The Warrior's Touch (4 page)

‘He is not well enough to walk yet,’ she argued.

Connor frowned, for nothing was the matter with his legs. His chest and head ached still, but they were healing. ‘Tell Seamus I don’t wish to see him now. I’ll come to the
rath
when I’ve healed. Not before.’

Grania’s face furrowed. ‘I will tell him. But he wants to speak with Aileen.’

‘Now?’ Aileen asked. Anxiety lined her face, and Connor wondered why. Seamus was a good chieftain, a well-respected leader. What reason would Aileen have to fear him?

‘Yes, now.’ An air of smugness surrounded Grania.

Aileen departed with haste to meet her chieftain, her gaze averted. The door closed, and Connor was left to wonder what she hadn’t told him. He tried to bring his attention back to Seamus’s daughters, but with little success. He wanted to know what Aileen had done.

‘Why would Seamus wish to speak to Aileen?’ Connor asked.

‘She is forbidden to heal.’ Grania’s face shifted to anger. ‘After what she did, none here will let her be the healer again. Cursed, she is. You’d do well to leave this place and let our new healer help you.’

‘A new healer?’ Conner grew still. Aileen had said nothing to him about another healer. A rigid suspicion fouled his mood. He’d thought Aileen was the only healer in the Banslieve. But she’d lied.

‘You may come and live with us,’ Sinead offered, lifting a dab of honey to his mouth. ‘We would be happy to look after you.’

He ignored their invitation. ‘Why is Aileen forbidden to heal?’ he asked.

Grania exchanged a look with Sinead. ‘Our father will tell you of it.’

A moment later, she changed the subject. The shrill chatter of the women made his head ache, and though Connor tried to keep a good humour, he wanted them gone.

‘Do your hands hurt terribly?’ Grania asked.

They did, but he refused to admit it. ‘They are fine.’

He could hardly concentrate, for questions crested inside him. ‘But I would like to rest again.’

They murmured their sympathy, and he was thankful when they left at last. When they’d gone, he stared at his bandaged hands. The swelling had not improved, and the pain seemed magnified.

Worse was the dawning fear that Aileen had not fixed his hands properly.

‘You were not to tend any of my people.’ Seamus’s tone was quiet, but it held the power of a chieftain. ‘You disobeyed my orders.’ A tall, heavily muscled fighter with long grey locks that fell to his shoulder, none dared to suggest that Seamus had grown too old to be a swordsman. He had not changed his clothing from the raid, and sweat lined the flanks of his mount.

‘Connor needed help,’ Aileen argued. ‘He would have bled to death if I’d left him.’

‘You should have brought one of us there.’ The unyielding set to Seamus’s face revealed his opinion of her healing.

Aileen gripped her shaking hands tightly. ‘His wounds would have become poisoned.’ She couldn’t have stood by and watched him suffer. He had needed immediate help, his wounds sewn and his hands splinted. Enough men had died in the past few moons from lack of care.

Seamus did not respond to her remark, but directed his horse towards the sick hut. ‘I am going to bring him back to our
rath.
The new healer will look at him.’

‘And who is she?’ Aileen stiffened at the mention of her replacement.

‘Her name is Illona. She is the healer of the Ó Banníon tribe and has offered to share her skills with us, since our land borders are so close.’

‘Do you not realise that the Ó Banníon men did this to him?’ Aileen exploded. ‘How could you even think of letting that woman near him?’

Surprise transformed Seamus’s face. ‘Has Connor said this?’

‘He has. And you should be wary before you let their healer near the tribesmen and women.’

‘Do not presume to tell me what I should or should not do, Aileen. He will leave the sick hut this night.’

‘He does not wish to see you. Not until he has healed.’

‘Then I will hear that from his own lips. Not yours.’ The chieftain’s tone turned threatening. ‘Have a care, Aileen. I did not bring your case before the
brehons
for judgment, though I could have. No one has forgotten what you did.’

