“I have heard that the Arabian’s endurance is greater than any other horse’s.”
Tray savored her nearness. “I’ve ridden him against local horses, even highly touted and very expensive thoroughbreds, and he’s bested them all at any distance.” He gave the blood bay a friendly pat, watching the stallion nuzzle Alyssa’s neck and shoulder. “It seems you have brought the lord of Shadowhawk to his knees, my lady. I’ve never seen Rasheed quite as gentlemanly as he is in your presence. I’m impressed.”
Alyssa blushed becomingly. “I love horses, Tray.”
“I’m jealous. I only wish I were Rasheed, able to stand there and receive such undisguised affection from your hands.”
Tray’s lowered voice vibrated through Alyssa. She was stunned by the veiled emotion she heard in his carefully modulated admission. Her thoughts skipped like a rock tossed across the surface of a pond in their effort to change the path of their conversation.
“Tell me why you bear calluses on your hands. We always thought English lords had only soft, manicured hands.”
Tray smiled, pleased with her alertness. How many people, upon contact with his hand, had noted that? Not one. “Just as you find happiness working with horses, little one, I find joy in working closely with the land. It’s the Welsh blood in me. On any given day in late spring, after the lambing season and through late autumn, I’ll be with my men out in the fields, hauling rocks out of a field so that it may be plowed, or tilling the soil.”
Her lips parted in shock. “You? Tilling the fields?”
“Of course. Where is it written that a lord can’t feel the warmth of the earth he owns in his hands?”
“Well…” Alyssa lifted her head in the direction of his deep, soothing voice. “You’re so different,” she admitted lamely, “from the English who try to rule us in Ireland.”
Tray placed his fingers beneath her elbow, gently guiding her away from Rasheed and down the aisle toward the brood mare stalls. “I wonder when your selective Irish ears will believe that above all else, I am Welsh. And the Welsh love their land as ardently as the Irish love their horses. We’ve a special pact with this wild, desolate country of ours. Our heritage traces directly to the Druids. And everyone knows that the Druids held special sway over the land and trees. I’m not different, little one. I’d sooner be with my land and my Welsh countrymen than anywhere else.”
Alyssa’s voice grew husky with emotion. “I owe you an apology.”
“No, just your understanding, Aly. That’s all I ask between you and me.”
His intimate comment created a gamut of feelings within her. As Tray opened the door to a stall and drew her inside, Alyssa could not shake the feeling of warmth that existed like a living, throbbing force between them. After all her abuse at the hands of her English attackers, Tray was showing her that not all men were to be feared or hated. Suddenly, she was curious about this enigmatic Welshman. She planned to ply him later with more questions of his heritage.
“Ah,” Tray murmured, drawing Alyssa near him, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder once again. “Our little charge is up and wobbling around. The mare is gray with large dark dapples on her sides. I call her Jenny.”
Alyssa smiled over at him, waiting for him to guide her toward the foal. “You call your horses by human names?”
“Another oddity of mine,” he assured her, thinking how beautifully her eyes shone when she smiled. He led her to the dark foal at the Welsh mare’s side, guiding Alyssa’s outstretched hand forward until she could touch it. “I like matching my animals’ names to their own individual character.”
Alyssa smiled as the foal boldly stepped forward, its tiny body warm and fuzzy against her as it began to nip at her fingers. “That’s true,” she agreed softly, lovingly running her hand over the foal. “Each animal, like each person, is different.”
Tray stood back, arms crossed against his chest, and watched as she bestowed the same effortless affection on the foal as she had earlier with Rasheed. “I hope you apply that philosophy to me, as well.”
Lifting her head, Alyssa smiled shyly. “A lord who works in his fields. A man who never lifts a crop to his stallion. I think I will have to erase all that I know about the English and judge you on your own merits instead.”
Tray’s gray eyes glimmered with warmth. “I think I would like that, little one.”
