Celtic Bride. Margo Maguire
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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