Celtic Bride
They were both transfixed, neither moving
Until the chamber door shut.
Keelin suddenly came to her senses and attempted to cover herself with her hands. Marcus should not be in her chamber. No man had ever seen her unclothed.
He took a step toward her.
“Marcus…” she whispered, unable to keep from wanting what she could not have.
She had no will of her own when he looked at her. Her hands dropped to her sides when he reached for her.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, taking her hand as she rose from the tub.
Nothing in Keelin’s life had prepared her for the surge of emotions that coursed through her now. She felt feverish, though she knew she should have been cold after stepping out of the bath. Instead, she felt heat—nay, ’twas more than mere heat, ’twas a sweltering fire that consumed her….
Celtic Bride
Harlequin Historical #572
Praise for Margo Maguire’s previous titles
Dryden’s Bride
“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”
—Rendezvous
“A warm-hearted tale…Ms. Maguire skillfully draws the reader into her deftly woven tale.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
The Bride of Windermere
“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…THE BRIDE OF WINDERMERE will fit into your weekend just right.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
“A wonderful story…experience the emotions and trials of these individuals as they travel on their journey. This one is a must.”
—Rendezvous
#571 THE WIDOW’S LITTLE SECRET
Judith Stacy
#573 THE LAWMAN TAKES A WIFE
Anne Avery
#574 LADY POLLY
Nicola Cornick
ARGO
M
AGUIRE
Celtic Bride
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
MARGO MAGUIRE
The Bride of Windermere
#453
Dryden’s Bride
#529
Celtic Bride
#572
This book is for Mom, a Celtic Bride herself.
Thanks for the stories of the McCarthys, the Deans,
the Lannens, the Flynns and all the rest of our Irish kin.
And thanks especially for telling me about
Uncle Billy who could charm warts off—but only
under the big oak tree next to the cemetery,
and under a full moon.
Early Winter
West Cheshire, England
The Year of Our Lord 1428
T
he
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.
South of Chester, England
Early winter, 1428
T
he
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—”
“A man has need of heirs, young Adam,” Eldred said with a chuckle. “One day you’ll understand when you find your Eve.”
“Find my
what?
” he asked, as his freckled nose crinkled, clearly not understanding the earl’s jest. “There was not one girl at Haverston, Uncle, whom I could endure for a single
day,
much less a whole month, or a year!”
Marcus smiled, though Adam’s words made him aware of the deep loneliness he felt within his heart. Certainly he shared a warm closeness with his father, and he’d learned to treasure his precocious young cousin as well. But there was an emptiness inside that he’d felt acutely during the marriage festivities at Haverston Castle. More and more of his friends were wed now, and many of the young couples shared a bond that Marcus could only begin to fathom.
And
until he somehow managed to get over his terrible shyness with women, he could only look forward to a lifetime spent alone. Marcus knew he was not unpleasant to look upon, but women wanted to be charmed. They wanted to be—
A wild cry from above, followed by a cacophony of barbarous calls, startled Marcus. Bearded barbarians dropped from the trees all around them, with swords and spears drawn. Marcus’s warhorse, long unaccustomed to the scent of blood and the fierce clang of iron, reared under him as the Wrexton travelers came under attack by these Celtic warriors. The entire Wrexton party was thrown into confusion, and several men were wounded before they were able to regain control of their mounts and draw their weapons.
The Wrexton men were vastly outnumbered, and struggled desperately to wage battle against their strangely clad, barbaric foes. Swords and spears clashed all around, and Marcus watched with horror as his father was thrown from his horse, and set upon by the savage, foreign warriors who attacked them.
No!
Marcus’s heart cried out. Eldred de Grant was too strong, too vital to be cut down so heinously. It was impossible for Marcus to imagine a life without his father, a good and just man. He
could not
be dead!
“Marcus! Your father!” Adam shouted. The young boy had used good sense so far, keeping himself behind Marcus and out of the fray, but the attackers came from all sides. The Wrexton knights were surrounded.
Blindly, Marcus
dismounted, grabbed Adam and stashed him in the safest place he could find, in the hollow of an old, felled tree. Then he hacked and slashed his way toward his father’s unmoving body.
“My lord! Behind you!” one of the men called out before Marcus was able to reach Eldred. Marcus whirled and dealt with the fierce, red-haired attacker, dispatching him quickly. Another bearded warrior replaced the first, and Marcus gritted his teeth and continued the battle as the fight went on all around him.