Hot tears swelled, but she held them back. He couldn’t forgive her, though, by Danu, she had done everything in her power. She had saved his only son’s life, two years ago, but even that could not erase Seamus’s grief. He was blind to everything but what he had lost.

‘I will speak with him now.’ Without waiting for a reply, Seamus spurred his mount forward.

Aileen’s stomach churned, and she stood upon the hillside in view of the sick hut. Her limbs felt wooden, her steps weary.

‘Aileen, wait!’ a young voice called from behind her. She turned and saw Lorcan. His dark hair bobbed as he ran toward her, skidding to a halt.

‘What is it, Lorcan?’

His small face held regret. ‘I am sorry. I shouldn’t have told him about the dead man.’ He shifted, studying the grass. ‘Well, I suppose he isn’t really dead.’

‘He would have been if you hadn’t brought me to him in the field that day.’ She reached out and tangled her fingers in his hair. ‘It’s all right.’

‘I didn’t mean to make him angry.’ He hugged her waist, looking up for forgiveness.

‘I know you didn’t.’ She released him. ‘Go on, then. You don’t want to get into trouble for speaking to me.’

Lorcan scurried off, and at the sight of him, her heart warmed. Always she would think of him as her foster—son. It was easier to walk the journey home after his impulsive embrace.

The sun nudged the horizon, rimming the land with gold. She walked slowly to her land, trying not to think about Seamus’s command. Her chance of redeeming herself as a healer was gone.

Connor’s face burned with fever, his hands throbbing with pain. When the door to the sick hut opened again, he heard a familiar voice murmur, ‘What has she done to you, young Connor?’

He raised his head and saw the face of his foster-father Seamus. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Your healer Aileen has tied me to the bed, she has. I haven’t the strength to escape.’

His jest met with Seamus’s bark of laughter. ‘Then let me rescue you, my lad. Our healer can look at you.’ His lined face drew downward with concern. ‘How did this happen?’

‘I was falsely accused of seducing the Ó Banníon’s daughter. His men crushed my hands.’

Seamus cursed beneath his breath. ‘You can be assured I’ll be bringing this before the
brehons
.’

Connor made no reply. ‘Later, perhaps.’ He gritted his teeth against the pain. ‘I understand you have a new healer.’

‘We do.’ He came closer and sat beside the pallet. ‘Illona Ó Banníon is her name.’

Connor showed no emotion at the mention of the Ó Banníon name. It seemed a cruel trick of the gods, to send the enemy in the form of a healer. ‘I won’t be seeing her.’

‘I can understand your anger, but I have forbidden Aileen to heal any more. She is too young and has not the skills.’

Connor glanced downward at his splinted hands, but he pushed back the feelings of doubt. He didn’t entirely trust Aileen’s healing either, but he wouldn’t consider letting the Ó Banníon healer touch his hands.

‘I’d rather she splint my hands than anyone bearing the Ó Banníon name.’

Seamus expelled a breath. ‘I’ve come to take you back with me.’

Though he knew Seamus meant well, he’d rather take his chances with Aileen. ‘I thank you for your offer, but I will be staying here.’

‘I cannot allow it.’

‘But you will. You know why I won’t trust the Ó Banníon healer. And here I can remain in isolation until I’ve healed. I don’t want to endure anyone’s pity.’

Seamus leaned back on his heels. ‘I do not like it, lad. Because of her…’ His voice trailed off.

There was pain in the man’s voice. Connor didn’t ask, for he knew whatever had happened would only bring up harsh memories. Instead, he took a deep breath, pushing back his own pain. ‘I make my own decisions. And here I will stay until I have my strength back.’

When Aileen reached the door to the sick hut, she found Connor lying upon the pallet, his face pale. Perspiration lined his brow, but he opened his eyes when she neared him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded.

‘Tell you what?’

‘That you are no longer the healer. My hands—’He broke off his own words, closing his eyes with the pain. Aileen stoked the fire, hanging a pot of water to boil.

‘They’re hurting you. I know. It’s the swelling.’

He struggled to stand, his balance swaying.

