The Warrior's Touch (10 page)

Connor examined the grey mare. The bone structure proved to be good, although the mare seemed more interested in grazing than in trotting or walking. ‘She is tame, I see.’

He stroked the animal’s coat, intending to walk away before the merchant began bargaining.

‘Flynn Ó Banníon will be anxious to see you,’ a low voice said.

It was Niall, a man he’d once called friend when he’d fought alongside the tribe. Slightly taller than himself, Niall had trained with him on more than one occasion. They were evenly matched, which made the sparring good practice for both of them. Though Niall’s hair was a darker gold than his own, he had been like a brother to him.

Connor tensed, his glance moving toward Niall’s sword. The man caught his look. ‘I played no part in what was done to you. Had I known, I would have tried to stop them.’ Niall’s expression was solemn. ‘I am sorry for it.’

Connor wanted to believe him. Niall had never been known to deceive others. Always had he spoken the truth. ‘Does Ó Banníon believe I am dead?’

‘No. He knows you are alive. Seamus Ó Duinne asked him to answer the
brehons
.’

Connor ignored the merchant’s pleas to stay and inspect more horses. He walked alongside Niall, moving toward the food preparation tables.

‘I’ve no wish to see him.’

Niall shrugged. ‘That I can understand. When you confront him, it will be your word against his.’

To Connor, it did not matter what Ó Banníon claimed. He preferred to settle his vengeance outside of the courts. ‘Do not reveal my presence to him yet.’

‘It does not matter what I do. He will know where you are within moments. Look.’ Niall pointed toward a blonde-haired beauty who was staring at both of them.

Connor met the gaze of Deirdre Ó Banníon. Shock transformed her expression into fear. Good. She had reason to fear him, after her treachery.

‘I’ll leave the two of you to speak,’ Niall offered. ‘I am certain you have much to say.’

Connor made no reply, his gaze trapping Deirdre. She glanced around, as though searching for an escape. He allowed none, willing her to stay rooted in place.

Her golden hair was neatly braided, sun-kissed auburn highlighting the strands. Clear green eyes rivalled the hills of Éireann with their striking colour. A beautiful woman was Deirdre, and a powerful one with her position as the chieftain’s daughter.

With a light smile, she began walking toward him. He considered avoiding her, but a cold rage simmered within him. Her lies had caused his punishment. As she moved towards him, her hips swayed seductively. Deirdre twined her arms about his neck and pressed herself close. ‘Connor MacEgan! I cannot believe it is you.’ With a sensual smile, she added, ‘I have thought about you often.’ Her breasts rubbed against him, her hands moving down his back.

‘As have I.’ The thought of wringing her devious neck had traversed his imagination a time or two. He kept his posture rigid, not returning any of her false affections. If he shoved her aside, witnesses might claim he’d attacked her a second time.

She misread his intentions and pressed her mouth against his. He did not relax, his body remaining as still as an ancient stone monolith. Deirdre tried to coax a response with her kiss, but he granted her nothing. Unlike Aileen, whose innocent touch had seared him with lust. He wanted her to know that he felt nothing for her.

‘Have you finished?’ he asked mildly. ‘Or will you claim that I took your virtue in front of everyone here?’

She paled. ‘I never meant for my father to—’

‘To what? Discover your lies? He believed you and punished me for it.’

‘I thought he might allow us to wed.’

‘And did you consider that I had no desire to wed you?’ He did not hide his disgust from her. ‘You think your charms impossible to resist?’

Deirdre’s fury mirrored his own. ‘Were you any different, Connor MacEgan? I have heard many women claim that none can resist you, especially in your arms.’ She raised her hands to his chest, stroking his muscles. He stiffened as her touch moved down his arms to his hands.

She held his gnarled right hand in her palm. ‘You cannot be so proud now, can you?’

‘Be gone from my sight, lest you suffer the consequences.’ His anger was held by a spider’s thread, his hands painfully clenched into fists.

Never had he struck a woman, nor even wanted to. But Deirdre was as much to blame as Flynn Ó Banníon. Thankfully, she fled, disappearing into the crowd. She would inform her father of his presence. So be it.

Deirdre Ó Banníon was a woman spurned, and he doubted not that she would do anything to make his life miserable.

