‘If they did, I heard nothing of it.’ Aileen took the cup away. ‘Why did they attack you?’
‘I was punished for a crime I did not commit.’
‘What happened?’
Connor kept silent. He had no wish to relive those moments, nor to share his shame with a woman he barely knew. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. But when I find them, they will regret their actions.’
‘You should let the Brehon courts settle the dispute,’ Aileen argued.
‘The courts would require a fine, nothing more. The Ó Banníon chieftain deserves to suffer as I have.’
Connor struggled to rise from his pallet, but Aileen forced him to lie back.
‘And if you have your revenge, will that make you a better man than he is?’
Her calm words kindled more anger. Aileen knew nothing of what he’d endured. He held out his injured hands. ‘An eye for an eye is all the justice I need. I care not about being a better man.’
‘What will you do if you cannot fight again?’ she asked.
‘If you set the bones properly, I shall.’
She stared at him, her grey-green eyes filled with pity. Her chestnut hair, pulled tightly into a braid, allowed a few curls to escape. In her face, he could read the doubt. It pulled at his insides, fraying his hope. ‘I did all I could do for you. The rest is up to God.’
‘How long, Aileen?’ Connor wanted to grasp her by the shoulders, to demand the answers he sought. But the useless hands could do nothing. His muscles grew heavy as the sleeping draught weakened his senses.
‘Another moon cycle, at least. Perhaps two.’
The helpless rage at being unable to control his body’s healing made him want to lash out at something. He was a soldier, a man accustomed to commanding others. To be a victim was not in his nature.
He managed to gather the threads of his anger and pull them back into submission. ‘I have to regain my full strength. You must see to it.’
‘I am not an enchantress.’ She stared at him. ‘I can only do my best.’
‘And if your best is not good enough?’
She paled, her eyes damning him. ‘Then your own healer can help you. She can remove the bandages and cast whatever spells she may.’
He’d touched a nerve. Beneath the complacent tone, he sensed hurt.
Connor took a breath. ‘I did not mean that the way it sounded. You have done much for me, and I am grateful for it.’
She said nothing, but picked up a broom and began to sweep the interior of the hut. With even strokes she cleared out the dust and swept it outside. The coolness of the evening breezed inside the hut.
He fought against the sleep threatening to pull him under. When he returned home, his brothers would share his desire for vengeance. But he didn’t want his older brothers to shoulder this fight for him. War was not his intent. Only justice.
Wounds such as these rarely healed well. And his brothers might share the uneasy suspicion that he was no longer the same fighter as before. Connor did not wish to see the regret in his brothers’ eyes.
From the time he was old enough to lift a wooden sword, he’d known he was meant to be a warrior. It was the only path for him. As one of the youngest sons in his family, he had virtually no property. His only chance of gaining a stronghold of his own was to fight for it.
It was the way of Ireland, men competing to become a chieftain or a king chosen by the people. Since he would not depose his own brother, his only path was to be a strong enough leader to command another tribe.
He didn’t want anyone, particularly his brothers, to see him in such a state of helplessness. His pride bruised at the idea. But to avoid it, he would have to stay here with a healer whom he’d insulted.
With effort, he opened his eyes again. He didn’t know how to mend the harsh words that were spoken, but he had to do something.
‘I remember you,’ he said at last. ‘From when we were children.’
‘We never talked,’ she said, tying bundles of herbs and hanging them to dry. ‘You couldn’t remember me.’
