Celtic Bride

Her presence here made no sense. It occurred to Marcus that she might be connected somehow to the vicious warriors who had attacked them in the wood. Were those men her personal army? Was that why they had attacked? To keep her safe?

He thought it odd, too, that she had not seemed surprised by his arrival with Adam and the others. Was this kind of occurrence commonplace in her experience?

No, he realized. It could not be. They were not so very far from Wrexton now, and Marcus was sure he’d have heard of a band of wild, foreign warriors guarding one small cottage.

But who was she?

The woman wore a simple, but finely made kirtle of wool dyed deep green, and her dark hair lay long and silky upon her back. She moved majestically, with grace and purpose, as she laid gentle, competent hands on his young cousin. She spoke softly to Adam, with her strangely musical accent, even though it was unclear whether or not the boy could hear.

She had the mien of a queen, yet here she was, in this place—this small cottage that was little better than a peasant’s hovel. And Marcus felt as tongue-tied and awkward as he’d ever felt in the presence of a lady.

“M’lord,” said the grizzled old man on the bed at the opposite end of the room.

Marcus turned and walked toward him, noticing that the old fellow still beckoned. It was then that he realized the man was blind.

“Ye must allow my niece to do what she thinks is best,” he said, his words accented even more thickly than the woman’s, “for you could ask for no greater healer on English or Irish soil than Keelin O’Shea.”

“Is that who she is? Your niece?” Marcus asked, much more at ease now that he was not standing quite so close to the girl. He let out a slow breath as he watched her continue to stitch the wound in Adam’s back.

“Aye, Keelin O’Shea of Kerry, she is,” the old man said. “And me, I’m her uncle. Tiarnan O’Shea at yer service. Or I will be, once I’m up on m’ feet again.”

“Kerry…That would be…an Irish province?” Marcus asked, barely listening to the reply. He raked his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He was painfully aware that somewhere outside his father lay still in death, his body covered by a shroud and under the guardianship of his men.

Marcus was numb with grief and anger, and did not know how he would function, how he would assume the role of earl, and command these men. How would he get his father and the rest of his fallen knights back to Wrexton and into hallowed ground? And what of Adam? ’Twas obvious the boy could not travel, nor could Marcus leave him here with strangers.

“Kerry’s more a region, lad,” Tiarnan replied, oblivious to the young lord’s consternation. “A fierce and proud land of Munster in the southwest of Ireland, wi’ loughs and craggy hills galore.”

Marcus made no reply, for he was lost in thought. The old man took his silence for worry about Keelin and her handling of the wounded boy. “Truly, ye can trust her, lad,” Tiarnan said. “She’s got a gift for the healin’.”

“I can only pray you’re right,” Marcus said as he turned away and stalked out of the cottage. Roger and Edward remained within, and Marcus knew he could trust either man to come to him if further trouble arose.

He looked up at the sky and breathed deeply, wondering how such a beautiful day could have been destroyed so quickly, by such ugliness.

’Twas years since Marcus had engaged in battle. Five years, to be precise, since he’d returned home from the French wars to find his mother ill and dying. After her death, he’d stayed on at Wrexton with his father, never returning to France.

Wrexton was at war with no one. The campaign in France had little bearing on what happened here, so far in the west country. There were no border disputes or skirmishes with neighboring knights to account for any violence. He and Eldred had developed good rapport with the Welsh who lived on the land adjacent to Wrexton, and Marcus had had no reason to expect a vicious ambush from foreign knights.

Knights? If that’s what they were.

Not even the French were so barbaric. What armor these men wore was primitive. They were unwashed and unshaven, with hair pulled into thongs and hanging down the length of their backs. Their language was strange and guttural, and completely unfamiliar to him. He’d thought them Celts before, and now, knowing that the cottage woman and her uncle were Irish, he wondered what the connection was. There had to be one.

And God help Tiarnan O’Shea and his niece if they were in any way a party to the day’s hideous slaughter.

Marcus walked around to the far side of the cottage where the men had set up tents. It was there they would spend the night, where the wounded men would be tended. He did not know how many nights they would stay, or when it would be possible for Adam to travel to Wrexton Castle.

But he would have to get his father home soon, for burial on Wrexton land.

There was a briskly flowing brook near the cottage, and Marcus walked down a beaten path to get to it. He pulled off his tunic and crouched down, dunking his head in the water. Somehow, he had to clear his thoughts.

Keelin finished tending the lad, then put away her medicines and bandages. She washed her hands in a basin of fresh water, then went over to speak quietly to her uncle.

“Sleep awhile now,” she told him, knowing that the worry and then the excitement of visitors had exhausted him. “I must go out for a bit, but I’ll be back to see to ye soon.”

She had to talk to the Englishman.

Stepping outside, Keelin was surprised and dismayed to see so many knights milling about near 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.