The Warrior's Touch (8 page)

‘The
brehons
can pass whatever judgement they wish in the courts.’ A dark smile tilted at his mouth. ‘My own form of justice shall come later.’

‘Are you ready?’ Aileen asked. The days had passed, and it was now time to remove Connor’s bandages.

He held his hands out to her, and Aileen unwound the bandages slowly. Upon his face, she read the doubts. One by one, she eased the splints free. At last, she revealed his hands.

Although the skin still held a waxen grey colour, the fingers of his left hand were aligned. She bent each knuckle to check the movement. ‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

‘They are stiff.’

She curved his hand into a fist, brightening when she saw that the fingers lay parallel to one another, just as they should.

The right hand looked far worse. The fingers were not of the correct length, and she knew it was due to the massive crushing of the fingers.

Connor attempted to flex his wrists. The left hand moved freely, while the right wrist moved only a little. ‘It will improve in time,’ she reassured him.

Beneath his expression she saw a grim fury. ‘How long?’

She shook her head. ‘That, I cannot know. It depends on many things.’

He moved his fingers, struggling to push them back into their former flexibility. The right hand had little motion, and his frustration worsened.

‘I cannot fight like this.’ He reached for a wooden cup, his fingers refusing to curl around the vessel. ‘I’d not be able to hold a sword, much less wield it.’

‘As I’ve told you, it will take time.’

‘I do not have time, Aileen. Nearly two moons of my life I’ve wasted while Flynn Ó Banníon grows fat and content.’

‘You cannot think to fight him.’

‘I intend to sink my sword into his heart for what he has done.’

‘And when you do, you believe you will win? You haven’t the strength for such a fight.’

‘Then that is your fault.’

‘Mine?’ She could not believe he dared to accuse her. ‘I was not the one to harm you. I saved your hands.’

‘If you had more experience as a healer, perhaps I’d be able to hold a sword again.’

‘More experience?’ His arrogance infuriated her. Kyna had trained her in healing since she was a young girl. She remained confident in her skills, no matter what the villagers claimed. And this warrior dared question her? ‘Any other healer would have cut your hands off. You would have bled to death.’

‘I’d have been better off dead than to live like this.’ He strode outside, shoving the door open. The wood crashed behind him, rocking against the door frame.

Aileen’s anger made her tremble. She picked up the wooden drinking cup and hurled it at the wall. The satisfying thunk made her wish she could have struck his head. Connor had no idea how badly he’d been wounded.

Her wrath increased as she picked up the bandages and splints, casting them into the fire. As the flames took hold and burned, she tore a length of cloth into strips for bandages. The act of destruction gave her a means to release her anger.

Connor was an impatient man. He could not understand what he’d been given. All he could see was his loss.

The twisted fingers of his right hand would for ever remind him of his deformity. He could not see past it. His vanity would not allow it.

Tears stung her eyes. Somehow, she had believed there was more to Connor MacEgan than a handsome warrior. It seemed she was wrong.

C
onnor returned to the forest grove, the afternoon sun warm upon his face. He reached down and lifted a thick fallen branch with his left hand. With effort, he managed to hold it, though his wrist ached. He rotated his wrist in slow motions, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Lunging forward, he tried to use the makeshift sword. A surge of aching fire ripped through the unused muscles, but he forced himself to continue.

He had tried to bring Trahern’s sword, but he lacked the strength to drag it from the sick hut. Rather than damage the blade, he had left it behind. He would spend the first few days rebuilding his unsteady grip.

Though the branch felt awkward in his left hand, at least he could grasp it. When he tried to transfer the limb to his right palm, the branch clattered to the ground.

Frustration and doubts undermined his confidence. At last, he sat down against the base of an oak, his hands raw with the effort of fighting. He wiped the sweat from his brow, noticing the trickle of blood from his palms. Aileen would have to treat the blisters.

The thought of her sobered him. He hadn’t meant to voice his opinion aloud. She did possess great skills as a healer, but it wasn’t enough for him.

He’d wanted a miracle. When God had not granted him that boon, he had lashed out at the one person who had tried to help him. He regretted his words, but they were true. He did question her skills, her experience. If she were older, would he have more strength in his hands?

A soft crackle and thump drew his attention. He reached for the branch, but relaxed when he saw it was the boy he’d met earlier. Whelon, he remembered.

‘What do you want?’ Connor asked.

The boy used a pair of crutches to move forward, the motion rustling the leaves. He studied Connor and his gaze fell upon the stout limb. ‘What happened to your sword?’

Connor did not wish to admit his inability to bring Trahern’s blade from the hut. Instead, he told a version of the truth. ‘It was stolen from me. By the same men who crushed my hands.’

‘Normans?’

‘The Ó Banníons,’ Connor corrected.

Whelon extended his hand. ‘May I hold it?’

With his left hand, Connor raised the limb to the boy. It was the same height as the lad and as thick as his wrist. Whelon extended it, the ghost of a smile upon his face. ‘This is how you train?’

The boy’s intense longing humbled him. Why would the child dream of a warrior’s training when he lacked a leg to stand upon?

