Lord Of Shadowhawk

“We’ll be home soon, lad,” he soothed.

Sean lifted his head, his face flushed with tears. “Home, sir?”

“Yes, home. No one at Shadowhawk will hurt you, Sean. You’ll be given a bath, hot food and a bed. No more pain, lad. I promise you.”

“And Alyssa? What will you do with her?”

“I’ll take care of her personally. We’ll get a doctor to tend her just as soon as we can.”

Sean shut his eyes, suddenly weary as never before. This stranger who spoke Gaelic and yet looked neither English nor Irish seemed to be promising him the impossible.

Chapter Two

“Sorche! Sorche!” The cry for the head housekeeper of Shadowhawk echoed down the halls of the main house.

“I’m coming!” she called, hefting her five and fifty-year-old body out of her gilt wood armchair, placing her stitchery aside. As always, Sorche wore a white mobcap over gray hair that was pulled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her dark blue cotton dress was nearly hidden by a huge white apron, because she had just come from the kitchen to devote a few free moments to her stitchery. Her face was round with ruddy cheeks, and her blue eyes were small and sharp for her age. The woman hurried down the carpeted hall toward the main entrance, where the noise and activity were coming from.

Sorche rounded the last corner and came to a halt in the marble foyer. Craddock, the butler, whose calm features never looked harried, looked harried now. Like most Welshmen, he was short and stocky. And he wore his dark blue uniform poorly; it always appeared rumpled and in dire need of a pressing.

“Sorche,” he gasped, scurrying to her side and gripping her hand. “Quickly! Lord Trayhern needs you in his bedchamber!”

“Bedchamber?” Sorche rumbled, smoothing her white apron across her ample body. “Whatever for?”

“He’s just brought in a very sick young woman and a boy, and he needs your assistance with the girl. I’m on my way to tell Stablemaster Thomas to send his fleetest horse and best rider to fetch Dr. Birch from Colwyn Bay.”

Blustering, her mobcap almost toppling off her head, Sorche made her way down the west wing. Goodness! The day had been nonstop excitement since that Sergeant Porter came in earlier, huffily demanding Tray’s appearance at Colwyn Bay in his starchy English voice. What was going on? Craddock was in a coil, wringing his hands like an Irish fisherman! The man never came undone like that. Just what had Tray brought home this time?

Then a beatific smile wreathed Sorche’s plump face and she picked up her skirts and set off at a running walk, almost giving the appearance of flying down the long, walnut-paneled hall. It was just like Tray to bring home all kinds of lost waifs. As a youngster the boy was forever bringing home stray cats and dogs, claiming them as his own. And a baby robin that had fallen out of its nest and injured its wing. And a baby rabbit, mauled by hounds. And…The list was endless.

Sorche knocked politely on the closed door to Tray’s bedchamber.

“Enter!” Tray called.

She opened the door and came to a standstill in the middle of the huge room, her hands moving to her hips.

“Mother Mary and Saint Joseph! What have you done this time, Tray?” she breathed, her gaze moving first to the young ruffian who huddled like a frightened puppy near Tray and then to…A cry of compassion broke from Sorche and she flew around the bed.

Tray stood back, grateful for Sorche’s presence. She always knew how to help and how to heal those less fortunate than herself. He pushed several strands of dark hair off his brow and went to his foster mother’s side.

“The saints preserve this poor lamb. Oh, Tray…” Sorche gently pulled back the black wool cloak, revealing Alyssa’s waxen features. She gasped, momentarily clutching at her breast where her crucifix lay hidden beneath the apron. “May God have mercy. Whatever has happened to her, Tray?”

“Part of Vaughn’s war booty,” he snarled, leaning over Alyssa. “She’s suffered a blow to the head, Sorche. And—” He cast a glance at Sean. Lowering his voice, he said in an almost inaudible tone, “She was raped.”