* * *
The morning was magic for Alyssa. The sun warmed her skin as Tray walked her from the stable back toward the manor. She suddenly reached out, gripping his forearm, turning to him. “This afternoon, after my nap and before tea, I thought that I could join you in the drawing room next door. You could tell me more of your Welsh heritage. I mean—that is, unless you have something else to do….”
Tray stared down at her, disbelief etched in his widening gray eyes. Alyssa wanted more of his company? His heart took a hopeful lurch in his chest and he tried to calm his reaction. Was it a miracle? Was she truly beginning to trust him?
He forced down all those emotions, his voice smoothly neutral when he answered, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me out of boredom? I realize now that your room must be like a prison to you, since you seem to thrive on the outdoors.”
Alyssa shook her head. “You’ve given me so much today. I’m loath to be put back into bed for the rest of the day.”
A beginning of a smile pulled at his mouth as he slowed her to a stop, opening the door to her bedchamber. “Ah, then it is out of boredom,” he taunted gently, leading her inside.
“No.” Alyssa gripped his arm as she had done before. “If you have the time, and if I’m not a burden to you, please tell me of Wales. Of yourself. I promise you, it’s not out of boredom.”
He guided her to a chair near the warmth of the fireplace. After she sat down, he pulled the bell cord, ringing for a servant. “Very well, my lady, join me in the blue drawing room at your convenience and you and I will talk upon my favorite topic—Wales.”
She gripped her kidskin gloves between her hands, looking up at him. “And about you.”
Tray saw Maura enter the chamber. “We’ll see,” was all he said. “Maura will take care of you now.” He lifted his head toward the dark-haired servant. “See that she joins me in the blue drawing room after she’s rested, Maura.”
Maura curtsied with a bright smile on her thin Irish face, noting Lord Trayhern’s relaxed features. For once their dark lord appeared truly happy, which only increased the toothiness of her smile. “Yes, my lord.”
* * *
Alyssa nervously smoothed the silk skirt of what Maura referred to as a “simple country dress.” As she ran her fingers across the material, Maura told her its pale lavender color set off the beauty of her hair. The girl sat her down, insisting upon brushing her long locks until, she was told, they gleamed with burnished gold and wine highlights. The satin slippers on her feet felt odd, for she was used to going barefoot.
Still, Alyssa could not control her erratic pulse as her fingertips moved lightly across the high lace collar that surrounded her throat. The round buttons down the front turned out to be pearls. Pearls! And the long tube sleeves were gathered with lace around each of her wrists. The agony of wanting her sight back knifed through Alyssa as Maura prattled in great detail about what the dress looked like upon her. Maura reminded her of a flitting bird, fluttering excitedly around Alyssa as she added the last touches to her toilette. The maid held up many bottles of perfume for her to sniff and insisted that she choose one. When Alyssa hesitantly picked the jasmine scent, Maura applied a bit behind each of her ears and to the pulse points of her throat and wrists.
By the time she was led into the adjoining room, Alyssa’s nervousness was blatantly broadcast by the embroidered linen handkerchief that she knotted and twisted between her fingers as she was led to where Tray stood.
“Come,” he invited, “join me here by the fire. Maura? Have Craddock bring us some warm chocolate.”
“Right away, my lor
d.”
Tray gave Alyssa an amused glance as he guided her toward the settee next to the huge, open marble hearth.
“Why are you behaving like a nervous young horse?” he teased, releasing her in front of the settee. Tray watched as Alyssa awkwardly lifted the voluminous folds of the silk skirt and sat down. Her burgundy hair cascaded in soft, curving tresses below her small breasts, making her appear even more intensely feminine. Tray sat down in the chair adjacent to her.
“I’m just not used to all this attention,” she admitted in a whisper, lovingly touching the material of her dress. “And these clothes. They were made for a queen, not a commoner such as myself.”
“You are a queen,” he parried quietly, “Arhiannon.“
Alyssa tilted her head, mystified by the musical language that she could not identify. “What did you just say?”
Tray smiled. “That was a Welsh endearment. I called you my queen.”
Her heart skidded sharply. It was as if Tray had reached over and physically caressed her with that lovely Welsh name. Alyssa tried to parry his cajoling flattery.
