Lord of Shadowhawk
Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

March 1, 1798

Where’s that crippled half brother of mine? Vaughn wondered in irritation, his sensual mouth pursed beneath the full, luxuriant growth of his blond mustache. He gave the docked ship he stood on a negligent look, then walked to the gangway, idly watching as some prisoners from Wolfe Tone’s rebellion, captured in Ireland, were dragged off in chains. The dead and mortally wounded were being hauled out of the hold and carted away to some unknown destination.

Vaughn hated Colwyn Bay, a wretched port town on the moody Irish Sea. It was too near Shadowhawk, his family’s country manor and hub of their agricultural concerns. Theirs? He snorted, raising a polished, booted foot onto a crate, idly resting one elbow on his thigh. Shadowhawk was his half brother’s domain. Tray was perfectly suited to being a farming clod alongside his beloved Welsh compatriots and the Irish servants he insisted upon keeping at the estate.

Where in the devil was Tray? He had sent Sergeant Porter on the whip to fetch Tray from Shadowhawk two hours ago, after they had docked. Shadowhawk was a mere hour away.

A slow anger flared within Vaughn, his blue eyes icy as he contemplated his half brother. Tray might be the eldest son of the Trayhern family but he was least liked, least understood and least a man. A smile twitched Vaughn’s mouth—a mouth used to giving orders and having people obey immediately or face swift retribution. He didn’t wear the red uniform of an officer in His Majesty’s cavalry for nothing. Scanning the busy quayside dock, Vaughn pulled his cloak more tightly against the sharp winds. The clouds that churned above the sleepy village reminded him of Tray’s eyes, light gray among other shades, depending upon his half brother’s many perverse moods. Tray was true Welsh, dark and unfathomable. At least to everyone in the Trayhern family. Except for Paige.

Paige…Vaughn felt his throat tighten at the thought of his deceased older sister. Beautiful, dark-haired, gray-eyed Paige, who had been beloved by all. Even himself. Although she was only his half sister and slated to inherit the vast Trayhern wealth when their father, Harold, died, Vaughn couldn’t hold that against Paige. She may have been almost pure Welsh, like Tray, but her sunny disposition and gentleness appealed to everyone.

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed upon the raggedly clothed forms of several dead Irishmen being dragged down the wooden gangway to an awaiting cart already littered with bodies. His lips drew away from his teeth in a bloodless snarl. “We’ve finally avenged you, Paige. I killed five of them myself.” To his great surprise he felt hot, blinding tears, and he quickly bowed his head, not wanting anyone to see them. Damn! Tears? Vaughn rubbed his eyes angrily.

It was Tray’s fault that Paige was dead. If Paige hadn’t stayed at Shadowhawk that summer, she would never have fallen prey to those bastard Irish brigands. Tray knew attacks by the starving and rebellious Irish happened frequently along the coast. He should have protected Paige. Vaughn snorted violently, dropping his booted foot to the deck. Everything Tray touched died.

Slight satisfaction lingered in Vaughn’s eyes. At least Tray got some of what was coming to him. Two years ago Tray had married some local Welsh farm girl, and she had died a year later in childbirth. His child was stillborn, and deformed, like him. Pleasure flowed through Vaughn as he savored that low point in Tray’s life. Finally! Tray was being punished for all the deaths, the misery and the unhappiness that had been caused by his ill-fated birth. Served the cripple right. Vaughn watched as two sailors carried the body of another dead Irishman by him. Paige had been properly avenged.

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed and his blood chilled. There, on a blood bay stallion with black mane and tail, was Tray, making his way toward the ship, the sergeant riding behind him. He glared down at his half brother, familiar feelings of hate stirring in him once again.

Tray wore a simple white peasant’s shirt, open at the throat, a black coat and a wool cloak around his broad shoulders, canary yellow breeches and unpolished boots with traces of mud on them. The fool couldn’t even dress properly! He wore no white powdered wig, and even his black hair was cut ridiculously short! Tray defied English tradition. He defied everyone, Vaughn thought in fury. He looked like one of those untitled industrialists instead of the eldest son of an earl. The one who would inherit all the Trayhern wealth and privileges someday. Bitterness swept through Vaughn.

“Country bumpkin!” he muttered beneath his breath. Tray should have come in a coach drawn by at least two horses. Instead, the lover of the Welsh and the bloody Irish rode his spirited Arabian stallion through the shouting confusion as if he were accustomed to the rabble that ebbed and flowed around him. No titled Englishman would be seen in hacking clothes on a dock! Vaughn’s hatred rose, constricting his throat. The less he saw of Tray, the better. His half brother reined his stallion to a stop and dismounted with enviable grace, always having been an excellent horseman. But that was the limit of his grace.

Vaughn smiled in silent satisfaction as Tray handed the reins to the awaiting sergeant. He watched through slitted eyes as Tray limped through the milling traffic on a clubbed left foot. The wind jerked and pulled at Vaughn’s cloak as he measured Tray’s progress up the ramp. Their mutual father had rued the day Tray had been born with the deformed foot. Among the titled gentry, the deformity was thought to be the mark of the devil or a curse. In Vaughn’s estimation, it was both. Tray looked like the devil—tall, powerfully built and ever watchful. He had black hair and, as often as not, gray eyes dark with brooding anger. And his skin was tanned, proof that he was out in the fields alongside his own people, something an English earl’s son would never contemplate doing.

Vaughn felt his gut tighten reflexively as Tray drew closer. He forced himself to relax. Why should he feel fearful around Tray? He was the one sent to Eton. He was the one who had become his father’s pride, while Tray remained at Shadowhawk to till the soil and raise the sheep, cattle and horses.

A grimace pulled at one corner of Vaughn’s mouth. It was well-known that Tray harbored no bitterness toward the Irish. Vaughn absorbed Tray’s anguished expression as a woman in a blood-soaked and shredded dress was carried between two sailors to the awaiting cart, her red hair hanging as lifelessly as her limbs. Good, Vaughn thought, feel the pain, half brother. She’s Irish. Dead in the name of the King of England. And there’s not a thing you can do about it, Tray. Not one damned thing. You’re always standing up for the rights of the Welsh and Irish. Well, swallow your bile, pale brother of mine. Don’t retch and shame our name. But you’re only half a man, aren’t you?

By the time Tray maneuvered clear of the gangway activities and faced his younger half brother, there was a pallor beneath his taut, bronzed flesh. His gray eyes were almost black with anger as he approached Vaughn. They stood of equal height. Because of his English mother, Vaughn was slender and by far the more conventionally handsome of the two, while Tray personified typical Welsh blood, and was heavily muscled, stocky and full-faced.

Tray swallowed hard, forcing down the gorge that wanted to rise. The smell of death clung like a nauseating perfume aboard the four-masted ship. Blood was being washed from the upper deck with bucket after bucket of seawater. Tray could not shut out the moans and cries coming from below the deck.

“Sergeant Porter said you wanted to see me immediately,” Tray said tightly, his mouth pulled into a thin line. God, the carnage and waste that surrounded them! And looking steadily at Vaughn’s amused features, Tray felt even sicker. His half brother was actually enjoying the swelling sound of pain that rose around them from the Irish prisoners below.

Vaughn’s crooked smile disappeared and he flicked a look of anger toward him. “Speak to me in English, damn it! I won’t be caught speaking Welsh.”

It was Tray’s turn to smile, but it was a bloodless one, matching the pallor of his flesh. “You’re still half-Welsh, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

“Yes, and you revel in the fact you’re nearly all Welsh like a pig rolling in the mud!”

Tray drew his black wool cloak more tightly around himself. The winds were icy, like Vaughn’s fury. “I’m Welsh, in body and in spirit. The few drops of English blood bred in me have long since been given back to the soil of our land.”

“Enough of this. I didn’t ask you to come here to discuss our unfortunate mutual lineage.”

Tray gazed at his half brother. As usual, their meeting was barbed and double bladed. Hate kept their liaison alive. “Why did you send for me, Vaughn? I’m not interested in this—this—”

“Bloodletting? Call it an eye for an eye.” Vaughn raised his arm, pointing to the cart below being filled with bodies. “I evened up the score.”

Tray’s voice grew deadly quiet. “What are you talking about?”

“Paige. Didn’t you know? It was my cavalry unit that broke the back of Tone’s rebellion near Wexford. We rode down the Irish throats and gave them exactly what they deserved for revolting against England.”

Tray’s eyes flashed thunderstorm gray as he stared at Vaughn. “Get to the point, Vaughn. I won’t waste my precious time on your tales of carnage.”

Vaughn laughed. “That’s right. I forgot, you get squeamish around men who are doing a man’s job. Can’t stand the sight of blood. Can’t fight.” His lips pulled away from his teeth. “You couldn’t even defend Paige when she needed a man to protect her!”

Tray stiffened. “Swords and pistols don’t change things, Vaughn. They only create more hate and thirst for vengeance. No, I don’t condone your soldiering. I don’t condone war.”

“That’s why you let Paige wander down to that beach alone!”

“Paige has been dead thirteen years, for God’s sake! Let it rest!”

Vaughn turned away, resisting the urge to strike Tray’s stubbornly set features. He took a few deep breaths, trying to wrestle with his explosive temper. When he turned back around, his blue eyes were midnight colored as they scorched Tray.

“Father wrote and told me that you need another hand to work on that farm of yours. There’s an Irish brat of nine or so years in cell two. Go get him and take him home, and tell Father it was the best I could do. He doesn’t like the Irish any more than I. If you don’t want him, Father can arrange to send him to one of our coal mines.”

Tray’s mouth tightened. “Are you using nine-year-old boys to win Father’s favor now, Vaughn?”

Vaughn’s features whitened and he stalked back toward Tray, his hand clenched into a fist. Tray tensed, and the movement halted Vaughn. There was a dangerous quality to his Welsh half brother, and the look in his colorless gray eyes warned Vaughn that for all the peaceful tenets of Tray’s life, he would be a formidable adversary if provoked. Tray outweighed him by a good two stone. Although he would be hampered by that club foot, which was encased in a specially made boot, he had seen Tray move with startling agility.

“Just take the boy and be gone!” Vaughn whipped his cloak around himself, shouldering past Tray. He hesitated a moment at the top of the gangway. “Don’t be here when I get back, half brother.”

Tray watched Vaughn stride down to the wharf, snarling orders to the sailors. Grimly, Tray turned and tried to prepare himself for what had to be done. Walking across the wet, slippery deck, he ducked into the first hold and down stairs dimly lighted by lamps.

The stench of vomit, blood and excrement assailed his nostrils and he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Tray’s stomach knotted as he surveyed the hastily erected cells containing the survivors of the Irish rebellion. A sailor standing guard came to attention.

“Sir?”

