Lord Of Shadowhawk

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—”