The Warrior's Touch (14 page)

She gathered herself together. ‘No. It’s not the only reason.’

Not awaiting a reply or an excuse, she turned from him. Quickening her strides, she left him standing alone. Her blood pounded in her veins, her face crimson with embarrassment. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she cared, especially when the only feelings he held for her were lust.

She blinked through the tears, knowing that nothing she did would turn him from the path he’d chosen.

In the shadows, she heard the sound of movement, but did not look up. She had humbled herself enough tonight. If Connor wanted to speak more to her, he could do so in the privacy of the sick hut.

A strong hand covered her mouth, another hand reaching for her breast. Shocked, Aileen dropped the torch. Another man picked it up, a stranger she hadn’t seen before.

The man holding her tore at her
léine
, and Aileen fought against him, freeing her mouth. He held her fists, his grip bruising.

‘Connor!’ she shouted. ‘Help me!’

The man jerked her savagely off her feet, knocking her to the ground. He pinned her, his heavy body pressing her down. Aileen screamed, and saw Connor draw his sword. The other assailant blocked him, the metal clanging. Seconds later, her attacker released her. He picked up the torch and swung it at Connor. The two men circled him, one meeting Connor’s sword, the other moving behind. Aileen stumbled to her feet, searching for a rock or a weapon.

Nothing. She ran toward one of the men, calling out a warning to Connor. The other villain struck a vicious blow, and the sword crashed from Connor’s hands. He ducked to avoid the slash of a fiery torch, rolling away from the men. When he reached for the sword, his right hand could not raise the weapon.

‘Run!’ he gritted out, rising to his feet. He darted past one of the fighters, narrowly avoiding the slice of a sword.

The next moments moved in a blur. Aileen saw another figure racing toward them. Metal clashed against metal, and the man howled in pain as the blade slashed his skin.

She saw Riordan, wrenching an attacker away from Connor. His fist connected with the assailant’s face in a solid blow, blood dripping down. The other man appeared dazed, hardly struggling.

Aileen picked up the fallen torch, holding the flames as a weapon.

‘Get out of here,’ Riordan commanded to the attackers, lifting his sword as if to strike a killing blow. In the firelight, his fierce visage appeared barbaric. The men did not argue, but fled.

Then he turned, and the cruelty disappeared. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

Aileen held the torn pieces of her
léine
together, trying to shield herself from his gaze. ‘Yes.’

He pulled her against him, his heavy body protective. ‘It’s all right. No harm was done.’ He stroked her hair, and Aileen trembled in his embrace. She wanted to pull away, but his firm grip would not allow it. In the darkness, she saw Connor rise to his feet. He said nothing to the pair, but continued on toward her land.

It was then that Aileen noticed they were nowhere near Riordan’s hut. How had he heard the attack? It was late at night. Discomfort festered in her thoughts.

She was grateful, but at last she extracted herself from his arms. ‘Thank you for your aid. How did you come to be here?’

Riordan shrugged. ‘One of the lambs wandered out of the pen, and I came to look for it. I suppose it was Fortune that made me hear your need.’

He leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything ever happened to you, Aileen.’

‘Forgive me, Riordan.’ She ran a few paces away, her stomach burning. The effects of the wine curdled her insides, coupled with her fear. Her knees buckled, but though she clutched her middle, the contents of her stomach remained where they were. Her head spun with dizziness, and she forced herself not to be sick. Riordan helped her back up, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said.

She let him, her mind numb. Was Connor all right? He’d disappeared, not speaking a word to either of them. When she tried to remember if he’d been hurt, the events blurred. Riordan was speaking to her throughout the journey home, and she was dimly aware of responding.

When they reached the door, he tried to take her into his arms. She accepted his embrace, for her legs would not hold steady. She drew balance from him, still trembling.

‘You are frightened. I can stay with you tonight,’ he offered.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’d rather be alone. And Connor is here if—’

‘He did well defending you,’ Riordan scoffed. ‘I could see that for myself.’

The derision in his voice turned her cold. ‘Please, Riordan. I just want to sleep.’ With a pointed look, she added, ‘Alone.’

‘If you have need of me…’

This was not working. She took his hands in hers. ‘I am grateful for your help this night. Truly I am.’ She expelled a sigh.

