Celtic Bride by Margo Maguire Page B

else can I do?” Marcus asked.
    “Naught, m’lord,” Keelin replied. “I was just wantin’ ye nearby in case he awoke fully and needed ye. Yer presence gives the lad comfort.”
    “Then let me bathe him,” Marcus said, walking around to where she stood. “You should find your bed—” he blushed and floundered “—er, you must be weary.”
    He stood near enough for her to see the fine green lines that rimmed the blue of his eyes, and the golden tips of his lashes. “Aye,” she said breathlessly. “I am. But I’ll be stayin’ ’til I’m sure the lad’s improvin’.”
    “I am grateful to you for your tireless care of my cousin,” he said. The utter formality of his tone made him sound insincere, as if he spoke out of courtesy, and not from his heart.
    “Aw, he’s a dear lad,” she replied, “and I don’t like to see him laid so low. Besides, ’twas my people who caused—”
    “Lady Keelin, you know that I do not hold you responsible for Adam’s injuries, or my father’s death.”
    Keelin turned away. She knew no such thing. How could he not blame her, she wondered, when it was her very presence in England that had caused Mageean’s mercenaries to be in the vicinity.
    Hewas merely being kind.
    Marcus took the cloth from her hand and repeated the motions he’d seen her perform just moments before. While Adam remained asleep through these ministrations, Keelin blew out most of the candles that illuminated the bed. Then she curled herself up in a big chair next to the hearth.
    She looked soft and vulnerable and Marcus wanted nothing more than to pull her close and hold her until she slept. Instead, he ran the wet cloth down Adam’s legs again and concentrated his thoughts on his young cousin’s plight.
    “You’ve got a gentle touch, m’lord,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
    A shudder ran through Marcus with her words. “Hmm,” was all he said. He ran the cloth down Adam’s other leg.
    She burrowed deeper into the cushions of the chair, unaware of Marcus’s discomfiture. “Would ye say ’twas unusual for a man of your size and strength to have the patience to tend the sick?”
    Marcus cleared his throat. ’Twas unsettling to be the object of her perusal, though he had to admit ’twas pleasant in some odd way. There might even be a hint of admiration in her tone. “On the battlefield, we men tended each other when necessary.”
    “Battlefield?” Keelin asked.
    Marcus nodded. “I was with King Henry in France.”
    “But King Henry’s been dead more than six years,” Keelin said. “Ye couldn’t have been more than a lad yourself then.”
    Marcusshrugged. “I was barely twenty when he died.”
    Keelin said, “What was it like? Bein’ in a foreign place and fightin’ fer your life, over land that’s of no consequence to ye?”
    He hadn’t considered it much in the past few years, though it had occupied much of his thoughts when he was in the muddy trenches, wearing armor that was heavy and hot, eating rations that were maggoty as often as not. “’Twas not pleasant,” he said, “but you should know something of that. You’re here in England, and fighting for your life.”
    “Ach, but not on the battlefield,” she countered. “There’re no warhorses neighin’, or swords clashin’ around me.”
    “But there could have been—there could still be yet,” he said, and then regretted his words when she appeared stricken. “Rest easy, Lady Keelin,” he said quickly, “you’re safe here at Wrexton.”
    He watched as she covered her dismay with a shrug. She was a proud one and didn’t care for being beholden to him. He could see that she was rankled by needing his protection now.
    In truth, Marcus wasn’t sure she did need his protection.
    Nevertheless, she had it for now, and her presence at Wrexton would bring the Celts.
    “How did you learn the healing skills?” Marcus asked, turning the discussion from himself. He preferred to listen to her speak