‘Sit down. You’ve a fever.’ Aileen eased him back down.

She mixed herbs together that were good for fever, including willow bark. Adding the boiling water to a wooden cup, she steeped the mixture and allowed it to cool.

When it was ready, she raised it to his lips to drink. He winced at the bitter taste, never taking his eyes from her. There was weariness and pain in his eyes.

‘Kyna taught me all she knew,’ Aileen said. ‘There is nothing wrong with my skills.’

‘Isn’t there?’

She heard the accusation in his voice, but refused to back down. ‘Do you truly wish for Illona Ó Banníon to treat your hands?’

The frustration and fury in his eyes were damning. Aileen busied herself with the pot, suddenly realising that she had prepared nothing for the evening meal. For the past two moons, she had only herself to care for. More often than not, she simply ate a bit of bread or vegetables from her garden.

‘Can I get you something to eat?’ she asked, when he’d finished the tea.

‘No. I require nothing.’ He turned his gaze away. He had shut her out of his thoughts, and Aileen knew better than to force him to eat.

‘Did you enjoy your visit with Sinead and Grania?’ she asked, trying to end the awkwardness.

‘I’ve no wish to be treated like a child, fed by hand, my pillows fluffed.’

‘I don’t recall fluffing your pillow,’ she said.

His face relaxed a little, and she watched for signs of the pain receding.

‘I suppose I have no choice but to stay here and let you tend me,’ he said. He lifted his bandaged hands, his gaze boring into hers. ‘What’s done is done. You’ve already set the bones and it cannot be changed without creating more damage.’

‘If you return home, your own healer can tend them.’ She spoke as if it were of no matter to her. But it hurt, knowing that he held no confidence in her skills. She had done everything she could to save his hands.

‘And as I’ve said, I am not returning home. I’ll lose respect among my men if they see me like this. They won’t believe I can ever wield a sword again.’

Aileen did not voice that it was a very real possibility.

He softened his tone to one of teasing. ‘And with you, there’s no worry about you trying to seduce me. You would not care, were I completely naked upon this pallet,’ he said.

Her throat closed up and Aileen tried not to imagine his body, sleek and smooth with carved muscles and a taut belly. Worse, she had never forgotten what it was like to be held by him, loved by him.

‘You are right,’ she lied. ‘Your body holds no interest for me.’ She opened the door, needing to be far away from him. He might see the truth upon her face.

‘Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll stay until I’ve healed, and then I’ll return to Laochre.’

She didn’t reply, but returned to her own hut, her cheeks burning. How could she have Connor so near each day while his wounds healed? It would be like having a husband again. While Eachan had brought her comfort and friendship, Connor intimidated her. His strong presence shadowed her, making her yearn for the things she couldn’t have.

She had borne him a child, a secret she wanted to keep. Rhiannon was a precious, stolen moment. If he learned about his daughter, he would despise her for what she’d done. She couldn’t bear to see the disgust upon his face. All she had left was her pride.

Even now, he doubted her healing skills. He wanted to stay, but only as a way of hiding himself from the world. The thought of sharing such intimate moments, living together with him for the next moon, brought back her childhood fantasies. He was everything she desired, and all that was wrong for her.

Could she be strong enough to resist him? Surely it had been so many years; it wouldn’t matter if he stayed.

But inwardly, she knew the truth. Her heart wouldn’t last a single day.

W
aves of heat closed upon him, smothering Connor in a web of misery. Visions and hallucinations tempted him to let go, to sink into the silken arms of oblivion. He tasted bitter herbs, and his hands grew numb.

In his dreams, he craved vengeance against his enemy. He hadn’t laid a finger upon Deirdre, no matter what the enraged Flynn Ó Banníon had claimed. He didn’t deserve the punishment, and he longed to see justice done.

But as he watched Aileen mix potions and replace his bandages, he cleared his mind of the rising hatred. For now, he had to regain his strength. And he would need Aileen’s help, even after the bandages were removed.