His face coloured with pride, and she understood suddenly that this was what he’d sought. Her approval.

‘Tomorrow morn, perhaps you’d like to walk with me?’ he invited.

She forced a false smile on to her face. ‘I’ll see how I feel in the morning.’ For now, she just wanted to be left alone. She needed to see Connor, to know that he was all right. But if she let Riordan know it, he’d never leave her be.

Finally he left, closing the door behind him. Aileen reached for a jug and poured herself a cup of mead. She drank the amber liquid and fortified her strength.

When she was certain Riordan had gone, she left her hut to see Connor. She opened the door, but there was no fire, only cool darkness.

‘I don’t want you here, Aileen.’

His voice was like granite, harsh and unyielding.

‘Did they harm you? Let me see—’

‘No.’ He kept away from her in the shadows. ‘You need not concern yourself on my behalf. They did not harm me.’

The stillness stretched onwards, and he asked, ‘What about you?’

‘I am not hurt.’

‘It was good that Riordan was there.’

And yet, she could not understand how Riordan had come to be there at precisely the right moment. ‘It was.’

‘Go back to your hut, Aileen.’

‘Not yet.’

The intimate darkness granted her a kind of courage she might not otherwise have. She stepped forward, touching her palms to his face. His warm skin, the rough planes of his jaw, drew her to him. She leaned down and kissed him.

His firm mouth did not kiss her back, so she put more of herself into it, taking his lips and deepening it. She threaded her hands into his hair, and suddenly she broke through to him.

He kissed her back, his mouth unleashing the full force of passion. His tongue met hers, and she gripped his neck to keep from losing her balance. His hands kept still at her waist, but his mouth devoured hers.

Her body awakened, and she needed to be with him. She no longer cared that he was going to leave her, planned to give himself over into Death’s hands. For this night, she craved his touch.

And then he broke away. ‘Leave me, Aileen.’

‘I don’t want to.’

He leaned in, nipping a kiss against her lips. ‘You were right to turn me away the other night. It’s better if we don’t travel down this path.’

‘I was wrong,’ she whispered. ‘But you frightened me. When I’m with you, I can’t stop myself from feeling this way.’

‘You saw what happened.’ His voice was bitter. ‘I couldn’t protect you from those men.’

‘There were two of them,’ she argued. ‘You were outnumbered.’

He expelled a sigh. ‘Half a season ago, they would both be lying on the grass, their life blood spent. It would have taken me only seconds to run my blade through their hearts. They would never have touched you.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

He raised his injured hand to her face. ‘These hands are no longer whole, Aileen. I’m not the man you deserve.’

He kissed her again, but she recognised it as a kiss of farewell. ‘I am going to return home to my brothers, to finish my training. Riordan can protect you the way I can’t. And he cares for you.’

Hurt rage bubbled forth. ‘I’m not going to wed Riordan. He isn’t the man I want.’ She held him, but he did not return the embrace.

‘I cannot be the man you want either, Aileen.’ He took her hand and led her to the door. ‘Go.’

With her heart beaten and broken, she closed the door behind her.

‘You did not have to cut me,’ the stranger argued, hissing as he tended the wound upon his arm.

‘Then your reflexes are slow,’ Riordan remarked. ‘You should have raised your sword quicker.’

He tossed a bag of silver at their feet. ‘There is your payment. Do not show your face in these lands again.’

The man pocketed the pieces, grinning. ‘A good wage. Pity I couldn’t have touched the lass a little more. A pretty bit, she was.’

Riordan swung a fist, but the man ducked. He’d spent a great deal on these two, but it was worth it. Connor MacEgan hadn’t been able to rescue Aileen. She now knew how weak the warrior was, how unworthy MacEgan was of her affections.

In her eyes, Riordan knew he’d become a hero. Hadn’t she embraced him? Hadn’t she agreed to walk with him? His mind filled with thoughts of her loving him.

And best of all, he imagined Connor MacEgan falling beneath Ó Banníon’s sword. How he would love to be there to see it when it happened.

T
he next morning, Connor was gone before sunup. Aileen saw his belongings were still in place, and she breathed a little easier. He hadn’t gone yet.

