‘I’m glad to hear it. I do not like the thought of you being alone with a warrior of MacEgan’s reputation.’
Aileen shook her head at Riordan’s unfounded worry. ‘His hands have not yet healed. There is nothing to concern you, or anyone else. He has not touched me.’ But her face burned at the thought of giving Connor his bath.
‘And do you wish for his touch?’ he asked with a sudden intensity. He took her hand again, this time with a possessive grip.
His motion startled her. ‘No, of course not. He is no different than any other wounded man.’ Even as she spoke the lie, Riordan’s hand tightened upon her. A coldness filled her at his jealousy. For the first time, she grew frightened of him.
‘I like it not, Aileen.’
‘You are hurting my hand,’ she said. He released her immediately. Aileen rubbed her fingers, her thoughts troubled. Never had she seen Riordan behave in this way. He had always been gentle and a friend to her.
With reddened cheeks he lowered his head. ‘Forgive me. It is only that I care for you.’
She tried to be flattered by his jealousy. ‘I know it.’
‘I have kept my distance out of respect for Eachan,’ Riordan said. He softened his voice, pleading with her. ‘But you must know that I want nothing but your happiness, Aileen. Fate has granted me a second chance at winning your heart. I’ll not let it pass.’
He reached out to cup her cheek. She knew he planned to kiss her, and she forced herself to endure the touch of his lips upon hers. He was a good man, a man she might wed one day.
Or perhaps at theaenach, if her father got his way. Whom else would she wed? No other man would consider her as a bride.
In his eyes, a hunger lay waiting. Aileen tried to allay her apprehensions, but his touch did not evoke a single response. Not the way Connor had.
She shivered, thinking of her hands passing across Connor’s rigid shoulders, the hardened male skin that made her ache for him.
Riordan misinterpreted her shiver and deepened the kiss. Aileen kept her mouth closed when he tried to bring his tongue inside.
It did not matter. She had not held any feelings for Eachan when they’d wed, but in time she had felt affection toward him. It would be the same with Riordan.
She tried to kiss him back, but her mouth froze. It felt wrong somehow.
Riordan drew back, his eyes hooded with anticipation. She recognised his ardour and her own lacklustre response.
‘You must know how you tempt me,’ he said, his hands trailing down her spine.
‘I buried my husband two moons ago.’
‘But he was sick before that. How long was he abed?’
‘A full season,’ she admitted. The sickness that had claimed her husband’s life was not one she could heal. She had seen the wasting disease before, an illness that no prayer or medicine could fight. Eachan had known it, too.
‘Let me woo your heart, Aileen,’ Riordan insisted. ‘I’ll not ask you to give any more than you are able.’ He drew her palm to his lips.
The gesture was one Eachan had made toward her, many a time. She had been a foolish girl long ago, dreaming of Connor’s embrace. She had denied her heart then, accepting Eachan’s suit. It had been a good marriage, though she had not given birth to any more children.
But she wanted another child, wanted to fill her home with them. Riordan could grant her that, if she would allow it. Surely in time, he could cause her heart to tremble in the same way Connor did?
Connor would leave, and, unless she could prove her worth as a healer, she’d have no choice but to marry. It might as well be a man who loved her. ‘Have patience with me,’ she whispered, ‘and eventually you may have what you seek.’
The joy upon Riordan’s face evoked such a terrible guilt. He believed she cared for him in the same way, that it was only grief that made her hesitant.
Aileen allowed his arms to enfold her, though her hands remained at her sides. She closed her eyes, willing herself to close off the memories Connor had rekindled.
The chieftain of the tribe, Seamus Ó Duinne, embraced Connor warmly. ‘You’re looking better, lad.’
He had journeyed to his foster-father’s ring fort after Seamus had sent word to him. It had been almost seven years since he’d been here, and the dwelling looked much the same. His foster-mother had hung woven tapestries upon the whitewashed walls, and in the corner an elabourately carved bride’s chest stood.
Connor followed Seamus into a private chamber, where he gestured for him to sit down. ‘Riona is out visiting today. She’ll be most disappointed that she missed you.’
