Lindsay McKenna - Lord Of Shadowhawk

Tray squeezed his eyes shut, still hearing her gasp; in his mind’s eye he again watched the revulsion and horror cross Glynis’s face as she stared down at his twisted left foot. She backed against the wall, her eyes large as he looked in confusion at her. And then she started screaming.

“Monster! Monster! You’re the devil’s own! Help! Help!” She fled from the room, shrieking at the top of her lungs, the words monster and devil ringing throughout the building, bringing patrons and whores tumbling out into the hall to investigate.

Tray opened his eyes and stared out the french windows at the moody gray sky. He flexed his left fist, still remembering the humiliation, the rejection. Slowly, he lifted his chin and his gaze rested on Alyssa. Was that how she felt now? He was ashamed of the anger that he had felt toward her earlier. He mustn’t allow his frustration to transform into impatience with Alyssa. Whatever she was feeling was aimed at all men, not just at him. Tray moistened his lips, drawing himself up and wandering back to the other side of the bed.

“Listen to me carefully, child,” Birch said in his coaching tone. “It is imperative you remain in bed for at least another week. Your dizziness will probably continue and you must rely on these good people to help you.”

Her stomach knotted. “C-can’t I even try to walk to the water closet?”

“Not just yet. If you fell, you might strike your head again, and that would be grievous to your health. Right now you must eat and gain back some weight. And rest.”

“And my eyes?” There was a quaver in her voice.

“I don’t know. The blindness could be temporary or permanent. That’s why it’s important that you rest and stay quiet, so we can find out.”

Alyssa swallowed her tears. Dear Mother Mary! Never to see the lush emerald green of her beloved Ireland? Or the radiance of a golden sunrise and rose pink blush of a sunset? She raised her fingers, briefly touching her head wound. “You think I may see again if—if I follow your advice?”

Birch grimaced. “My child, I can’t promise you anything. I have seen men and animals who were similarly struck in the head go blind for weeks, perhaps months, and then either slowly or suddenly regain their sight.”

Alyssa’s voice rose in hope. “In every case?”

“No. Only in half of them.”

Her slender fingers moved to the hollow of her ivory throat, and her eyes darkened with pain. “A-and those who didn’t?”

“Blind for life.”

Alyssa looked away, fighting against the tears. “If I can’t see…if I can’t see, I don’t want to live!” She turned her head from the doctor to hide her unhappiness.

Tray fought the impulse to kneel down and take Alyssa into his arms. He watched her helplessly, knowing that if he did try to comfort her, she would lash out at him.

“Nonsense, child. Give yourself time to heal. I’ll come once a week to see you. You’re young and you’ve made rapid progress thus far. Trust Lord Trayhern. He’s overseen your rescue since he took you off that accursed ship. He is your benefactor, and so is Sorche. You are among friends here, and the sooner you realize that, the more speedily you will heal.”

Lord Trayhern? Alyssa felt a sharp pang of despair. She didn’t even have the strength to remind the doctor that he was English, that they were all English and therefore her sworn enemy. Misery enfolded her like a cloak and Alyssa closed her eyes, unable to think about the problems that now faced her.

“I’ll leave now,” Birch announced. He got off the bed and picked up his brown leather bag, motioning for Tray to follow him out into the hall.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Alyssa,” Tray told her. She did not respond. Her auburn hair hung in thick, burnished sheets about her pitifully thin shoulders, hiding whatever impression his words had made upon her. His mouth tightened and he led Birch out into the empty hall, shutting the door quietly behind them.

* * *

Alyssa tensed when Tray reentered the room. She was pale, and the lack of color to her skin emphasized the shadows beneath her jade eyes.

“It’s just me,” Tray announced, walking over to her.

She said nothing, staring straight ahead, her lips trembling.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers, watching her darkly. “Are you hungry?”

“No!”

“Thirsty, then?”

“Go away!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, little one. I own Shadowhawk, and you and Sean are my guests.”

Alyssa jerked her head toward him, her hair flying about her shoulders. “Don’t call me little one! I hate it! I hate you! You’re English!”

Tray stiffened, his features growing hard. “That’s one point we need to straighten out between us,” he said through clenched teeth, approaching her bed. He saw Alyssa shrink back to the safety of the headboard. “I’m Welsh by birth.”

“Then you lied to me! You said you were Irish! And you speak Gaelic.”

“My mother died giving birth to me, Alyssa. I was given to Sorche, who is Irish. She wet-nursed and raised me. Welsh blood runs in my veins but I was brought up beneath her loving Irish hand.” Seeing Alyssa cringe at his words, Tray realized he was snarling at her like a dog. Cursing mentally, he stalked back to the fireplace. “You are in a Welsh household, Alyssa,” he began again, his voice more neutral. “I’m the lord of the estate. I have no more love of the English than you do. Don’t forget, they conquered our fair lands first before they put Ireland under their yoke of dominance.”

Alyssa raised her chin defiantly, her eyes glittering. “You’re a titled lord?”

“Yes,” he admitted wearily, “the son of an earl.”

“The Welsh hold no titles, just as the Irish can’t!” she spat. “You lie to me again. Do you take me for an addle-brained—”

Tray curbed his flaring temper. “Alyssa, I hadn’t intended on giving you my life story, but I see I must. Two hundred years ago Culver Trayhern was given an earldom in South Wales by the King of England. But he and every firstborn son after him, including my father, Harold, wed Welshwomen. What few drops of English blood were ever in me have been put back into the soil of Shadowhawk long ago. I’m far more Welsh than English, believe me.” He was, but Vaughn wasn’t. Vaughn reveled in his half-English breeding through his mother, the Lady Edwina.

Her mutinous look wavered and then she released a sigh. “I’m so tired…just leave me alone. I want to sleep.”

Tray scowled. At that moment, Alyssa appeared so frail, almost as if she would disappear before his very eyes. He lowered his voice. “Then sleep. I’ll be here when you awake. If you need anything, call. I’ll be in the adjoining room.”

Alyssa slid beneath the covers, her head aching abominably. Sleep was an escape from a man called Tray, whose voice flowed over her like thick golden honey, soothing her ragged nerves.

* * *

It was midafternoon when she awoke. Alyssa lay there a long time, listening for noises. She heard the snort of horses in the distance and the faint bleat of sheep, but the wind distorted the sounds as it gusted against the windows and rattled them beneath its power. A fire crackled nearby and she longed to be able to get up and walk over to it. Fire was always comforting to her. Not that she was cold. No, for once in her life, she was warm. Her fingers moved in a caressing gesture over the smooth texture of the sheet around her. Never had she felt material of such fine quality. So this was how the rich lived? Her father had always told her the English were decadent, that they taxed the poor Irish Catholic farmers out of their land, putting the hard-earned money of the laborers into their own pockets. That money bought such finery as this, Alyssa thought hazily.