“Not many queens are born in a thatched hut, raised with the soil of their homeland beneath their fingernails and the darkness of it forever dyed on the bottom of their feet.” She raised one dainty foot outward. “It feels strange to be wearing slippers.”
Tray rubbed his jaw, watching her animated features. “What are you used to wearing, Aly?”
She blushed as he used his pet name for her again, and her heart gave a lurch in her breast that made her feel slightly giddy. His voice was like rich honey pouring over her each time he called her Aly, as if it, too, were a loving endearment. Was it? Rattled, Alyssa blurted out, “I’m used to what you found me in. My white shirt, black trousers and barefoot.”
A frown formed on his face. “I know women in Ireland wear dresses. What could possibly persuade you to wear men’s clothes?”
Alyssa gulped back the true answer. For the last four years of her life she had lived in the embrace of the forests, avoiding attacks by the English. She dressed like her older brothers and father, sitting astride her huge chestnut gelding instead of sidesaddle, as ladies were taught to do. It had been her responsibility to find new places in the forest to hide, set up camp and cook for the many men who followed her father and brothers. Sean and a few younger boys were charged with trapping and finding food for the group.
“I…well…you know, living with a father and two older brothers.” She licked her lips. “I wore Gavin’s castoffs because he was more my size. We didn’t have money enough to buy a dress. Or shoes.” That wasn’t a lie, thank the saints.
Alyssa cringed inwardly, hating to lie to Tray. He, of all people, didn’t deserve her deceit. After all, he had saved her and Sean from sure death. Yet her dishonesty was necessary to their continued survival. If she would only get better soon, then Tray would keep his word and send them back to their beloved emerald isle, where they would be safe from English hatred, melting back into the woods, free once again to live and try to find her brothers.
The scowl on Tray’s face deepened as he visualized her running shoeless in the damp cold of winter. When he had washed her limbs before she had regained consciousness, he had been poignantly aware of the thick soles on her feet and the stained darkness of the soil rubbed into their calloused surface. “So being around men dictated your choice of clothing?”
“That and little money.” Alyssa tilted her head. “Don’t be sad. I love the freedom that trousers give me. I can see why men are more active.” She gave him a little smile, picking at the folds of the skirt. “I feel trussed up like a horse in harness in this.”
Tray smiled distantly. “Men should respect women for the beauty that comes from their hearts and show that affection by providing for them in the best possible way. While you’re here, I hope you find the dresses a pleasing change from your other attire.”
“Oh, I do! I mean—” her fingers flew to her throat, caressing the pearls “—Maura said these were real pearls. And the lace, it’s so fine…”
“As you are—a priceless pearl,” he assured her throatily.
Craddock knocked and entered, mercifully saving Alyssa from further embarrassment. Each time Tray spoke in that low, roughened tone, it aroused feelings in her she never knew existed. It was as if her young body were blooming beneath the unexpected caresses of Tray’s touch and voice. The sensation left her mouth dry and pulse beating unevenly. Craddock placed a cup and saucer in her hands, and she was grateful for the diversion. When Alyssa placed the liquid to her lips and tasted it, however, she was taken by surprise.
Tray smiled, seeing bewilderment clearly written in her expression when she sipped and tasted the hot liquid. “What’s the matter? Isn’t it to your liking?”
Alyssa held the saucer between her hands. “Oh, no…what is it?”
He had to stop himself from chuckling at her conspiratorial tone. “Chocolate. From the West Indies. It’s the latest rage, I hear. They grind the nut into a powder form, pour scalding hot milk over it and sweeten it with honey. What do you think of it?”
“Wonderful! It tastes so rich…”
Tray gloried in Alyssa’s discoveries. Just to watch the tip of her tongue slide across her full lower lip sent an unbidden shaft of pleasure and hotness through him. She was like a doe, incredibly gentle and graceful in all her movements. “Have it whenever you want,” he invited. And then his voice became more serious. “As a matter of fact, I think you ought to eat whenever you feel the least bit hungry, to regain that lost weight.”
