Celtic Bride. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