Lord of Shadowhawk

by Lindsay McKenna

  He chewed the succulent meat, thinking that nothing had ever tasted so good. “Part of the responsibility of being a lord,” he grumbled. “If I quit now, my men won’t respect me, little one.”

  Alyssa glared at him. “You are stubborn!”

  He heard the concern in her protest and looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “At least I’m not narrow between the eyes.”

  She exploded into a string of Gaelic. “You’re impossible, Tray! Impossible!”

  He rewarded her with a tolerant smile as Taffy and his men entered the cottage. “And I don’t have a Roman nose, either.”

  Alyssa stood in front of him, tensed and scowling, then, suddenly, she broke into helpless laughter, laughter that rang like silvered bells through the old cottage. The sound was music to everyone’s ears, lifting all their weary spirits.

  They had no more eaten their fill of mutton when a torrential downpour of rain shattered everyone’s improving mood. Tray was the first on his feet, snarling a curse beneath his breath. Taffy made the sign of the cross.

  “It will take five hours, my lord, before that stream widens into a river and the mountain runoff floods those ewes off that piece of ground.”

  Tray looked down at his three exhausted men. Their faces were slack and muddied, eyes red-rimmed, mouths set in stubborn lines. He spoke softly in Welsh. “I need your help.”

  “We’re with you, my lord,” Taffy spoke up quickly, gesturing for the other two men to get to their feet.

  “Go on ahead, Taffy. I’ll be there in a moment,” Tray told him. He waited until the shepherds had left and then walked over to Alyssa. Her hair was mussed and in need of a good brushing. He didn’t miss the worry in the depths of her eyes as she looked up at him. He rested his hands on her small shoulders.

  “It will take a while to get those sheep across, Aly. Would you unsaddle Rasheed and rub him down? There’s a small shed in back of the cottage. Perhaps there’s some old dried grass to feed to him.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” she promised, craving Tray’s closeness.

  “Thank you.”

  “What happens after the sheep are freed?”

  “I’ll have Taffy take them down this mountain and drive them back toward the main flock.” Tray reached out to her and then hesitated, realizing his fingers were muddy. He wanted to caress her hair, faintly aware of its clean scent. “Stay indoors,” he told her, “there’s no sense in your getting wet and cold.”

  The rains continued for five hours. Alyssa rubbed Rasheed until the stallion groaned with pleasure, lying down in the narrow shed as soon as she completed the task. The horse had to be as tired as Tray was, Alyssa thought compassionately. Returning to the old cottage, she kept herself busy. She brought in clean straw, placing it in one corner of the dirt floor for a bed in case a shepherd needed a soft place to sleep one night. There was an ample supply of coal for heat, and after stuffing the cracks in the wall with straw, the place was suitably warm and dry. She found a small garden patch beside the cottage and was able to dig up some potatoes and turnips. It was almost as if she were at home again, foraging the land for sustenance. Inside, after she had dried off, she discovered some onions, peppercorns and a small cooking kettle.

  The early afternoon sped by as Alyssa cleaned the kettle, caught fresh rain and used her newfound ingredients along with chunks of mutton to make a passable stew. She brought in Rasheed’s large, thick wool saddle blanket and laid it out before the hearth to dry. Pleased with her efforts, Alyssa found a dented tin bowl and washed her hands, neck and face. After replaiting her hair, she felt somewhat better. Taking another look out the small window, she noticed it was growing dark much earlier than she had anticipated. Was it because of the heavy curtain of rain? More clouds coming from the north? Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Alyssa donned her dry wool cloak, mounted a black cob and headed toward the waterfall.

  Taffy and his shepherds stood huddled in the driving rain. Alyssa saw Tray among them and noticed that only one ewe was left on the other side of the water. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized how expansive and angry the stream had grown. The lone ewe stood in knee-deep water, cowering against the rock wall, the sound of its bleating drowned out by the roar of the cataract. Alyssa dismounted and walked toward the men.

  “I want you to take them down the mountain, now,” Tray was instructing a shepherd. “If that other stream rises too high, you’ll never get the flock to cross. You have to leave immediately.”

  The Welsh shepherd nodded in agreement. “What about that last thickheaded ewe?” he asked.