Tray hated speaking in English but switched to it from his native Welsh. “Show me where cell number two is,” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Prisoners clung to the iron bars, crying out as Tray and the sailor passed by them.

“Water, sir! Take pity upon us. Water…”

Tray glared down at the sailor, who stood several inches shorter than himself. “Why haven’t these people been given water?”

The sailor flashed him a smile. “Why, sir, these aren’t people. These are animals.”

“Now look here—”

“Captain Trayhern’s orders, sir. The lot of ’em gets water twice daily. A cup in the morning with their bread and a cup in the evening.”

A desolate cry shattered the murky atmosphere and Tray snapped up his head. Halfway down the darkened aisle he saw a young, red-haired boy fighting two sailors who were trying to drag an unconscious girl out of a cell.

“No! Don’t take her! Don’t take her! You can’t! You—”

One of the sailors reached around and with a vicious thrust of his foot sent the boy flying off his feet. Tray lunged forward. In four strides he reached the cell and shoved the sailor away from the girl, who had been dropped on the floor between them.

“You dog,” Tray snarled, pushing the burly sailor back. He looked up at the other sailor. “Get back, both of you.” Tray saw the boy slowly get to his knees, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

“This is cell two?” he asked one of the sailors.

“Aye, sir, it is.”

“Then begone!” Tray turned to tend to the girl.

“But, sir, she’s near dead. Captain Trayhern’s orders were to take her off the ship. We can’t have the dead smelling up the ship for the journey to London.”

“No! You can’t take her! She’s alive! Alive!” The boy launched himself at Tray, his small fists beating on him with unrelenting fury.

“Easy, boy,” Tray breathed harshly, gently gripping him and holding him at arm’s length. “She’s going nowhere.” Tray looked up, daring any of the sailors to protest his decision.

The guard shuffled uneasily. “But, sir, Captain—”

“I’m Lord Trayhern. My brother wanted these two for my estate. Now I suggest you stand aside so that I may take them out of this hell!”

The sailors and guard stiffened, their eyes widening. “Lord Trayhern? The Earl of Trayhern’s son?”

“That’s right.” Tray jerked his head toward the dimly lighted opening at the other end of the passageway. “Leave us. Immediately!”

Tray waited until the English sailors had left and then released the boy. Instantly, the child dropped to the girl’s side, his young face puffy and swollen from the blows he had received. His blue eyes were mutinous and filled with hate as he dared Tray to come any closer to the girl whom he embraced with his thin arms.

Tray turned and faced the boy, his bulk filling up the small passageway, blocking any attempt at escape. His square face was shadowed as he squatted down beside them. The hardness melted from Tray’s features as he broke into Gaelic, the native language of Ireland.

“Rest easy, lad, I won’t harm either of you.”

The boy’s spirit suddenly sprang with hope, although he remained leery. Who was this stranger who looked as if the devil himself had carved his face out of the cliffs of Ireland? Sean tightened his hold on Alyssa’s shoulder as he flattened protectively across her. The man spoke Gaelic! Was he Irish? He didn’t look it. Hot tears wavered in his large blue eyes as he saw the stranger’s face soften.

“You can’t take her to that cart! She isn’t dead,” he cried out, his voice high and off pitch.

“No one’s taking her, lad. I promise you that. Is she your sister?”

Sean’s lips trembled as he fought back the deluge of emotion that this man’s soothing presence was releasing. By the love of the Mother Mary, he mustn’t show his fear. Alyssa needed him. She was the only one left. He had to protect her. He’d give his life if any man tried to hurt her or make her cry again. Sean valiantly fought back the tears, the stranger blurring before his eyes.

“My cousin.”

“And your name?”

“Sean. Sean Brady.”

“And hers?”

“Alyssa—” A huge sob welled up and broke from Sean. He gripped her hard, burying his head against her breast. “They hurt her! I heard her screaming again and again. And they killed Shannon!”

Tray swallowed hard and reached out, gently touching the boy’s thin shoulder as sobs racked his small body. He was dressed like so many other Irish peasants: no shoes, loosely hanging black wool trousers and a dirtied white cotton shirt. Sean’s weeping continued as Tray rubbed his shoulder to help ease the pain the boy had witnessed. It was senseless. Women and children were prisoners of a war that should have been fought by men only. And when Tray remembered that Vaughn had been instrumental in all the carnage that surrounded them, he choked down the threatening nausea.

Tray focused on the girl who lay between them and felt his heart wrench in his chest. My God! Flashbacks of discovering Paige on the beach just an hour after her murder swept through him. Only this time, instead of Paige’s blond hair, the girl called Alyssa had auburn-colored hair highlighted with burgundy, shot through with gold beneath the lamplight. Her skin, almost translucent, was drawn tautly across her high cheekbones. Tray held his breath as Sean’s words struck him with the force of a hammer hitting an anvil.

A bloody lump rose from her left temple and he wondered how she had received the blow. No man’s fist could have caused that kind of injury. Anger mixed with repulsion as his gaze moved downward over her limp body. Clearly, she had been abused. The once beautiful, frail Irish girl, dressed in man’s clothing, now appeared nothing more than a broken doll. Sean had pulled the ragged ends of her tattered white peasant shirt across her chest. The dark blue wool pants she wore were torn, all the buttons missing. He saw dark blood stains between her thighs and swallowed hard. Images of Paige lying dead on the beach, her arms stretched outward in death, her beautiful silk skirt and petticoats torn off her, her legs parted and bloodied, slammed back into his memory. Tears stung Tray’s pain-narrowed eyes. God, no. Sweet God, not again…not this innocent girl, too….

He moved dazedly as he gently pulled Sean away from her. “Is she alive?” he demanded hoarsely.

Sean kept a hand on Alyssa’s shoulder. “Sh-she was. They beat her and—and—”

“They won’t anymore,” Tray promised thickly, placing his fingers against the slender white column of her throat. There! Just the faintest pulse throbbed slowly beneath his fingertips. “She’s breathing. How long has she been unconscious, Sean?”

The boy leaned back, hope written on his face. “Since yesterday afternoon. A-are you going to help her?”

Tray pulled off his heavy cloak and carefully wrapped the girl within its folds. “I’m here to help both of you.”

“B-but, who are you?” His small voice was strained. “Are you Irish?”

“Maybe not by blood, but through the milk I drank when I was a babe,” Tray said, sliding his hands beneath the girl. He gently scooped her into his arms. It was as if he were lifting a mere hundred pounds of grain against him instead of a human being. My God, she was nothing but skin and bone! His heart constricted as her head lolled against his shoulder; her bruised and swollen lips were cracked and parted. She was as vulnerable as the newborn lambs that he helped deliver every April. Holding a deluge of emotions in tight check, Tray concentrated on Sean.

“Stay near me, lad. I’m going to take you and your cousin with me to my home. Do you understand? You’ll have to ride on the back of my stallion. I don’t have a coach and time is of the essence. Your cousin is badly injured and I must get her home and then send for a doctor to help her.”

“Y-yes, sir. I can do that.” He shyly reached out, his hand wrapping tightly in the folds of the wool coat Tray wore. “Who are you?”

Tray grimly ignored his question. He limped along the passageway and up the stairs, never more glad to reach the fresh salt air of Colwyn Bay than now. I’m the black sheep of the Trayhern family, he thought with grim irony. An unwanted son who will inherit everything and who is hated by almost every family member. Except for Paige. As they walked down the gangway, Tray mentally answered Sean’s earlier question. I’m Irish because an Irishwoman raised me as her own. Because my father accused me of killing my mother and sent me north so I could be out of his sight. Sadness enveloped Tray, as it always did when he thought of the mother he had never known.

Her name had been Isolde, a beautiful Welsh name for a lovely black-haired, gray-eyed woman. And in his father’s grief over her death, Harold named him Tristan, a Welsh name meaning sorrowful. And sorrow had followed his existence from the day of his birth. Tray would never forget when Sorche, his Irish wet nurse and foster mother, had answered his gravely asked question as to why he was named Tristan. Sorche sadly told him that his father blamed him for Isolde’s death and he would forever be called Tristan as a result. That day he had begged Sorche to call him Tray, because in Welsh the name Trayhern meant “strong as iron,” and he would be strong, he promised her. He would turn into the boy that his father wanted him to be; he would no longer bring sorrow and unhappiness to everyone.

Tray slowed his pace as he neared the area where Sergeant Porter was holding his blood bay Arabian stallion. So much for a seven-year-old’s dreams, he thought wearily. From that day forward, everyone at Shadowhawk called him Tray. But try as he might, Tray learned that his father would never be proud of his crippled son.

“Hold the girl for me until I get mounted, Sergeant,” he commanded, placing Alyssa in the stunned soldier’s arms.

Porter’s eyes widened with shock. “My lord?”

The Englishman gave Tray an angry look but stood there with the girl wrapped securely in the warmth of the black wool cloak. Rasheed, the Arabian stallion, moved mettlesomely beneath Tray as he mounted.

“Stand,” Tray ordered the stallion in Welsh. Obediently, the animal became a living statue as the girl was transferred back to Tray’s arms.

Tray looked down at Sean, who was shivering, his arms wrapped about his skinny body. He glanced at Porter.

“Sergeant, give the boy your cloak. I’ll make sure you get it back.”

Porter glared at the young ruffian, but he shoved his cloak into the boy’s awaiting hands without a word.

“Now help him up here. Behind me.”

This was scandalous! But Porter did as told, flushing red to the roots of his brown hair as he grudgingly obeyed. Didn’t Lord Trayhern realize the picture that he presented? No one rode anywhere on a lord’s horse, especially two Irish prisoners of war!

Sean’s arms wrapped tightly around Tray’s waist.

“All right, lad?” he asked, barely turning his head.

“I’m ready, sir.”

“Good. We won’t be going any faster than a brisk walk, but hold on. Rasheed hasn’t been run for a few days and he’s feeling his fettle.”

Sean’s narrow face brightened, his left eye almost swollen shut. “We’re good riders, sir! There isn’t an Irishman alive who can’t ride a horse!”

Tray managed a tight smile and returned his attention to the unconscious cargo in his arms. With just a light pressure of Tray’s left calf against Rasheed’s barrel, the animal turned around. Soon they were free of the cloying, snarling quayside traffic and headed out of dingy Colwyn Bay for Shadowhawk, which sat on the cliffs above the restless Irish Sea.

The afternoon was dreary and cold, and Tray felt Sean huddling close, seeking his bodily warmth. Tray pulled the girl more tightly to him, concerned. Her translucent skin was bruised and bloodied. He lifted her barely exposed face to his and placed his ruddy cheek against her nostrils, willing her to be breathing still, willing her to be alive. He felt the utter relaxation of her body against him and the pitiful outward bow of her rib cage beneath his fingers. His heart took a sudden, pounding leap. There! He had felt it. A baby’s breath of moist heat from her nostrils. Live, sweet Alyssa, he begged her silently, breathe…just a bit longer and you’ll be safe and warm.