‘D
id you expect Connor to be any different than when we were children?’ Riordan asked. He had seen her dismay, watching Connor kiss another woman. Aileen knew it shouldn’t bother her, but only this morn, Connor had teased about wanting her, asking her to join with him.

And sweet saints, she had wanted to. She didn’t know why she had thought he’d changed. But it hurt her deeply. She had begun to hope, for a moment, that he might see her as a woman instead of a friend. Seeing him with the beautiful maiden had been precisely what she needed to close off her mind.

‘Leave the food preparations for a while, Aileen,’ Riordan coaxed. ‘I’ve placed a wager on your behalf.’

‘A wager?’

‘Come and see.’ He took her hand, and Aileen allowed him to pull her toward the games. A gentle smile edged his face, and she forced herself to grant him her attention. Though he did not make her blood race the way Connor did, Riordan was a steady man.

A fragile wisp of longing brushed at her heart. Didn’t she deserve the man she truly wanted? Was she not worthy of Connor? Why did she have to settle for a comfortable man, when what she wanted was a man to make her come alive?

Her thoughts tangled into a puzzle, for she didn’t want an unfaithful man. Why had Connor kissed the woman? Or had he? She struggled to remember if he had embraced the woman, if he had returned the kiss.

Her anger sharpened. If she allowed Connor into her heart, she could not stand aside while women threw themselves at him. And it would happen. The truth was, she didn’t know if she could trust him. Nor could she trust her heart to hold its distance.

In the centre of a circle, a fierce-looking tribesman flexed his muscles. The man’s dark forked beard gave him a demonic appearance, his strength intimidating.

With a look of pride, Riordan said, ‘I’ll be fighting him for you.’

Aileen didn’t like the notion, not at all. To see men strike blows at one another irritated her. She had no desire to tend broken noses and bleeding knuckles resulting from a needless fight. ‘I do not think you should.’

‘I can win,’ Riordan insisted. ‘And when I do, five silver bracelets will be yours.’

Her stomach twisted, but she mustered a smile. ‘I do not need the bracelets.’

‘But you deserve them,’ he said. He reached out to take her hand, and Aileen resisted the urge to pull away. ‘Even if I lose, I win. For I’ll have a beautiful healer to tend my wounds.’ He raised her hand to his lips. The soft kiss made her feel empty inside, for she felt nothing.

At that moment, Connor appeared in the crowd, a head taller than most of the folk. His dark gold hair was pulled back with a leather thong. Grey eyes stared at her, heated with intent. Her heart beat a little faster, her skin prickling. Even if a thousand people surrounded her, still she would sense his presence.

Beneath his gaze, her anger warmed. He had kissed her this morn, offering a tumble as though she were nothing more than a serving wench. In contrast, Riordan wanted her as his bride.

She broke away from Connor’s stare and pulled Riordan toward her. She held her hand against Riordan’s auburn beard, pressing a kiss upon his cheek. ‘For luck,’ she offered.

A gleam of possession ignited in his eyes. Riordan pulled her tightly against him. He tilted her head back and kissed her lips with unrestrained ardour. Aileen accepted the kiss and tried to make herself kiss him back. Yet her lips seemed to be made of stone.

Why can’t I feel anything for him?
she wondered.
What is wrong with me?

When she turned back to Connor, he had gone. Her spirits sank, for she had behaved like a silly maid trying to make her suitor jealous. Already she regretted her actions. She braced herself to watch the wrestling match, ignoring the sounds of the men grunting and trying to crush one another.

And all the while, her eyes searched for a glimpse of Connor in the crowd.

‘The
brehons
are waiting to hear your case,’ Niall told Connor. ‘They are inside the tent.’

He already knew what the judges would say. They would levy a fine upon the Ó Banníons. But accepting payment for the loss of his hands was unthinkable.

‘Is Deirdre with them?’ Connor asked.

Niall inclined his head, his expression unreadable. ‘She is.’

Connor’s defences rose, stretching his patience thin. He lifted the entrance flap of the tent set aside for the
brehons
. Morann Ó Duinne sat upon a low stool, his long ashen beard curling almost to the ground. A shock of white hair covered his pate, and legend told that his black eyes could pierce the heart of a complicated case and bring it to justice. Two other tribe members, one from the Ó Duinne tribe and the other from the Ó Banníon tribe, nodded in greeting.

