Читать книгу Lord Of Shadowhawk - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 6

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.”

“You’re generous.”

“I’m known as a pincher of pennies.”

“You love children.”

His eyes darkened to pewter. “Yes, I do. It doesn’t matter to me whether they are Welsh, English or Irish.”

“Stay the way you are, Tray. Your servants and tenants and those who deal with Shadowhawk need you. You’re fair when many others are unscrupulous.”

He looked up, a tender light in his eyes as he regarded his foster mother. “You must be tired. Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

Sorche leaned over, pressing a kiss to his slightly curled hair. “Alyssa needs you more than I. And if old Craddock saw you escorting me to my suite, he’d think you were daft.”

Her laughter was a delight to hear. Tray’s spirits lifted as he watched her leave, the only woman in the world besides Shelby who had loved him unconditionally. Who thought nothing of his clubfoot. Who made him feel like a whole man and not half of one, as Vaughn often accused him of being.

“Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, son of my heart.”

* * *

Tray allowed himself to simply gaze down at Alyssa. She was so beautiful that it stole the breath from his body. Her face was square and her skin now showed alabaster, with a slight hint of rose across her cheeks. Her lips were sculpted to perfection and slightly full, the corners lifting softly upward. It was a mouth that begged to be touched, kissed, tasted and wooed into trembling need. The winged arch of her brows only accented the possibility that her eyes would be large and clear with intelligence. Her entire face spoke of fine breeding. Whatever her origins, whether landed gentry or common farmer, hers was a face come alive from the old master painters he had studied as a boy.

The times when she would begin trembling unaccountably during the night, Tray would jerk awake, his embrace tightening to draw Alyssa firmly against him. And each time, when he rested her head on his chest, her ear pressed over his heart, Alyssa would still and her breathing would soften, her limbs slowly relaxing beneath the ministration of his hand as he stroked her shoulder and back. She drew out a fierce protectiveness in him he had never been aware of before. Tray found himself plotting to find out who had almost killed Alyssa. For the first time in his life, he wanted to strike back, to injure the party responsible for her needless abuse. Alyssa was bringing out shocking emotions Tray had never known were within him. Not until now….

He stood up and walked to the hearth, listening to the howl of the March wind as it came off the Irish Sea and whipped around the walls of Shadowhawk. Tray rested his hand against the mantel, staring down at the licking orange-and-yellow flames. He shifted from one booted foot to the other. He ought to bathe and go to bed. And hold Alyssa. Tray raised his chin, his gray eyes focusing on the girl, who looked fragile in the expanse of his bed. Alyssa was restless this evening. More so than any other night. He hoped it was a good sign. Or was she reliving the horror aboard that hellish ship?

* * *

Alyssa was breathing hard, her eyes wide with terror as she twisted to look up toward her father. Her heart pounded in her breast like a bird thrashing to escape. Mother Mary, she prayed, give him strength. Don’t let him tell that English dog anything! Gathering the last of her own strength, Alyssa screamed, “No! No! Don’t tell him anything! No!”

Everything merged into a nightmare of cartwheeling fragments as Alyssa tried to fight off the British officer as he began to rape her. Perspiration dotted her brow and she thrashed wildly, trying to free herself. And then she heard another voice, that disembodied voice that called her back and gave her a sense of protection, of peace.

“Easy, Aly. Easy. You’re coming awake. It’s all right. You’re safe. No one will hurt you….”

A sob tore from Alyssa’s lips and she felt herself growing heavier and heavier, safe in the arms that held her, rocked her. Slowly, her senses came alive. She could smell a man, an earthy male scent. And wind. She heard wind shrieking, and a fire snapping and popping in the background. Another sob rose from her raw, dry throat.

Tray watched her worriedly. Alyssa had suddenly become hysterical. If he hadn’t rushed to her side when he did, she would have flung herself out of bed. He pressed small kisses to her hair and rocked her gently, feeling her heart pounding like a wounded doe’s against his chest. A film of perspiration covered her face and dampened her nightgown.

“Alyssa? Can you hear me? You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you, little one. It’s Tray. I’ll just hold you until you open your eyes. Relax against me. There’s no need to breathe so hard. There’s no one here to take you away. You’re safe…safe….”

