showed her feelings, and especially nothing to make him smile.
‘I imagine your husband was very proud of such a skill.’
‘He liked my cooking,’ she admitted. He caught the flash of grief on her face.
Aileen lifted a spoonful of liquid to his mouth. He tasted fish soup mixed with the bitter herbs and winced. ‘I fear I must disagree with Eachan. Your cooking is the worst I’ve tasted, Aileen.’
‘It is the medicines,’ she assured him, holding the bowl to his mouth. ‘Drink. It will help you to heal faster.’
He did, half-choking it down. In a way, he was grateful that he could speak his mind around Aileen. With her, he need not smile or tease, feigning strength he did not feel.
In the amber glow of firelight, he could not see his broken hands. The swollen joints made it impossible to move them. After he finished the broth, he met her gaze evenly. ‘I won’t lose my hands. Even if it means my death.’
He expected her to disagree with him, but instead she said, ‘If that is your wish.’
She leaned close, a defiant spirit in her eyes. ‘But you should know that I am a better healer than that.’
He wanted to believe her, but between her lost status of a healer and the swelling upon his fingers, his doubts lingered.
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘it is easier for me to get you out of my cottage if you walk out on your own feet. I’ve not the strength to drag you home.’
Connor could make no reply, for she lifted a cup of mead to his lips. The drink expunged the terrible taste of herbs.
‘Aileen, may I ask a boon of you?’
‘What is it?’ She had turned her back to him, loosening the long brat she wore about her shoulders until only her thin léine remained. The swell of her breasts silhouetted against the soft firelight distracted him. ‘Well?’ she prompted. As her fingers worked to unbraid her hair, the chestnut length of it spilled across her shoulders and down to the rise of her hips.
‘The women,’ he began. ‘I know they wish to visit me—’
‘You mean they wish to offer themselves to you upon a platter.’
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, but he did not respond to her jibe. ‘Could you keep them away, at least until my wounds have healed?’
‘Do you not wish them to feed you sweetmeats with their lips? Or rub your shoulders?’
He didn’t like her mockery. ‘I do not require such. But should you wish to do so, I’d not complain.’
Aileen let out a huff and turned to leave. ‘That will never happen, MacEgan.’
He hid his smile as the door closed behind her. It was no secret he liked women. He enjoyed their company, their softness. His brothers had oft times teased him that a woman could murder him and he’d thank her for it. He’d been blessed with the ability to charm most women into whatever he wanted.
He saw no harm in it, as most wanted to flirt. Sometimes he took advantage of a night in a willing cailín ’s arms, but more often he slept alone. With little land to speak of, a marriage to him was not attractive to the noblewomen of his tribe. They wanted a bold Irish warrior in their beds, but not in their homes.
He refused to allow a woman to use him in such a way.
In his mind, he imagined a fortress of his own, a stone rath spanning a hillside across lands rich with grain. A son who would drag a wooden sword across the training field, struggling to follow in his footsteps. A wife, welcoming him into her bed when darkness fell.
Despite his damaged hands, he would not let the Ó Banníons destroy him.
The next morn, Connor awakened with less pain. He eased himself to a seated position and then stood up. Though his limbs were stiff, walking caused him no pain. With slow steps, he eased towards the sunlight. He squinted at the light and saw a smaller thatched hut. Aileen’s dwelling, he realised.
Standing before the hide-covered door, he tapped it lightly with his foot. Silence. When he entered the dim hut, no one was inside. For a
‘I imagine your husband was very proud of such a skill.’
‘He liked my cooking,’ she admitted. He caught the flash of grief on her face.
Aileen lifted a spoonful of liquid to his mouth. He tasted fish soup mixed with the bitter herbs and winced. ‘I fear I must disagree with Eachan. Your cooking is the worst I’ve tasted, Aileen.’
‘It is the medicines,’ she assured him, holding the bowl to his mouth. ‘Drink. It will help you to heal faster.’
He did, half-choking it down. In a way, he was grateful that he could speak his mind around Aileen. With her, he need not smile or tease, feigning strength he did not feel.
In the amber glow of firelight, he could not see his broken hands. The swollen joints made it impossible to move them. After he finished the broth, he met her gaze evenly. ‘I won’t lose my hands. Even if it means my death.’
He expected her to disagree with him, but instead she said, ‘If that is your wish.’
She leaned close, a defiant spirit in her eyes. ‘But you should know that I am a better healer than that.’
He wanted to believe her, but between her lost status of a healer and the swelling upon his fingers, his doubts lingered.
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘it is easier for me to get you out of my cottage if you walk out on your own feet. I’ve not the strength to drag you home.’
Connor could make no reply, for she lifted a cup of mead to his lips. The drink expunged the terrible taste of herbs.
‘Aileen, may I ask a boon of you?’
‘What is it?’ She had turned her back to him, loosening the long brat she wore about her shoulders until only her thin léine remained. The swell of her breasts silhouetted against the soft firelight distracted him. ‘Well?’ she prompted. As her fingers worked to unbraid her hair, the chestnut length of it spilled across her shoulders and down to the rise of her hips.
‘The women,’ he began. ‘I know they wish to visit me—’
‘You mean they wish to offer themselves to you upon a platter.’
A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, but he did not respond to her jibe. ‘Could you keep them away, at least until my wounds have healed?’
‘Do you not wish them to feed you sweetmeats with their lips? Or rub your shoulders?’
He didn’t like her mockery. ‘I do not require such. But should you wish to do so, I’d not complain.’
Aileen let out a huff and turned to leave. ‘That will never happen, MacEgan.’
He hid his smile as the door closed behind her. It was no secret he liked women. He enjoyed their company, their softness. His brothers had oft times teased him that a woman could murder him and he’d thank her for it. He’d been blessed with the ability to charm most women into whatever he wanted.
He saw no harm in it, as most wanted to flirt. Sometimes he took advantage of a night in a willing cailín ’s arms, but more often he slept alone. With little land to speak of, a marriage to him was not attractive to the noblewomen of his tribe. They wanted a bold Irish warrior in their beds, but not in their homes.
He refused to allow a woman to use him in such a way.
In his mind, he imagined a fortress of his own, a stone rath spanning a hillside across lands rich with grain. A son who would drag a wooden sword across the training field, struggling to follow in his footsteps. A wife, welcoming him into her bed when darkness fell.
Despite his damaged hands, he would not let the Ó Banníons destroy him.
The next morn, Connor awakened with less pain. He eased himself to a seated position and then stood up. Though his limbs were stiff, walking caused him no pain. With slow steps, he eased towards the sunlight. He squinted at the light and saw a smaller thatched hut. Aileen’s dwelling, he realised.
Standing before the hide-covered door, he tapped it lightly with his foot. Silence. When he entered the dim hut, no one was inside. For a
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