The Warrior's Touch (9 page)

‘My thanks to you,’ she managed.

‘Your mother Póla suggested it when I spoke with her earlier. She thought it might be a fitting gift.’ Connor’s mouth tilted up in a chagrined smile. ‘Though my own mother preferred golden jewellery. Had I the means, I would have given you that instead.’

‘This is lovely.’ Aileen tucked the ribbon away and hid her embarrassed gaze from him. Connor managed to make her behave like a flittering girl. His commanding presence had not diminished even a little, despite his wounded hands. He leaned up against the wall, and she noticed the way his tunic stretched across his broad chest. Not an ounce of fat clung to his deeply chiselled muscles.

She wanted to run her hands across that chest, to taste his kiss once more. She wanted his bare skin against hers.

Aileen shook the pleasurable thoughts away, trying to pull herself back together.

‘I brought fish,’ Connor said, pointing to a string of trout hanging near the door. ‘I tried to clean them. Unfortunately, I made a mess of it, so I stopped.’ He lifted his hands in chagrined surrender.

‘How did you catch them?’

‘Though I would like to say it was my own doing, young Whelon and his friend Lorcan brought them to me this afternoon. They gave me the fish in return for my promise to train both of them tomorrow at dawn.’

‘You?’ Had he claimed his intentions to walk upon water, she could not have been more surprised. ‘How could you train the boys?’

While they spoke, she gutted the fish and scaled them. Using salt and freshly crushed herbs, she rubbed the seasonings into the fillets.

‘I may not be able to demonstrate the skills, but I am capable of training men.’

‘They are boys, not men. Children who will grow up to tend the crops and harvest them, not slaughter one another.’ Aileen spitted the fish, hanging them to roast over the fire.

‘There is no harm in it. And it is all I can offer them.’ His defensive tone forced her to hold her tongue.

When the fish had finished cooking, Aileen set the fillets upon a platter along with a thick slab of bread and crisp spring peas. They ate seated at the low table, their knees a careful distance from one another.

‘Do you require my help to eat?’ she asked.

‘No.’

Aileen offered him an eating knife, which he accepted. Connor struggled to slice a portion of the fillet, his left hand sawing at the fish.

Uncomfortable silence expanded to fill the space.

‘Will you attend the
aenach
tomorrow?’ Connor asked at last.

‘Of course. Everyone does.’

‘I suppose there is always a need for a healer when the games take place.’ He grimaced. ‘Especially with the men trying to kill one another for the sake of a maiden.’

‘I am not allowed to heal any more,’ she said softly. Without intending it, unwanted tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I am sorry, but it infuriates me. This is who I am. I cannot stop being a healer, any more than—’

‘Any more than I can stop being a warrior?’

The soft query made her stop. For the first time she understood his loss. Silently she took his hands in hers, tracing the twisted bones, the angry reddened skin.

‘I swear to you, I did everything in my power to heal your hands.’ She lowered her head, wishing he could somehow see the truth. ‘I hope it was enough.’

‘So do I.’ He reached out and gently dried her tears. Though he seemed self-conscious of his misshapen hands, she did not care. She covered his hands with her own. Lightly stroking his skin, she saw his expression transform. He appeared predatory, a warrior bent upon conquering.

Then he hesitated, as if gathering his own control. ‘Perhaps on the morrow you will find a new husband to care for. There are many competitions for the men.’

She released him and stood, understanding that he did not intend to kiss her. It must have been her imagination, thinking that he might want her. She shielded her embarrassment.

‘The men try to prove their strength,’ she admitted. ‘Such idiocy.’

‘Is that how Eachan won your heart? By showing his skills in a competition?’

She paled at the mention, for he could have been no further from the truth. Instead, she brushed off his insinuation, saying only, ‘No. He was the only man who asked me to wed.’

‘I have my doubts of that. I’ve seen the way Riordan looks at you.’

‘He had already wed someone else.’

‘Then that was his loss.’ His words were sincere, making her all the more uncomfortable. Before she could speak, Connor rose and approached behind her. ‘There will be sword fighting tomorrow in the contests.’

