Lord Of Shadowhawk. Lindsay McKenna

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