  Tray rubbed the back of his aching neck. His muscles felt as if they were on fire, begging for rest. “I’ll get her.”

  “Master Taffy,” Alyssa broke in, “I’ve made a stew for all of you—”

  “They don’t have time, Aly,” Tray said.

  Taffy gave her an apologetic smile. “Thanks anyway, my lady. If the other streams weren’t rising, we’d be glad to partake of it.”

  “Just be careful, Master Taffy.”

  The old Welshman grinned at her. “We will indeed, my lady. Come on, lads!”

  She stood there near Tray, acutely aware of his weariness. His broad shoulders were hunched, his face haggard and gray-looking. He slowly turned to her.

  “One more.”

  Alyssa reached out, her fingers wrapping around his muddied wrist. “Then can you rest? Do we have to go back with the herd?”

  “I’m afraid it will be too late.” Tray mustered a broken smile. “And that mutton stew sounds too good to pass up. I was wondering what kind of cook you might be.”

  “A good one.”

  “Indeed?”

  “If you hurry up and get that poor ewe, you’ll find out.”

  Tray’s fingers found hers and gave her hand a brisk squeeze before releasing it and beginning the treacherous trek across the swirling, rushing water. The width of the stream had increased by half since the rains had begun. Tray bowed his head against the downpour. Taffy and his men had already disappeared over the steep slope, driving the flock down the mountain. A sense of victory flowed through him; they had saved all of them. The ewes would have fat, healthy lambs within a day or two. Wearily, Tray rubbed his watering eyes, feeling the pull of the water tugging at him. The bottom was now less slippery and more adhesive, the sharp surface of the rocks providing him with some form of stability beneath his boots.

  The ewe practically fell into Tray’s arms when he leaned down to pick her up. She was heavy, and by the bulge of her belly he was positive that she was carrying twins. Tray looked across the raging water to where Alyssa was standing, a forlorn hooded figure, her small hands stark white against her cloak. The ewe bleated and struggled as Tray limped into the river. Within moments, he was up to his waist, the ewe’s feet dragging through the churning water. He tightened his faltering grip on the animal. With an unexpected lunge, the ewe wrenched him sideways. Tray felt white-hot pain tear through his leg as his left foot twisted.

  He was falling backward, holding the bleating ewe in a death grip. Alyssa’s scream rose above the roar. And then…icy water closed over his head, flowing into his mouth and up his nostrils. The animal jerked convulsively and Tray floundered toward the surface, dragging the sheep upward to keep her from drowning, as she surely would if he let go of her. Momentarily blinded, he swallowed huge amounts of the muddy water. The swift current carried him a hundred feet downstream before he was able to get his feet under him once again and crawl toward the opposite shore, cursing the panicked ewe he held in tow.

  The instant the sheep could stand, she bounded onto dry land, bleating pitifully and running in the direction of the flock, which had disappeared over the horizon. Tray groaned and rolled over on his back, gasping for air. Unremitting pain shot up his left calf. He was barely aware of Alyssa, for all her diminutive size, gripping his hands above his head and pulling him to the safety of the bank. He heard her sobbing his name over and over again and forced his eyes
open. She was leaning over him, hair wet and tangled, her face frozen in terror, breathing as hard as he was.

  He was weak, more weak than he had ever been in his life. No sleep and the hard physical demands of the past two days had finally taken their toll. Reaching out, he wrapped his fingers around Alyssa’s hand, which rested on his chest.

  “I’m all right,” he whispered. “Just let me rest a moment….”

  “Oh, Tray, you almost drowned!” she sobbed. “I thought you would never come back up. Damn you! Why didn’t you let go of that ewe! She was dragging you under again and again!”

  “She’s going to have twins,” he gasped. “Couldn’t let her die, could I?” He forced his lashes up, meeting her tormented green eyes.

