Chapter 4
Waves of heat closed upon him, smothering Connor in a web of misery. Visions and hallucinations tempted him to let go, to sink into the silken arms of oblivion. He tasted bitter herbs, and his hands grew numb.
In his dreams, he craved vengeance against his enemy. He hadn’t laid a finger upon Deirdre, no matter what the enraged Flynn Ó Banníon had claimed. He didn’t deserve the punishment, and he longed to see justice done.
But as he watched Aileen mix potions and replace his bandages, he cleared his mind of the rising hatred. For now, he had to regain his strength. And he would need Aileen’s help, even after the bandages were removed.
Connor remembered a soldier who had nearly been buried alive when a wall collapsed upon him. The man had lived, but after the accident he could no longer care for himself. The soldier had become a burden upon others, relying on his family to feed and dress him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Connor didn’t know what to believe about Aileen’s skills. The foul-tasting potions and poultices did alleviate his pain. But he grew uneasy about his hands. Why was she forbidden to heal any more? What had she done? He should have asked Seamus when he’d had the chance.
Though Aileen masked her feelings beneath a veil of calm, there was a desperation in her healing efforts. She stayed with him in the sick hut for many hours, changing the bandages, sponging at the cuts. It was as though she were trying to atone for a serious mistake.
A few strands of hair had escaped the tight brown braid, surrounding her face like a soft halo.
‘Connor, look at me,’ she commanded. Through the haze of fever, he stared back at her. ‘You must drink this broth.’
‘I am not hungry.’
‘You’ve hardly eaten in the past two days,’ she argued. ‘And I’ll not let you starve.’
The terrible-tasting fish broth made death seem inviting. Though her herbal teas and potions worked well, her cooking left much to be desired. ‘I prefer starving to eating that,’ he muttered.
‘It will bring back your strength.’
‘By making me retch? I think not.’ He grimaced. ‘Perhaps that is your plan. To be rid of me by serving me the most foul dinners you can conjure.’
‘I can conjure up worse meals than this.’
Was that a glimmer of amusement he detected in her face? It surprised him. She rarely 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 longbratshe wore about her shoulders until only her thinléineremained. 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.
