Lord Of Shadowhawk
Sean’s narrow face brightened, his left eye almost swollen shut. “We’re good riders, sir! There isn’t an Irishman alive who can’t ride a horse!”
Tray managed a tight smile and returned his attention to the unconscious cargo in his arms. With just a light pressure of Tray’s left calf against Rasheed’s barrel, the animal turned around. Soon they were free of the cloying, snarling quayside traffic and headed out of dingy Colwyn Bay for Shadowhawk, which sat on the cliffs above the restless Irish Sea.
The afternoon was dreary and cold, and Tray felt Sean huddling close, seeking his bodily warmth. Tray pulled the girl more tightly to him, concerned. Her translucent skin was bruised and bloodied. He lifted her barely exposed face to his and placed his ruddy cheek against her nostrils, willing her to be breathing still, willing her to be alive. He felt the utter relaxation of her body against him and the pitiful outward bow of her rib cage beneath his fingers. His heart took a sudden, pounding leap. There! He had felt it. A baby’s breath of moist heat from her nostrils. Live, sweet Alyssa, he begged her silently, breathe…just a bit longer and you’ll be safe and warm.
As he looked down on her waxen features, Tray wondered if she would live. That same pallor had existed on Paige’s face when he had discovered her on the beach. His thoughts sped forward. He would have to get a doctor immediately. As long as she was still breathing, he knew the girl could be saved. For the first time since his wife’s death, Tray felt a ribbon of hope thread through him. How could that be? A nine-year-old boy clung to him and a girl who could be no more than eight and ten years lay unconscious in his arms.
“Tell me about yourself, lad. How did you get caught up in this rebellion?”
Sean tried to still his chattering teeth. The wool cloak helped, but his bare legs were exposed, hanging like thin branches across the stallion’s broad back. Was this man really the son of an Earl? If so, he was English and not to be trusted. Sean decided it was safer to lie. “M-my family and I were working on a farm outside of Wexford when we were trapped by the soldiers.”
“And the English thought you were part of the rebellion?” Tray asked grimly.
“Yes, sir. Me, my cousin Alyssa and—and my sister, Shannon. They thought we were a part of it. But we weren’t, sir. I swear it.”
“How old is your cousin, Sean?”
“Seven and ten, sir.”
She was of marrying age. Tray hesitated for a moment. “Married?”
“No, sir. Alyssa wouldn’t stand for just any man to ask for her hand.”
Tray’s expression eased momentarily as he drank in her pale features. Although her auburn hair hung in dirtied ropes about her square face, he could imagine the fire that lay beneath those proud yet vulnerable features. One look at that stubborn, slightly cleft chin would warn any man that she was not to be taken lightly. Anguish burned through Tray. He knew Alyssa had been raped by one man, if not more than one. And doubtless she had been a virgin before the English soldiers mistook her as part of the rebellion. His black brows drew down into a scowl.
“Was she betrothed?” If she was, the man might not ever want her; she would be soiled, if she even lived. And Tray found himself wanting Alyssa to live. He wanted to hear her speak, to hear the quality of her voice. What color were her eyes? Their long auburn lashes lay thick and curled against her shadowed cheeks. Her femininity was obvious even beneath the specter of bruises and dirt.
“No, sir. She didn’t want to marry. Said most men were clods of dirt.”
Tray couldn’t suppress the chuckle that welled up inside his chest. “She did, did she?”
“Alyssa has never been known to watch her words, sir.” Sean shut his eyes. “That’s what got her in trouble on board ship.”
Tray’s hands tightened reflexively against Alyssa’s limp form. “What do you mean? What happened?”
“They—they took my sister, Shannon, and killed her,” he began in a wobbly voice. “A-and Alyssa started screaming and shouting. She turned the air blue, calling them all kinds of names. She accused the English of being weak and spineless, because they took their anger out on women. She tried to get them to take her instead of Shannon, but they didn’t do it.”
“Then what happened, lad?” Tray asked softly.
Sean sniffed. “They came back and took Alyssa up on the main deck, and I heard her trying to fight them off. And—” His voice faltered. “One of the prisoners near the entrance of the hold said she fought them. An English officer took her. I—I guess she hit him and tried to escape, then a sailor struck her down with a club. The Irish prisoners below started shouting and screaming. Almost caused a riot, sir.”
“You’ve told me enough,” Tray said grimly, staring down at the girl. Sean’s small arms tightened around him and he felt the boy’s head against his back. Without hearing a sound, he knew the child was crying. How like the Irish to hide their tears in silence. Tray’s own eyes watered dangerously as he continued to look down at the girl. She was an innocent victim, as was Sean. His stomach knotted as he sharply recalled a beautiful young girl with the same color of hair as Sean’s. Had that been Shannon’s battered, lifeless body they had carried off the ship while Vaughn was standing there, smiling cruelly at him when he arrived? His instincts screamed that it was, and he drew in a long, ragged breath.
“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.”
“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.”