As he looked down on her waxen features, Tray wondered if she would live. That same pallor had existed on Paige’s face when he had discovered her on the beach. His thoughts sped forward. He would have to get a doctor immediately. As long as she was still breathing, he knew the girl could be saved. For the first time since his wife’s death, Tray felt a ribbon of hope thread through him. How could that be? A nine-year-old boy clung to him and a girl who could be no more than eight and ten years lay unconscious in his arms.

“Tell me about yourself, lad. How did you get caught up in this rebellion?”

Sean tried to still his chattering teeth. The wool cloak helped, but his bare legs were exposed, hanging like thin branches across the stallion’s broad back. Was this man really the son of an Earl? If so, he was English and not to be trusted. Sean decided it was safer to lie. “M-my family and I were working on a farm outside of Wexford when we were trapped by the soldiers.”

“And the English thought you were part of the rebellion?” Tray asked grimly.

“Yes, sir. Me, my cousin Alyssa and—and my sister, Shannon. They thought we were a part of it. But we weren’t, sir. I swear it.”

“How old is your cousin, Sean?”

“Seven and ten, sir.”

She was of marrying age. Tray hesitated for a moment. “Married?”

“No, sir. Alyssa wouldn’t stand for just any man to ask for her hand.”

Tray’s expression eased momentarily as he drank in her pale features. Although her auburn hair hung in dirtied ropes about her square face, he could imagine the fire that lay beneath those proud yet vulnerable features. One look at that stubborn, slightly cleft chin would warn any man that she was not to be taken lightly. Anguish burned through Tray. He knew Alyssa had been raped by one man, if not more than one. And doubtless she had been a virgin before the English soldiers mistook her as part of the rebellion. His black brows drew down into a scowl.

“Was she betrothed?” If she was, the man might not ever want her; she would be soiled, if she even lived. And Tray found himself wanting Alyssa to live. He wanted to hear her speak, to hear the quality of her voice. What color were her eyes? Their long auburn lashes lay thick and curled against her shadowed cheeks. Her femininity was obvious even beneath the specter of bruises and dirt.

“No, sir. She didn’t want to marry. Said most men were clods of dirt.”

Tray couldn’t suppress the chuckle that welled up inside his chest. “She did, did she?”

“Alyssa has never been known to watch her words, sir.” Sean shut his eyes. “That’s what got her in trouble on board ship.”

Tray’s hands tightened reflexively against Alyssa’s limp form. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“They—they took my sister, Shannon, and killed her,” he began in a wobbly voice. “A-and Alyssa started screaming and shouting. She turned the air blue, calling them all kinds of names. She accused the English of being weak and spineless, because they took their anger out on women. She tried to get them to take her instead of Shannon, but they didn’t do it.”

“Then what happened, lad?” Tray asked softly.

Sean sniffed. “They came back and took Alyssa up on the main deck, and I heard her trying to fight them off. And—” His voice faltered. “One of the prisoners near the entrance of the hold said she fought them. An English officer took her. I—I guess she hit him and tried to escape, then a sailor struck her down with a club. The Irish prisoners below started shouting and screaming. Almost caused a riot, sir.”

“You’ve told me enough,” Tray said grimly, staring down at the girl. Sean’s small arms tightened around him and he felt the boy’s head against his back. Without hearing a sound, he knew the child was crying. How like the Irish to hide their tears in silence. Tray’s own eyes watered dangerously as he continued to look down at the girl. She was an innocent victim, as was Sean. His stomach knotted as he sharply recalled a beautiful young girl with the same color of hair as Sean’s. Had that been Shannon’s battered, lifeless body they had carried off the ship while Vaughn was standing there, smiling cruelly at him when he arrived? His instincts screamed that it was, and he drew in a long, ragged breath.

“We’ll be home soon, lad,” he soothed.

Sean lifted his head, his face flushed with tears. “Home, sir?”

“Yes, home. No one at Shadowhawk will hurt you, Sean. You’ll be given a bath, hot food and a bed. No more pain, lad. I promise you.”

“And Alyssa? What will you do with her?”

“I’ll take care of her personally. We’ll get a doctor to tend her just as soon as we can.”

Sean shut his eyes, suddenly weary as never before. This stranger who spoke Gaelic and yet looked neither English nor Irish seemed to be promising him the impossible.

Chapter Two

“Sorche! Sorche!” The cry for the head housekeeper of Shadowhawk echoed down the halls of the main house.

“I’m coming!” she called, hefting her five and fifty-year-old body out of her gilt wood armchair, placing her stitchery aside. As always, Sorche wore a white mobcap over gray hair that was pulled neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her dark blue cotton dress was nearly hidden by a huge white apron, because she had just come from the kitchen to devote a few free moments to her stitchery. Her face was round with ruddy cheeks, and her blue eyes were small and sharp for her age. The woman hurried down the carpeted hall toward the main entrance, where the noise and activity were coming from.

Sorche rounded the last corner and came to a halt in the marble foyer. Craddock, the butler, whose calm features never looked harried, looked harried now. Like most Welshmen, he was short and stocky. And he wore his dark blue uniform poorly; it always appeared rumpled and in dire need of a pressing.

“Sorche,” he gasped, scurrying to her side and gripping her hand. “Quickly! Lord Trayhern needs you in his bedchamber!”

“Bedchamber?” Sorche rumbled, smoothing her white apron across her ample body. “Whatever for?”

“He’s just brought in a very sick young woman and a boy, and he needs your assistance with the girl. I’m on my way to tell Stablemaster Thomas to send his fleetest horse and best rider to fetch Dr. Birch from Colwyn Bay.”

Blustering, her mobcap almost toppling off her head, Sorche made her way down the west wing. Goodness! The day had been nonstop excitement since that Sergeant Porter came in earlier, huffily demanding Tray’s appearance at Colwyn Bay in his starchy English voice. What was going on? Craddock was in a coil, wringing his hands like an Irish fisherman! The man never came undone like that. Just what had Tray brought home this time?

Then a beatific smile wreathed Sorche’s plump face and she picked up her skirts and set off at a running walk, almost giving the appearance of flying down the long, walnut-paneled hall. It was just like Tray to bring home all kinds of lost waifs. As a youngster the boy was forever bringing home stray cats and dogs, claiming them as his own. And a baby robin that had fallen out of its nest and injured its wing. And a baby rabbit, mauled by hounds. And…The list was endless.

Sorche knocked politely on the closed door to Tray’s bedchamber.

“Enter!” Tray called.

She opened the door and came to a standstill in the middle of the huge room, her hands moving to her hips.

“Mother Mary and Saint Joseph! What have you done this time, Tray?” she breathed, her gaze moving first to the young ruffian who huddled like a frightened puppy near Tray and then to…A cry of compassion broke from Sorche and she flew around the bed.

Tray stood back, grateful for Sorche’s presence. She always knew how to help and how to heal those less fortunate than herself. He pushed several strands of dark hair off his brow and went to his foster mother’s side.

“The saints preserve this poor lamb. Oh, Tray…” Sorche gently pulled back the black wool cloak, revealing Alyssa’s waxen features. She gasped, momentarily clutching at her breast where her crucifix lay hidden beneath the apron. “May God have mercy. Whatever has happened to her, Tray?”

“Part of Vaughn’s war booty,” he snarled, leaning over Alyssa. “She’s suffered a blow to the head, Sorche. And—” He cast a glance at Sean. Lowering his voice, he said in an almost inaudible tone, “She was raped.”

“Oh, no…quickly, we must fetch hot water, towels and—”

That same instant, Craddock appeared at the door to the bedchamber, having been summoned by bell rope. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have someone from the kitchen assist Sorche,” Tray ordered darkly. “Oh, and have Briana come and take care of this boy. His name is Sean Brady. He’s in need of a bath, new clothes and a hot meal—in that order. Sean, you go with Craddock. He’ll see to your welfare, lad.”

Sean hesitated, torn between the awful pallor on Alyssa’s drawn features and the orders of the stranger who looked at him through kind gray eyes. “But, sir, my cousin…”

Tray came around the bed and placed his arm protectively around Sean’s shoulders, coaxing him over to the butler. “Much needs to be done to help her, Sean.” In that moment, a foothold of trust was tentatively established between them.

Sean licked his lips. “Yes, sir. A-and, thank you….”

Tray squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t thank us yet. We have yet to save her life, lad.”

Sorche peered sharply at the girl’s face as she began to remove the wool cloak.

“They were trying to drag her out of the cell and throw her on a cart of the dead and dying,” Tray explained quietly, his eyes flat as he drank in Alyssa’s unmoving features. “Under Vaughn’s orders,” he ground out.

Sorche’s full mouth puckered into a forgiving line. “You saved them, that’s all that matters. Come, help me remove the cloak. We must get her out of these flea-infested men’s clothes and bathe her before the doctor arrives. Dr. Birch won’t touch her if she’s this filthy.”

“But—”

“I’m too old to lift her by myself, Tray. And what maid do we have that can carry this poor girl? I know it’s not proper, but under the circumstances, it can’t be helped! Now quickly, come and help me. We must clean her up so that Dr. Birch may examine her once he arrives.”

* * *

Tray remained in his study, waiting for Dr. Birch to finish his examination of Alyssa. He paced, hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the carpet beneath his booted feet. Anger churned with restlessness. Vaughn would remain in Colwyn Bay for a few days while the ship took on water. No doubt he would make a useful sum by selling some of the hapless Irish prisoners to the shipbuilding industry across the bay in Liverpool and, just as quickly, gamble the ill-gotten pounds away at the gaming tables. Tray’s mind turned to Alyssa, as it did every unoccupied moment. What was it about her that drew out his heart and touched it? He rubbed his brow.

“Lord Trayhern?” Dr. Birch’s voice was quiet.

Tray turned toward the Englishman. He quickly took in the grim caste to Birch’s pinched features. Motioning him to sit down, he poured the doctor a glass of sherry from the sideboard and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Birch said, lifting the glass to his lips. The fiery liquid slid down his throat, warming his stomach. He looked up at the lord of the manor.

“I think this is the worst case you’ve ever asked me to treat, animal or human,” he began with an effort, taking another sip of the sherry. His grizzled brown-and-white brows moved together as he studied the ruby-colored contents of the glass.

“I know,” Tray said softly, walking back to the window, folding his hands behind him. The silence grew, broken only by the sudden onslaught of pelting rain and the wind howling furiously around the manor. “Will she live?”

Birch walked stiffly to Tray’s side and they both stared out the window together. “The girl is gravely hurt, my lord,” he told him in a low tone. “Her skull is not cracked, but the force of the blow has surely addled her brain enough to make her unconscious. Someone must tend her almost hourly until she wakes, if she wakes. Has she urinated yet?”