She smiled tentatively, testing her ribs gingerly with her exploring fingers. “I’m like that poor horse I used to see pulling a cart in Wexford, merely a bag of bones.”
“Far more lovely than the horse, I assure you. But too skinny for your health’s sake.”
Alyssa finished off the chocolate and Craddock reappeared to take the cup and saucer from her. She folded her hands in her lap, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the peace that inhabited the drawing room. When had she ever felt like this? She could recall similar feelings when riding her gelding, allowing the sun to warm her thinly clothed body. Or standing along the strand of beach near Wexford, watching the restless, deep jade Irish Sea.
“Better now?” Tray’s voice intruded gently.
“Yes, thank you.” Alyssa hesitated, then asked tentatively, “What do you look like?”
Tray stared down at his left foot, which resided in a specially made boot to accommodate its deformity. If Alyssa could see him, she would shrink back in terror. “If you are talking of physical beauty, then my half brother is the handsome one. Vaughn has every eligible woman in London after him for marriage.”
“I don’t care about your half brother. It is you that I want to know about,” she countered gently. “Is your hair dark?”
“Yes.”
“Brown?”
“No. Black, like a dark, storm-ridden night.”
She laughed delightedly, clapping her hands together. “Are you trying to frighten me with your gruff snarls and growls for answers? Never have I met a man so unwilling to brag upon his looks! Why, my brother Dev would gladly bend your ear to tell you what a rake he is. And Gavin would simply stand there with an arrogant look on his handsome face, expecting you to faint at his feet! Are all Welsh so humble?”
A sour smile touched his mouth. “No, sweet Aly, just me. For—well, let’s just say for reasons. I have black hair, gray eyes and Sorche tells me I’m built like a powerful bull, although my height is greater than most other Welsh.”
“And who do you resemble more? Your mother or father?”
“My mother, God rest her soul,” he admitted, still feeling a dull pain at her loss even though he had never known her. “Sorche tells me I have her eyes and color of hair. My father contributed his frame and height to round me out.”
“And are your sensitivity and kindness also gifts from your mother?”
He stirred unc
omfortably and yet also found himself hungry to speak with her about his life. “Sorche was my mother’s nurse and often told me that Isolde would cry easily. Mother saw beauty in every living thing.” Tray’s voice lowered and he rubbed his brow. “She was the light of my father’s life. She brought happiness everywhere she went.”
Alyssa compressed her lips. “It must have been terrible to lose her. I’m sorry you didn’t get to know her, Tray.” Her tone grew soft. “But I think she would be very pleased with the way you help others. No one suffers under your hand, it would seem.”
He managed a harsh laugh and rose out of the chair, limping slowly back and forth in front of the fireplace. “You misjudge me, Alyssa. My reputation here is one of a man who would ask for your last ounce of sweat and the last drop of blood from your raw and bleeding hands.”
“I do not think unfairness is in your character,” she countered.
“No, I try to be just. But God knows, I’m far from perfect.” Deformed, as a matter of fact, he added bitterly, glancing over at Alyssa. If she knew he was deformed, would she shrink back in terror? Would repugnance and revulsion be mirrored in every nuance of her face as it had with women in the past? Shelby had barely been able to tolerate his deformity. She would pull away from him if his leg accidentally brushed against hers, and she always avoided looking at it.
During the spring planting, he spent endless hours out in the fields with his men; it was then that his left leg would ache with fiery pain. Once, he was in so much agony that he lay writhing on the bed, his distorted muscles gone into spasm. Only massage would gently unknot those angry, taut muscles. In his agony, he had begged Shelby to rub his leg, but she tearfully refused, fleeing from their bedchamber. He lay there, fists clenched among the sheets, biting down hard on his lip for nearly an hour until the spasms finally abated and he could manage to sit up and rub his leg himself. Even Shelby, who loved him as fiercely as he had loved her, could not tolerate his twisted limb.
Lord of Shadowhawk Page 8