‘It is part of it.’

‘Teach me.’ Whelon offered the staff back to Connor.

He faltered, not wanting to offend the boy. ‘I do not think I can. Your leg—’

‘I have one good leg.’

‘You do. But a swordsman must have good balance and footwork to succeed in battle. I fear that—’

‘You are afraid I will die, if I try to learn the ways of the sword,’ Whelon guessed. ‘You needn’t fear. I can learn balance.’

‘There is also endurance and speed.’ Connor refused to cloak the truth. If the boy wanted training, he had to confront the reality of his skills.

‘Endurance I have,’ Whelon argued. ‘I travelled this far to meet you.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I saw you coming from Aileen’s cottage. And I watched you train once.’

Connor didn’t like the idea of being watched, much less by a lad with false notions of his abilities. He shook his head. ‘I cannot train you.’

Whelon looked as though he wanted to argue, but he held his tongue. A pitying expression crossed his face. ‘I thought you might understand. I suppose I was wrong.’

The boy did not look back, but used his crutches to hobble out of the forest. At the edge of the horizon, the sun rimmed the meadow with crimson and gold. Connor rose, stepping over the fallen branch. Whether a man lacked a leg or the full use of his hands, the outcome was the same. He had no right to be a warrior.

But with a phrase, he had killed the boy’s hopes. Did that make him any better than the Ó Banníons? Guilt balled inside him, and he wished he’d held his tongue. Whelon was a child, not a man. It wasn’t right to deny the boy a chance to try.

‘Whelon!’ he called out sharply, running to the edge of the woods. At the base of the hill, the boy turned his head.

‘At dawn tomorrow. Meet me here.’

The blinding joy upon the boy’s face startled him. For a moment he understood why Aileen wanted to grant hope to the child.

He sighed. They would make a pair, the two of them. A boy without a leg, and a man without hands.

Hope was a rare thing, lost by so many. Though he might be making the gravest of mistakes by allowing the boy to dream, a warmth encircled his heart.

Aileen stepped forward into the circle of small huts, her nerves taut. She wanted to see her cousin Bridget, whose baby would come at any time now. Bridget had not asked to see her, but Aileen hoped she would not refuse.

Frasier Ó Duinne’s hammer rang upon the anvil, smoke rising from the hearth as he shaped horseshoes. He stared at Aileen but did not greet her. The tension wound tighter within her stomach.

Inside, Bridget sat beside the fire, talking to an older woman with dark hair. With her swollen belly, Aileen could tell it would not be long now. She judged the size of the child, noting that Bridget had lost the smooth roundness of mid-pregnancy. Her stomach bulged with protruding knees and elbows.

‘Hello, Bridget,’ she greeted her cousin. Both women stopped speaking and regarded her.

‘Have you met Illona, our new healer?’ Bridget asked.

Bitterness choked her, but Aileen managed to accept the Ó Banníon woman’s embrace and kiss of greeting upon her cheek. Illona seemed to be the age of her mother, with fine lines edging her eyes.

‘I understand you were once the healer at Banslieve,’ Illona said. The direct question held no trace of cruelty, but it touched a raw nerve. Aileen wanted to cry out,
I am still their healer
. Instead she nodded.

‘How are you feeling?’ Aileen asked, forcing her attention back to her cousin.

‘The babe will come very soon,’ Illona said. ‘No doubt within a few days.’

‘My cousin can speak for herself,’ Aileen said.

Bridget looked uncomfortable. ‘I am tired. I have not slept well these past few nights.’

‘May I see?’

Bridget hesitated, her glance flickering toward Illona. The woman nodded, and a ball of frustration took root within Aileen. Why would her cousin seek permission from a stranger?

But she bit her tongue, forcing back her anger.

The baby’s head was correctly positioned downward, and Aileen held her hands upon Bridget’s stomach. In time, a flicker of movement confirmed that all was well.

‘Does the babe move within you often?’

Bridget shook her head. ‘It has grown quiet these past few days. It moves when I lie down at night, but rarely during the daytime.’

The stillness often foretold an impending birth. Many a time, Aileen had to reassure a terrified mother who was pregnant for the first time that such was to be expected. There was little room left in the womb.

But Bridget had borne three children already and her eyes held the serenity that all would come to pass as it should. Her labour would be swift, Aileen knew. The other babes had come within hours, and this child would be no different.

‘If you would like to assist in the birth, I shall send for you,’ Illona offered. ‘Another pair of hands is always welcome.’

‘Perhaps.’ She clenched her hands to keep her temper in check. The woman had simply stepped into her place, and now she expected Aileen to assist her, following her bidding?

Aware of the tension between the two women, Bridget interjected, ‘Will you attend the
aenach,
Aileen?’

‘
Rachaidh mé
. I shall participate in the women’s council.’ Though as a council member, she could listen to grievances and suggest resolutions, it wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to be there as a healer, to meet with the other women and discuss treatments. To have that taken from her was akin to losing the best part of herself.

‘You will see your daughter Rhiannon there, of course,’ Bridget added. ‘That must make you happy.’

