Celtic Bride. Margo Maguire

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