  “Bring the cob over here, Aly,” he whispered, his voice raw. Suddenly, his injured left foot went into spasm. He damn near screamed, his body stiffening, his teeth clenching in an effort not to cry out. Oh God! Not now! Not that! God…

  He heard Alyssa’s voice rise in desperation, felt her shaking him. But he couldn’t respond, not until the spasm eased. Sweat popped out on his glistening flesh. “The cob,” he gritted out. “Get the cob, Aly. For God’s sake, hurry!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tray remembered only bits and snatches of their trip back to the cottage. Alyssa managed to get him on the cob and walked beside the horse the entire way. He was in such intense pain that he could do no more than lie across the horse’s neck, gripping its mane in an effort not to fall off. When they reached the cottage, Alyssa said nothing. Her eyes were huge and lips compressed into a set line as she helped him slide off the horse. Tray dared not put weight on his left foot, amazed at Alyssa’s strength when she put his arm across her shoulder and tottered with him toward the little building. He managed to shove the door open with his hand.

  The cottage smelled of fresh straw, and its warmth was almost overwhelming. Tray fell to his knees in the straw and slowly rolled over on his back. It was all he could do to keep from crying out as another spasm began. His great fists clenched, the knuckles whitening as he gripped the straw. Lips drawing away from his teeth, Tray sobbed for breath. He prayed and cursed the jagged, cutting pain that racked his leg.

  “Tray?” Alyssa hurriedly shut the door and threw off her drenched cloak, kneeling at his side. Anxiously, she perused the tense lines of his body, looking for blood. “Where are you hurt? Tray?” She shook him by the shoulder and he groaned. Hands trembling, she began an inspection of each of his limbs to see if he had broken a bone. His sobs tore at her and she felt his pain as if it were her own. His arms, ribs and shoulders showed no injury as she shakily pulled the shirt open off his chest, looking for bruising or the pooling of blood. Her wet hair hung in her eyes and she forced it away from her face, fighting back tears of frustration. Finally, an idea occurred to her.

  “It’s your leg, isn’t it?” she whispered, quickly scrambling down to his feet. Of course! Why didn’t she remember? Sorche had said his left leg had been injured some time ago, when Alyssa inquired about his limp. Had Tray twisted it when the ewe tried to leap from his arms? Was it broken? She glanced up at him, recalling the times when she had had to dress the wounds of men injured in battles with the English. She had never been able to shut her ears to their cries, just as she couldn’t now as Tray groaned, twisting onto his side, drawing his left leg upward. His fingers reached out, gripping the boot so hard that his flesh whitened.

  Reacting quickly, Alyssa took the right boot off his leg, throwing it aside. “Tray, let me help you,” she begged, her fingers closing over his hand.

  Tray gasped for breath, the pain becoming increasingly unbearable. Never had the spasms been so bad. He was aware of Alyssa’s voice nearby. “No!” he ground out. “Don’t touch it—” He tried to push her hand off his, but it was impossible. Pain surged through him, and he remembered screaming Alyssa’s name before blessed darkness closed in on him, releasing him from his agony.

  Alyssa sat back, momentarily stunned. She watched the color drain from Tray’s hardened features, which suddenly went slack. His hand fell away from the boot he had been clutching so frantically. He had fainted. Thank God, he had escaped the pain. Quickly, she straightened him out, having no idea how much time she would have before he would awaken again. Gently, Alyssa worked the muddied boot loose, finally able to slide it off his leg. Nothing could have prepared her for the twisted, atrophied limb that lay white between her knees. A scream lurched to her throat and she stared in horrified fascination as the contorted muscles lumped and twisted before her very eyes. When her shocked gaze moved down to his ankle, her mouth grew dry.

  Swallowing hard, Alyssa forced herself to look at Tray’s foot. She reached her trembling hand out and barely touched the horribly arched sole, compassion coming to her eyes. “Oh, Tray,” she cried softly, suddenly understanding everything. She leaned forward, cupping the knotting calf between her hands, beginning to carefully massage the angry, inflamed muscles, soothing them and quelling their protests against the ceaseless hours of work they had performed.

  Tears scalded Alyssa’s eyes, dropping and splashing against Tray’s leg as she spread mutton fat across his lower leg and deformed foot. For the next hour she sat, rubbing the cold flesh of his leg, willing fresh blood back into the extremity and soothing away the angry spasms until her fingers were numb. Pulling herself to her feet, she heated water in the kettle on the stove and put the wool saddle blanket in it. She scalded her hands as she wrung out the blanket. Carefully, Alyssa wrapped Tray’s calf and foot in the moist heat of the material, drawing out the stiffness.

