The Warrior's Touch (12 page)

The cart stopped before the stone hut, and Cillian helped carry Bridget to the straw pallet. Zaira had a pot of water hanging above a warm fire.

‘Should I stay until Illona arrives?’ her brother asked.

‘No. But thank you for your help this night.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘And for letting me do this.’

Her brother departed, and Aileen worked with Zaira to ease Bridget’s labour. Frasier arrived at last, but though he had attended the other births, his pallor was far more ashen than Bridget’s.

‘I don’t want you here,’ he said brusquely. ‘We must wait for Illona.’

‘She is not here yet,’ Aileen reasoned. ‘And I don’t think Bridget intends to wait. Would you rather she give birth alone?’

Frasier tensed, but shook his head. ‘Seamus says you are cursed by the
sibh dubh
, Aileen Ó Duinne. I’ll not let you near Bridget. Not after what happened to his sons.’

Aileen longed to shake sense into the man. ‘I delivered each of your three children, Frasier Ó Duinne. No harm came to any of them.’

‘That was before the curse.’

‘There is no curse,’ she insisted. Her own frustration tightened within her. A child would soon be born. Selfishly, she wanted to be the healer to bring it forth.

Another cry burst forth from Bridget, and desperation lined Frasier’s face. He would do anything to take away her pain.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Aileen asked softly. She prayed he would not accept the offer.

Frasier’s shoulders slumped forward. ‘There isn’t time, is there?’

She shook her head. ‘The babe will not be long now.’

He blanched, contemplating the consequences if she left. Aileen took his hand. ‘I swear to you, I will take care of her. She is strong and healthy. All will be well. And Illona will come.’

‘Bridget will not like it if you leave.’ With reluctance, he let her stay, pacing back and forth. Aileen was grateful that their other children were sleeping in the tents at the
aenach
, away from their mother’s distressed cries.

Over the next hour, she sent Frasier outside the hut for numerous unnecessary tasks. The activity kept him from hovering over Bridget. At last, Illona arrived. The woman did not countermand Aileen’s orders, but instead worked alongside her.

Time blurred into a haze until at last Aileen called for Frasier to help Bridget into a squatting position. He supported his wife’s body while she pushed. Infinity compressed into a single moment as Bridget strained. Sweat beaded upon her forehead. She closed her eyes to focus on the task while Aileen invoked a rhythmic healing chant. The soft words flowed, familiar words Kyna had spoken and passed down to Aileen whenever a new life was about to come forth.

Illona’s voice merged with hers, and the two women joined together to guide the birth. The small head stretched against Bridget’s womb, sliding into Aileen’s hands. She eased the shoulders forth and cleared the young mouth. The only sounds in the hut were chanting, Bridget’s harsh breathing, and the sudden cry of a newborn.

Aileen lifted the child on to Bridget’s stomach. Tears slid down her cheeks as she relived her own daughter’s birth. ‘She is a beautiful girl, Bridget.’ It never failed to enchant her, seeing a child emerge into the world.

‘She is,’ Bridget agreed, stroking the infant’s head. Illona tied off the babe’s cord and severed it.

‘You did well, Aileen. I could not have done better myself,’ Illona complimented her.

Aileen accepted the words of praise, but they were a reminder that she had been replaced by someone else. She tried to concentrate upon the important matters, but already Illona had taken her place, guiding Bridget with the delivery of the afterbirth. Thanks be, there was no tearing, no need for a healing poultice.

She found a clean
léine
for Bridget while Illona wrapped the afterbirth in cloth for a later burial. When Bridget was settled into bed with her newborn, Aileen said her goodbyes to the family.

Outside, she washed her hands in the animal trough. The summer’s night air had grown chilly, and Aileen shivered, rubbing her arms. Whispers of starlight glittered in an ebony sky while the rasping of crickets invaded the stillness.

Aileen lifted her
brat
over her head and wrapped the warm folds of the woollen mantle across her shoulders. The exhilaration of welcoming the infant into the world made her smile. She walked the distance to her hut, thankful for the blessing of an easy birth.

