Celtic Bride. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