Celtic Bride. Margo MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
“M’lord, I—”
Then, except for Tiarnan’s soft snores, there was silence again.
“Why do you weep?” Marcus asked when he’d regained a measure of control.
Keelin turned away shakily. “’Tis nothin’, m’lord,” she said casually, as if handsome young lords arrived at her door and kissed her senseless once a month. “Only the day, and the terrible things in it.”
Marcus could still see the hurt in her eyes. And something more. Bewilderment? He was mightily bewildered himself, after sharing that kiss. It had been utterly intoxicating. Bewitching.
Her perfect skin was flushed with color now, and the devastating sadness gone from her eyes. Now, her delicate brows arched with wonder.
Keelin’s blood felt as though it were on fire. As she struggled to compose herself, she tried to understand Marcus’s withdrawal, and his apology for kissing her. She did not know how he could be sorry for such a kiss, unless, by her inexperience, she had somehow made it unpleasant for him.
He did not look displeased, though, Keelin thought as she looked up at him. His chest moved as if he’d just run a race, and his eyes were still intent upon her. The touch of his lips had been entirely unexpected. Soft, yet firm and warm, too, as warm as the sun in midsummer.
His chest, when it was pressed against her, was so very different from her own soft form, that it had pleased her beyond anything she’d ever known, and shaken her senses as thoroughly as any vision she’d ever had. Marcus de Grant was truly the most fascinating man she’d ever encountered, in England or Ireland. She could fasten her attention on his fine features for all eternity.
But as Keelin stood gazing at Marcus, her vision began to cloud. She blinked her eyes rapidly, and gave a quick shake of her head, but the haziness only increased. With utter dismay, Keelin realized the sensations were the same as those she experienced when a vision was upon her. She bit back a cry and backed away from Marcus, struggling to regain her proper senses—her senses of this world, not the misty, unreality of her intuition.
’Twas no use. Instead of Marcus’s handsome face before her eyes, she saw her cousin’s, the fierce and deadly Cormac O’Shea, chieftain of Clann Ui Sheaghda. And though Keelin could still dimly discern the walls of her snug English cottage and the meager furniture within, the gray skies of Kerry began to show more clearly than her true surroundings. Marcus’s comely face began to fade from her vision….
She heard the clang of steel meeting steel, and knew she was witnessing a battle, though whether past or future, she could not say. She watched as Cormac fought ferociously against his opponent, his formidable muscles bulging with every strike of his blade. He lunged and strained, ducked and spun, but his enemy soon gained the advantage and knocked Cormac to the muddy ground.
“No,” she whispered, trembling. The little cottage was gone from her sight now, only the landscape around Carrauntoohil Keep remained. The smell of blood was thick and there were mournful wails to be heard. Black smoke billowed from the huts in the village, and choked Keelin’s lungs.
Cormac was violently disarmed. Keelin heard a satisfied grunt, then watched as a shiny steel blade pierced through Cormac’s leather-clad chest, killing him instantly.
Keelin shrank from the sight of Cormac’s murder, but could not shut out the images, the sounds, the smells. She’d have run far away if her feet would have carried her, but they were rooted to the ground where she stood.
Two powerful hands grasped the hilt of the killing sword. One strong leg moved, and a booted foot stepped on Cormac’s lifeless chest as the sword was yanked out.
Then Keelin heard a Gaelic shout of victory, and saw the face of the man who’d shouted, the one who held the bloody sword high above his head.
’Twas Ruairc Mageean.
Chapter Four
Marcus caught Lady Keelin as she fell, and carried her to the blanket on the floor. Unconscious now, she continued to shake violently, as if she had fever and chills combined. Marcus covered her with one of the blankets.
He did not understand what was wrong. One moment, they were both standing stunned by their kiss, the next, her eyes were wide, and dilated to black, and she was trembling and whimpering. He was not so naive to think it had been his kiss that had affected her so, but he could not imagine what had come over her.
He frowned as he shook her gently, and rubbed her hands to revive her, but his efforts changed nothing. She was deeply unconscious. And the longer she stayed that way, he felt the worse it would be for her.
Seeing no alternative, Marcus reluctantly arose and stepped to the bedside of her uncle. Quickly, he roused the older man from a deep sleep.
“What is it? Keely?” Tiarnan asked groggily. “Are ye—”
“Wake up, old man,” Marcus said, keeping his voice down. “Something came over Keelin a while ago. She was fine one moment, and the next…”
“The next?” the man prodded, frowning with worry.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “Her eyes went black and she stood there, staring….”
Tiarnan coughed fitfully, then struggled to a sitting position, holding his chest all the while. “Did she start tremblin’ and whimperin’?”
Marcus nodded, thanking heaven that the man seemed to recognize what had happened, though he did not care much for the look of concern on Tiarnan’s face. “She did.”
“Ach, no. ’Tis too soon for another one,” he muttered dejectedly to himself. “’Twas a vision she was havin’,” the old man said to Marcus. “Was she holdin’ the spear, or just—”
“What spear?” Marcus asked, frustrated by the old man’s riddles. Beautiful Keelin was lying near death, and her uncle could only ask foolish—
“Oh, saints, ’twas straight from Keelin herself, then. And the power of it knocked her flat?”
“The power of what?” Marcus asked frantically, glancing back at Keelin’s trembling form under the blanket. “I don’t understand, O’Shea.”
“Nay, ye wouldn’t, lad,” Tiarnan replied, shivering. “’Tis cold tonight. Best ye wrap the lass up in blankets, then hold her close and give her some o’ yer own heat. And I’ll be explainin’ as well as I can.”
More than happy to comply with the man’s instructions, Marcus wedged his big body down between Keelin and the wall, then pulled her up into his arms and wrapped her snugly in the blankets. Her color was deathly pale and she felt cold as a wintry night. It was difficult for Marcus to fathom that this was the same hot, vibrant body he’d held only a few minutes before. “Speak, then, O’Shea. Tell me what ails her.”
Tiarnan succumbed to another coughing fit, so it was a few moments before he was able to begin his tale. Finally, though, he cleared his throat and spoke while Marcus sat holding Keelin, sharing his warmth.
“The lass has a ‘gift,’ ye might say,” Tiarnan said, “though she doesn’t quite see it that way.”
“What gift? Speak plainly, old man!”
“’Tis the sight,” Tiarnan explained. “Ever since she was a tiny lass, she’s been able to see what others cannot. In my clan, it’s called the ‘second sight.’ Here in England, ye may call it by another name.
“But whatever words ye use for it, Keelin has a powerful intuition that tells her of things that are to come. And when she touches Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh, the power increases beyond anything ye, or even I could understand.”
“What’s this Ga Buidhe—”
“Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh is our clan’s sacred spear. Many years ago—even before Saint Patrick