Celtic Bride by Margo Maguire

Lamhaigh back to Carrauntoohil to provide the confidence the spear would bring. Unfortunately, she could not leave immediately.
    Adam’s condition had worsened during the journey to the castle, and Keelin knew she would be needed here for the next few days, at least. Perhaps even a week. She would not be able to leave the boy until she was certain he was healing.
    Tiarnan needed her for the time being, too, although his condition was better than it had been before the arrival of Lord Marcus and his men. Keelin could only pray his health would continue thus, especially once she was away and no longer able to care for him.
    She forced her attention back to the Mass, clearing her mind of all thoughts of her journey to Kerry. Centering her awareness and her prayers on the man whose body rested on the bier in front of the congregation, Keelin could not help but remember her own father. And as she bowed her head, she offered prayers for Eocaidh O’Shea—the man whose funeral she had not been able to attend.
    Ithad been four distant years ago, Keelin told herself. Time enough for the grief to have abated. Yet it had not. She felt the sorrow rise from her chest and take hold in her throat, burning there, just as it had on the day she’d watched Ruairc Mageean cut Eocaidh down.
    There’d never been time to mourn her father. Tiarnan and the elders of the clan had met and conferred hastily. Within hours of Eocaidh’s death, Keelin and Tiarnan were on horseback, racing toward the coast and a ship that awaited them. They’d sailed immediately, skirting the southern coast and heading east. Landing finally on the English coast, they managed to elude Mageean’s men for months.
    Keelin blinked away the tears she was not even aware were present and looked up.
    Though Mass was over, the bishop continued with the prayers for the dead and the chamberlain gently swung the censer over the body. The tang of incense was strong, the somber chanting of the choir haunting.
    Wrexton’s men-at-arms lifted the body and carried it to the back of the chapel, with the Church dignitaries following. Marcus and Marquis Kirkham walked behind, and Keelin was near enough to see that Lady Isolda had placed her hand on Marcus’s arm.
    The sight of that touch should not have disturbed Keelin. Her own connection to the young earl was merely a peripheral one, as opposed to Isolda’s. Keelin was a temporary resident of Wrexton and would take her leave as soon as it was feasible.
    Besides, there was a bridegroom awaiting her at home, in Kerry. The kiss she’d shared with Marcus de Grant had been nothing but an aberration, a moment’s diversion from life’s cruelest realities. The connection she’d felt between them was merely her imagination.
    Keelin looked down at the floor anyway, unwilling to let her eyes rest on that contact between Marcus and Isolda any longer than necessary.
    ’Twas past midnight and Marcus was glad of the few hours sleep he’d managed before being awakened by a footman. The days of cramped quarters in Keelin O’Shea’s tiny cottage gave him a new appreciation for his spacious chamber and the large comfortable bed upon which he was currently sprawled.
    After dressing quickly, Marcus hurried to Adam’s room to see why Lady Keelin had summoned him. He entered to find the room brightly lit with extra candles. Adam lay prone, and unconscious, with Keelin standing at his bedside. The boy’s wound was uncovered, and Marcus winced when he looked at it.
    “Praise God and all the saints,” Keelin said quietly. She seemed more than pensive. She was worried. “The wound has festered, my lord. I’ll need your help when I drain it.”
    She wore the same deep-green gown he’d seen her in earlier, at his father’s funeral. Her hair was unbound as he was accustomed to seeing it, and the silky, dark curtain made Marcus’s fingers burn to touch it.
    God’s teeth! He’d just buried his father, young Adam was lying near death, and here he