To her surprise, she saw Connor open the door to her hut. His large frame filled the entrance, and he held out a wooden cup of mead to her. Aileen accepted it, drinking deeply.

‘Lorcan told me of Bridget’s babe. Did it go well?’

‘It did. She has a beautiful daughter.’ Aileen’s smile widened at the memory of the tiny fingers wrapping around her thumb. It meant even more that she could assume the role of healer for her cousin, even if it was just for a moment.

‘You are up late,’ she remarked.

‘I promised to wait for you.’

A thrill of premonition enveloped her as Connor led her inside. It was like crossing through the years to the girl she had been on the night of Bealtaine. But this time, he was inviting her to join him. Her skin grew warmer, her heart beating faster. Did she want this? Did she want him, knowing that he would leave her once again?

A pot of warmed water hung over the fire, and he poured it into a shallow basin. ‘Sit down,’ he invited.

Aileen sat upon the wooden bench, unsure of Connor’s intentions. He knelt before her and took her feet into his lap. His left palm traced the outline of her foot. Though the twisted fingers of his right hand should have repelled her, sensual shivers emerged at the touch of his callused palm.

She understood the effort this cost him, the level of concentration. Steadily he lifted handfuls of water over her bare feet, washing them in an age-old custom.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ she said.

‘I want to.’ He brought her hands to his shoulders while he caressed her soles. Years of fighting had moulded rigid lines of strength into his arms.

She pushed away her body’s response to him, willing herself not to look at his firm mouth only a breath away. ‘I am nothing to you but another woman, Connor. And that isn’t what I want.’ She stood, not caring that her gown grew sodden in the water.

‘You are wrong, Aileen.’ He rose, his silver eyes casting a spell upon her senses. ‘More than any other woman, I want you this night.’

Broken shards of memory cut into her. He hadn’t wanted her, not when she’d tried to gain his attentions as a girl. She didn’t fool herself into believing that he wanted her now.

Before she could stop him, Connor leaned forward and kissed her. She tasted mead upon his mouth, the heady rush of sensation. His tongue teased hers, and though her mind begged her to stop, she opened to him. Tentatively, she tasted him with her own tongue. Droplets of water dampened her gown and he pushed the
brat
from her shoulders, letting the shawl fall to the floor. Fire permeated her skin, and all the while she melted against the warmth of his mouth upon hers.

‘Aileen,’ he whispered, reaching beneath her gown. He wanted to remove her overdress, but she shied away from him.

‘Do you want me to stop?’

Her heartbeat thrummed beneath her breasts, and she hesitated. Caught between reason and desire, she fought against her body’s need for him.

‘I don’t know what I want,’ she said honestly. ‘You’re going to leave.’

He cupped her cheek. ‘It doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other until then.’

She closed her eyes, not wanting him to see her indecision. ‘What if I asked you not to leave at all? Would you give up your revenge?’

Slowly, he shook his head. ‘I cannot stay, Aileen.’ He raised his misshapen right hand. ‘I need to be the man I once was.’

His words crumbled any hope she might have held. His pride was more important than all else.

His hot mouth kissed the soft place in her neck, sending shivers into every pore of her skin. For a moment she allowed temptation to overcome reason. He lifted the overdress aside, lowering the folds of her
léine
until it hung at her waist. Bared before him, he pulled back to look at her.

‘Your skin reminds me of this water,’ he said huskily. ‘Smooth and warm.’ He lifted a handful of the wetness, letting it pour over her breasts. Her nipples puckered at the sensation of droplets spilling over.

Then he bent to take her breast into his mouth, and she could no longer remember the reasons why this was wrong. Though it was a night when men and women shared lovemaking with one another, coupling in the darkness, Connor MacEgan was a dangerous man. With his words and his touch, he lay siege to her heart.

By the sweet saints, he knew how to seduce her with his mouth. He suckled against her, pulling her deep into his mouth until her womanhood grew wet in response.

Don’t
, her mind begged her, even as she tilted her mouth to his. She kissed him with the memory of their shared passion, of the magic of Bealtaine. Her body ached to feel him filling the emptiness inside.

Take him
, her body urged. And God forgive her, she needed him this night.