Morann’s eyes studied Connor’s hands before his gaze flickered to Deirdre. Demure and quiet, she bit her lower lip like a recalcitrant child. Her pale skin made her appear the victim.

They would believe Deirdre’s tearful testimony, that he had taken her virtue. Connor clenched his fists, relishing the pain of it. It reminded him of what he’d lost, all because of her.

He didn’t deny his own mistakes. Had he remained alone without female company, this might not have happened. He had accepted the warm embraces of willing maidens, and now he had paid the price for it.

‘I have already heard the details from Seamus so I would ask Connor to explain his injuries.’ Morann turned to Flynn Ó Banníon. ‘Then I shall hear your grievances. We will decide upon the
eraic
fine to settle the matter.’

Flynn wore his battle armour from the tournament earlier this morn. A corselet formed from bull-hide leather stretched across his chest, scarred with the markings of swords. Beneath it, his saffron tunic was made of silk. A battleaxe hung at his side, the copper blade shining in the afternoon sunlight. An experienced war leader and chieftain, Flynn held the respect of his people as one of their greatest warriors.

For a full season Connor had fought among Flynn’s ranks, drinking in knowledge from a true master. To see him now, an enraged leader with no remorse for his deed, only deepened Connor’s hatred.

He watched the eyes of his enemy. His need for vengeance curled into a thundering storm of anger. He wanted Flynn to feel the crushing weight of the stones, to know the pain he had endured in his hands. He craved justice.

But even as he stared into the chieftain’s eyes, he knew it would not happen. ‘You believe her lies still, I see.’

‘My daughter would never lie about a matter such as this.’ Rage deepened upon Flynn’s face. ‘You hurt her—’

‘I never touched her.’

Quiet tears rolled down Deirdre’s face. Disgust filled him at her illusion.

‘I would see your hands, Connor MacEgan.’ The
brehon
judge gestured for him to reveal his wounds. Connor extended the gnarled fingers of his right hand. None could deny the injury.

‘Have you regained full use of them?’ Morann inquired.

Never would he admit his weakness before Flynn. ‘I have.’

‘No—’ another voice interrupted. Aileen entered the tent at that moment. Her chestnut braid hung against her hips, her sage eyes staring at Morann as though she could influence the outcome by her very presence.

What was she doing here? Alarm rose within him, his pride bristling.

‘As the healer of the Ó Duinne tribe, I can testify that his hands will not regain their full use.’

‘I have been told that you are no longer the healer,’ Morann responded.

Aileen paled, but stood bravely. ‘I tended his wounds. And I know that he deserves full
eraic
payment for the loss.’

‘She is wrong,’ Connor responded. Though he understood her intent, the admission made him appear weak before his enemy. He could not allow the Ó Banníons to view him as defenceless.

Morann waved a hand in dismissal of Connor’s argument. ‘I can see for myself the evidence. There is no need to discuss this further. Flynn Ó Banníon, do you deny that you intentionally broke Connor MacEgan’s hands and wrists?’

The chieftain shook his head. ‘I deny nothing. It was only what he deserved for dishonouring my daughter.’

Before Flynn could continue, Morann nodded to Aileen. ‘I thank you for your testimony. You are no longer needed in this judgement.’

She hesitated, waiting for Connor to speak. ‘May I listen to the outcome?’

Connor levelled an angry look at her. ‘I do not want her here,’ he said. The woman could not see what she had done with her interference. Did she believe she was helping him? She had publicly voiced her doubts. Connor’s frustration tensed like an arrow hovering at the bowstring, poised to shoot.

Aileen’s face paled at his fury, her eyes bewildered. At last she surrendered beneath his anger and left. Though it would take time, Connor refused to leave the tent until he’d unravelled the damage she had wrought with her testimony. He would fight again.

And the Ó Banníons would meet his blade and his challenge. His honour was at stake.

Outside the tent, Aileen moved through a haze of wounded feelings. Faces blurred, sounds echoed in her head. She saw a group of storytellers, strangers she had not seen before. One man coughed, a hacking sound that tore at his insides.