  Alyssa knelt down beside him, gently pushing the locks of black hair off his gray features. He was breathing deeply and evenly. As gently as she could, she removed his wet shirt and laid it out before the fire. He was covered with gooseflesh, and when she laid her hand on his naked shoulder, his skin was cold. Worriedly, Alyssa glanced over at her cloak, which she had hung in front of the fire. As soon as that dried, it would make a decent blanket to keep him warm. But until then…She stared down at the buckskin breeches that hugged his lower body. The damp material would chill Tray and probably serve to aggravate his left leg again. Alyssa knew what she had to do, and yet she froze, flashes of the rape looming before her tired eyes.

  Biting down hard on her lower lip, Alyssa leaned forward, her fingers trembling badly as she unbuttoned his breeches. She shut her eyes tightly, pulling and tugging the wet fabric downward. Her heart was pounding in her throat as she carefully peeled the breeches off Tray’s legs. Trying to ignore his blatantly male body, she got to her feet and prayed that the cloak was dry enough, but it was not. Shadowed fear hung in her eyes as Alyssa turned, giving Tray a quick glance. Shame flowed through her. Tray was injured and he didn’t need her fear right now. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she walked to his side.

  Kneeling down beside him, Alyssa began the painstaking process of rubbing every inch of his flesh to keep him warm and dry until the cloak was ready.

  She had never seen a fully naked man in her life. Occasionally, Dev or Gavin would strip to the waist, throwing water on their chests and underarms when she was present. Even then, they would turn their backs, growling that it wasn’t right for a girl to see a man’s unclothed body. Alyssa swallowed, feeling the hard muscles of Tray’s arms and shoulders. She stared in fascination at the wiry black hair that covered his chest, the curls silky and soft beneath her massaging touch.

  As she worked her way downward, the pit of her stomach knotted and Alyssa began to feel faint. She forced herself to look upon his shaft, knowing it was like the one that had cruelly pierced her body and caused such pain. Tears squeezed from her eyes and she began shaking so badly that she got to her feet and moved away from Tray. She went over to the hearth, seeking its warmth because she was cold, cold all the way to her soul. Nausea rose suddenly, and without warning, Alyssa vomited.

  * * *

  Tray slowly awoke, aware that he was warm and that the
room was dark, except for a flicker of light from the hearth. He felt the scratchy texture of wool around him and he raised his arm experimentally. He ached all over. Sensing movement, he let his eyes adjust and saw a darkened shape come out of the shadows across from where he lay and pad quietly toward him.

  “Aly?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she whispered. She knelt down at his side, facing him, a pensive expression in her dark green eyes. “How do you feel?”

  His mouth was gummy. “Thirsty,” he muttered.

  “I’ll get you some water. Just lie still.”

  Tray frowned as she got up and walked to the other end of the cottage. He blinked, trying to remember the chain of events that was beginning to emerge from his exhausted memory. He directed his attention back to Alyssa. Was she really as pale as she appeared, or was it just the darkness? With her help he slowly sat up, the cloak falling around his waist. He ran his hand across his chest, realizing for the first time that he was naked. Alyssa sat there, patiently holding out a dented tin cup to him.

  “I’m undressed.”

  “Your clothes were wet and muddy,” she offered in a subdued voice.

  Tray wrapped his fingers around the cup. “You undressed me?”

  She nodded, avoiding his sharpened gaze, staring down at the floor. “I washed the mud from your clothes. They should be dry shortly.” She lifted her head and stared over at the fireplace where his breeches and shirt hung. She had needed something to do to stop herself from going mad with the memories of what Vaughn had done to her; anything to keep her mind engaged, to stop from thinking…thinking…

  Tray stared at her long and hard, confused. Why was she so unhappy? It was as if someone had broken her magnificent spirit. Then his eyes widened, and he felt as though a fist had been slammed into his gut. His leg! He swallowed hard, setting the cup down on the straw, his mouth tightening. This was the moment he had dreaded. Aly had seen his deformed leg. That was why she was so distraught, so…He took in a tortured breath.