S
he lifted his tunic away, grazing his skin with her thumbs. Battle scars marred his torso, and he inhaled when she traced her fingers down his chest. The touch of her hands inflamed him.

Aileen stepped out of the basin, and Connor knelt to dry her feet. Though he struggled to control his hands, he could not caress her beautiful long legs in the manner he wanted to. Instead, he used his mouth to kiss a path up her shapely calves, up to the smooth skin of her thighs. She trembled at his touch. Though she was a widow and a mother, she reminded him of a young maiden with her shyness.

Truth be told, she reminded him of the first time he’d made love to a woman. On the night of Bealtaine, he had touched breasts as soft and firm as these.

‘Is it true,’ he murmured, ‘that you were in love with me once?’

A startled look crossed her face. ‘No.’

‘Not even a little?’

‘Not even that much,’ she said.

‘You’re hurting my feelings, Aileen Ó Duinne,’ he teased, kissing the curve of her breast.

‘You have no feelings, Connor MacEgan. Any woman is good enough for you,’ she teased. Her voice sounded brittle, and he drew back to look at her.

‘Not just any woman.’ He didn’t like the way she made him sound. He might flirt with women, but he didn’t tumble them. Others teased him, but he’d never before cared about what they said.

This woman made him care. It bothered him that she saw him like this. Weakened, like a broken fragment of a man. She had bathed him, fed him, as though he were a little child. He’d rather die than cower behind her skirts, facing his enemy’s sword.

The next time he saw Aileen Ó Duinne, she would see the warrior he’d always been. But for this moment, he wanted to show her just how much he craved the taste of her.

He took possession of her mouth, his kiss more demanding. He captured her nape with the curve of his arm and the sweet scent of crushed rosemary emanated from her hair.

He had to know, from her own lips, that she desired him. He needed to touch her, to watch her body rise with pleasure.

But instead of opening her arms to him, she shivered. Gone was the pleasure he’d kindled in her eyes. In its place, he saw wariness.

‘What do you fear?’ A dark suspicion rained down upon him. ‘Did Eachan ever harm you?’

‘No, never.’ She pulled the sleeves of her
léine
over her shoulders. With her body covered, she swiped at the tears. ‘But I cannot lie with you. Nothing has changed.’

‘I don’t understand. Tell me.’ In her eyes, a deep sadness lurked. Her pain did not extinguish his need, but he refused to let the matter go. ‘Why is it wrong? We hurt no one by enjoying each other.’

‘It would hurt me.’ She swiped at her cheeks and turned away. ‘I can’t be with you, Connor. I thought I could let go of the past, but I can’t.’

Before he could summon a reply, she opened the door to her hut. The night air breezed inside, causing the hearth to flicker. ‘I need you to leave.’

He didn’t argue. After collecting his tunic, he strode outside. Her words had slashed his pride, and he found it difficult to look at her. It was the first time a woman had turned him away.

It bothered him more than he’d thought it would. Somehow she had placed him in the same regard as Riordan. He didn’t like it, not at all. But why?

Had he repulsed her with his hands? He stared at the deformity that had once been his right hand. The bruising had faded, but the bones would ever remain twisted. He struggled to make a fist, but the fingers would not line up straight. The motion burned, straining tendons and flesh into a position that was no longer natural.

Of course she would look upon him with disgust. How could she tolerate making love to a man who could not touch her? It stung in a way he didn’t want to admit. Losing his ability to fight was one matter. But losing the desire of a woman was another.

Fumbling with the ties of his tunic, he slipped the garment over his head. He didn’t bother trying to fix the laces. It wouldn’t do any good.

Poised at the entrance to the sick hut, he waited. His hands pressed against the hard stone while the familiar scent of thatch mingled with the night air. Had he imagined her response to him?

She had kissed him, allowed him to remove her
léine
. For long moments she’d endured his touch before at last the tears escaped. He felt a fierce need to assuage her pain, to drive out the demons of her past.

The question was, had he become a demon himself? Was he now a man no woman would want?

Aileen sank before the hearth, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks. He didn’t understand, couldn’t know the vicious aching inside her.