Wrexton men continued to fall as Marcus battled, and he could see no end to it, no way to get to his father. Even so, the young lord had no intention of giving up. He would fight to the death wielding his own lethal broadsword until he cut down as many of these fierce warriors as was humanly possible.
“My lord! There are riders coming!” one of the men shouted.
“They’re Englishmen!”
“It’s Marquis Kirkham and his men!”
The barbarians became aware of the English reinforcements, and mounted a hasty retreat as the newly arrived knights gave chase.
When Marcus was free of his last opponent, he hurried to his father’s side, where one of the men had dragged him away from the battle. A glimmer of hope surfaced in Marcus’s heart as he saw movement in his father’s eyes. Marcus knelt beside the older man and took his hand.
“My son,” Eldred whispered.
Marcus could not speak. His throat was thick, his tongue paralyzed, and his vision oddly blurred as he noted the severity of Eldred’s wounds.
“Temper your grief…in my demise…Marcus,” Eldred gasped. “I go now…to join your mother. Know now….that I could not have had…more pride in a son…than I have in you….”
Eldred
took his final breath, then commended his soul to heaven.
All was silent. Not one bird chirped, nor a leaf rustled in the still air.
The knights standing ’round knelt and crossed themselves, and gave words of sorrow and condolence to Marcus. The new lord of Wrexton barely heard their words. Only a few short moments before, he and his father had been engaged in their familiar discussion of Marcus’s unmarried state. How could all have changed so suddenly? How was it possible that Eldred was gone?
“My lord!” a voice in the distance called. “Quickly!” Marcus turned to see one of his men standing beside the thick, fallen oak where he’d hidden Adam. Dread crept up his spine as he stood and crossed the span.
Either the boy had crawled out of his hiding place, or he’d been dragged out. ’Twas no matter now, though, for the boy lay still upon the deep green moss, with an arrow protruding grotesquely from his back.
Marcus crouched next to him. Never had Adam seemed quite so small, never so vulnerable. “He’s breathing,” Marcus said.
“Aye, my lord,” Sir Robert Barry said, “but if we pull the arrow out, he’ll likely bleed to death.”
“’Twill be hours before we reach Wrexton!” Sir William Cole retorted. “He’ll die for certain if—”
“There is a small cottage nearby, if I remember aright. Down that hill, next to a brook,” Marcus said grimly. He looked up at the men of his party. “I will carry him,” he said as he carefully picked the boy up into his arms. “Bring my father.”
“Be
at ease, Uncle,” Keelin O’Shea said quietly to her uncle Tiarnan as she lay a gentle hand on his pale brow. His coughing spells were steadily improving, but they still rattled the old man terribly. “I will protect the holy spear. No Mageean hand will ever be touchin’
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh.
”
Worry weighed heavily in Keelin’s breast. She was shaken and weakened by the sights she’d seen early that morning, and knew ’twas time to move on again. She and Tiarnan could not stay when the Mageean warriors were so close.
It seemed so long since they’d fled Ireland, running from the ruthless mercenaries who had killed her father. Keelin renewed her determination to stay clear of them. She knew that to lose the ancient spear would mean her clan’s loss of its right to rule, and allow the ascendancy of the cruel and implacable chieftain of Clan Mageean.
Keelin would never let that happen. She had witnessed Ruairc Mageean’s barbarity once too often to allow it.
In order to elude Ruairc’s men, and keep
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh
safe for her clan, she and Tiarnan had uprooted themselves and moved four times in the years since their flight to England. But wherever they made their home, true security eluded them. Ruairc Mageean’s warriors were never far away.
’Twas only Keelin’s strange powers of intuition that kept them two shakes ahead of the mercenaries.
“Here, Uncle Tiarnan,” she said, lifting the man’s head and tipping an earthen mug to his lips. “Have a wee sip.”
“Ah, lass,” Tiarnan rasped, “Go rest yerself. Ye touched the spear this mornin’ and I know what a strain that puts on ye.”
“I’m fit
enough,” she said, lying. She was weak and shaky still, hours after she’d seen the sights. But she would not let Tiarnan know, for he fretted too much over her as it was.
