She directed her attention to Riordan. ‘What is amiss?’
‘Nothing,’ Riordan replied. ‘I came to inform Connor that his brothers will arrive soon.’ He appeared satisfied with himself.
Connor was less than pleased by the news. Convincing his brothers to leave him behind would be difficult. He stared at Aileen. Her eyes did not quite meet his.
His brothers would have much to say about his injuries, and he doubted if they would understand his reasons for wanting to remain.
‘I must begin preparations for our noon meal,’ Aileen said. ‘Thank you for letting me know about the MacEgans, Riordan.’
He reached out and took her hand, offering it a squeeze. ‘It is always a pleasure to see you, Aileen.’
Connor did not miss the way Riordan’s eyes coveted Aileen. He watched her like a man treasuring a possession. A thin needle of warning pricked him, even as the man left.
After he had gone, Aileen unwrapped the cloth package of mutton. He eyed it with wariness. ‘Are you certain you know how to cook that?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Of course.’
He shrugged, not entirely convinced. She had not prepared a true meal for him in the fortnight he’d been here. If he never saw another bowl of pottage, that would suit him.
‘I look forward to tasting it,’ he said softly. Her gaze snapped toward his, her face flaming. The colour in her cheeks suggested she was thinking about tasting something else. Though he hadn’t meant the words in that way, he grew aware of her mouth. It was sweet with the palest hint of rose.
He shook his thoughts away. Why would he think of kissing Aileen?
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. She appeared uncomfortable having him inside her home. ‘I thought you would remain in the sick hut. I was going to bring you a bowl of pottage.’
‘I grew weary of lying down.’ He gestured toward the hanging herbs and the neatly organised medicinal plants. ‘This is where you live?’
‘It is. My husband Eachan built it when I became the tribe’s healer. I wanted to be closer to the sick hut.’
Hastily she scooped out a ladle of pottage and handed him a wooden bowl. Her face flamed when she realised he could not hold it. ‘Sit down and I’ll feed you.’
He’d rather eat mud than endure another bowl of pottage. ‘I am not hungry.’
She set the bowl down. ‘Will your brothers wish to stay for the night?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she babbled, ‘How many of them are there? Shall I pull out an extra pallet or two?’ With a knife she began slicing the mutton. Her eyes brightened at the prospect of visitors.
‘I will ask them and find out.’ He needed to speak with his brothers before they arrived. He opened the door and stepped outside.
‘You’re not going to meet them,’ Aileen protested. ‘You cannot walk that distance. Be patient and await them here.’
‘It is my hands that are injured, Aileen, not my legs.’
‘You’re weak. You lost too much blood with the knife wounds.’
‘I will be fine.’ The walls of her cottage had begun to suffocate him. He needed air and a moment to stretch his legs.
Outside, he walked past Aileen’s garden. The summer grasses swayed in the light breeze, the rich green fields stretching across the land. While awaiting his brothers, he sat down. He smelled the fecund aroma of ripening harvest, enjoying the sun upon his skin.
In the distance, horses and two riders emerged. Shielding his eyes, he recognised his brothers Ewan and Trahern. As the youngest, Ewan had endured more than his fair share of teasing. Though he would never possess the swordsman-ship necessary to be a warrior, Ewan held a quiet courage that revealed the shadow of the man he would become.
His older brother Trahern was a stark contrast. Large in stature and able to best most men in battle, Trahern needed no man to guard his back. His true talent lay in storytelling, and Connor knew he would bring tales to Aileen this night in return for her hospitality.
His elder brothers Patrick and Bevan had not come, and Connor did not expect them to. Both had wives and children, along with other responsibilities.
They had brought a third horse tethered between them, a gelding for himself. Connor stood and walked closer, raising his hand in welcome.
Trahern dismounted, scrutinising Connor with concern. A moment later, he clapped him on the back, a thump that nearly sent Connor sprawling. ‘I see the Ó Banníons did not kill you after all.’
Ewan had grown several inches since Connor had seen him last. Thin and tall at eighteen years, his brother was caught in the awkward stage between boyhood and manhood.