She did want him. More than anything else, she had wanted to welcome Connor into her arms. But what had that gained her the last time, save a broken heart? And a child.

Connor MacEgan would never make her comfortable. He got beneath her skin in a way she couldn’t understand. For the past few years, she’d forgotten him and gone on with her life. But from the moment he came back, her feelings had sparked into flames.

If she took him as her lover, she’d lose her heart again. She had no doubt that Connor would leave. He’d return to his family, and she’d be alone again. No, she couldn’t spend a few nights of pleasure with him. It might be only bed sport to him, but it meant a great deal more to her.

He was also the father of Rhiannon, a secret bond that would ever draw them together. It still bothered her that he hadn’t recognised his own daughter.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have meant so much if she’d had other children. But Fate had cursed her since Bealtaine. After Rhiannon, she had lost two other children. One son, then another. Both had been stillborn.

Eachan believed it was his fault, that he was too old to father children. After they had wept over the deaths of their sons, he’d offered not to touch her again if it would save her the pain. She had refused. How could she deny him the comfort in her arms, after all that he’d given her? Inwardly, she had prayed that God would grant her a child. She’d held out hope for nearly seven years before the illness made it impossible for Eachan to touch her again.

She stared into the glowing hearth, not bothering to move to her sleeping pallet. The cold ground suited her mood. Exhaustion preyed upon her mind until she could no longer think clearly.

Her body regretted turning him away. She wished she could have seized the moment and given in to her needs. At the thought of his kiss, the way his mouth had moved up the skin of her thighs, waves of aching washed over her again.

Should she go to him? Lead him into her hut and touch every firm muscle, every ridge and scar of his flesh? Her hand moved to cup her own breast, the nipple tightening with memory. A bittersweet smile creased her lips.

If she did, she’d only fall in love with him again.

The moon slid behind a cloud, a soft amber light casting its rays over the grasses. Dawn would come soon. In the moist air, Connor sensed the coming rain.

A distant noise caught his attention. Hoofbeats travelled at a swift pace. Connor slipped inside his hut and reached for his brother’s sword with his left hand.

The cold metal hilt warmed beneath his palm, and he stepped back outside. Whether or not the approaching rider meant any harm, he intended to be prepared.

But as soon as Connor saw the young boy clutching the mane of an elderly mare, he sheathed the sword in its scabbard. Whelon’s small shoulders leaned forward, as he struggled to slow the horse’s gait.

‘What is it?’ Connor asked.

‘One of the bards,’ Whelon gasped. ‘He died. I saw his arms, and they were covered with sores. Aileen should come.’

Connor quelled the icy chill that struck him. He had seen such illnesses before. The invisible demons of the disease could strike any man down and render him dead within days.

‘Wait here.’

He opened Aileen’s door without knocking, and she jerked with surprise. ‘We must return to the
aenach
. One of the bards has died.’

‘How?’ Aileen did not argue but grasped her basket, packing it with dried herbs and bandages. ‘Are you certain he is dead?’

‘He died from the pox. Whelon saw the sores.’

Aileen whitened, but gathered her
brat
around her shoulders. She reached to gather a stone vial and made the sign of the cross. He understood suddenly that it was holy water she took with her.

‘You should begin praying now that the demons will not strike us down,’ she urged. Though she kept up the appearance of calm, he recognised her fear.

Inwardly he mirrored her sentiments. The pox did not reveal itself immediately. Sometimes days or even a sennight would pass before they would know which persons would suffer.

‘Say nothing to the others,’ Aileen warned. ‘I do not need a host of villagers falling into panic.’

‘What about the other healer, Illona?’

Aileen’s shoulders lowered, her face sombre. ‘We will tell her, once we have seen the body. I need to see the sores first to be sure. If it is the pox…then we’ll send for Illona.’

Connor helped her mount behind Whelon. ‘I’ll follow you soon.’

Slapping the mare’s flanks, the pair rode back towards the grounds. Beneath his breath, Connor murmured a prayer. He mounted the horse left behind by his brothers and spurred it onwards. Raising his eyes to the darkened skies, he wondered who would be spared.