Nothing could have prepared Tray for the next moment, when she slowly lifted those thick auburn lashes to reveal large eyes the color of sea foam, eyes that reflected the utter horror of her dishonor aboard the ship. His hands tightened unconsciously upon her as he stared down into their incredible gemlike beauty. Tray saw flecks of gold in their depths, the pupils large and black as they studied him. And then they welled up almost instantly with hot, scalding tears. A lump caught in his throat and he watched helplessly as those tears gathered, formed and streaked down her now flushed cheeks. It felt as if someone had slammed a fist into Tray’s chest.

“No…no…” Alyssa babbled, her fingers digging into her skull.

“Don’t,” Tray whispered harshly, laying her back on the bed, pulling her hands from her face.

Wild terror widened her eyes and Alyssa struggled weakly. “No…Mother Mary, no!” she wailed, her voice echoing pitifully throughout the room.

Confused, Tray pinned her arms beside her head, little realizing that by doing that, he had triggered the rape to life in Alyssa’s frantic mind. She struggled briefly, finally lying limp beneath him, gasping. He immediately released her wrists, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes. What was wrong with her? Couldn’t she see that she was safe?

“Listen to me,” Tray rasped, his voice thick and unsteady. “There’s no need to escape, Alyssa. Look around you! You’re not on board a ship. You’re at Shadowhawk. No one is going to harm you, colleen.”

Alyssa’s breathing softened and she turned her head toward him. Her lower lip trembled as she shrieked, “I can’t see! I can’t see! My eyes…my eyes…” She weakly lifted her hands, trying to understand why she couldn’t see anything even though her eyes were wide open.

“God’s blood, no!” With trembling fingers, Tray gently caressed her temple. How? Why? Dr. Birch had said nothing about blindness. “Listen to me, little one, stop crying. Stop,” Tray continued in soothing Gaelic, trying to restrain her hysteria, “Please. You’re tearing my heart apart.”

The touch of a man’s fingers upon her skin had sent a shot of paralyzing terror coursing through Alyssa, but then the dark, chanting magic of his voice assuaged her fear. Alyssa dropped her head back on the pillows and tried to control her terror. Sweet Mother of Jesus, he was a man, just like the man who had hurt her. Gradually, allowing his soothing words to sway her, she relaxed and felt his grip loosen. The moment he released her, she cringed against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her exhausted body.

“Who are you?” Alyssa begged, her voice cracking. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

She felt his weight leave the bed and buried her head more deeply into her arms, fearing a blow. She was breathing hard again, like an animal backed into a corner with nowhere to escape. Alyssa blinked. Why couldn’t she see? There was no blindfold upon her. Her attention was torn between the darkness that enveloped her and the movement of what she knew to be a man in close proximity to her. Her ragged gasps punctuated the silence and she swallowed, in dire need of water. When the blow she was expecting did not come, Alyssa cautiously lifted her head. Where was she? And who was the man? And Sean! Alyssa’s eyes narrowed as she tried to control her own raging emotions.

“Where are you!” she cried, but the words came out as a broken whisper.

Tray stood frozen in guilt and shame as he watched Alyssa cower in the bed. She was trembling, the covers drawn tightly against her body. What should he do? She hated him, hated his touch. He swallowed painfully, his gray eyes anguished as he stared down at her. Although she could not see his gesture, he lifted his hand in a sign of peace and quietly began speaking to her.

“Alyssa, my name is Tray. I know you can’t stand the touch of a man, so let me get my mother, Sorche. You shouldn’t be moved yet. You’re still injured. Believe me, I won’t hurt you. Please, just stay where you are and I’ll bring Sorche.”

Alyssa’s breasts rose and fell quickly and her slender fingers gripped the sheets more tightly. Just the calming tenor of his voice shed layers of the fear that cloaked her. “Wh-where am I?”

“At a friend’s home.”

“And Sean? Where’s Sean?”

“Just down the hall. As soon as I get Sorche and attend to your needs, I’ll bring him to you.”

She gave a jerky nod of her head, biting hard on her lower lip. “He’s alive?” she quavered.

“Alive, well fed and happy. Now all we have to do is make you the same way, little one. Please, lie back down. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Little one…The way the endearment rolled off his tongue caressed the open wounds of her soul and relaxed her. “A-are you Irish?”

Tray managed a sliver of a smile. “Raised on the milk of the Irishwoman who will care for you, Alyssa.”

Some of the panic drained from her pale features.

“Now stay quiet and I’ll get Sorche,” he promised.

