Lord Of Shadowhawk. Lindsay McKenna
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,