And who would lie beneath the cold ground.

When Aileen reached the
aenach
, Whelon led her to the place where the bards had set up camp. Connor arrived shortly after. Confused, he stared at the place where a tent had been. Save a fallen rope and trampled grass, there was no sign of the men.

‘He was there. I saw him.’ Whelon’s eyes held disbelief. ‘Where did they go?’

Aileen knelt to take a closer look. She did not doubt Whelon’s word, for the boy had never told an untruth before. And if it were indeed the pox, the men had reason to flee.

‘Wait.’ Connor gestured in the distance. ‘Do you smell that?’

She followed him, running past the rows of tents until they were a goodly distance away. The acrid scent of burning flesh made her want to gag. It did not take long to find the source. Within a makeshift stone hearth, far from the grounds of the
aenach
, lay the charred remains of a body.

Aileen made the sign of the cross, silently praying for the man’s soul. She held her distance, but the blackened skin gave no evidence of the pox.

‘Tell me what sores you saw,’ she said gently.

Whelon tore his gaze away from the body. His face was pale, stricken with fear. He was no stranger to death; none were. But his mouth trembled.

‘He had sores on his arms, the size of small berries. His cheeks were red, and I heard him cough.’

Aileen recalled the man she had seen earlier. Though the severe cough harboured the signs of a serious illness, she had not seen any pox sores. Perhaps Whelon had been mistaken.

‘What do you think?’ Connor asked.

She shook her head. ‘Without seeing the sores, I don’t know. Many illnesses appear similar. It might not be what we think it is.’

Please, let it not be
. She had heard stories of entire villages who had fallen prey to the pox. The few survivors were scarred for the remainder of their lives.

‘What should we do?’ the boy asked.

Aileen draped her arm around Whelon’s shoulders. ‘You should go home to your foster-father. He’ll box your ears for making him worry so.’ She ruffled his hair. ‘Get some rest.’

‘What of the man?’ Whelon wanted to know. ‘We can’t just leave him there.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Connor said softly. Aileen met his gaze and was grateful for his offer. Soon the folk would rise from their tents and might discover the death. The storytellers had long gone, and their intent to hide the body was clear. They would not be looking for their companion.

‘Thank you,’ she said, reaching out to touch his arm.

His steady grey eyes flared for a moment, then cooled. ‘You should get some rest yourself.’ He pulled away, and Aileen remembered suddenly that she’d asked him to leave.

Her head swam with muddled thoughts. Though she knew she had made the right decision, telling him to go, she didn’t like the way he was looking at her now. A cold distance had fallen, an invisible shield she could not break through.

She helped Whelon mount the mare once again. The boy leaned against the mane, his small body drooping with weariness. She turned back to watch Connor, even as his figure grew smaller in the distance. She wanted to keep her promise of helping him heal. There were ways to mend the torn muscles, to speed his progress toward fighting again. It would take many weeks yet, but perhaps he would let her try.

Her mind conjured up different splints to help adjust his motion, exercises Kyna had taught her would rebuild torn muscles. She would heal Connor MacEgan’s wounds fully. And she’d not weaken to temptation, no matter what happened.

In the meantime, she prayed that they would be spared from the demons of sickness.

Another sennight passed, and Connor tested the weight of the sword with his right hand. Aileen had forced him to wear splints at night, keeping pressure on the joints. He had made no further advances toward her, and she did not mention the night she’d turned him away.

His wrist ached with the effort of holding the sword, but he kept his pain silent. It did not escape her notice.

‘Try the other hand,’ she urged.

Connor switched hands, and took a few practice swings. Aileen stood nearby, but her presence distracted him. She wore an overdress the colour of moss, the
léine
beneath it a lighter shade of green. Her hair was bound by a single braid crossing above her forehead like a crown. The dark curls spilled across her shoulders, and, as always, she smelled of the rich herbs she tended.

His desire for her hadn’t weakened. If anything, he wanted her more. He slashed the sword, moving his wrist against an imaginary enemy. A white-hot aching tormented his wrist, but he forced himself to continue.