“Her trousers were wet and smelled of it.”

Birch gave a little sigh. “That’s good. Her kidneys have not stopped working. If they do, she is as good as dead. Someone must—”

“I’ll be that someone, good doctor. Simply tell me what I must do.”

Birch gave him a surprised look. “It will be a thankless task, my lord. Surely one of your servants who has more time on his hands—”

“No, I will do it.”

“Very well. I’ll get Sorche to prepare a special herbal tea that must be carefully given to her every waking hour. That way, her kidneys will continue to function and she will be getting some nourishment.”

“I see,” Tray said.

“Her head wound must remain open to the air and be allowed to drain. It should be washed thrice daily with another herb I’ll have Sorche prepare for you.”

“Anything else?”

Birch’s eyes grew dark and angry. “That girl in there was once a virgin, but she isn’t anymore. Whoever raped her like that ought to be hanged. She’s still bleeding. I’ll give Sorche instructions on how to change the packing on a daily basis.”

Tray’s mouth thinned. “Very well. I’d like you to examine the boy before you leave, good doctor.”

“Of course. If the girl worsens, send one of your servants for me. There’s little else to be done for her unless she wakes up.”

“I will,” Tray promised.

* * *

Tray quietly entered his bedchamber nearly an hour later. The rain had stopped momentarily, but it would come back, pummeling against the french doors once again. March in Wales was cold and wet. His gaze moved across the room’s expanse and fastened hungrily on Alyssa’s unmoving features. Something old and hurting tore loose in Tray’s chest as he devoured her with his gaze. She looked frail in his huge bed. How long had it been since Shelby had lain there beside him? Tray shut his eyes for a brief second, the pain almost unbearable as it swept across him. God, how he missed her.

Opening his eyes, Tray went about the task of gathering the items he would need to tend to Alyssa. He tried to ignore the widening ache inside him when he gently lifted her into his arms in order to dribble a few drops of the herbal medicine between her parted lips. Her damp head lolled against his chest and the smell of jasmine encircled his nostrils. Tray inhaled the scent, his heart heavy. It was the scented soap that Sorche had used to clean Alyssa’s smooth, long limbs, limbs that were well shaped but pitifully thin from lack of food. Tray’s mouth drew into a grim line as he carefully rested her head against his shoulder. Taking a clean cloth, he dipped it into the vile concoction and placed it to the corner of her mouth.

“Come, sweet Aly, swallow the brew. I promise you, my beautiful redheaded colleen, that it will speed your recovery.” He continued to talk to her in low, gentle Gaelic tones. Was he trying to soothe himself or her? Tray wasn’t sure. The slender curve of her throat was exposed to his view and he watched it closely as he allowed a few more drops into her mouth. His breath caught and froze when he saw her swallow. It was a miracle! A miracle! Dr. Birch had said that in the most successful cases, the patient would automatically swallow instead of letting the liquid flow into the lungs. Tray pressed a small, feather-light kiss on her drying hair.

“Good, colleen. Stay alive. Sean is waiting for you. He’s safe, well fed and probably sleeping by now. And you, my sweet Aly, drink just a bit more and then I’ll let you rest for another hour. Now come, let’s see you swallow again.”

She swallowed, and Tray felt his hopes swell like a rainbow after a hard rain. He kept up the soft Gaelic banter throughout the feeding. Afterward, he changed the cloth Sorche had placed beneath her. It was wet with urine and slightly pinkish with blood, but Tray considered these healthy signs. Alyssa was fighting back. Fighting to live despite the horror she had suffered at the hands of the English.

* * *

It was near midnight, as Tray started to retire, that Alyssa began to tremble. Worried, Tray laid his large, calloused hand on her brow. He felt no fever. He built the fire higher, increasing the warmth in the room. And yet it didn’t stop her trembling. Neither did more blankets.

Grimly, Tray paced the room, alternately glancing at Alyssa and then glaring off into the darkness outside. It began to rain again, the wind lashing and howling outside Shadowhawk. With a growl of impatience, he took off the pile of blankets, allowing them to drop to the floor, then shrugged out of his robe and slid into the bed.

As gently as possible, he moved next to Alyssa, fitting his powerful body next to her shivering form. She was so pitifully small in comparison to his heavily muscled frame. Tray slipped his arm beneath her neck, carefully drawing her head onto his shoulder and fitting her protectively against him. The silk of her floor-length nightgown provided a minuscule barrier between his naked body and her. Alyssa’s trembling abated noticeably.

“Sleep, Aly. Just rest. No one is going to harm you, little one. No one. I’m here. I’ll protect you….”

She wasn’t running a fever. He began to lightly stroke the length of her long, beautifully formed back, willing away the terror she must be experiencing in some dark, distant chamber of her mind.

He lay awake for a long time, absorbing the feel of the woman next to him. He had lived seven and twenty years before he knew the wonder and joy of a woman lying at his side. Those twelve months with Shelby had taught him with what hunger a man could need a woman, to touch her, to feel her pressing herself to his length, telling him silently of her need of him as a man…. And now he held this child-woman, whose vulnerability shouted at him while she rested undemandingly in his arms. Alyssa was soft against the hard planes of his body, her shallow breath against his shoulder like mist on a cold Welsh morning. Tray found himself reaching his hands upward, threading his fingers through her hair. It was still snarled and tangled, and he suddenly felt a need to brush it until it was sleek and shone with its unusual burgundy highlights. Tomorrow, Tray promised her, tomorrow I’ll brush your hair, Aly.

Tray felt the barest movement of her breasts against his chest and he realized with agonizing clarity that she still hovered on the brink of death. He placed his hand gently between her breasts, taking care not to brush them, and felt the slow, weak beat of her heart. If only…if only she would survive. Removing his hand, he drew Alyssa back into his arms, his jaw resting lightly against her hair.

“Listen to me, Aly, you’ve got to live. According to Sean, you’re too headstrong and outspoken to die. I want to hear your voice and your laughter. I’ve wondered what color your eyes are, little one. Are they blue like Sean’s? Or perhaps a sultry brown to match the wine richness of your hair? I want to know about you. After what the English have done to you, I don’t imagine you’ll ever see fit to trust men again. Or ever learn to love a man.”

His voice grew saddened and thick with exhaustion as he continued in a hushed tone. “I’m sorry it happened, little one. It makes me feel ashamed of being a man. It wasn’t right. Believe me, I’d do anything in the world to show you that not every man is like that, sweet Aly….”

As Tray slipped into the deep folds of sleep, his arms remained wrapped protectively around Alyssa, and he found a measure of peace he’d never experienced before.

Chapter Three

Tray welcomed Sorche into the bedchamber with a warm look in his gray eyes as the older woman waddled over to him. It had become a ritual between them; each evening before Sorche retired, she would come and sit with Tray and they would catalog Alyssa’s daily progress.

“Her hair needs combing,” Sorche noted gruffly. She pulled a brush from her pocket. “Here,” she urged, placing it in his hand, “get the snarls out of her hair.”

Tray gave Sorche a sheepish glance. “I don’t know how to brush a woman’s hair, Sorche. Perhaps you should do it again.”

“Nonsense! You know how to brush a horse’s mane. Go on, sit beside her. Now pick up a few strands and gently pull the brush through them. That’s it. Goodness! Hair isn’t alive, you know! Go on, a bit more pressure. There…good!” Sorche beamed proudly, watching Tray’s hesitant progress. “She has the most beautiful color of hair I’ve ever seen.”

Tray nodded, watching the auburn tresses begin to gleam like rich wine shot with gold as he drew the brush through her thick, clean hair. “Unique. Like she is,” he murmured.

Sorche made herself comfortable in a chair beside the bed, watching her foster son. Although the light from the fireplace cast shadows upon Tray’s face, Sorche could tell he was happy. Since Alyssa’s arrival, there had again been a flicker of hope in his somber gray eyes. She took out her embroidery, occasionally looking up to check his progress.

“It’s been seven days now. What did Dr. Birch say today?”

“That she’s healing rapidly and there is no sign of infection.”

“Thank the Mother Mary for that!” She frowned, her fingers poised above her stitchery. “And when will she awake, Tray? Did he say anything about that?”

“No,” he answered, laying the newly brushed strands across her pillow. Sliding his long, large-knuckled fingers beneath another handful of hair, Tray slowly began to draw the brush through it, finding a deep sense of pleasure in the action. 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 out of bed. He pressed small kisses to her hair and rocked her gently, feeling her heart pounding like a wounded doe’s against his chest. A film of perspiration covered her face and dampened her nightgown.

“Alyssa? Can you hear me? You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you, little one. It’s Tray. I’ll just hold you until you open your eyes. Relax against me. There’s no need to breathe so hard. There’s no one here to take you away. You’re safe…safe….”

Nothing could have prepared Tray for the next moment, when she slowly lifted those thick auburn lashes to reveal large eyes the color of sea foam, eyes that reflected the utter horror of her dishonor aboard the ship. His hands tightened unconsciously upon her as he stared down into their incredible gemlike beauty. Tray saw flecks of gold in their depths, the pupils large and black as they studied him. And then they welled up almost instantly with hot, scalding tears. A lump caught in his throat and he watched helplessly as those tears gathered, formed and streaked down her now flushed cheeks. It felt as if someone had slammed a fist into Tray’s chest.

“No…no…” Alyssa babbled, her fingers digging into her skull.

“Don’t,” Tray whispered harshly, laying her back on the bed, pulling her hands from her face.

Wild terror widened her eyes and Alyssa struggled weakly. “No…Mother Mary, no!” she wailed, her voice echoing pitifully throughout the room.

Confused, Tray pinned her arms beside her head, little realizing that by doing that, he had triggered the rape to life in Alyssa’s frantic mind. She struggled briefly, finally lying limp beneath him, gasping. He immediately released her wrists, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes. What was wrong with her? Couldn’t she see that she was safe?

“Listen to me,” Tray rasped, his voice thick and unsteady. “There’s no need to escape, Alyssa. Look around you! You’re not on board a ship. You’re at Shadowhawk. No one is going to harm you, colleen.”

Alyssa’s breathing softened and she turned her head toward him. Her lower lip trembled as she shrieked, “I can’t see! I can’t see! My eyes…my eyes…” She weakly lifted her hands, trying to understand why she couldn’t see anything even though her eyes were wide open.

“God’s blood, no!” With trembling fingers, Tray gently caressed her temple. How? Why? Dr. Birch had said nothing about blindness. “Listen to me, little one, stop crying. Stop,” Tray continued in soothing Gaelic, trying to restrain her hysteria, “Please. You’re tearing my heart apart.”