‘Not for you,’ she warned. Though she did not believe Connor was foolish enough to attempt it, many men would seek to challenge him. Some would welcome the chance to see him humiliated in a mock fight. Riordan, she realised, could be one.

‘I have a different battle to face,’ he said, but did not elabourate.

As have I
, she thought. Connor stepped toward her, his arm reaching around her waist. In the soft glow of the lamp, he appeared like Belenus himself, the sun god. Ash-grey eyes seared hers with unspoken desire.

The feel of his arm around her waist, his face only a heartbeat away from hers, made her skin prickle. The pine scent of him filled her senses. His firm mouth bent down, hovering above hers. She could feel his breath against her lips.

‘Would you pull away if I kissed you again?’

She held deathly still, afraid of his kiss and yet more afraid of his power over her. Should she steal this moment with him and seize the pleasure she wanted?

‘Why would you want to kiss me?’ she asked.

‘You are a beautiful woman.’ He brushed a featherlight kiss against her mouth, enough to tempt her. Her clothes felt heavy against her skin, her breasts tightening with need. Inside the intimacy of the hut, the air seemed charged with heat. Against her stomach, she felt his desire and the answering response of her damp womanhood.

She closed her eyes, wishing she had the strength to push him away. Or at the very least, ask him to return to the sick hut.

‘We shouldn’t,’ she whispered, tasting his mouth even as she spoke the words of protest.

‘No, we shouldn’t.’ And he took her lips, kissing her deeply. The heady touch of his tongue against hers, along with the heat of his mouth, invoked every memory, every stolen moment from Bealtaine. She wanted him even more now, this man whom she had once loved.

Trembling, she broke off the kiss. His strong muscular body pressed against hers, his heavy thighs supporting her shaky legs. If she spoke the word, he would make love to her.

And what if this night resulted in another child? Would she lie about that, too?

Guilt and cowardice warred inside her, as his lips roamed the column of her throat.

Tell him.
Her heart urged. He had offered forgiveness for what he’d said and given his friendship freely. Surely he would not harm his own daughter, though he might be angry. If she ever intended to tell him, now was her moment.

She took a step backwards, praying with every fibre that he would not condemn her.

‘Connor, do you remember the last year of your fosterage? The night of Bealtaine when you—’

‘I remember.’ Anger creased his face. ‘It is not a night I wish to speak of.’

His words cut her down as surely as any sword. She picked up the broken pieces of her courage and forced herself to finish. ‘There is something I must tell you about it. About Lianna and…and the night you honoured the gods.’

She steadied her breathing, grateful for the dim interior of her hut. He could not see the humiliation, the fear within her.

Despite it all, she held no regrets. Though it had been wrong to hide the truth from him, she now had a beautiful daughter. Her only child had been conceived that night.

‘When you lay with Lianna—’

‘Do not speak to me of that night.’ He leaned forward, revealing an icy rage she had not known he possessed. It was as if he knew already what she was about to say. His grey eyes turned to frost, the cool demeanour of a mercenary. ‘I have tried for many years to forget each moment of it. It was naught but a mistake.’

Her nails dug deeply into her palms as his words struck an invisible blow. She had loved him that night, believed their lovemaking to be a fitting offering to the gods. Even as the fields ripened with a rich harvest, so too had her body.

As she went through the motions of cleaning up after the meal, Aileen held back the tears. Had she been such a poor lover on that night when she’d welcomed him into her arms? It had awakened her to the wonder of love. But for him, it had not been the same.

Though she had told him nothing, Connor had made one thing very clear. He would not welcome the knowledge of his daughter, nor would he dismiss Bealtaine as one festival among many.

She would not speak of it again, nor admit what she had done. If he accused her about Rhiannon, she would deny it, as would Lianna. No matter what happened at the
aenach
, she had to protect her daughter.

W
helon stumbled as the two boys sparred with makeshift swords. Lorcan struck hard against the wooden branch, showing his friend no mercy.

Connor corrected Whelon’s stance. ‘Keep your eyes on Lorcan. Never look down, for that will be the last time you lay eyes upon an enemy. You’ll find his sword in your belly.’

