“How are ye, now?” Tiarnan asked, propping himself up on one elbow and facing her as if he could see her.
“I’m all right, Uncle Tiarnan,” she answered as she moved to stand again. “The lad…is he…?”
“Still sleeping,” Marcus replied. “I checked him not long ago.”
“No bleedin’ from the wound?” Keelin asked, finally looking up at him. She did not see revulsion, but that could mean only one thing. That he had a rare gift for hiding his emotions.
“No,” Marcus replied to her question. “And there’s no fever yet, either. Whatever you gave him made him sleep soundly.”
“’Tis a blessing indeed,” Tiarnan interjected while Keelin studied Marcus surreptitiously.
She recalled how he pulled away from her as soon as he’d awakened, and knew how he must feel, having been forced to spend the night sharing his heat with an aberrant woman of questionable sanity. No man outside Clann Ui Sheaghda could possibly understand the “gift” that was passed from mother to daughter in her family for generations.
Keelin stepped away from Marcus and went to Adam’s bedside. She knew that Tiarnan was anxious to know what she’d seen, but the vision was still too raw to speak of those things. She would talk to him later, after her heart and mind settled down.
She lit a tallow candle and listened. Adam’s breathing was soft. There was no unhealthy sound or irregularity to it. His forehead was not hot when she touched it, but seemed to be of normal temperature. She pulled the blanket down and peeled the dressing away from the wound. It looked just as it had the day before.
As Keelin made a new paste of lady’s mantle and spread it over the wound, she heard sounds of the men outside rousing themselves. There were wounded men out there, too, she remembered, men whose injuries she should tend.
After viewing Adam’s wound, and seeing that all was well in hand, Marcus let himself out of the cottage and went out to the area where the men were camped. No changes there, so he went on to the river where he sat down with his back against an ancient willow.
He felt shaky this morn. ’Twas not so much from lack of sleep, but from hours of lying thigh to thigh, and breast to chest with Keelin O’Shea. The most alluring woman he’d ever met, she was the only one he’d ever slept with—and ’twas a far more intimate experience than the one shared with a harlot years before when he was with King Henry’s army in France.
They’d been camped at Troyes, just before King Henry signed the treaty that should have brought peace to the two countries. Marcus and all the rest of the English knights were jubilant. Victory was theirs. Henry would wed the daughter of the French king, and be made king of France upon Charles’s death.
The wine flowed, and women made their way into the victors’ camp. Marcus drank more than he ever had before, and more than he had since. And, he allowed himself to be seduced by a woman who wanted his coin.
Marcus had not been entirely naive. He’d spent a whole night learning what a woman expected of a lover, from a cocotte who did not particularly care for him, nor he for her. Though he had experienced a great deal of physical pleasure, he’d gone away with an intense emptiness inside. He had chosen not to share himself so cheaply again.
Until Keelin O’Shea, not that any sort of conjugal sharing with the Lady Keelin would be a cheap affair.
Chapter Five
Marcus sat at the river’s edge. He washed and shaved, just as he’d done every other morning of his adult life. But today there was a significant difference. Now, he was Earl of Wrexton. Eldred was dead.
A new wave of anguish swept over him. His father had always been solid as one of the ramparts of Wrexton Castle. Eldred and Marcus had been as close as a pair of friends, yet Eldred had clearly been Marcus’s mentor. They’d worked together to repair Wrexton—the castle as well as the estate—after the death of the last earl. They’d wrought wonderful changes and Wrexton was more prosperous than ever before.
Yet the holding had just lost its true master.
Marcus dropped his head into his hands and allowed the sorrow to flow through his soul. If only Adam hadn’t been injured as well, he thought, then this grief would not be quite so hard to bear. As it was, he did not know if Adam would survive. He did not know when he’d be able to return to Wrexton. Nor did he know if he would ever wear the mantle of earl as well as his father had done.
A soft footfall interrupted Marcus’s dismal thoughts. He got to his feet and turned to see Nicholas Hawken approaching on the path.
“’Twas a quiet night,” the marquis said.
It had been anything but quiet, but Marcus said nothing of the way he’d passed the hours. He still didn’t know what to make of it himself. Besides all else that troubled him, his blood still burned for the woman whose body had been pressed so close to his through the night, but he dared not pursue that chain of thought.
The two men walked together, surveying the area for signs of intruders. Celtic prowlers.
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone lurking about,” Marcus finally said. “No signs of a fire, no tracks.”
“My men must have gotten all of those rotters,” he said. “All but the one who doubled back here yesterday.”
Marcus shrugged. ’Twas often how it went in battle. Amid the confusion of battle, one man could slip away with ease. Certainly that was how the lone Celt had managed to elude Hawken’s men.
A chill wind blasted through the trees. Marcus glanced up and saw heavy low clouds in the distant sky. ’Twould begin raining soon. Perhaps a freezing rain, for it had turned so much colder during the night.
Talk around Wrexton town was that they were in for a particularly harsh winter. ’Twas the reason Eldred had gotten his party on the road so soon after the wedding at Haverston Castle, rather than staying for the lengthy festivities planned by Lord Haverston. Eldred dreaded getting caught away from home in an early storm.
Eyeing the ominous clouds above him, Marcus wondered how long the poor weather would last and whether or not it would interfere with their return to Wrexton.
“Marcus,” Hawken said. He bent his head and folded his hands behind his back as he spoke. “My men and I will be heading back to Kirkham today. We can easily go by way of Wrexton. I would be honored to carry your father…and the others…home if you wish.”
Marcus was astonished by Nicholas’s offer. The man was usually rude and crass, with little consideration of aught but his own amusement. Yet Marcus knew the man was plagued by his own inner demons which drove him to excesses.
His offer was well-timed. Marcus realized it might not be possible for him to escort his father’s body as he’d intended. Better, perhaps, to get Eldred transported within Wrexton’s walls and go on with the solemn requiem even if Marcus became waylaid.
“I appreciate your offer, Nicholas,” Marcus said. “Perhaps ’twould be better if you carried my father home.”
Nicholas glanced at the sky and Marcus could read the other man’s thoughts. He’d have to hurry in order to stay ahead of the storm.
The two men walked back to the riverbank where Marcus had left his leather pack, and found two of his men gathering reeds and rushes in large burlap bags.
“What are you two about?” Nicholas asked.
“Lady Keelin bade us collect stuffing to make pallets for the wounded men,” one of the men replied.
“She said it’s too cold and damp for them to remain in tents,” the other said, “and she’d rather have them indoors