“Oh, no…quickly, we must fetch hot water, towels and—”

That same instant, Craddock appeared at the door to the bedchamber, having been summoned by bell rope. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have someone from the kitchen assist Sorche,” Tray ordered darkly. “Oh, and have Briana come and take care of this boy. His name is Sean Brady. He’s in need of a bath, new clothes and a hot meal—in that order. Sean, you go with Craddock. He’ll see to your welfare, lad.”

Sean hesitated, torn between the awful pallor on Alyssa’s drawn features and the orders of the stranger who looked at him through kind gray eyes. “But, sir, my cousin…”

Tray came around the bed and placed his arm protectively around Sean’s shoulders, coaxing him over to the butler. “Much needs to be done to help her, Sean.” In that moment, a foothold of trust was tentatively established between them.

Sean licked his lips. “Yes, sir. A-and, thank you….”

Tray squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t thank us yet. We have yet to save her life, lad.”

Sorche peered sharply at the girl’s face as she began to remove the wool cloak.

“They were trying to drag her out of the cell and throw her on a cart of the dead and dying,” Tray explained quietly, his eyes flat as he drank in Alyssa’s unmoving features. “Under Vaughn’s orders,” he ground out.

Sorche’s full mouth puckered into a forgiving line. “You saved them, that’s all that matters. Come, help me remove the cloak. We must get her out of these flea-infested men’s clothes and bathe her before the doctor arrives. Dr. Birch won’t touch her if she’s this filthy.”

“But—”

“I’m too old to lift her by myself, Tray. And what maid do we have that can carry this poor girl? I know it’s not proper, but under the circumstances, it can’t be helped! Now quickly, come and help me. We must clean her up so that Dr. Birch may examine her once he arrives.”

* * *

Tray remained in his study, waiting for Dr. Birch to finish his examination of Alyssa. He paced, hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the carpet beneath his booted feet. Anger churned with restlessness. Vaughn would remain in Colwyn Bay for a few days while the ship took on water. No doubt he would make a useful sum by selling some of the hapless Irish prisoners to the shipbuilding industry across the bay in Liverpool and, just as quickly, gamble the ill-gotten pounds away at the gaming tables. Tray’s mind turned to Alyssa, as it did every unoccupied moment. What was it about her that drew out his heart and touched it? He rubbed his brow.

“Lord Trayhern?” Dr. Birch’s voice was quiet.

Tray turned toward the Englishman. He quickly took in the grim caste to Birch’s pinched features. Motioning him to sit down, he poured the doctor a glass of sherry from the sideboard and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Birch said, lifting the glass to his lips. The fiery liquid slid down his throat, warming his stomach. He looked up at the lord of the manor.

“I think this is the worst case you’ve ever asked me to treat, animal or human,” he began with an effort, taking another sip of the sherry. His grizzled brown-and-white brows moved together as he studied the ruby-colored contents of the glass.

“I know,” Tray said softly, walking back to the window, folding his hands behind him. The silence grew, broken only by the sudden onslaught of pelting rain and the wind howling furiously around the manor. “Will she live?”

Birch walked stiffly to Tray’s side and they both stared out the window together. “The girl is gravely hurt, my lord,” he told him in a low tone. “Her skull is not cracked, but the force of the blow has surely addled her brain enough to make her unconscious. Someone must tend her almost hourly until she wakes, if she wakes. Has she urinated yet?”

“Her trousers were wet and smelled of it.”

Birch gave a little sigh. “That’s good. Her kidneys have not stopped working. If they do, she is as good as dead. Someone must—”

“I’ll be that someone, good doctor. Simply tell me what I must do.”

Birch gave him a surprised look. “It will be a thankless task, my lord. Surely one of your servants who has more time on his hands—”

“No, I will do it.”

“Very well. I’ll get Sorche to prepare a special herbal tea that must be carefully given to her every waking hour. That way, her kidneys will continue to function and she will be getting some nourishment.”

“I see,” Tray said.

“Her head wound must remain open to the air and be allowed to drain. It should be washed thrice daily with another herb I’ll have Sorche prepare for you.”