Connor remembered a soldier who had nearly been buried alive when a wall collapsed upon him. The man had lived, but after the accident he could no longer care for himself. The soldier had become a burden upon others, relying on his family to feed and dress him.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Connor didn’t know what to believe about Aileen’s skills. The foul-tasting potions and poultices did alleviate his pain. But he grew uneasy about his hands. Why was she forbidden to heal any more? What had she done? He should have asked Seamus when he’d had the chance.

Though Aileen masked her feelings beneath a veil of calm, there was a desperation in her healing efforts. She stayed with him in the sick hut for many hours, changing the bandages, sponging at the cuts. It was as though she were trying to atone for a serious mistake.

A few strands of hair had escaped the tight brown braid, surrounding her face like a soft halo.

‘Connor, look at me,’ she commanded. Through the haze of fever, he stared back at her. ‘You must drink this broth.’

‘I am not hungry.’

‘You’ve hardly eaten in the past two days,’ she argued. ‘And I’ll not let you starve.’

The terrible-tasting fish broth made death seem inviting. Though her herbal teas and potions worked well, her cooking left much to be desired. ‘I prefer starving to eating that,’ he muttered.

‘It will bring back your strength.’

‘By making me retch? I think not.’ He grimaced. ‘Perhaps that is your plan. To be rid of me by serving me the most foul dinners you can conjure.’

‘I can conjure up worse meals than this.’

Was that a glimmer of amusement he detected in her face? It surprised him. She rarely showed her feelings, and especially nothing to make him smile.

‘I imagine your husband was very proud of such a skill.’

‘He liked my cooking,’ she admitted. He caught the flash of grief on her face.

Aileen lifted a spoonful of liquid to his mouth. He tasted fish soup mixed with the bitter herbs and winced. ‘I fear I must disagree with Eachan. Your cooking is the worst I’ve tasted, Aileen.’

‘It is the medicines,’ she assured him, holding the bowl to his mouth. ‘Drink. It will help you to heal faster.’

He did, half-choking it down. In a way, he was grateful that he could speak his mind around Aileen. With her, he need not smile or tease, feigning strength he did not feel.

In the amber glow of firelight, he could not see his broken hands. The swollen joints made it impossible to move them. After he finished the broth, he met her gaze evenly. ‘I won’t lose my hands. Even if it means my death.’

He expected her to disagree with him, but instead she said, ‘If that is your wish.’

She leaned close, a defiant spirit in her eyes. ‘But you should know that I am a better healer than that.’

He wanted to believe her, but between her lost status of a healer and the swelling upon his fingers, his doubts lingered.

‘Besides,’ she added, ‘it is easier for me to get you out of my cottage if you walk out on your own feet. I’ve not the strength to drag you home.’

Connor could make no reply, for she lifted a cup of mead to his lips. The drink expunged the terrible taste of herbs.

‘Aileen, may I ask a boon of you?’

‘What is it?’ She had turned her back to him, loosening the long
brat
she wore about her shoulders until only her thin
léine
remained. The swell of her breasts silhouetted against the soft firelight distracted him. ‘Well?’ she prompted. As her fingers worked to unbraid her hair, the chestnut length of it spilled across her shoulders and down to the rise of her hips.

‘The women,’ he began. ‘I know they wish to visit me—’

‘You mean they wish to offer themselves to you upon a platter.’

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, but he did not respond to her jibe. ‘Could you keep them away, at least until my wounds have healed?’

‘Do you not wish them to feed you sweetmeats with their lips? Or rub your shoulders?’

He didn’t like her mockery. ‘I do not require such. But should you wish to do so, I’d not complain.’

Aileen let out a huff and turned to leave. ‘That will never happen, MacEgan.’

He hid his smile as the door closed behind her. It was no secret he liked women. He enjoyed their company, their softness. His brothers had oft times teased him that a woman could murder him and he’d thank her for it. He’d been blessed with the ability to charm most women into whatever he wanted.

He saw no harm in it, as most wanted to flirt. Sometimes he took advantage of a night in a willing
cailín
’s arms, but more often he slept alone. With little land to speak of, a marriage to him was not attractive to the noblewomen of his tribe. They wanted a bold Irish warrior in their beds, but not in their homes.

