Celtic Bride

Chapter Five (#u177e3c69-89a0-54f0-9cc4-2c6b67e8f616)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue

Early Winter

West Cheshire, England

The Year of Our Lord 1428

The night was a long, troubled one, allowing little rest or comfort for Keelin O’Shea. Plagued by half-remembered dreams and terrible nightmares, Keelin’s remarkable intuitive abilities made her aware that she and her uncle Tiarnan were in danger. The Mageean warriors were near. She had no choice now but to take her clan’s ancient spear from its hiding place, and by touching the priceless relic, try to gain some clarity of their situation.

Some day, Keelin thought, some day soon, she would end her exile. She would return to Ireland and wed the man chosen years before by her father, Eocaidh O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. What a comfort it would be to have a strong and confident champion to care for her, and protect her; what a relief not to be looking over her shoulder at every turn, nor jumping at creaks and shadows. What joy to return to the home she had always called her own.

Tears came to Keelin’s eyes as thoughts of her clan pierced her heart. The lonely, isolated existence she and Tiarnan had lived for the past four years had finally worn her down. She could not remain in this foreign land any longer.

’Twas not an ideal time for travel, with winter nearly upon them, but there were precious few coins left of the purse Tiarnan had brought when they’d fled Ireland. If they did not go now, who was to say there’d be any left when it came time to buy their passage across the Irish Sea?

Keelin knew she would lose what wits she had if circumstances forced her to stay away from her beloved home for another season. She longed to know how her clan fared after the battle that had killed her father, that final blow that had sent her and Tiarnan fleeing across Ireland with the Sheaghda spear. She desperately yearned for the company of her young cousins and the lasses of the village at Carrauntoohil.

’Twas not that she didn’t care for Uncle Tiarnan. Quite the contrary—Keelin loved the old man as much as ’twas possible to love another soul. But there was no youth or vigor left in him. Their survival depended solely on Keelin’s abilities, and the task had become far too daunting for a young lass.

Keelin slipped off her narrow pallet and looked over at Tiarnan. The old man was still sound asleep, with eyes closed, his white-bearded jaw slack. ’Twas just as well that he slept. He’d barely recovered from the lung fever and was still weak. It would not do at all for him to get up now, only to fret and worry when Keelin took the spear into her hands and channeled all her energy toward the second sight that had kept them safe during their years of exile.

Keelin’s intuition was seldom wrong. In her sleep, she’d sensed that the Mageean enemies were close by, and she knew there was little time to waste. It was of minor importance where they headed—they just had to get away from the abandoned cottage they’d worked so hard to make their own.

Keelin wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, then added more peat to the fire before stepping quietly outside into the chilly morning. The faint glow of the approaching dawn lit Keelin’s path and she found her way easily to the back of the cottage where she had fashioned a crude shelter for their mule, and a place to keep the mule-wain and her meager tools. ’Twas nothing fancy, merely an extension to the roof of the cottage, to keep the mule out of the worst of the weather.

By touch, Keelin found the mule-wain and ran her hands across the rough wood, searching for the narrow hiding place she’d made. She could only hope that the support board she’d hollowed out would continue to serve as a secure cache for the precious spear that had been entrusted to her. With luck, no one would ever think to look for the sleek obsidian spear in such an obvious, yet devious hiding place.

Keelin found the metal latch and slid it aside, then reached two slender fingers into the opening to draw out the leather-sheathed spear that was once touched by the goddess of old. Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, as the spear was called by Keelin’s clan, had been given to a Sheaghda chieftain eons ago, in the dark years before the Vikings came, even before the Druids practiced their magic. Over the ages, the beautiful, black spear had become the symbol of Sheaghda dominance in Kerry.

Loss of the spear would mean devastation for the O’Sheas. And Ruairc Mageean, the sworn enemy of Clann Ui Sheaghda, intended to have it.

Every time Keelin touched Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, she felt the magic of the spear. Its ancient power surrounded her and swept her into a cloud of sensations, each one stronger than the last, making her intuitive abilities wildly acute, but draining her of her strength.

’Twas her burden, as well as her honor, to be gifted with the ability to use the spear.

Drawing forth all her powers of concentration, Keelin sat down on a bed of pine needles and drew Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh from its sheath.

Chapter One

South of Chester, England

Early winter, 1428

The thick branches of the forest formed a pleasant canopy, high overhead. Dusty beams of sunlight slanted through the barren branches, lighting the dark recesses of the wood. It was late afternoon, and the riders pressed on, anxious to make Wrexton Castle before dark. Marcus de Grant rode alongside his father, tensing as Eldred once again brought up the only subject that could make Marcus tremble.

Marriage.

“There was a bounty of charming, young, marriageable ladies at Haverston Castle, Marcus,” Eldred de Grant said.

“Father—”

“I am growing no younger, my son, nor are you,” Eldred continued steadily. “One day you will be Earl of Wrexton in my stead, and I would wish for you to have a helpmate, a companion…a wife. A worthy woman such as your own mother, my Rhianwen.”

That was Marcus’s own wish, as well, but he had yet to meet a woman with whom he was at his ease. Except for the wives of a few friends, Marcus found himself tongue-tied and clumsy around women. It was especially true with the young ladies of noble birth, those lovely, preening birds in their velvets and silks, with their maids and servants, their pouting lips, their softly curving bodies and their illogical demands.

They were all so fragile, so delicate. So mysterious. Marcus was a soldier, not a courtier, and hadn’t the slightest idea how to court a woman. And with his burly build and superior strength, he worried that a mere touch of his clumsy hands could hurt them.

“A wife, Uncle Eldred?” Marcus’s young cousin asked indignantly, riding up alongside his elders. The brash eleven-year-old, Adam Fayrchild, had been orphaned several years before, and Eldred, a man generous and kind to a fault, had taken him in, though their kinship was distant at best. “What need have we of a wife at Wrexton? All is in order, is it not? We have Cousin Isolda, as well as cooks and footmen and maids and—”