Lord Of Shadowhawk

“Anything else?”

Birch’s eyes grew dark and angry. “That girl in there was once a virgin, but she isn’t anymore. Whoever raped her like that ought to be hanged. She’s still bleeding. I’ll give Sorche instructions on how to change the packing on a daily basis.”

Tray’s mouth thinned. “Very well. I’d like you to examine the boy before you leave, good doctor.”

“Of course. If the girl worsens, send one of your servants for me. There’s little else to be done for her unless she wakes up.”

“I will,” Tray promised.

* * *

Tray quietly entered his bedchamber nearly an hour later. The rain had stopped momentarily, but it would come back, pummeling against the french doors once again. March in Wales was cold and wet. His gaze moved across the room’s expanse and fastened hungrily on Alyssa’s unmoving features. Something old and hurting tore loose in Tray’s chest as he devoured her with his gaze. She looked frail in his huge bed. How long had it been since Shelby had lain there beside him? Tray shut his eyes for a brief second, the pain almost unbearable as it swept across him. God, how he missed her.

Opening his eyes, Tray went about the task of gathering the items he would need to tend to Alyssa. He tried to ignore the widening ache inside him when he gently lifted her into his arms in order to dribble a few drops of the herbal medicine between her parted lips. Her damp head lolled against his chest and the smell of jasmine encircled his nostrils. Tray inhaled the scent, his heart heavy. It was the scented soap that Sorche had used to clean Alyssa’s smooth, long limbs, limbs that were well shaped but pitifully thin from lack of food. Tray’s mouth drew into a grim line as he carefully rested her head against his shoulder. Taking a clean cloth, he dipped it into the vile concoction and placed it to the corner of her mouth.

“Come, sweet Aly, swallow the brew. I promise you, my beautiful redheaded colleen, that it will speed your recovery.” He continued to talk to her in low, gentle Gaelic tones. Was he trying to soothe himself or her? Tray wasn’t sure. The slender curve of her throat was exposed to his view and he watched it closely as he allowed a few more drops into her mouth. His breath caught and froze when he saw her swallow. It was a miracle! A miracle! Dr. Birch had said that in the most successful cases, the patient would automatically swallow instead of letting the liquid flow into the lungs. Tray pressed a small, feather-light kiss on her drying hair.

“Good, colleen. Stay alive. Sean is waiting for you. He’s safe, well fed and probably sleeping by now. And you, my sweet Aly, drink just a bit more and then I’ll let you rest for another hour. Now come, let’s see you swallow again.”

She swallowed, and Tray felt his hopes swell like a rainbow after a hard rain. He kept up the soft Gaelic banter throughout the feeding. Afterward, he changed the cloth Sorche had placed beneath her. It was wet with urine and slightly pinkish with blood, but Tray considered these healthy signs. Alyssa was fighting back. Fighting to live despite the horror she had suffered at the hands of the English.

* * *

It was near midnight, as Tray started to retire, that Alyssa began to tremble. Worried, Tray laid his large, calloused hand on her brow. He felt no fever. He built the fire higher, increasing the warmth in the room. And yet it didn’t stop her trembling. Neither did more blankets.

Grimly, Tray paced the room, alternately glancing at Alyssa and then glaring off into the darkness outside. It began to rain again, the wind lashing and howling outside Shadowhawk. With a growl of impatience, he took off the pile of blankets, allowing them to drop to the floor, then shrugged out of his robe and slid into the bed.

As gently as possible, he moved next to Alyssa, fitting his powerful body next to her shivering form. She was so pitifully small in comparison to his heavily muscled frame. Tray slipped his arm beneath her neck, carefully drawing her head onto his shoulder and fitting her protectively against him. The silk of her floor-length nightgown provided a minuscule barrier between his naked body and her. Alyssa’s trembling abated noticeably.

“Sleep, Aly. Just rest. No one is going to harm you, little one. No one. I’m here. I’ll protect you….”

She wasn’t running a fever. He began to lightly stroke the length of her long, beautifully formed back, willing away the terror she must be experiencing in some dark, distant chamber of her mind.

He lay awake for a long time, absorbing the feel of the woman next to him. He had lived seven and twenty years before he knew the wonder and joy of a woman lying at his side. Those twelve months with Shelby had taught him with what hunger a man could need a woman, to touch her, to feel her pressing herself to his length, telling him silently of her need of him as a man…. And now he held this child-woman, whose vulnerability shouted at him while she rested undemandingly in his arms. Alyssa was soft against the hard planes of his body, her shallow breath against his shoulder like mist on a cold Welsh morning. Tray found himself reaching his hands upward, threading his fingers through her hair. It was still snarled and tangled, and he suddenly felt a need to brush it until it was sleek and shone with its unusual burgundy highlights. Tomorrow, Tray promised her, tomorrow I’ll brush your hair, Aly.

Tray felt the barest movement of her breasts against his chest and he realized with agonizing clarity that she still hovered on the brink of death. He placed his hand gently between her breasts, taking care not to brush them, and felt the slow, weak beat of her heart. If only…if only she would survive. Removing his hand, he drew Alyssa back into his arms, his jaw resting lightly against her hair.

“Listen to me, Aly, you’ve got to live. According to Sean, you’re too headstrong and outspoken to die. I want to hear your voice and your laughter. I’ve wondered what color your eyes are, little one. Are they blue like Sean’s? Or perhaps a sultry brown to match the wine richness of your hair? I want to know about you. After what the English have done to you, I don’t imagine you’ll ever see fit to trust men again. Or ever learn to love a man.”