He refused to allow a woman to use him in such a way.

In his mind, he imagined a fortress of his own, a stone
rath
spanning a hillside across lands rich with grain. A son who would drag a wooden sword across the training field, struggling to follow in his footsteps. A wife, welcoming him into her bed when darkness fell.

Despite his damaged hands, he would not let the Ó Banníons destroy him.

The next morn, Connor awakened with less pain. He eased himself to a seated position and then stood up. Though his limbs were stiff, walking caused him no pain. With slow steps, he eased towards the sunlight. He squinted at the light and saw a smaller thatched hut. Aileen’s dwelling, he realised.

Standing before the hide-covered door, he tapped it lightly with his foot. Silence. When he entered the dim hut, no one was inside. For a moment he stood at the threshold, studying the interior.

Though he could cross the length of the hut in four strides, Aileen had everything organised. Her herbs hung to dry on one end, while other vials contained potions and other healing salves. A small trunk held her personal belongings, and during the day her pallet was stored in another part of the room.

Upon the hearth he saw a cauldron of bubbling oat pottage. He winced, wishing for anything but the pasty gruel. Perhaps her cooking was his penance for previous sins.

The door opened slightly, interrupting his thoughts. He saw Riordan, and vaguely he recalled Aileen saying that the man had helped bring him back.

‘MacEgan,’ Riordan said in acknowledgement. Though his words offered a polite greeting, Connor knew Riordan held no friendship towards him. As lads growing up, Riordan had been overprotective of his sister Lianna. He had never approved of Connor and made no secret of his animosity. ‘Where is Aileen?’

‘She is not here,’ Connor said, not wanting to prolong the visit. He kept his bandaged hands hidden behind his back, meeting Riordan’s gaze evenly.

‘I came to see you. Your brothers have been sighted and should be here within an hour.’ The fact pleased Riordan from the thin smile upon the man’s face.

Connor showed no reaction to the news. Instead, he took a step forward, openly challenging Riordan. ‘I do not intend to go back with them,’ he said. ‘I am remaining here until my hands have healed.’

‘Aileen does not want you here.’

‘We have an arrangement. It does not concern you.’

Riordan’s fist balled up, and Connor kept his eyes trained upon the man, showing no fear. He didn’t trust him. The invisible lines of confrontation were drawn.

‘Always arrogant, you were, Connor. I have offered to wed her. As her future husband and provider, I demand that you leave.’

‘Has she accepted your offer, then?’

‘It is too soon.’

Connor hid his satisfaction. Aileen deserved better than a hot-headed man such as Riordan. ‘So you say.’

The man’s jealousy darkened. ‘Stay away from Aileen.’

Wounded or not, Connor had no intention of letting the man intimidate him. He held his ground, meeting the open threat with an even expression. Riordan’s temper held by the thinnest strands of self-control, his fists curling up.

The door swung open, and Aileen entered, carrying her basket. It brimmed over with handfuls of fresh clover and lavender.

She directed her attention to Riordan. ‘What is amiss?’

‘Nothing,’ Riordan replied. ‘I came to inform Connor that his brothers will arrive soon.’ He appeared satisfied with himself.

Connor was less than pleased by the news. Convincing his brothers to leave him behind would be difficult. He stared at Aileen. Her eyes did not quite meet his.

His brothers would have much to say about his injuries, and he doubted if they would understand his reasons for wanting to remain.

‘I must begin preparations for our noon meal,’ Aileen said. ‘Thank you for letting me know about the MacEgans, Riordan.’

He reached out and took her hand, offering it a squeeze. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Aileen.’

Connor did not miss the way Riordan’s eyes coveted Aileen. He watched her like a man treasuring a possession. A thin needle of warning pricked him, even as the man left.

After he had gone, Aileen unwrapped the cloth package of mutton. He eyed it with wariness. ‘Are you certain you know how to cook that?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Of course.’