The touch of a man’s fingers upon her skin had sent a shot of paralyzing terror coursing through Alyssa, but then the dark, chanting magic of his voice assuaged her fear. Alyssa dropped her head back on the pillows and tried to control her terror. Sweet Mother of Jesus, he was a man, just like the man who had hurt her. Gradually, allowing his soothing words to sway her, she relaxed and felt his grip loosen. The moment he released her, she cringed against the headboard, her arms wrapped around her exhausted body.

“Who are you?” Alyssa begged, her voice cracking. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

She felt his weight leave the bed and buried her head more deeply into her arms, fearing a blow. She was breathing hard again, like an animal backed into a corner with nowhere to escape. Alyssa blinked. Why couldn’t she see? There was no blindfold upon her. Her attention was torn between the darkness that enveloped her and the movement of what she knew to be a man in close proximity to her. Her ragged gasps punctuated the silence and she swallowed, in dire need of water. When the blow she was expecting did not come, Alyssa cautiously lifted her head. Where was she? And who was the man? And Sean! Alyssa’s eyes narrowed as she tried to control her own raging emotions.

“Where are you!” she cried, but the words came out as a broken whisper.

Tray stood frozen in guilt and shame as he watched Alyssa cower in the bed. She was trembling, the covers drawn tightly against her body. What should he do? She hated him, hated his touch. He swallowed painfully, his gray eyes anguished as he stared down at her. Although she could not see his gesture, he lifted his hand in a sign of peace and quietly began speaking to her.

“Alyssa, my name is Tray. I know you can’t stand the touch of a man, so let me get my mother, Sorche. You shouldn’t be moved yet. You’re still injured. Believe me, I won’t hurt you. Please, just stay where you are and I’ll bring Sorche.”

Alyssa’s breasts rose and fell quickly and her slender fingers gripped the sheets more tightly. Just the calming tenor of his voice shed layers of the fear that cloaked her. “Wh-where am I?”

“At a friend’s home.”

“And Sean? Where’s Sean?”

“Just down the hall. As soon as I get Sorche and attend to your needs, I’ll bring him to you.”

She gave a jerky nod of her head, biting hard on her lower lip. “He’s alive?” she quavered.

“Alive, well fed and happy. Now all we have to do is make you the same way, little one. Please, lie back down. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Little one…The way the endearment rolled off his tongue caressed the open wounds of her soul and relaxed her. “A-are you Irish?”

Tray managed a sliver of a smile. “Raised on the milk of the Irishwoman who will care for you, Alyssa.”

Some of the panic drained from her pale features.

“Now stay quiet and I’ll get Sorche,” he promised.

Alyssa tensed as she heard the scuff of his booted feet against the carpet. A door quietly opened and closed, and she was left in a room she could not see. Releasing the blanket, she stretched out her left hand, investigating the area around her. She had outlined the shape of the huge bed by the time the man called Tray returned with his mother.

Sorche waddled into the room, the white mobcap askew on her now frizzy gray-haired head. Awakened out of a sound sleep, she was barely sensible as she came around the edge of the bed to where Alyssa sat, tense and wary.

“Child,” she whispered, reaching out and putting her hand over Alyssa’s, “you are safe here.”

The comfort of Sorche’s gruff voice tapped the well of conflicting emotion within Alyssa, and she let out a single sob. The woman sat down near her, gently pushing the heavy hair away from her face. “Thank all the saints you’ve come back to us,” she murmured. “We were so worried for you, child. You’ve been here seven days now and no one held much hope of you recovering except Tray. Our prayers are answered.”

Alyssa groped, finding and clutching at Sorche’s arthritic hand. “I can’t see, Sorche…my eyes…what happened? Why am I blind?”

“I don’t know, child. Tray is going to send for Dr. Birch. He’s the one who examined you and brought you back to health. He’ll be here before dawn. Is there anything we can get you? Are you hungry?”

“I—I want to see Sean. I need to know he’s alive.”

Sorche glanced up at Tray, whose features were almost as tortured as Alyssa’s. “Tray will get him up. What else? Would you like some good cabbage soup?”

Alyssa shook her head, her fingers moving to her throat. “Water. Just water. I’m so thirsty.”

Stiffly, Sorche got to her feet and went to the sideboard, pouring a large glass of water for her from the pitcher. Alyssa was far weaker than she thought; she couldn’t hold the glass. Sorche coaxed her to lie back against several pillows and then guided the glass to her lips. Before Tray returned to the chamber with a sleepy-eyed Sean in tow, Alyssa had drunk four glasses in succession.

Before they entered the bedchamber, Tray knelt down in the hall, his hands resting on Sean’s small shoulders. The boy’s eyes were still puffy with sleep, his red hair mussed. “Listen to me carefully, son. If your cousin asks you where she is, tell her you’re at a friend’s home. That isn’t a lie. Right now she’s upset about her blindness and she doesn’t need any more shock. She doesn’t need to know she’s in Wales. It will do nothing but aggravate her, and it might affect her health. You don’t want Alyssa hurt any more, do you?”

Sean slowly shook his head, his blue eyes widening. “Blind? But—how?” he blurted.

“I don’t know, Sean. Perhaps the blow to her skull caused it.” Tray’s fingers tightened momentarily on the boy’s arms. “We’ll know more when Dr. Birch arrives. Come, you were the first person she asked for when she woke up.” Tray got to his feet and kept a hand on Sean’s shoulder. The Irish boy seemed to sense the seriousness of the moment. Instead of flying to his cousin’s arms, he walked up to her with a sober expression.

“Lys?” Sean whispered, holding out his small hand, lightly brushing her arm.

“Sean? Oh, Sean!” Her voice stronger, Alyssa reached out until she found him.

Sorche sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks as she watched them hold each other in a long embrace. She felt Tray’s arm go around her shoulder, drawing her near, and she leaned gratefully against his powerful, seemingly tireless body. As usual, it was Tray who was keeping everything and everyone together.

Craddock appeared at the doorway in his rumpled nightgown, blear-eyed. “You rang, sir?” he mumbled.

The butler’s entrance diverted Tray’s attention from the reunion between Alyssa and Sean. The boy had buried his head against her shoulder, sobbing hard. At least there was one male she didn’t hate. Perhaps there was hope, after all. “Yes, get Dr. Birch here as swiftly as possible. Have Stablemaster Thomas hitch up the grays and send the coach. With the weather the way it is, I don’t want the good doctor falling off his horse or getting thrown. Send two outriders to light the way.”

“Yes, Lord Trayhern. Right away.”

* * *

Tray sat in a chair near the fireplace, his long, muscular legs stretched out before him. It had been three hours since Alyssa had awakened and now the excitement had worn off, leaving everyone exhausted. Tray felt gutted emotionally and he was sure Alyssa felt even worse. Sean had spent the better part of an hour with her, patiently answering her questions and successfully avoiding telling her where Shadowhawk was located and who their “friends” really were. Tray rubbed his brow tiredly and watched Alyssa as she slept fitfully on the bed once again. After Sean left, Sorche had given Alyssa more water and tucked her in, clucking over her like a mother hen. A soft smile touched his lips. Sorche gave endlessly of her love and affection. She was a miracle in his life, and his heart had lightened as he observed Alyssa falling beneath her spell, as well.

Tray’s head dropped to his chest, eyes closed, the pleasant crackle of the fire soothing him. He felt shocked and rebuffed by Aly’s initial shrinking away from him. Anger and frustration roiled within him. He didn’t blame Alyssa for her reactions to him. After all, he was a man.

Tray was almost ready to give in to badly needed sleep when he heard Alyssa stir. Immediately his head snapped up, his eyes narrowing upon her as she threw off the bed covers.

“Don’t get out of that bed!” His voice cut like a whip through the quiet of the chamber and Alyssa froze. She had placed her feet on the carpet, her thin ankles and beautifully formed feet visible beneath the folds of the peach-colored nightgown. Tray was up in an instant, limping toward her, his face set.

Alyssa heard him coming and shrank back as he approached. “Wh-where’s Sorche?” Her voice was small and quavering.

Tray glared down at her and ran his fingers through his hair. “Asleep.”

“Oh…” Alyssa tensed as if he were going to strike out at her any moment. It did nothing but feed the rage he had been feeling since she had awakened.

Swallowing his feelings, Tray asked, “Why? What do you want? Can I get it for you?”

Color swept her cheeks and Alyssa licked her lips. “I—I don’t mean to presume upon your graciousness, but…I drank so much water that I have to…I mean—”

Tray’s face relaxed. “I see,” he said. He squatted down in front of her. “My mother is very old, Alyssa. She couldn’t carry you to the water closet. And none of my other maids could do it, either. You’re not exactly a sprite of a colleen.”

Alyssa’s heart was beating hard in her chest as she listened to the humor in his tone. “I—I will walk. If you can just—”

“Listen to me, little one, you’re as weak as a lamb. I know it’s not customary for a man to take a woman to the water closet, but in this case, neither of us has much choice.”

Her shoulders dropped and Alyssa turned toward his voice. “If I can stand, will you direct me with your voice?”

Tray rose, a scowl forming on his brow. “You’re too weak to walk.”

Her chin jutting out in defiance, Alyssa forced herself to her feet. She wavered badly and threw out her hands to find nothing but air. But the fear of him as a man was greater than her fear of falling, and she prepared herself to hit the floor. As she lost her balance, Alyssa felt strong, masculine arms closing around her body. He lifted her as if she were a mere feather wafting on a summer’s breeze. She stiffened, a cry lurching from her throat.

“You don’t have to remind me that you want nothing to do with men,” Tray growled tightly, carrying her through the bedchamber to an adjoining room, which housed the bath and the water closet. He sat her down, making sure she would not fall again.

“Please,” Alyssa begged, “leave me.”

Tray hesitated, but he heard the humiliation in her hoarse voice. “Very well. Call me when you want me to carry you back to the bedchamber.”

“A-all right.”

Afterward, Alyssa rose and pulled the nightgown down around her body. She stood, her hands braced against the cool stone-and-wood enclosure. She tried to fight off the dizziness that washed over her, and her fear of Tray coming back pushed her into action. Hand outstretched, she met the hard, masculine wall of a man’s chest. Jerking her hand back as if burned, Alyssa would have fallen if Tray hadn’t reached out and brought her into his arms.

A strangled sound of fury left Alyssa’s lips and two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks as she lay stiffly in his embrace. “You—you were there all the time!” she gasped, trying to push away from him. “You gave your word—”

Tray slipped his arms beneath her, lifting her up against him. She was pitifully thin; his fingers could feel each clearly defined rib through the nightgown she wore. “No, I wasn’t. I had just come back in to check on you.”

This time, as they made their way back to the bedchamber, Alyssa noticed that the man walked brokenly. Was he hurt?

Why did she care? He was a man. And men were little more than monsters. She erected a barricade against Tray as he carried her back to the safety of the bed. Once deposited, she pulled the covers across her lap and leaned against the headboard.

