‘She is. They have four children between them besides Rhiannon,’ Aileen added.
Connor didn’t respond, but seemed resigned to her answer. They stood together on the outskirts of the crowd while the bard wove the tale of Cuchulainn.
His hand reached out and bumped against hers. Then he flinched, as though he’d forgotten his crooked fingers. Embarrassment coloured his cheeks.
‘Your daughter reminds me of my mother,’ he said suddenly. A light smile tipped his mouth. ‘But she has your face.’
Aileen could not look at him. He had seen the resemblance and yet remained blind to the truth.
His shoulder brushed against hers, and for a moment she wished he would pull her into his arms. She wanted to lean her head against him, to feel his strength. Aileen found herself staring at his mouth, and she forced her gaze back to the storytellers.
Connor’s hand moved to the small of her back. ‘Help me to fight again, Aileen.’
The fierce longing in his voice sobered her. She took his disfigured hand into hers. ‘I will do as much as I can for you.’
With his left hand, he drew her palm in until it touched his chest. At the contact, her body prickled with awareness. ‘Will it be enough?’
She gave his hand a slight squeeze. ‘I am offering you my faith. It is all I have.’
Connor drew her hand to his lips. The light kiss might have been given in friendship.
Why then, did his eyes offer promises of far more?
In the darkness, the orange flames of the fires danced an eerie pattern. Whelon used his crutches to move past the tents and the long tables to where the bards had set up their camp. Spellbound by their storytelling, he had hoped to coerce them into one more tale.
The sound of a hacking cough came from behind one of the shelters. Whelon followed the sound until he came across a man heaving with sickness.
‘Are you all right?’ he whispered. But there came no reply.
Whelon drew nearer and saw the man’s reddened skin gleaming with sweat. The bard’s glassy eyes stared as though he were blind. Another cough seized at the man, and he clutched his side in agony.
Without thinking, Whelon hobbled to the man and eased him to the ground. His arms burned with the effort, but he helped the storyteller into a reclining position.
‘I’ll summon the healer.’
But the man would not release his wrist. Whelon tugged, then froze as he stared at the man’s face. Upon his lips, the tell-tale sores revealed the truth.
Whelon jerked back in horror, making the sign of the cross. He had heard tales of men who had died from the pox. The man’s arm was covered in sores, revealed by the raised sleeve of his tunic.
He had to find Aileen. Quickly, Whelon used his crutches to get away from the fallen man.
He glanced backward at the body. Unseeing eyes stared at the sky while the man’s chest no longer rose with the breath of life.
The pox had invaded the Ó Duinne tribe.
Chapter 11
‘I’ve been looking for you all evening,’ Riordan said.
Aileen turned, and he held out a wooden goblet. She had been standing alone after Connor had left to speak with Seamus. Rhiannon slept in one of the tents with the children.
When she reached out to accept the goblet, Riordan smiled. He beckoned her toward a small grove of trees, away from the crowd. Aileen followed, wondering what he wanted.
From his flushed expression, it soon became clear. She wished she had not come. Tonight, her thoughts had woven into turmoil. She now knew that she could not force herself to have feelings for Riordan.
She wanted Connor. And though she might never have him, it was wrong to lead Riordan into believing she cared.
His hand closed over hers. He lifted the cup to her lips, and she drank a sip of the spicy red wine. How could she leave without hurting his feelings?
