Lord Of Shadowhawk. Lindsay McKenna
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