passed from mother to daughter in her family for generations.

Keelin stepped away from Marcus and went to Adam’s bedside. She knew that Tiarnan was anxious to know what she’d seen, but the vision was still too raw to speak of those things. She would talk to him later, after her heart and mind settled down.

She lit a tallow candle and listened. Adam’s breathing was soft. There was no unhealthy sound or irregularity to it. His forehead was not hot when she touched it, but seemed to be of normal temperature. She pulled the blanket down and peeled the dressing away from the wound. It looked just as it had the day before.

As Keelin made a new paste of lady’s mantle and spread it over the wound, she heard sounds of the men outside rousing themselves. There were wounded men out there, too, she remembered, men whose injuries she should tend.

After viewing Adam’s wound, and seeing that all was well in hand, Marcus let himself out of the cottage and went out to the area where the men were camped. No changes there, so he went on to the river where he sat down with his back against an ancient willow.

He felt shaky this morn. ’Twas not so much from lack of sleep, but from hours of lying thigh to thigh, and breast to chest with Keelin O’Shea. The most alluring woman he’d ever met, she was the only one he’d ever slept with—and ’twas a far more intimate experience than the one shared with a harlot years before when he was with King Henry’s army in France.

They’d been camped at Troyes, just before King Henry signed the treaty that should have brought peace to the two countries. Marcus and all the rest of the English knights were jubilant. Victory was theirs. Henry would wed the daughter of the French king, and be made king of France upon Charles’s death.

The wine flowed, and women made their way into the victors’ camp. Marcus drank more than he ever had before, and more than he had since. And, he allowed himself to be seduced by a woman who wanted his coin.

Marcus had not been entirely naive. He’d spent a whole night learning what a woman expected of a lover, from a cocotte who did not particularly care for him, nor he for her. Though he had experienced a great deal of physical pleasure, he’d gone away with an intense emptiness inside. He had chosen not to share himself so cheaply again.

Until Keelin O’Shea, not that any sort of conjugal sharing with the Lady Keelin would be a cheap affair.

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