She packed her basket of healing herbs and walked toward the cluster of cottages. She did not know how the villagers would react, though Seamus had granted her permission to visit them. A fist of apprehension curled inside her stomach, worry that they would not want to see her.

The noise of wailing caught her unawares. A woman stumbled forth from one of the wicker huts, her long black hair hanging against her shoulders. Her voice cried out in grief.

Aileen recognised the woman as Maive, and she rushed forward. ‘What is it?’ As soon as she touched Maive, she felt the burning signs of fever. ‘Come and lie down.’ She guided the woman back into the hut, but Maive struggled.

‘He’s dead.’ She pointed toward the bed where her fosterson Padraig lay.

The boy’s eyes were glazed, his body lying upon a straw pallet. Aileen knelt beside him, and saw a multitude of red spots covering the boy’s torso. An invisible wall of fear cut off her breath. Her worst fears had come to pass. The pox was here. Though she had memorised every word Kyna had taught her, she had never seen the illness herself. Cold fear sliced at her confidence. Would Seamus hold her responsible for Padraig’s death?

She closed off the thought. It was too late to worry about that now. She could not abandon Maive in her time of need. Though she could not save the boy, she could still help the mother. Repressing her instincts to flee, she took a step back from the child. ‘How long has it been since he died?’

‘A few hours.’ Maive’s hands shook, and she began to sob. ‘He had the fever for two days. Then he complained that his head hurt, and I sent him to bed. This morn, he was covered in the pox, and he did not rise.’

Aileen led the woman to her own pallet. ‘Lie down and let me look after you.’

‘I’m going to die.’ Maive wept, letting Aileen ease her down. ‘What is the use?’

‘Not everyone dies from the pox,’ Aileen reassured her.

She dampened a linen cloth and wiped Maive’s forehead. ‘I’ll make you something to ease your pain. Try to rest.’

Maive turned her face toward Padraig. Aileen saw the direction of her gaze and she picked up a woolen
brat
. Without speaking, she drew the shawl over the boy’s body.

‘I will pray for him,’ she said.

The woman’s face transformed with wrenching pain. ‘He was a good lad.’

‘Where is your husband?’ Aileen asked.

‘Gone. He left us, when the demons brought sickness here.’ Maive emitted a sigh of disgust. ‘I hope the gods strike him with the illness, the coward.’

Aileen picked up her basket and searched inside until she found the stone vial of holy water. She poured a little on to her fingers and anointed Maive’s forehead. ‘I will do what I can to drive the demons forth.’

Even as she tended Maive, she remembered the burned body of the storyteller. Surely he had brought the demons of pox upon them. From the old healer Kyna’s instructions, Aileen remembered that the demons tended to move among the bodies of those nearby.

‘Has Padraig played with any of the other boys recently?’ Aileen asked. She filled the iron cauldron with water and set it to hang above the fire.

Maive’s voice grew softer. ‘He played with Whelon a few days ago. He wanted to go with the other boys to see Connor MacEgan, but he was not well enough.’

A deep chill pervaded Aileen’s skin at the mention of Whelon. It had been Whelon who had discovered the fallen storyteller. And if Padraig had fallen prey to the illness after visiting Whelon…

Her heart sank. By the saints, let it not be true. She closed her eyes. The water bubbled in the pot, and when it was ready she prepared the drink. She lifted the cup to Maive’s lips. The woman drank, but it was difficult for her to swallow. Aileen wiped her forehead again and saw the traces of small lesions beginning to form.

She needed help. If the sickness began to spread throughout the
tuatha
, she needed someone with her to tend them. Illona was gone, forbidden to help her.

Connor
. The name was a prayer on her lips as she assured Maive she would return. Aileen lifted the skirts of her gown and rushed across the meadow to the forest where she knew he trained. The oaks rose high above the meadow like sentries guarding the hidden clearing. But Connor was not there.

She raced towards the sick hut, more than afraid she would find him gone. Would he have left so soon without saying farewell? Last night he had forced her to leave him. The thought of finding an empty hut filled her with despair.

Her sides ached, but she pressed onwards. The morning sun cast a sharp glare, and she shielded her eyes. When at last she reached her land, she wanted to weep with relief.