“Ye must tell me what ye saw.” His poor eyes, opaque now with age, turned blindly toward his young niece, though in his mind’s eye, he could still see her fresh beauty. Cream-white skin like her mother’s, with a slight blush of roses upon her cheeks. Eyes as green as the fields of home and hair as black and silky as the deepest night. Keelin’s was not a fragile beauty, for she was tall, as tall as most men. And she’d grown into a strong and hardy lass.
His poor Keelin had no way of knowing that Ruairc Mageean wanted more than the spear. The scoundrel intended to take Keelin O’Shea herself when he stole
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
and make her his concubine. Aye, the fiend had lusted after the girl since he’d first seen her, back when she was all gangly legs and big green eyes.
If Mageean managed to abduct Keelin when he stole the holy spear, he would have a much greater chance of usurping Eocaidh O’Shea’s heir as high chieftain of all of Kerry. Aye, Tiarnan knew ’twas exactly what Mageean intended.
Nor was Mageean the only man in Kerry lusting after the lass. It pained Tiarnan to know that the girl had been promised in marriage to Fen McClancy, a neighboring chieftain. And
this
abomination had been done by her own father mere days before his death in battle, may he rest his bones and his detestable soul in peace, Tiarnan grudgingly prayed.
Keelin’s intended
was not only an old man, near as old as Tiarnan himself, but a lecherous old daff, besides. Sure and he might be high chieftain of all that lay northeast of O’Shea land, but Tiarnan knew there were other ways to secure McClancy’s alliance without bartering Keelin to the old rascal.
Leave it to his brother, Eocaidh, the strong and capable one, never to see beyond the needs of the clan. He’d have abandoned his young daughter to old Mc-Clancy without a second thought. Though he must have known how Keelin would react to the betrothal for he had not informed her of his intentions before his death.
’Twas with sheer luck and a prayer that Tiarnan had been able to convince the elders to send Keelin away as guardian of
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
instead of staying in Kerry and becoming Fen McClancy’s wife. Tiarnan sincerely hoped that in the years since he and Keelin had fled Ireland, the McClancy chieftain had met his death. Nay, ’twas not a malicious wish—Tiarnan truly wished the man a peaceful end, but an end, nonetheless.
And he truly hoped Keelin never learned of her father’s promise to Fen. ’Twould break the girl’s heart to know how little her father thought of her. ’Twas a miracle she’d never realized it—yet Keelin was surprisingly oblivious to the reality around her. For all her intuitive abilities, she often misunderstood the simplest motivations of others.
Ah, but she was young still. Time enough to learn of the treachery of men.
“Please, Uncle,” Keelin said, “save your breath now, and we will speak later. There is nothin’—”
“But there is, darlin’,” the old man said as he lay his head back on the soft pillow Keelin had made for him. “This
is important, Keelin, and time is short. Listen to me now.”
“What is it, Uncle, that you’ve got to be saying to me rather than taking your rest?” Keelin asked somberly, pulling a low wooden stool close to the narrow pallet on which the man rested. ’Twas nippy with the late afternoon, though the single room of the cottage was pleasantly warm with a small fire burning in the grate. The aroma of the healing plants and herbs Keelin set out to dry was strong, but pleasing. Later, when Tiarnan was asleep, she would crush the leaves that were ready, and pack them away for their journey.
“The Mageean warriors are comin’,” he said without preamble. “I know it with a certainty, even without
seein’
it as you do.”
Keelin frowned. Tiarnan was wise, but how could he know what she’d only just seen that morning? The visions had been shattering. Brutal Celtic mercenaries clashing with peaceful Englishmen. Horses screaming, the scent of blood hot and sweet in her nostrils. Mortal wounds, great sorrow. She could not say exactly
when
it would happen, only that it
would
happen, and it would be soon.
“They cannot be far now, lass,” Tiarnan said breathlessly, “and ye know it as well as I do m’self. We’ve been here too long. They must be close to findin’ us out.”
Keelin quickly assessed the humble cottage. How would she manage to pack their meager belongings, reinforce the hiding place of
Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh,
and get her weak and ailing uncle away before Ruairc Mageean’s warriors came? And where would they go this time? Was it wise to attempt to return home now?
Last time they’d run, Tiarnan had still been able to see a bit. He’d not seemed so terribly old, nor so feeble as he was now. Would he manage the journey across Wales and down to the sea?