The sound of shod horses clattering up the cobblestoned expanse leading to the main entrance of Shadowhawk tore Tray’s attention away from Alyssa. He recognized the sounds as a coach approaching. At the thought of Dr. Birch arriving momentarily, he felt another weight slipping free of his shoulders. Perhaps now the doctor would be able to tell them why Alyssa was blind.

Chapter Four

Alyssa saw the grinning face of the English officer as he leered down at her, his too-handsome features looming before her in sinister distortion. Tossing restlessly, moaning, she tried to escape from the hard male body that straddled her. She watched in horror as he slowly reached down and jerked at her thin shirt to deliberately expose her breasts to all. No, sweet Mother of Mary, no! Alyssa began to sob, knowing she would have to live through the same sequence once again as she hovered between wakefulness and sleep.

Then the bed shifted beneath her and she felt the weight of someone nearby. To her great relief, she heard his voice—that soothing Gaelic breaking through the terror, shattering the grisly scene dancing before her mind’s eye. Without hesitation, Alyssa welcomed the safety of his embrace, resting her head on his chest. The soothing sound of his heart allowed her own heart to eventually beat in rhythm with his.

“Rest, sweet Aly,” he rasped. “I’ll hold you this one last night and make your dreams leave you in peace. Sleep, little one. Sleep the peace of angels, because God knows, you deserve it.”

Tray bit back a groan as Alyssa nestled more closely against him. He lightly stroked her head, running the gossamer threads of her hair through his fingers as he had done for seven nights before. This would be the last time he would sleep with her now that she had regained consciousness. The doctor had seen her briefly and wanted to examine her more thoroughly the next day. It was nearly three in the morning, and everyone was exhausted.

Tray’s heart wrenched as Aly nuzzled him like a lamb seeking its mother, her slender hand resting on his chest. In sleep, she trusted him even though he was a man. He lay there a long time, aware that dawn was slowly breaking the hold of night. He desperately needed to rest, yet he also needed to hold Aly and somehow atone for all the cruelty that life had thus far dealt her.

He had forgotten the contentment that a woman could bring to him. Alyssa made him feel whole, complete. Yet he wouldn’t humiliate her further by allowing her to discover that he had held her during those nights when she had hovered at death’s gate. And Alyssa’s trampled pride would not allow her to accept him holding her at night any longer. He would now have to move to the adjoining bedchamber. A soft smile tugged at Tray’s mouth as he rested his arm on her back. Sean had been right: Alyssa was a spitfire.

* * *

Alyssa jerked awake with a gasp.

“Relax, miss,” a voice she recognized as Dr. Birch’s soothed. The man placed his hand on her shoulder. “I need to examine that head wound of yours a bit more closely.”

Alyssa froze.

Tray grimly watched Alyssa wrestle with the terror. She suddenly ducked away from the doctor’s continued ministrations. Damn her! Tray wrestled with his anger as he stalked around to the other side of the bed, making sure she would not try to bolt, thereby injuring herself further. He glanced at Birch and then down at her.

“Alyssa,” he growled, “stop this. You can’t run every time someone touches you. The doctor needs to examine you.”

Alyssa winced beneath Tray’s biting tone as if he had physically struck her. He was obviously used to having his own way and ordering others around. One part of her rebelled; and yet, with frightening despair, she knew she could not escape because her blindness prevented it. Hot tears scalded her eyes and she tipped her head back, squeezing her eyelids closed and forcing down the tears.

“Please…” she whispered brokenly, “ask me anything you want, Doctor. But don’t—don’t touch me. I—I can’t stand it. You don’t know what happened….”

Birch sat quietly on the edge of the bed. “We know what happened to you, child,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be very gentle with you. Now, you must sit there and stop agitating yourself. Do you understand?”

Tray limped back to the fireplace, his mouth set in a hard line. Alyssa’s pleading cry tore at him as nothing else ever had. God’s blood! What was this unexplained power she held over him? Each time agony showed in her lovely jade-colored eyes or Tray heard the trembling fear in her rich voice, he responded to it as if he were a part of her.

That morning, he had gently dislodged himself from Alyssa’s sleeping embrace and had stood at the bedside, staring hungrily down upon her peaceful countenance, which, in slumber, lost that mask of fear. The perfectly sculpted features of her healing face had tempted him almost beyond reason.

Tray rubbed his brow in consternation, hating himself for what he had felt earlier as he stood there. He had experienced a stirring of heat in his loins, and his imagination had taken flight. Ruthlessly, he tried to sort and examine his emotions. Shelby had been dead for longer than a year. There were many Englishwomen from Liverpool who begged him to attend their parties and balls after the official period of mourning, but he had declined. They all vied for the title of Lady Trayhern—and the vast Trayhern wealth he would inherit when his father died. Tray’s memory veered sharply to a time in his life he never wanted to dredge up again.

He had been the master of Shadowhawk since he was six and ten, with Stablemaster Thomas as his mentor. There had been little time to hone his appreciation of girls when he was growing up. The only other females were Welsh and Irish servants or tenants, and they all knew who he was: the lord of Shadowhawk, someone to treat with deference but never to become friendly with. Those had been painfully lonely years. And it was only when his neighbor to the south, a wealthy Welsh farmer, had come to visit with his son that Tray truly began to understand the shame of his clubfoot and how that condition affected women.

Evan Deverell was two years older than Tray and would often come riding up on one of his father’s handsome thoroughbreds and invite Tray to visit Colwyn Bay with him to enjoy the delights of the young Welshwomen, who, he promised, would welcome them with open arms. After a particularly bountiful fall harvest, Tray was in the mood to celebrate. He bathed, donned his best clothes, mounted his bay Welsh gelding and rode happily into Colwyn Bay with his friend.

The cobbled streets of Colwyn Bay were dreary with recent rain when they entered Evan’s world of gambling parlors. They drank until their heads reeled and then found themselves in the arms of women who traded their bodies for a few coins. Drunk for the first time in his life, Tray had staggered up to the room of a pretty girl named Glynis, which was gaudily decorated in reds and golds. She giggled as, in his inebriated state, he tried to unbutton his trousers. Glynis pushed him back on the feather bed and divested him of his black wool coat and white, ruffled shirt. He sat there, blinking at Glynis through blurred eyes as she kept up a giggly chatter, her blue eyes small and sparkling as she yanked and pulled on his right boot until it finally slid free. Tossing it aside, he laughed with her, feeling a rush of fierce sexual hunger as she leaned down between his sprawled legs to caress him through his tight-fitting breeches. A shudder of absolute pleasure had rippled through him like hot iron being poured through his awakening loins.

Glynis must have seen the shock and sudden desire mirrored in his stunned expression because she smiled coyly and continued to caress him with knowing fingers, sending shafts of longing coursing through his virgin body. Tray gasped as she gently shoved him down on the bed, proceeding to free each captive button on his confining trousers. The bulge in his breeches left nothing to guess about, and Glynis seemed absolutely delighted as she deliberately grazed his hard maleness one more time before shifting her attention to ridding him of his other highly polished boot.

The skimpy, translucent lavender gown made Tray achingly aware of Glynis as a woman. He watched in fascination as she straddled his left leg, positioning the boot between her slender thighs. He lay there, eyes wide as he watched her small rear wriggle provocatively as she struggled with the boot. Pouting, she turned and told him to push on her derriere so that the naughty boot would come off. He willingly complied, gently placing his foot squarely on that beautiful, lavender-swathed flesh. With squeals of delight, after a few halfhearted tries, Glynis wrestled the leather free. She did a little dance before tossing the boot aside and turning back to Tray. Her gaze flew to his left leg, thin, misshapen, the atrophied calf.

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.

Her sharpened hearing caught the sound of heavy boots scuffing across a thick carpet. She stiffened, her lashes lifting.

“How are you feeling?”

The care in Tray’s deep voice dissolved her acid retort. His voice…why did it seem so familiar to her? Her heart gave a little lurch. She tried to speak but found her mouth gummy.

“Water?”

Alyssa nodded and struggled into a sitting position. She heard the water being poured and the familiar sound of his approach. Never had she relied so keenly on her hearing as now.

“Hold out your hands,” he commanded her, “and I’ll place the glass between them.”

She obeyed his instructions. When her fingers brushed his, she froze momentarily. But driven by thirst, Alyssa gripped the glass firmly. He removed his hand and she eagerly drank.

“More?”

She shook her head, holding out the emptied glass. “No, thank you,” she whispered.

Tray smiled tentatively. So, Alyssa could be civil when she chose. Or was it that she had just awakened, her defenses not yet in place? It didn’t matter. Tray made sure he didn’t touch her fingers a second time as he lifted the glass from her hand. After setting it on the sideboard, he moved back to her.

“It’s been a while since your last trip to the water closet.”

Alyssa felt the heat of blush rapidly sweep from her neck up into her face. The scarlet color graced her cheeks and Tray took pity upon her.

“I don’t think Dr. Birch will be angry if I hold your hand and you try a few steps toward the water closet on your own instead of being carried all that way. What do you think?”

Alyssa was so grateful she almost cried. She hadn’t expected any enemy of Ireland to show humanity. Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she nodded and lifted her hand outward. The graceful gesture reminded Tray of the ballerinas he had seen performing in London. His mouth compressed and he gently pulled back the covers and gripped Alyssa’s hand firmly in his own.

“Come to the side of the bed and then just rest a moment,” he counseled softly.

Alyssa did so, wildly aware of his powerful, calloused hand surrounding her own, swallowing up her cool, damp fingers. The vibrating tenor of Tray’s voice thrummed through her like a beautifully played Irish harp, and she couldn’t ignore the sudden flutter of her heart in her chest.

“All right, stand, slowly.”

She was weak. More weak than she could ever recall being in her life. But with Tray’s assistance, she stood, wavering, but standing nevertheless. She felt the heat of his body, so close to her own, and suddenly wished that she could see his face. Faces told her so much about a person. And right now, Alyssa felt one part of herself desperately wanting to reach out and trust this stranger, yet she knew she couldn’t.

“How do you know so much about all these things?” she muttered, frowning.

Tray’s laughter was deep and free. “I’m treating you as if you were a newborn foal who is trying to get to her feet for the first time. Have you seen foals? First they push upright on their straight little front legs and then promptly fall back down on their noses. Next, they push with their gangly hind legs, getting to their knees in front.” His voice lowered intimately, heightening her already aware senses. “And then those tiny front legs come up and there they stand, wobbling and wavering on all four feet for the first time in their life. It’s quite a moment.” Amusement laced his voice. “And then the mother will urge her newly born foal to nurse. In this case, we’ll nudge you toward the water closet. Shall we take your first faltering step, little one?”

His voice was a mesmerizing drug, and without a word, Alyssa took her first faltering step forward. A delicious sense of protection and care surrounded her as he called her little one again. She hadn’t the meanness to tell him not to call her by that pet name.