Alyssa tensed as she heard the scuff of his booted feet against the carpet. A door quietly opened and closed, and she was left in a room she could not see. Releasing the blanket, she stretched out her left hand, investigating the area around her. She had outlined the shape of the huge bed by the time the man called Tray returned with his mother.

Sorche waddled into the room, the white mobcap askew on her now frizzy gray-haired head. Awakened out of a sound sleep, she was barely sensible as she came around the edge of the bed to where Alyssa sat, tense and wary.

“Child,” she whispered, reaching out and putting her hand over Alyssa’s, “you are safe here.”

The comfort of Sorche’s gruff voice tapped the well of conflicting emotion within Alyssa, and she let out a single sob. The woman sat down near her, gently pushing the heavy hair away from her face. “Thank all the saints you’ve come back to us,” she murmured. “We were so worried for you, child. You’ve been here seven days now and no one held much hope of you recovering except Tray. Our prayers are answered.”

Alyssa groped, finding and clutching at Sorche’s arthritic hand. “I can’t see, Sorche…my eyes…what happened? Why am I blind?”

“I don’t know, child. Tray is going to send for Dr. Birch. He’s the one who examined you and brought you back to health. He’ll be here before dawn. Is there anything we can get you? Are you hungry?”

“I—I want to see Sean. I need to know he’s alive.”

Sorche glanced up at Tray, whose features were almost as tortured as Alyssa’s. “Tray will get him up. What else? Would you like some good cabbage soup?”

Alyssa shook her head, her fingers moving to her throat. “Water. Just water. I’m so thirsty.”

Stiffly, Sorche got to her feet and went to the sideboard, pouring a large glass of water for her from the pitcher. Alyssa was far weaker than she thought; she couldn’t hold the glass. Sorche coaxed her to lie back against several pillows and then guided the glass to her lips. Before Tray returned to the chamber with a sleepy-eyed Sean in tow, Alyssa had drunk four glasses in succession.

Before they entered the bedchamber, Tray knelt down in the hall, his hands resting on Sean’s small shoulders. The boy’s eyes were still puffy with sleep, his red hair mussed. “Listen to me carefully, son. If your cousin asks you where she is, tell her you’re at a friend’s home. That isn’t a lie. Right now she’s upset about her blindness and she doesn’t need any more shock. She doesn’t need to know she’s in Wales. It will do nothing but aggravate her, and it might affect her health. You don’t want Alyssa hurt any more, do you?”

Sean slowly shook his head, his blue eyes widening. “Blind? But—how?” he blurted.

“I don’t know, Sean. Perhaps the blow to her skull caused it.” Tray’s fingers tightened momentarily on the boy’s arms. “We’ll know more when Dr. Birch arrives. Come, you were the first person she asked for when she woke up.” Tray got to his feet and kept a hand on Sean’s shoulder. The Irish boy seemed to sense the seriousness of the moment. Instead of flying to his cousin’s arms, he walked up to her with a sober expression.

“Lys?” Sean whispered, holding out his small hand, lightly brushing her arm.

“Sean? Oh, Sean!” Her voice stronger, Alyssa reached out until she found him.

Sorche sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she watched them hold each other in a long embrace. She felt Tray’s arm go around her shoulder, drawing her near, and she leaned gratefully against his powerful, seemingly tireless body. As usual, it was Tray who was keeping everything and everyone together.

Craddock appeared at the doorway in his rumpled nightgown, blear-eyed. “You rang, sir?” he mumbled.

The butler’s entrance diverted Tray’s attention from the reunion between Alyssa and Sean. The boy had buried his head against her shoulder, sobbing hard. At least there was one male she didn’t hate. Perhaps there was hope, after all. “Yes, get Dr. Birch here as swiftly as possible. Have Stablemaster Thomas hitch up the grays and send the coach. With the weather the way it is, I don’t want the good doctor falling off his horse or getting thrown. Send two outriders to light the way.”

“Yes, Lord Trayhern. Right away.”

* * *

Tray sat in a chair near the fireplace, his long, muscular legs stretched out before him. It had been three hours since Alyssa had awakened and now the excitement had worn off, leaving everyone exhausted. Tray felt gutted emotionally and he was sure Alyssa felt even worse. Sean had spent the better part of an hour with her, patiently answering her questions and successfully avoiding telling her where Shadowhawk was located and who their “friends” really were. Tray rubbed his brow tiredly and watched Alyssa as she slept fitfully on the bed once again. After Sean left, Sorche had given Alyssa more water and tucked her in, clucking over her like a mother hen. A soft smile touched his lips. Sorche gave endlessly of her love and affection. She was a miracle in his life, and his heart had lightened as he observed Alyssa falling beneath her spell, as well.