Aileen had forgotten. Of course Lianna would bring Rhiannon. All members of the Ó Duinne tribe attended the
aenach
, without exception. The feasting, merchants and games encouraged everyone to attend.

‘Yes, of course,’ she murmured. Inwardly, panic rose up inside her. Would Connor recognise Rhiannon as his own child? Should she say anything to Lianna? Or was it best to keep Rhiannon away from the
aenach
?

Her mind blundered through the mess of the coming days. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She dreaded having to explain her deed to Connor if he guessed. And surely he would, for Rhiannon had her father’s eyes and face.

Her fears coiled like a viper, striking at her heart. She could not avoid Rhiannon at the
aenach
, nor did she want to. Though it might bring her stolen moment into Connor’s awareness, there was naught she could do about it.

His cruel words from this morning came back to haunt her. Like Seamus, he blamed her for his loss. If he found out what had happened on the night of Bealtaine, he would be furious. Though she did not care if he lashed out at her, she had to protect Rhiannon.

As Rhiannon’s true father, he had rights under the law. He could demand that Rhiannon be sent to his family for fosterage until she reached the age of fourteen. After that, he could arrange her marriage to anyone. Rhiannon’s entire future would lie in his hands, and Aileen could do nothing about it. She refused to stand back and let him make decisions without her counsel.

If he found out, she doubted not that he would be furious. The question was, did she have the courage to tell him before he learned the truth himself?

It was growing late, and she said farewell to Bridget. She could not bring herself to say anything to Illona. As she journeyed home, the anxiety of seeing Connor deepened.

Though she tried to prepare herself, her stomach burned at the awkwardness of sharing a meal with him. Again, she wondered whether or not to tell him about Rhiannon.

Her face grew hot at the thought of admitting she’d switched places with Lianna. Would his face transform in disgust? Would he hate her for deceiving him?

She thought of the way he’d kissed her the other night, kindling feelings she’d thought were long gone. He was no longer the inexperienced boy whom she had loved, but had become a dangerous warrior. If she allowed him to make love with her, the old feelings of longing might return.

She should know better than to trust her heart to Connor MacEgan. Though he tempted her, he would leave soon. And when he left, she didn’t want her family life ripped asunder.

Aileen lingered on the journey home, the sun waning into dark purple clouds. In the sky the mist of an approaching rain swelled and evoked the bountiful scent of earth. When at last she reached her land, wisps of smoke rose from the chimney of her small hut.

Inside, Connor sat upon the floor, his long legs sprawled before him. His hair was damp, as though he’d come from swimming in the stream. A bead of moisture rolled down the side of his face, evoking the memory of the night she’d bathed him. She closed her eyes, willing the sensual image away.

In his hands, Connor held the pig’s bladder. He squeezed it, focusing all of his attention upon the exercise. His face tightened as he tried to bend his fingers. She should make a healing brew to ease his pain, perhaps with honey to sweeten the bitter taste.

But then, why should she make anything for him, when he had spoken so harshly to her this morn? He deserved nothing from her.

She thought suddenly of the new healer Illona, and it hurt to think of her replacement. No matter what the villagers believed, in her heart she would always remain a healer. And this, she decided, was why she would make the drink for Connor. Because it was the right thing to do, to take away another man’s suffering when she held the means.

Aileen removed her
brat
and set it aside. Connor stood when she drew near, in a silent gesture of respect. It did not make her feel better; instead, it heightened her anxiety about what she would say to him.

‘
Dia dhúit
,’ she greeted.

Connor returned the greeting and reached to take her hand. His left hand held hers in a light grip. He was trying to conceal the effort it took for such a small movement. Even still, her trained eyes noted the tension in the muscles of his forearm. Then she saw blisters upon his reddened palm. What had he done to himself?

‘I said words this morn that were unkind. I would ask your forgiveness for them.’

Regret lined his tone, but it was the slight caress of his thumb against her palm that dissolved her anger. His grey eyes offered an apology, and her focus turned to his mouth.

The shocking memory of his heated kiss slid under her skin. When he released her hand, she could still feel the warmth of his palm, and God help her, she wanted more.

‘Am I forgiven?’ He shot her a sensual smile that would send most maidens into a swoon. In response, Aileen straightened. By Danu, she had more sense than that.

‘I don’t know. I have not decided yet,’ she answered.

‘I thought that might happen. It is why I’ve brought you a gift.’ Connor crossed to the far end of the hut. He lifted a package wrapped in cloth and extended it toward her.

Aileen did not know what to say. Though his apology was sincere, behind the words lay the unspoken truth. He did question her skills, believing she had not the experience of Kyna. He could not see the presence of any motion at all as a miracle, only a loss.

Aileen forced herself to swallow her pride. There had to be peace between them before she could reveal her own secret. ‘You did not need to bring me a gift. I accept your apology.’

‘Open it.’

When she unfolded the linen, inside lay a length of dark green ribbon. Made of silk, it was the sort of gift a lover might give to a woman.

Such an irony, for they had been lovers, and he knew it not.