Celtic Bride. Margo MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Two

      Keelin managed to walk only a short way up the path when she was accosted. Her filthy attacker slapped one hand over her mouth and the other across the middle of her body. Then he dragged her through the woods in the opposite direction of her cottage, away from any help at all.

      She kicked and scratched frantically at the villain who hauled her mercilessly across the dense forest growth, but her actions were of no avail. She could not get herself free from the man, except for one short instant when she managed to let out a desperate screech.

      The Celtic warrior wrapped her hair tightly around his hand and, speaking in Gaelic, told her in no uncertain terms to keep silent. Pain ripped through Keelin’s scalp as the man brutally yanked and resumed his terrible pace through the forest.

      Keelin couldn’t think clearly, yet a thousand disconnected thoughts ran through her mind as she clawed at the man’s hands. Would the warrior kill her? Who would care for Uncle Tiarnan then? What would happen to Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh? Had her cry been loud enough for anyone to hear?

      “Let the woman go!”

      The Celt suddenly stopped and whirled around. Holding Keelin in front of him like a shield, he faced Marcus de Grant, who appeared like a golden giant out of the woods to challenge him.

      “Be still, Keelin,” Marcus de Grant growled. Startled once again by the young earl’s sudden appearance, Keelin felt the cold, steel blade at her throat and knew that her life depended on keeping still.

      “Give me Ga Buidhe an Lamhaigh and I will free you,” the warrior demanded.

      “Níl!” Keelin cried.

      Lord Wrexton’s sword was drawn and he was ready to engage the Irishman, but Keelin was afraid the young lord could do nothing while the mercenary held her this way, with one hand tightly tangled in her hair, the other on the knife. If de Grant attacked, Keelin would surely be killed.

      De Grant stood at the ready, slightly crouched, and slowly began to circle Keelin and the Irishman. Somehow, in the depths of her distress, Keelin wondered what he could possibly do to free her.

      She heard a strange, strangled sound, and realized it had come from her own throat. The mercenary pulled her hair even tighter and turned to keep Wrexton in front of him, though Keelin could feel that he was slightly off balance. She was too frightened to act, and so she moved with him, taking care not to jar herself against the knife.

      “You’ll never leave these woods alive, Celt!” Marcus taunted. “Let her go and I’ll spare you! Drop—”

      A loud crack split the air behind her, and the Irishman yelped. Keelin was thrown forward, onto her knees, facedown in the dirt.

      Amidst the sudden shouts of men, and confusion all around her, Keelin came as close to fainting as if she’d just experienced a powerful vision. Heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, she was helped to her feet, then pulled off them again when her knees buckled. As she fell to the ground, she heard the clash of swords, the grunts of men fighting for their lives. Suddenly, all was silent. De Grant lifted her into his naked arms and carried her to the path that led to her cottage.

      The young lord was quiet as he carried her faultlessly through the woods. Trembling, Keelin wrapped her hands around his neck and held on, treasuring the unfamiliar sensations of safety and security. It had been years since anyone had protected her, or helped her in any way. The warrior had killed a man to protect her.

      She gazed up at Lord Wrexton, whose eyes were locked straight ahead, and took notice of the short, red-blond whiskers that covered his jaw and neck. She’d never seen any young man up so close, had certainly never before appreciated the strong lines and muscles of a warrior’s physique. Yet she’d found herself gaping at this powerful man more than once in the short hours since he’d crashed in on her life. She had never thought a man beautiful before, yet now…

      She squeezed her eyes tight as if to shut out the thoughts that would surely cause her nothing but trouble. How the man could have such an effect, and so quickly, was a mystery to Keelin.

      Marcus got her back to the cottage and the place where his men were encamped. He eased her down onto the stump of a great oak, and tilted her chin with one hand as his men gathered round. “You’re bleeding,” he said, oblivious to her appreciative gaze, and astonished that she’d come to no harm. The Celt had been quick to raise his sword against Keelin. ’Twas by the grace of God that Marcus had been quicker, though he’d achieved little satisfaction in killing the Celt.

      With a surprisingly steady hand, Marcus touched the injury on Keelin’s neck, assessing its severity.

      “The knave cut me?” Keelin asked, surprised. Yet another odd feeling rose in her, much more intense than anything she’d experienced so far, one that seemed to be the result of the earl’s gentle touch. But how could that be? She’d never heard of such a thing.

      “Aye,” Marcus replied. “He sliced you when you fell.”

      “Wh-what happened back there?” Keelin asked. She felt shaky and light-headed now that the threat was done. “How did I…Why did the scoundrel let me loose?”

      “We heard your scream,” Marcus began. One of his men handed him a clean cloth and a stoppered crock of ointment that he used to daub at the thin slice on her neck. “I came after you, as did Marquis Kirkham—the Englishman who routed the Celts after they attacked our party.”

      Keelin furrowed her brow and shook her head in puzzlement. “Where did the marquis come from? How did he—”

      “I know as little as you, my lady,” Marcus replied. “Kirkham arrived in the woods behind you and the Celt, just about the time I got there.”

      “Aye, my lord,” one of the men said. “Lord Kirkham rode up just as we heard the lady cry out.”

      “I kept the Celt distracted,” Marcus continued, “while Kirkham used his whip on the man.”

      “That was the crackin’ sound that made him drop me?”

      Marcus nodded. “Kirkham has a fondness for the whip,” he said, “though he’s a skilled swordsman as well.”

      Keelin winced at the stinging caused by the ointment. “Sword or whip,” she said as he wrapped a clean length of cloth around her neck. “I’m grateful to the man for comin’ along when he did.” Then Keelin stayed his hand with one of her own as she looked into his light-blue eyes. “You have my thanks as well, Lord Wrexton.”

      She saw color burst in his cheeks, then flush down his neck and out to the tips of his ears. His diffidence endeared him to her as much as his strong, powerful presence had done earlier.

      Keelin would have touched the bit of golden hair that had fallen over his forehead, but she dropped her hand midway when Marquis Kirkham arrived in the clearing. He was tall and powerfully made, with a visage as fierce and dark as the very devil. Keelin could almost believe the man had routed the Celtic mercenaries single-handedly.

      “What say you, Marcus?” the big nobleman said, slurring his words. Keelin realized the man was drunk! “I’ve been mopping up after you all day!”

      Marcus did not respond to the man’s sarcasm, for he was accustomed to Kirkham’s brooding and sarcasm. Instead, he merely finished tying Keelin’s bandage in place. Keelin, however, took exception to the drunken newcomer’s speech. Such loose and foolish talk would never have gone unchallenged in her father’s keep. She stood and faced the man.

      “M’lord,” she said firmly, “can ye not know of the young lord’s loss? His own father was slain this very day, yet here ye jest—”

      “Is this true, Marcus?” the marquis asked earnestly. The captious mischief in his eyes faded and his posture straightened. “Did Eldred fall