Connor stood near the animal pen, leading a mare the colour of snow. Young and seemingly gentle, the mare allowed Connor to take her around the circle.

‘You said you wanted a horse,’ Connor remarked, holding out the reins.

She had forgotten about it completely. At the time, it had been an offhand thought, a gift she had never thought to receive. The mare dipped her head to sniff Aileen’s hand. She patted the animal, her throat seizing with emotion. He’d remembered.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, her voice breaking. Why had he bought the horse now? Was it meant to be a farewell gift?

He placed the reins in her hand. ‘I hurt your feelings last night.’

Aileen guarded her emotions, not letting him see the anguish brimming in her heart. She met his gaze with honesty. ‘Yes, you did.’

‘I never wanted that.’ He reached out to caress her hair, touching the strands as though they were silk. ‘Over the past few moons, I’ve said many things that I wish I could take back. I’ve spoken in anger and in haste.’ He let his hand drop to his side. ‘You never deserved to be treated like that. I wanted to atone for my mistakes. It isn’t enough, but it’s all I can give you.’

‘You could have given me a memory,’ she whispered.

He closed the distance and kissed her lightly. In his grey eyes, she saw regret. ‘You’re better off without me, Aileen.’

Silence descended between them. She swallowed hard, pain filling up inside her. ‘How did you manage it? The cost of a horse is very dear.’

‘I made an agreement with Seamus. My land in exchange for the animal.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that I had very much to offer.’

‘You cannot do this,’ she argued. ‘It’s all you have.’ She couldn’t understand why he would make such a sacrifice.

‘I won’t be needing the land, Aileen. Both of us know it.’ He cupped her chin with his disfigured right hand. ‘And I wanted to keep our agreement. As a healer, you need a horse for your duties.’

The strangling tide of grief spilled over. She knew, after this day, Seamus would banish her. How many more deaths would there be? She closed her eyes, praying for mercy.

‘The horse was for Whelon.’ She blinked back tears, remembering the dream she’d held for him.

He stared at her with confusion. ‘Whelon?’

She nodded. ‘He wanted to be a soldier. But he cannot run, so I thought he could be a messenger or a sentry. The horse was for him. To give him legs because I had to take one from him.’

‘You gave him his life,’ Connor said. ‘It was enough.’

Life. Her mind shuddered with the terror of the pox. ‘We have to go to him. A boy has already died from the pox. They played together.’

Connor understood her need. ‘Gather your supplies and I’ll prepare the horse. We’ll ride.’

She had forgotten her basket at Maive’s, but she used a bundle of cloth to collect more herbs. She gathered a vial of spikenard oil, fresh garlic bulbs and ragwort. Within moments, she raced outside. Connor helped her atop the mare and mounted behind her. As they rode back to the cottages, she leaned into his strong arms.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, though from the wind he could not hear her. To have him at her side meant everything. She drew strength from him, and for a moment she closed her eyes, wishing he could be with her always. She ached, knowing that he would leave.

When she stopped at Maive’s hut, the woman was sleeping. Aileen wiped Maive’s feverish brow once more, then lifted Padraig’s body into her arms. She carried the still form behind the hut, and Connor dismounted to help her. Though she believed the demons of sickness had already left Padraig, she did not want his body near his mother. Gently, she covered the boy with the
brat
once more. Later they would bury him.

‘We must go to Whelon,’ she urged. She collected her basket, adding the cloth bundle of herbs. Connor lifted her up again, and within moments they rode across the fields toward the dwelling of Whelon’s foster-parents.

Connor leaned forward, his mouth at her ear. ‘You’ll save him, Aileen. Do not fear.’

His words of confidence could not quite convince her. Though she had faith in her healing abilities, the pox was a sickness more powerful than any she had ever faced. In her mind, she centred her focus upon the old healer Kyna’s words:
Not everyone dies
.

She had to hold fast to that hope, to believe that she could cure Whelon. Perhaps it was not too late.

Smoke rose from the chimney, offering the frail chance that someone was caring for the boy. Aileen knocked upon the door, hardly waiting for the call to enter before she opened it.

