Celtic Bride. Margo Maguire

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