His voice grew saddened and thick with exhaustion as he continued in a hushed tone. “I’m sorry it happened, little one. It makes me feel ashamed of being a man. It wasn’t right. Believe me, I’d do anything in the world to show you that not every man is like that, sweet Aly….”

As Tray slipped into the deep folds of sleep, his arms remained wrapped protectively around Alyssa, and he found a measure of peace he’d never experienced before.

Chapter Three

Tray welcomed Sorche into the bedchamber with a warm look in his gray eyes as the older woman waddled over to him. It had become a ritual between them; each evening before Sorche retired, she would come and sit with Tray and they would catalog Alyssa’s daily progress.

“Her hair needs combing,” Sorche noted gruffly. She pulled a brush from her pocket. “Here,” she urged, placing it in his hand, “get the snarls out of her hair.”

Tray gave Sorche a sheepish glance. “I don’t know how to brush a woman’s hair, Sorche. Perhaps you should do it again.”

“Nonsense! You know how to brush a horse’s mane. Go on, sit beside her. Now pick up a few strands and gently pull the brush through them. That’s it. Goodness! Hair isn’t alive, you know! Go on, a bit more pressure. There…good!” Sorche beamed proudly, watching Tray’s hesitant progress. “She has the most beautiful color of hair I’ve ever seen.”

Tray nodded, watching the auburn tresses begin to gleam like rich wine shot with gold as he drew the brush through her thick, clean hair. “Unique. Like she is,” he murmured.

Sorche made herself comfortable in a chair beside the bed, watching her foster son. Although the light from the fireplace cast shadows upon Tray’s face, Sorche could tell he was happy. Since Alyssa’s arrival, there had again been a flicker of hope in his somber gray eyes. She took out her embroidery, occasionally looking up to check his progress.

“It’s been seven days now. What did Dr. Birch say today?”

“That she’s healing rapidly and there is no sign of infection.”

“Thank the Mother Mary for that!” She frowned, her fingers poised above her stitchery. “And when will she awake, Tray? Did he say anything about that?”

“No,” he answered, laying the newly brushed strands across her pillow. Sliding his long, large-knuckled fingers beneath another handful of hair, Tray slowly began to draw the brush through it, finding a deep sense of pleasure in the action. How would Alyssa react if she knew that it was he and Sorche who bathed her daily and tended her healing wounds? Would she flee in terror like the wild Welsh cobs that ranged over the mountains? Or would she react like his favorite mare, who loved to be petted and would sidle even closer to take full advantage of his knowing hand?

“Seven days,” Tray murmured, almost to himself. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? The bruising has yellowed and her flesh is no longer swollen. My God, why hasn’t someone taken her hand in marriage? I don’t understand it.”

Sorche chuckled. “Mind you, what Sean said about her, she’s a spitfire.”

His mouth thinned momentarily. “I wish we could get more information out of Sean.”

“He’s frightened, Tray.”

Tray nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded softly, feeling the heavy silk of her hair as he ran it through his calloused fingers. “Sean won’t even tell me her last name. Or where her family is from. I keep trying to convince the lad that we aren’t out to do them harm, that we mean to help them get back to Ireland.”

“Be patient, Tray. The boy will uncross himself. He’s frightened and in awe of you at the same time. You’re a natural father.”

Tray glowered.

“Don’t put on that iron Trayhern mask with me. You should be contemplating marriage again, Tray. Lord knows, every woman of the gentry has paraded past you and you all but ignore them. You need an heir.”

Bitterness tugged at him. “Let Vaughn continue being the stud in the family, Sorche. I’ve no interest in the women who want to be courted by my attentions. Tell me which one of them would be happy out here on Welsh soil with a husband who took joy in plowing, delivering lambs or breeding a better Welsh cob? No,” he growled, “Shelby was the only one who understood my need to be with the land and the people, Sorche.”

“Shelby was Welsh,” she said softly, seeing the pain come to Tray’s face.

Tray’s hand trembled as he held the brush just above the last thick strands of Alyssa’s hair. “And I killed her,” he whispered rawly. “Was I right to rescue Alyssa? Will she die, too? Will I awake as I have so many times before in the night, only to see that her heart has stopped beating? I wonder if I will destroy her by just being in her presence. Or if she awakes, will I in some way kill her while she remains at Shadowhawk to mend?”

Sorche moved to Tray’s side, laying her hands on his broad shoulders. “Stop torturing yourself, son of my heart,” she begged gently. “And believe me when I say that you’ve caused no one’s death. You forget, I was Isolde’s governess. I raised her and watched her grow into a beautiful young woman. She died giving you birth because her hips were too narrow. It wasn’t your fault. No more than it was when Shelby died.” Her gnarled, arthritic hand gripped his arm, her voice fervent. “Shelby had taken that bad fall in her eighth month, Tray. I’m sure that’s when the baby was killed. And she was narrow-hipped just like your mother was, besides being in frail health.”

Tray pulled his gaze from Alyssa’s peaceful features and rested his hand over Sorche’s bent fingers. “There are days that I know all of that in my heart and accept it.”

“And there are many days when you carry guilt as if it were a mantle around your shoulders, my son.”

“Yes.” Tray managed a weary smile for her benefit. “As you can see, I’m not perfect.” And then he glanced down at his twisted foot, his voice lowering. “Neither physically nor in any other way.”

“You’re kind.”

Tray laughed quietly. “Softheaded.”