The hut was empty, save Whelon. There was no trace of his foster-parents Brenda and Laegaire, nor his foster-siblings. Though a fire burned in the hearth, they had abandoned him.

If Seamus knew that his son was left alone, his wrath would be unthinkable.

Aileen pulled back the layers of blankets from Whelon. His small face was flushed with heat. Upon his cheeks, lesions had begun to form. In her mind, she remembered Padraig’s limp body, his eyes staring in death.

She needed to tell Seamus, to let him know. But then her fears returned. What if Seamus found out about Padraig? He might not let her treat Whelon. And Riona…Her heart ached to think of the mother’s grief.

She couldn’t let him die, no matter what.

‘Aileen?’ Connor’s voice broke through her fear, and he gestured toward the basket of herbs. ‘Shall I boil water for you?’

His question snapped her back into reality. Whelon needed her. And she must do whatever was necessary to fight for his life.

‘Yes. I’ll need it later to make a willow bark drink for him.’

Aileen unlaced the boy’s tunic and ordered Connor, ‘Sponge his body with water to bring down the fever. I’m going to treat the rash.’

Aileen selected the vial of spikenard oil. The intense perfume of the root filled the air as she poured a small amount over her fingers.

She rubbed his skin with the oil, hoping it would cure the rash. Silently, she murmured a healing chant, one to drive away the demons of sickness. She massaged the oil into his skin, down his torso, and even upon the stump of his leg. He shivered as though attacked by unseen enemies.

When the willow bark had finished steeping, Connor held Whelon’s head upright while Aileen eased the drink down.

Hours passed as she continued giving him the brew, then easing the oils into his rash. And still his fever rose hotter. She stared at the door, then at Connor. ‘I cannot believe they left him here alone.’ Though she had never called Brenda and Laegaire her friends, the callous act of abandoning a child enraged her. Their fear of the illness had overcome any affection they had felt toward Whelon.

‘They might have gone to fetch help. Or the priest,’ he said. But both of them knew the truth. The couple had thought of no one but themselves.

‘We have to tell Seamus,’ Connor said.

‘I know.’ She poured more of the oil into her palm. ‘But let it be after I’ve done what I can for him.’

Connor helped her make more willow bark brew, silently offering his support. Only an hour ago, he’d gone at her bequest to check on Maive. The woman held on to life, and he’d brought her more brew, along with some of the spikenard oil. He had also found another woman to look after Maive.

Not everyone dies
, Aileen reminded herself. Maive’s survival offered a grain of hope. And still Whelon’s fever did not break. It seemed that more and more lesions erupted on his skin, no matter what she did.

When night slipped across the horizon and only the light from the fire cast a glow upon them, Connor put his hand upon her shoulder. ‘Are you not afraid the illness might strike you?’

‘No more than you are afraid to lift a blade to an enemy. It’s what I do.’ But she was a warrior of a different nature, one who could not meet her enemy face to face.

‘I had the pox as a child,’ he said. ‘Though I do not remember it, I remember my mother’s tears.’

‘You are not scarred from it,’ Aileen remarked.

His lips lifted slightly. ‘Not in places you can see. Unless you have a better memory than mine.’

At the reminder of seeing him naked, she tensed. She had thrown herself at him last eve. He hadn’t wanted her, told her they should not lie together.

She bit her lip, wondering if she should have admitted the truth. That she’d seduced him once before.

‘It is late,’ Connor said. ‘Would you like to rest? I’ll keep watch.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t sleep. Not at a time like this.’ Surrendering to sleep would be like offering Death a foothold. She’d not be distracted for a single moment. ‘But if you are weary, you may wish to sleep.’

‘No. If you remain awake, I’ll be here to help you.’

She cast a glance toward Whelon, who slept. Then she closed the distance, taking his face between her hands. ‘Few men would do what you have done for me this day.’

‘I have little to lose,’ he admitted. He pulled her close, stroking her hair. Aileen wanted to weep at the tender gesture. Why did she have to love this man? It tore her apart, knowing that he valued his honour more than his life.

More than her.

She broke the embrace and went to stand by the fire. She filled the pot with more water, wishing she knew what to say. In the end, she said nothing. All she could do was savour the few moments they had left together. He’d be leaving soon.