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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.”