Aileen knew she should stop and ask if he needed help, but right now her own heart ached. She moved past the crowds, toward the edge of the meadow. When at last she stood alone, the wind whipped at her face, cooling her hot cheeks. Connor had humiliated her before the
brehons
. Foolishly, she had thought to help him.

For long moments, she watched the descent of the sun as though it were her own spirits.

‘Mother?’ a voice whispered.

She turned and opened her arms. ‘Rhiannon,
a iníon
.’ She clasped the dark hair of her daughter to her breast, hugging her fiercely. ‘Tell me of your doings this day.’

Rhiannon’s mouth curved with pleasure. She spoke of winning a foot race and of her excitement at the games. ‘Did you see the bards? Duald says they have come all the way from Wales.’

‘I did.’ Aileen recalled the coughing man, wondering again if she should have stopped to offer aid.

‘They will tell the tale of Brian Boru.’ Rhiannon took her hand and pulled her toward the fires where a throng of folk had begun to gather. ‘Come with me and listen.’

Aileen allowed her daughter to lead her toward the hillside. Small fires flickered in the evening twilight, offering warmth to those who huddled near. Already she saw couples moving toward the isolation of the forest groves. It was early yet, but as the mead flowed, more folk would enjoy a private celebration of their own.

Grateful she was that Rhiannon was far too young for such. With her straight limbs and flat chest, it would be many years before womanhood would blossom in her young body.

‘I want to move closer to hear them.’ Rhiannon guided her past the tribesmen, at last reaching a tight circle where the folk stood. Many small children clung to the shoulders of their foster-fathers while elder boys jumped, trying to gain a better look.

Aileen held her daughter against her, letting her palms rest upon Rhiannon’s shoulders. They listened to the first play, then another. The tale of a roving friar held them in laughter, but Aileen grew distracted when she saw Connor standing to the side. He did not see them yet, and her hand tightened upon Rhiannon’s shoulder.

What would he say when he met his daughter for the first time? Would he recognise his own features in her face? Aileen steeled herself for the possibility that he would loathe her for what she’d done. She had stolen a child from him, seduced him on the ritual night. She didn’t want to see the hatred on his face.

‘We should go.’

‘But, Mother, I want to hear the next tale,’ Rhiannon pleaded.

Aileen’s throat tightened. She had hidden her secret for over seven years. Should she stay and face him? Or should she run? The choice was taken from her when Connor sighted them.

The air slipped from her lungs, but Aileen kept her hands upon Rhiannon’s shoulders. So be it. Let him think what he would.

‘Mother, you are hurting me—’

She loosened her grip. ‘I am sorry.’

Moments later, Connor stood before them. Aileen held herself upright, prepared for his accusations. His attention flickered over Rhiannon for a fraction of a second, but he said nothing.

‘This is my daughter, Rhiannon,’ Aileen said. She held her breath, keeping her eyes locked upon his face.

‘Rhiannon.’ Connor greeted her with a polite nod. ‘Your mother has spoken of you before. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.’

The gentle tone, the simple offering of sympathy, turned her insides to ice. He didn’t recognise his own daughter, his own blood. Tears and hysteria warred within her, for this was the moment she had feared most.

And he didn’t even recognise Rhiannon. Her secret was safe, and she need not be afraid any longer. It should have been a liberating release. Why, then, did the tears bundle up inside her, threatening to break free?

‘Did they pass a judgement?’ Aileen managed to ask.

He inclined his head. ‘Walk with me, and I will tell you.’

Aileen released Rhiannon, pressing a kiss against her temple. ‘Listen to the stories,
a stór
. I shall see you this night.’

He walked beside her, waiting until they were away from others who might listen. ‘Why did you interfere?’ he demanded sharply. ‘The case did not concern you.’

‘I did not trust the Ó Banníons to speak the truth. The
brehons
should know the extent of your injuries.’

His eyes fastened upon her with cold anger. ‘I am not a weakling, Aileen. Nor am I afraid to face Ó Banníon with my sword.’

‘You cannot hold a sword.’

‘But I will.’

She shook her head. ‘Flynn would strike you down with a single blow.’

‘Weren’t you the one who spoke of faith? Was it not you who refused to crush the hopes of those you heal?’

His words made her cheeks burn. ‘That is different. They are children, and you a grown man.’