He shrugged, not entirely convinced. She had not prepared a true meal for him in the fortnight he’d been here. If he never saw another bowl of pottage, that would suit him.

‘I look forward to tasting it,’ he said softly. Her gaze snapped toward his, her face flaming. The colour in her cheeks suggested she was thinking about tasting something else. Though he hadn’t meant the words in that way, he grew aware of her mouth. It was sweet with the palest hint of rose.

He shook his thoughts away. Why would he think of kissing Aileen?

‘Why are you here?’ she asked. She appeared uncomfortable having him inside her home. ‘I thought you would remain in the sick hut. I was going to bring you a bowl of pottage.’

‘I grew weary of lying down.’ He gestured toward the hanging herbs and the neatly organised medicinal plants. ‘This is where you live?’

‘It is. My husband Eachan built it when I became the tribe’s healer. I wanted to be closer to the sick hut.’

Hastily she scooped out a ladle of pottage and handed him a wooden bowl. Her face flamed when she realised he could not hold it. ‘Sit down and I’ll feed you.’

He’d rather eat mud than endure another bowl of pottage. ‘I am not hungry.’

She set the bowl down. ‘Will your brothers wish to stay for the night?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she babbled, ‘How many of them are there? Shall I pull out an extra pallet or two?’ With a knife she began slicing the mutton. Her eyes brightened at the prospect of visitors.

‘I will ask them and find out.’ He needed to speak with his brothers before they arrived. He opened the door and stepped outside.

‘You’re not going to meet them,’ Aileen protested. ‘You cannot walk that distance. Be patient and await them here.’

‘It is my hands that are injured, Aileen, not my legs.’

‘You’re weak. You lost too much blood with the knife wounds.’

‘I will be fine.’ The walls of her cottage had begun to suffocate him. He needed air and a moment to stretch his legs.

Outside, he walked past Aileen’s garden. The summer grasses swayed in the light breeze, the rich green fields stretching across the land. While awaiting his brothers, he sat down. He smelled the fecund aroma of ripening harvest, enjoying the sun upon his skin.

In the distance, horses and two riders emerged. Shielding his eyes, he recognised his brothers Ewan and Trahern. As the youngest, Ewan had endured more than his fair share of teasing. Though he would never possess the swordsman-ship necessary to be a warrior, Ewan held a quiet courage that revealed the shadow of the man he would become.

His older brother Trahern was a stark contrast. Large in stature and able to best most men in battle, Trahern needed no man to guard his back. His true talent lay in storytelling, and Connor knew he would bring tales to Aileen this night in return for her hospitality.

His elder brothers Patrick and Bevan had not come, and Connor did not expect them to. Both had wives and children, along with other responsibilities.

They had brought a third horse tethered between them, a gelding for himself. Connor stood and walked closer, raising his hand in welcome.

Trahern dismounted, scrutinising Connor with concern. A moment later, he clapped him on the back, a thump that nearly sent Connor sprawling. ‘I see the Ó Banníons did not kill you after all.’

Ewan had grown several inches since Connor had seen him last. Thin and tall at eighteen years, his brother was caught in the awkward stage between boyhood and manhood.

Ewan’s attention centred on his hands. ‘What did they do to you?’

Connor held up his bandaged hands, trying to make light of it. ‘They’re broken, but the rest of me is whole. A few nicks with a dagger, a bash upon the head. That is all.’

‘Did they break your hands or crush them?’ Trahern asked quietly. Connor sensed the edge in his question.

‘Broken or crushed, what does it matter?’ he asked, keeping his tone hopeful. But he met his brother’s grave expression, acknowledging the possibility. They would not speak of it in front of Ewan.

‘How long must you wear the bandages?’ Ewan asked.

‘Another moon, perhaps two.’

Ewan uncurled his own palms, white scars lining the edges. Four years ago, the boy had faced an enemy Norman knight who tortured him for information, carving his dagger into Ewan’s palms. Only a miracle had saved the lad’s hands, for though the cuts were deep, no tendons had been severed.