“And another…” Tray urged, and so it went. Alyssa took ten steps before she felt her knees giving way. Her right hand flew out in his direction and he caught her, his arm sliding around her waist, allowing her to fall against him. The shock of her thinly clothed body meeting the masculine hardness of his brought a gasp from Alyssa.

“Easy, Aly, I’m not going to hurt you. Easy…” He slipped his arm beneath her thighs, lifting her up against him.

Alyssa’s muscles tensed. He was a man, and her enemy.

“Ten steps isn’t bad for a first time,” he told her conversationally as he carried her to the marble-tiled bath area, trying without success to ignore her reaction to him. Her once flushed features were now pale and taut, and he could feel Alyssa retreat inside of herself. He gently set her on her feet. Taking her right hand, he verbally laid out the dimensions of the water closet before releasing her.

“Call me when you’re done,” he told her. “I’ll be in the drawing room working at my desk. You may have to raise your voice a bit so that I’ll hear you.”

Tray tore his gaze from her waxen features and those large, haunted jade eyes that tore his soul apart. She didn’t believe a word he had said. Well, what did he expect? Going to his mahogany desk, he took up the quill and forced himself to concentrate on the work before him.

For the first time in almost eight days, the sun broke through the low-hanging gray clouds and its beams cascaded through the french doors, making the blue drawing room come to vibrant life. The warmth felt good and Tray lifted his chin, allowing the sunlight to fall across his face. He preferred being outdoors. Although he did not regret the past week with Alyssa, he missed the fresh salt air and his daily ride on Rasheed along the beach.

His thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of Alyssa, clutching at the woodwork of the doorway in order to stay upright. His chair tipped over as, too late, he raced to catch her before she fell. Alyssa’s auburn hair spilled like a wine waterfall around her face as she crumpled to the carpet.

“You little fool,” Tray breathed savagely, gripping her arms and pulling her upright. “What do you think you were doing? Why didn’t you call for me?” Tray swallowed the rest of his anger as he saw tears form in Alyssa’s luminous eyes as they lifted toward his voice.

“I—I thought you were lying,” she choked. “I thought you were watching me all the time. I couldn’t stand the thought of—of—”

He groaned and knelt with Alyssa in his arms, burying her head against his chest. “God’s blood,” he whispered rawly. “I would never do anything to humiliate you, Aly.” His voice softened. “So you decided to see if I was secretly watching, knowing I would stop you from walking out of there?” Her logic was faultless. Had he been that devious, Tray would rather have admitted his lie than risk her falling. She knew him better than he cared to admit, which was rather unsettling. He didn’t want to be vulnerable ever again. He gave Alyssa’s cheek a gentle caress, his voice coaxing. “You have to learn to trust again. Trust me.”

Belatedly, as he lightly held her in his embrace while she valiantly refused to cry, he remembered what Sean had said: Alyssa had not been betrothed. She would have been protected from men. She was only seven and ten and, until recently, a virgin. She would have been protected from men all her life. At no time would she have had her maidenly privacy disrupted by a man. And now, he was the one to see her in little more than a nightgown and to carry her to and from the water closet. And she lay in his bed. Tray’s mouth quirked in understanding as Alyssa raised her head and pushed away from him. He released her, but only inches separated them.

“Better now?” he asked, his own voice unsteady.

“Y-yes.”

“Tears are the language of the heart. There’s nothing wrong with crying, little one.”

“Men don’t cry. Why should I?” she asked defiantly. “I’m ready to go back to bed.”

He gave her a patient smile. “Sometimes it’s better to cry, to let all your feelings out instead of bottling everything up. You’ve been through a great deal.”

She looked up, a challenging tilt to her chin. “And I suppose you cry?”

“Yes, I have. Several times,” he admitted quietly.

Her eyes widened. “Oh…”

“Do you want to try to walk or do you want me to carry you?”

Alyssa’s lips parted as she considered her answer. Her heart gave a funny twist in her chest. He had given her a choice. Tray could have dragged her back to the bed by her hair, as the sailors had dragged her from the cell, without consulting her on the matter at all. But he had not exerted his male dominance upon her, even though it was in his power to do so at any time. Alyssa tilted her head in confusion, trying to understand this complex man.

“Carry me?” she responded honestly.

Tray rose on one knee, his face thoughtful as he picked Alyssa up. This time she wasn’t so stiff and unyielding in his arms, and when he felt her relax ever so slightly against him, his heart soared. Despite the abuse and pain, there was still a core of trust in Alyssa. Trust. He could have exploded with happiness, but he masked it and said nothing as he deposited her on the safety of his bed once again. Tray helped her with the covers and she lay quietly with her hands in her lap, looking almost serene. Her stomach growled, and she immediately placed her hand across her middle.

“Hungry?” he asked, breaking the mellow silence between them.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have Sorche bring you something to eat.”

“Thank you.”

Alyssa listening to him leave the room, her stomach still rumbling, telling everyone within earshot that she was indeed starved! She had heard the carefully cloaked amusement in Tray’s voice when he had asked her if she was hungry. He could have embarrassed her with a snide comment, but he hadn’t. What an odd man he was!

Again, Alyssa found herself wishing mightily to know what he looked like.

Chapter Five

Alyssa seemed in the best of moods when Tray returned from his long overdue gallop along the cliffs of Shadowhawk. The brisk ride had lifted his spirits, and when he had knocked lightly at Alyssa’s door and heard her voice ring out, his heart pounded briefly. He gave her a smile of welcome, even though she could not see him as he entered the bedchamber.

“You look improved,” he noted, walking over to the fire and warming his cold hands.

Alyssa shyly lowered her head, her fingers nervously entwined in her lap. “Sorche is responsible for that. She chatted with me while you were gone.”

“I imagine she is happy to have someone new to talk to.”

Alyssa nodded. Tray’s voice was lighter, devoid of…unhappiness, perhaps? She licked her chapped lips and mustered the courage to talk with him directly. “Sorche said you own an Arabian horse. Is that true? I’ve heard that they’re very rare. Did you carry us here on one?”

Tray’s eyes lightened and a slight smile hovered around his mouth as he drew up a chair near the hearth and sat down, sprawling his long legs out in front of him. “Ah, I should have expected it,” he baited her. Alyssa lifted her chin and he suppressed the rest of his smile in that fleeting instant in favor of drinking in her unparalleled beauty. The blue silk nightgown she wore brought out the emerald highlights in her eyes and the wine darkness of her hair.

“Expected what?” she challenged, her voice stronger.

“That you would have an interest in horses.”

“The Irish are famous for their love of horses. We can gentle brutes that can’t be tamed by anyone else.”

Tray relaxed and enjoyed her spirited exchange. My God, her face was so expressive, so readable. He found himself wanting to burn those images into his memory. “You won’t get any argument out of me. Sorche told me the Irish have a secret method of taming a horse.”

“We do. And I know that secret.”

One dark eyebrow rose as Tray rested his chin against his hand. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“That wouldn’t be a bit of Irish blarney, would it, Aly?” he teased.

She flushed when he called her Aly. The man was forever giving her pet names! “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I didn’t say that. It’s just that I know there are very few Irish horse tamers who pass on their trade secrets. Especially to a young and beautiful woman such as yourself. Taming a horse is a man’s task, not a woman’s.”

Alyssa’s lips parted in consternation. “A man’s task? Indeed! I’ll have you know that I’ve gentled horses no man could get near!”

Tray’s gray eyes grew light with amusement. “There isn’t an Irishman alive who doesn’t indulge in a bit of stretching the truth. I’m afraid you’d have to prove that to me, little one.”

“I can. I mean I could, if…if I weren’t blind,” she stumbled lamely.

Tray winced as he heard the excitement drain from her voice. “Well,” he soothed, “perhaps when you’re better, and when Dr. Birch says that you can ride, I’ll let you go with me. Would you like that?”

An instant’s hope flickered to life inside Alyssa and then died. He was handing her dreams, only dreams. She bowed her head, muttering, “Sorche said you were an unusual man. But you’re a lord and I’m a commoner. No lord rides with someone like me.”

Tray roused himself, scowling at the truth in her words. “We’ll see,” he said.

Alyssa raised her head, her eyes large and sad. “Please,” she whispered rawly, “tell me what you’re going to do with us. I’m blind and of no use to you. And I’ve heard tales of small boys who are taken to Wales and sent to coal mines, never to be seen again.” She raised her hands in an open gesture toward him. “Are we slaves? Will you send Sean to the mines to die?”

Tray rose, his face ashen as he stared across the room at her. “Did Sorche tell you anything?” he asked tightly.

“Only that you were told to come to the ship and pick up a boy.”

Tray expelled a deep breath and drew a chair near her bed. “I owe you some answers. My half brother, Vaughn, demanded my presence aboard that ship to pick up a small boy who had been captured in the rebellion. Vaughn told me I’d find Sean in the ship’s hold.” His voice softened momentarily. “And I found you there along with him.”

Alyssa swallowed, her eyes unnaturally bright. “Sean told me how you saved me from being killed. The sailors were going to throw me on the cart….”

Tray avoided her gaze. “Anyone would have done the same,” he muttered. “As for what I’m going to do with you, I’d like to return you to Ireland once you’ve fully recovered. Both of you.”

A small cry shook Alyssa and she clasped her hands together. “You mean that?”

“You have my word upon it,” Tray promised grimly, dreading the moment he would have to let her go.

Confusion laced her voice, “You’re so different…”

Tray gave a harsh laugh, crossing his booted feet and staring pensively down at them. “Different? Now you’re being kind. People usually use much different words to describe me, such as devil, or monster.”

“No…they couldn’t. They’re wrong.”

He chanced a brief look at Alyssa and closed his eyes, unable to deal with the compassion he saw flooding her face. “It’s good that you’re blind or you’d agree with them. Just ask Sean. Hasn’t he told you that I’m like a huge, hulking monster, silently treading the halls of Shadowhawk like a satanic effigy?”

Alyssa heard the bitterness in his quiet voice, unable to understand his sudden sadness. “Why, no. He’s frightened of you, but only because you’re English.”

“Welsh,” Tray corrected. “Now, what other questions do you need answered?”

Just the gentle teasing in his voice gave her the courage she needed. “My father, Colin.”

“What about him?”

“He was on board that ship, too.”

“A prisoner?”

Alyssa nodded.

Tray sat up. “Don’t tell me your whole family was caught in the middle of that uprising?” His tone was incredulous.

Alyssa chewed on her lower lip. If she told Tray the truth, that her father and her brother, Dev, were a part of the rebellion, he might well send Sean to the coal mines to die. She had to continue the lie Sean had invented for them. “Yes.”