Whelon wore a wooden staff attached to the stump on his right leg. Though it was serviceable, Connor questioned the wisdom of sharing his knowledge with the child. Whelon had not the ability to join in a battle. His dream of becoming a fighter could never come true.

And yet, Connor found satisfaction in teaching the boy. He saw the fierce pride upon Whelon’s face, the need to prove his skills. It was like watching himself as a child.

With both hands, Whelon spun and struck Lorcan’s branch from the side. The blow caught Lorcan unawares, and he sprawled to the ground.

A smile spread over Whelon’s face, and he reached down to help his friend up.

‘Well done,’ Connor said.

The boys sparred again, emitting loud battle cries. The training had transformed into play. Connor allowed the boys to continue their game. His hands ached from the previous day’s training, more blisters swelling upon his palms. He had not spoken of it to Aileen after last night.

He picked up a branch, using his foot as leverage to snap off the extra twigs. The fingers of his right hand still would not move to his liking, forcing him to use the left. Though he had trained to fight with his weaker hand, he far preferred the right hand.

Connor forced the fingers around the branch, gritting his teeth to control the movement. Tendons tightened and stretched, his wrist shaking while he attempted to move the branch in the manner of a sword.

While he engaged in the exercises, he thought of Aileen once more. She had wanted to tell him something about Bealtaine, and he’d refused to hear it. It reminded him of the morning afterwards, when he’d found Lianna bare-breasted in Tómas’s arms. It was a moment of humiliation he’d never forgotten, and he had no desire to dredge up the past.

Now, it was Deirdre Ó Banníon who evoked his wrath. Were she a man, he’d have challenged her for offering such lies to her father.

Connor swung the branch at a tree, shattering the wood. The impact sent a blast of pain through his wrist and arm, and he gasped. The boys turned from their play, but he shook his head so as not to concern them.

He knew not if they’d asked permission to come, and it was time for them to join the preparations for the
aenach
. Their foster-parents would be searching for them. Connor sent them off, promising another lesson in a few days’ time.

‘You are coming to the
aenach
, aren’t you?’ Whelon asked, his young eyes hopeful.

‘
Tá
. But I’ll not compete in the games.’

‘No one expects you to,’ Lorcan remarked, releasing another shrill battle cry. He walked alongside Whelon, content to move at his friend’s slower pace.

Connor examined his right hand when the boys had gone. Such an act of foolishness, to think he could wield a sword in the way he had always done. The weakened muscles refused to yield to his bidding. Upon his wrist and palm, he studied the scars of past fights. Nicks and slashes covered both sides. Each was a reminder not to lose his attention upon the fight. Some were earned in battle, those more valued than the others. He had lived, while others died at his hand.

As he passed through the forest, pushing his way past the smaller branches, his thoughts moved to the Ó Banníons. Today the Brehon courts would hear the case and decide upon a judgement.

Seamus Ó Duinne believed he should accept the
corpdíre
and settle the matter. Connor preferred an eye for an eye. Or hands for hands, as it were. He increased his gait, sprinting across the field toward Aileen’s hut. The exercise satisfied his longing to exert every last muscle.

When he reached Aileen’s hut, he saw her standing outside with her animals. In the coolness of the fading dawn, the sky held clouds the dark colour of fleece. There would be rain this day.

He slowed at the apex of the hill, watching her. Dark strands of her hair streamed in the morning wind, while she fed the animals. She poured a bucket of grain into a small trough, guiding his own horse’s mouth into it. Her hands moved over the animal’s skin, and he froze at the sight. As if she sensed his presence, she turned to him.

Something within him halted. For over two moons, he’d dwelled with this woman and he hadn’t seen how breathtaking she was. With clear skin and sage eyes that saw through him, there was something ethereal about her.

Her blue woollen overdress accentuated the creamy white
léine
beneath, her feet bare. As he strode towards her, she smiled in greeting, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes.

‘What did you want to tell me about Bealtaine?’ he asked.