Tray’s head dropped to his chest, eyes closed, the pleasant crackle of the fire soothing him. He felt shocked and rebuffed by Aly’s initial shrinking away from him. Anger and frustration roiled within him. He didn’t blame Alyssa for her reactions to him. After all, he was a man.

Tray was almost ready to give in to badly needed sleep when he heard Alyssa stir. Immediately his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing upon her as she threw off the bed covers.

“Don’t get out of that bed!” His voice cut like a whip through the quiet of the chamber and Alyssa froze. She had placed her feet on the carpet, her thin ankles and beautifully formed feet visible beneath the folds of the peach-colored nightgown. Tray was up in an instant, limping toward her, his face set.

Alyssa heard him coming and shrank back as he approached. “Wh-where’s Sorche?” Her voice was small and quavering.

Tray glared down at her and ran his fingers through his hair. “Asleep.”

“Oh…” Alyssa tensed as if he were going to strike out at her any moment. It did nothing but feed the rage he had been feeling since she had awakened.

Swallowing his feelings, Tray asked, “Why? What do you want? Can I get it for you?”

Color swept her cheeks and Alyssa licked her lips. “I—I don’t mean to presume upon your graciousness, but…I drank so much water that I have to…I mean—”

Tray’s face relaxed. “I see,” he said. He squatted down in front of her. “My mother is very old, Alyssa. She couldn’t carry you to the water closet. And none of my other maids could do it, either. You’re not exactly a sprite of a colleen.”

Alyssa’s heart was beating hard in her chest as she listened to the humor in his tone. “I—I will walk. If you can just—”

“Listen to me, little one, you’re as weak as a lamb. I know it’s not customary for a man to take a woman to the water closet, but in this case, neither of us has much choice.”

Her shoulders dropped and Alyssa turned toward his voice. “If I can stand, will you direct me with your voice?”

Tray rose, a scowl forming on his brow. “You’re too weak to walk.”

Her chin jutting out in defiance, Alyssa forced herself to her feet. She wavered badly and threw out her hands to find nothing but air. But the fear of him as a man was greater than her fear of falling, and she prepared herself to hit the floor. As she lost her balance, Alyssa felt strong, masculine arms closing around her body. He lifted her as if she were a mere feather wafting on a summer’s breeze. She stiffened, a cry lurching from her throat.

“You don’t have to remind me that you want nothing to do with men,” Tray growled tightly, carrying her through the bedchamber to an adjoining room, which housed the bath and the water closet. He sat her down, making sure she would not fall again.

“Please,” Alyssa begged, “leave me.”

Tray hesitated, but he heard the humiliation in her hoarse voice. “Very well. Call me when you want me to carry you back to the bedchamber.”

“A-all right.”

Afterward, Alyssa rose and pulled the nightgown down around her body. She stood, her hands braced against the cool stone-and-wood enclosure. She tried to fight off the dizziness that washed over her, and her fear of Tray coming back pushed her into action. Hand outstretched, she met the hard, masculine wall of a man’s chest. Jerking her hand back as if burned, Alyssa would have fallen if Tray hadn’t reached out and brought her into his arms.

A strangled sound of fury left Alyssa’s lips and two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks as she lay stiffly in his embrace. “You—you were there all the time!” she gasped, trying to push away from him. “You gave your word—”

Tray slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her up against him. She was pitifully thin; his fingers could feel each clearly defined rib through the nightgown she wore. “No, I wasn’t. I had just come back in to check on you.”

This time, as they made their way back to the bedchamber, Alyssa noticed that the man walked brokenly. Was he hurt?

Why did she care? He was a man. And men were little more than monsters. She erected a barricade against Tray as he carried her back to the safety of the bed. Once deposited, she pulled the covers across her lap and leaned against the headboard.

The sound of shod horses clattering up the cobblestoned expanse leading to the main entrance of Shadowhawk tore Tray’s attention away from Alyssa. He recognized the sounds as a coach approaching. At the thought of Dr. Birch arriving momentarily, he felt another weight slipping free of his shoulders. Perhaps now the doctor would be able to tell them why Alyssa was blind.