Tray clenched his fist. “Damn those hotheaded English soldiers,” he hissed blackly. He had heard that the English army under General Lake’s banner were killing, maiming and torturing thousands of helpless victims who had taken no part in Wolfe Tone’s poorly executed rebellion in Ireland. Tray looked up into her innocent features. “That ship doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. They’re taking on water at Colwyn Bay. I’ll send one of my servants to locate my half brother and we’ll see what can be done to free your father, Alyssa.”

His words took her aback. Did Tray’s power extend that far? Colin Kyle had taken part in the rebellion, and so had she. She clasped her sweaty hands together, fear racing through her. She was a prisoner who had been intended for Newgate Prison in London, to be hanged beside her father. Alyssa blanched with guilt. She had abused Tray’s generosity by lying to him. And now she was going to try to use his family connection to free her father. If she protested against his intervention too strongly, Tray would question her closely, and she didn’t want to risk Sean’s safety by blurting out the truth. Perhaps…perhaps Tray’s brother would be too busy to come to Shadowhawk. Then Tray would never know the truth, and both she and Sean would be safe. Oh, Mother Mary, why had she lied! Tray didn’t deserve her deceit.

“Now it’s your turn,” Tray said, breaking into her cartwheeling thoughts. “Tell me about yourself, your family. Are you seacoast Irish or inland born?”

Alyssa closed her eyes momentarily, trying to contain all her roiling emotions and fears. “My last name is Kyle,” she began, her voice low and unsteady, “and I was born in County Wexford, near the town of Wexford. My family farmed for a living until—until my father was unable to meet the taxes that the English placed upon us because we were Catholic.”

Tray grimaced. How many independent Irish had had their farms stolen from beneath them, their homes burned or destroyed, their families forced into a life of wandering impoverishment? He was familiar with the religious persecution. Catholic farmers were given only a twenty-one-year lease on their land, while Protestant farmers were given three lifetimes to keep and till their farms. Eventually the Catholic farmers had ended up as squatters, barely surviving in windowless, thatched hovels made of mud and straw, built on other people’s land. The Kyles were probably no different. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“Two older brothers. Devlin is four and twenty. Gavin is three and twenty.”

“And you were their spoiled baby sister?” he baited gently, smiling, thinking how pretty she must have been with her innocent green eyes, beautifully shaped mouth and freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.

Alyssa twisted the sheet between her fingers. “Loved, but not spoiled,” she countered.

“And your mother? You haven’t mentioned her.”

Alyssa grew still. “Mama died the first winter we were driven from our home. She had consumption, and Father didn’t have enough money to get a doctor to treat her.” She compressed her full lips and her hands stilled.

“I’m sorry,” Tray said, breaking the silence between them.

She gave a small, defeated shrug. “That was a long time ago.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Six. I don’t remember much about it. Gavin took care of me while Father and Dev hunted the countryside for food.”

Tray’s face mirrored her pain. “But when you were old enough, you took over the duties of caring for all of them?”

She nodded and then gave a small, forced laugh. “Even to this day I’m not a good seamstress. I can’t card wool properly…I can’t do much very well, if you want the truth.”

“That’s because your mother died before she could teach you those skills properly,” he countered quietly. “How old were you when you took over the household duties?”

“Nine, ten…I don’t really recall.”

Tray stared hard at Alyssa, fighting back the images that her young life brought to mind. Had the Kyle family dug holes in the ground and burrowed in them like animals to stay out of the wet, damp weather of winter, with nothing more than a few thin rags covering their starving, flea-bitten bodies? Had they eaten grubs and insects to stay alive, and chewed on the bark of trees during the cold months to keep from starving? His heart contracted as he stared at her unmarred face. She had gone through so much in her short life. And now, she had been a victim of the rebellion, once again caught, abused and brought to her knees by the damned English. His fists knotted until his knuckles turned white.

“You’re getting shadows beneath those lovely eyes of yours, little one. Why not sleep? It’s nearly five in the afternoon. You’ve done much for one day.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to reach your half brother before he sails?” Alyssa asked, praying that he could not.

Tray rose heavily to his feet. “I don’t know. All we can do is try. If that fails, I’ll send word to London for Vaughn to come back to Shadowhawk at his first opportunity. He has it within his power to do something for your father, but I can’t promise you anything definite right now.”

“By doing this much, my lord, you’ve helped.”

Tray felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth. He felt oddly buoyant as he left the bedchamber and walked down the hall toward his study.

* * *

The next four days brought a consistency to Alyssa’s life that she had not known in years. To her great relief, Tray’s half brother was unable to come to Shadowhawk before sailing, but he had promised to ride from London after the ship docked. Sean was safe for a while. Perhaps Lord Trayhern could be convinced to allow the boy to remain at Shadowhawk, despite their lies.

Alyssa moved restlessly in bed, mulling over that last thought. After the truth came out, would Lord Trayhern allow Sean to stay or keep his word and return them both to Ireland? She pushed herself up in bed, resting against the headboard, her face thoughtful. What of Dev and Gavin? Had they escaped the English soldiers and fled into the countryside? She drew her lower lip between her teeth, frowning. How she missed her brothers! And each time she thought of her fiery-tempered father in manacles and chains, she wanted to cry. The English would hang him at Newgate. Why couldn’t they just be allowed to live in peace? Why did the English have to tear their farm away from them? Losing their land had killed her mother. She could remember her mother saying that they had lost everything. Everything. That was what had killed her.

Alyssa ran her fingers through her long, heavy hair in an effort to tame it into some semblance of order about her shoulders. Tilting her head slightly, she heard a cock crowing strongly in the distance. It must be morning. Alyssa’s thoughts swung back to Lord Trayhern, as they often did in quiet moments. She had never realized that the English could be as kind as he was. She was bewildered by Tray’s care of her and Sean. Who would want a blind Irish girl who was useless to his household? And then a cold terror seeped through her sleep-ridden mind: she had heard of the lords taking mistresses. Reflexively, her fingers went to her cheek.

Lords, it was whispered, took only beautiful women as their mistresses. Alyssa’s fingers lingered on her rose-hued skin. Except for having occasionally seen her reflection in a quiet pool of water, she knew little of her appearance. No one had ever said she was beautiful. Dev often teased that she had turned down all marriage proposals because she was waiting for a rich Catholic Irishman to come along. That wasn’t true. She loathed the idea of being torn from her family; she loved her brothers and father too much to part from them. She would rather live in the embrace of the forests, trying to make a home for them in some burned-out thatched hut or whatever they found along the way, than live with a strange new family.

And then an excruciatingly painful thought came to Alyssa. No man would want her now. She was damaged goods. No self-respecting farmer would consider her for a wife. Alyssa bowed her head, feeling the hotness of tears that matched the burning anguish in her heart. Hadn’t her father impressed upon her time and again that a woman’s purity was the most valuable asset she could offer a man? A soft sob escaped from her lips. No one would ever want her now; she was blind, and no better than a common whore.

“Little one?”

Alyssa jerked her head to the left, toward Tray’s soft voice. Tears splattered across her cheeks and she clutched her hands protectively to her chest.

Tray quietly pulled a chair over and sat down, facing her. He had risen more than two hours earlier, working in the adjacent drawing room, which began to resemble his study more and more with each passing day. His gray gaze lingered on Alyssa’s flushed features and he saw anguish in her haunted expression.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he coaxed gently.

“N-nothing, my lord. Didn’t you know that all Irish weep easily? Remember, you told me it was all right to cry.”

A slight smile pulled at his well-shaped mouth. In the past four days, some of the natural tension between them had dissipated, and upon occasion, when Tray was able to get past her defenses, they could talk almost as if they were friends. He hoped this would be one of those times. At least she was no longer trying to hide her true feelings from him. He pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and leaned forward.

“Here,” he offered, placing the linen against her clenched hand.

An understanding silence stretched between them. Tray sat back, watching Alyssa dry her eyes. “People usually cry when they’re very happy or very sad,” he noted quietly, knowing there was little in her life that she could be happy about. “Are you crying because you miss Ireland?”

Alyssa knotted the handkerchief in her lap, her head bowed and face hidden by the natural barrier of her hair. “I awoke happy this morning, my lord. And then…then I began to think of the future.” She compressed her lips and closed her eyes, her voice low with strain. “I’m blind. I’m damaged goods. Of what use am I to anyone? No man will ever look at me as wifely material now.” She opened her slender fingers in a gesture of frustration. “What man who must work from dawn to dusk in the fields would want a helpless blind girl? He would need a strong woman at home to care for him.”

Tray’s mouth grew into a grim line. He had no defense against her, nor, he was discovering, did he want any. Alyssa was simply herself, without the training that society normally placed on women of his class. Her freshness and vitality made him feel more alive than he could ever recall.

“You’ve been here almost two weeks and I haven’t found you to be in the way,” he said, forcing a lightness to his voice he didn’t feel. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on the negatives of her situation. “And Sorche was telling me that as you grow stronger, she’ll teach you how to card wool. She also felt that you could help in her kitchen, since you’re insisting upon walking around. So you see, you aren’t useless.” And then his voice deepened. “If I hadn’t already given my word to send you back to Ireland when you recovered, I would ask you and Sean to remain here at Shadowhawk.”

Alyssa’s lips parted and she turned toward him. Sweet Jesus, if she could only see! Then she could tell if Tray was lying to her or not. She could look into his eyes and know if he spoke the truth. She was getting more adept at listening and judging the quality of the voices around her. And if this method could be trusted, Lord Trayhern meant what he said. Then another thought occurred to her.

“As what?” she asked faintly.

“What do you mean?”

It took all her courage to blurt it out. “I’ve heard of lords taking a mistress. I—I don’t ever want to be touched by another Englishman. I don’t want to bring further shame on my family by being known as a mistress to an enemy of Ireland.”

Tray tried patiently to take her fervently spoken admission in stride. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I would turn you into an unwilling mistress?”

Alyssa gave a small shrug. “I don’t know what to think of your attentions, my lord. In Ireland, the titled English ride into our villages, pointing out the young women they want, who are then dragged off to their manor or castle. When next we see them, if we see them at all, they are always dressed in finery, yet look so sad.”

Her voice trailed off and Alyssa crumpled the handkerchief between her hands. “Father always told me that love could exist between a man and his wife, and that there was no need for a mistress. He said my heart would tell me when I found a man I could love. But now it’s too late. I’m soiled, like those women who were dragged off, shamed and dishonored. I couldn’t bear to stay here at Shadowhawk. For any reason.”

Tray had to stop himself from reaching out and caressing her wine-colored hair. Her words cut like a sword through his heart. Did Alyssa realize that she had welcomed his embrace each nightfall when she was unconscious? He had savored those precious hours with Alyssa at his side, soothing away the dreams that plagued her sleeping hours. Regardless of how Alyssa felt, a large part of him wanted her to remain at Shadowhawk. And yet, Tray had to acknowledge her view of the situation. He kept his voice carefully neutral when he spoke.

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