The bucket fell from her hands, the grain spilling upon the ground. A startled look overcame her, a fear that she masked quickly. ‘You would not believe me if I told you. It does not matter now. I suppose some things are better left in the past.’

He didn’t believe her. Her rushed speech, and the way her gaze would not meet his, made him suspicious.

He leaned down and righted the bucket, his fingers struggling to curve around the wood. Though he tried to make his hands grasp the handle, he was forced to lift it with his forearm.

‘It bothers you. What happened that night?’ He’d been so absorbed in his own anger that day, he recalled seeing her pale, frightened face that morn. Had someone forced her? A darkness curled in his stomach at the thought of someone harming Aileen.

Her cheeks were crimson, but she accepted the bucket. Shaking her head, she tightened her lips into a thin line. ‘I tell you, it does not matter.’

The resignation on her face kept him from asking again. Instead, Connor walked beside her while she finished the remainder of her morning chores.

‘Mass will begin soon, along with the opening ceremonies. We must make haste.’ Aileen opened the door to the hut, holding it out to him while she gathered her
brat
. She wrapped the warm shawl around her head, crossing it over her shoulders. Connor donned his own mantle, raising it to shield himself from the soft morning rain that had begun to fall.

Aileen handed him a basket, which he accepted, hooking it over his forearm. She had laboured for most of the night and morning preparing honey cakes for the
aenach
. Connor lifted the corner of the cloth, his mouth watering at the sight. Fragrant steam rose from the basket, of warm pastry and sweet honey.

‘Do not think of stealing one,’ Aileen warned. ‘Unless you wish to have your hands broken once more.’ A note of teasing underscored her remark. Connor preferred it to the wounded look he’d caused. He’d rather see her smile.

‘Am I not a guest in your home?’

‘A burden, more like. For the past few moons I’ve done nothing but wait upon you hand and foot. Feeding you, tending your wounds—’

‘Bathing me.’ He could not resist needling her with the reminder of that night. As soon as he spoke of it, Aileen whirled upon him.

‘What is it you’re about, Connor MacEgan? Are you wanting to take me into your bed?’

She stared hard at him, eyes blazing. Her full lips were reddened, her dark hair contrasting against her pale skin. As soon as the words left her mouth, his body responded. He would not mind taking her into his bed. To feel her soft skin bare against his own, to taste her mouth.

‘And if I said I would?’ He acted upon his desires, kissing her the way he’d been wanting to. Her lush, full lips played against his own, and he moved his hands over the swell of her hips. Even as his body responded, a voice inside warned that he was opening a door he should not. She was the woman who had seen him at his weakest moments. He had chosen to stay with her because she would not entangle him the way other women would.

Aileen trembled in his arms, her kiss tentative and sweet. He tasted the rain against her lips and moved his mouth to her ear. She inhaled sharply. Her palms covered his chest, her thumbs stroking the ridged muscles. The simplicity of the gesture made his body tighten.

Belenus, he wanted her. And though it might be wrong, he sensed that she needed him, too. They could enjoy each other, could they not? He drew back, watching the clouded desire in her eyes. ‘What must I do to earn your trust?’

‘I will not share your bed, Connor MacEgan. I’ve more sense than that.’ She gave him a strong push, and he backed away. Frustration punctuated her stride, and he forced himself to cool his ardour. She was afraid of him. Or possibly her own feelings. He needed to lighten her mood.

‘Set your mind at ease, Aileen. I’ve no plans to seduce you here upon the morning grass.’

She shot him a suspicious look. ‘I would not put it past you.’

‘The dew does tend to make your clothing rather wet,’ he teased. ‘Most uncomfortable.’

She released an exasperated ‘Humph.’

With feigned seriousness, he asked, ‘Where would you prefer that I take you?’

This time, she understood his jest. Pausing in her walk, she tilted her head to one side. ‘Upon a pallet. A soft one with sheets made of woven silk.’

‘Have you never made love outside, then?’ From the way her skin flushed, he guessed not.

‘Have you?’

He only smiled. ‘Should you desire it, you’ve only to ask it of me.’

‘That day will never come, Connor MacEgan. You may find yourself another woman to seduce this eve.’

Strangely, he did not want another woman. He’d rather steal this woman away during the moonlit hours. Men and women of the tribe frequently paired off on nights such as this one, to make love beneath the stars. It harkened back to their pagan forefathers. But Aileen refused to lie with him. Was it because she was afraid? Or did he repulse her? He glanced down at his misshapen hands before hiding them in a fold of his mantle. Stiffening his shoulders, he followed her and wondered what her refusal had truly meant.

When they reached the fairgrounds, Aileen separated from his side to join the women in setting up the vast array of food. Several men had slaughtered both swine and cattle alike, while others worked to dig a roasting pit. The mingled scent of blood and smoke pooled in the air while the men and women worked to clean the meat. The rain had stopped, but the sun hid behind grey clouds.

Twelve large tents stood to provide shelter and a space for gathering. In the distance he saw groups of children seated at the feet of a poet, listening to stories. The light sound of pipes and harp music joined with the throng of voices.

Familiar faces surrounded Connor, wishing him good morn, voices bidding him welcome. But one man cast him a look akin to murder. Riordan approached with a driven purpose upon his countenance.

‘MacEgan,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘Riordan.’ Being of a taller stature, Connor possessed the advantage of height. Riordan did not take well to being looked down upon.

‘Aileen has done all she can to heal your wounds.’ Jealousy hardened the man’s face. ‘You should return to your own people. Your presence bothers her.’

‘It bothers her?’ Connor questioned. ‘Or does it bother you?’

‘Hurt her, and you will answer to me.’ A darkness tinged Riordan’s threat. He did not allow Connor to reply, but moved toward the long trestle tables where Aileen worked alongside the women.

Connor resented the man’s threat. Never had he harmed a woman. He longed to sink his fist into Riordan’s stomach, to feel the satisfaction of a fight. Though he recognised the words as idle jealousy, his hackles rose when he thought of Riordan being near Aileen.

As he strode through the throng of people, he caught sight of a familiar banner. A grave chill spread over him. The
méirge
held the colours of the Ó Banníon tribe. Somewhere among them was Flynn Ó Banníon, the man responsible for his injuries.

He stared at the crowd, searching to find his enemy. A cool trance seemed to settle over him, the need for vengeance outweighing all else. He reached to his side, forgetting that he had left his sword in the hut. The absence of the weapon reminded him once again that he was not ready to face the Ó Banníons in combat. But his time would come.

The priest Father Maen raised his hands, the dark brown folds of his sleeves falling to his sides. He waited for silence when all the tribesmen had gathered. Then he invoked a Latin blessing, calling for the folk to pray for fruitfulness in both harvest and in family. Connor joined the tribe in their response of ‘Amen’, but his gaze remained locked upon the faces of Ó Banníon men he had once called his friends. Now, nothing of that camaraderie remained. There was still no sign of Flynn Ó Banníon, the chieftain.

After the prayers, the folk dispersed into groups for storytelling and the games. Children raced, shouting and laughing as they moved amid the dogs and animals. A few elders began games of chess with pieces carved of ivory and black stone. Connor kept a wary gaze towards the Ó Banníon tribe, but none spoke to him.

He walked through the crowd, passing among merchants who vied for his attention. He had brought along a few pieces of silver from the purse Trahern had given him. Though it would not be enough to purchase more than a few trinkets, he found himself moving toward the horses.

A fine black
Ech
, its skin sleek as midnight, caught his eye. Such a warhorse might cost a chieftain four hundred cattle in exchange. The steed tossed its head, the silver bridle flashing in the morning light.

‘Brought over from Wales, he was,’ the vendor boasted. ‘Fastest animal for riding you’ll find. Good bloodlines. The Norman king wanted this one.’

‘He is very fine,’ Connor acknowledged, ‘but I am looking to gift a woman with a horse. She does not need an animal better suited to royalty.’ Nor did he have the silver to purchase such a steed, not even with help from his eldest brother Patrick, the King of Laochre.

The merchant’s eyes gleamed. ‘Then it might be you’d be wanting a gentler animal, like this one.’