Connor MacEgan would never make her comfortable. He got beneath her skin in a way she couldn’t understand. For the past few years, she’d forgotten him and gone on with her life. But from the moment he came back, her feelings had sparked into flames.
If she took him as her lover, she’d lose her heart again. She had no doubt that Connor would leave. He’d return to his family, and she’d be alone again. No, she couldn’t spend a few nights of pleasure with him. It might be only bed sport to him, but it meant a great deal more to her.
He was also the father of Rhiannon, a secret bond that would ever draw them together. It still bothered her that he hadn’t recognised his own daughter.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have meant so much if she’d had other children. But Fate had cursed her since Bealtaine. After Rhiannon, she had lost two other children. One son, then another. Both had been stillborn.
Eachan believed it was his fault, that he was too old to father children. After they had wept over the deaths of their sons, he’d offered not to touch her again if it would save her the pain. She had refused. How could she deny him the comfort in her arms, after all that he’d given her? Inwardly, she had prayed that God would grant her a child. She’d held out hope for nearly seven years before the illness made it impossible for Eachan to touch her again.
She stared into the glowing hearth, not bothering to move to her sleeping pallet. The cold ground suited her mood. Exhaustion preyed upon her mind until she could no longer think clearly.
Her body regretted turning him away. She wished she could have seized the moment and given in to her needs. At the thought of his kiss, the way his mouth had moved up the skin of her thighs, waves of aching washed over her again.
Should she go to him? Lead him into her hut and touch every firm muscle, every ridge and scar of his flesh? Her hand moved to cup her own breast, the nipple tightening with memory. A bittersweet smile creased her lips.
If she did, she’d only fall in love with him again.
The moon slid behind a cloud, a soft amber light casting its rays over the grasses. Dawn would come soon. In the moist air, Connor sensed the coming rain.
A distant noise caught his attention. Hoofbeats travelled at a swift pace. Connor slipped inside his hut and reached for his brother’s sword with his left hand.
The cold metal hilt warmed beneath his palm, and he stepped back outside. Whether or not the approaching rider meant any harm, he intended to be prepared.
But as soon as Connor saw the young boy clutching the mane of an elderly mare, he sheathed the sword in its scabbard. Whelon’s small shoulders leaned forward, as he struggled to slow the horse’s gait.
‘What is it?’ Connor asked.
‘One of the bards,’ Whelon gasped. ‘He died. I saw his arms, and they were covered with sores. Aileen should come.’
Connor quelled the icy chill that struck him. He had seen such illnesses before. The invisible demons of the disease could strike any man down and render him dead within days.
‘Wait here.’
He opened Aileen’s door without knocking, and she jerked with surprise. ‘We must return to theaenach. One of the bards has died.’
‘How?’ Aileen did not argue but grasped her basket, packing it with dried herbs and bandages. ‘Are you certain he is dead?’
‘He died from the pox. Whelon saw the sores.’
Aileen whitened, but gathered herbrataround her shoulders. She reached to gather a stone vial and made the sign of the cross. He understood suddenly that it was holy water she took with her.
‘You should begin praying now that the demons will not strike us down,’ she urged. Though she kept up the appearance of calm, he recognised her fear.
Inwardly he mirrored her sentiments. The pox did not reveal itself immediately. Sometimes days or even a sennight would pass before they would know which persons would suffer.
‘Say nothing to the others,’ Aileen warned. ‘I do not need a host of villagers falling into panic.’
‘What about the other healer, Illona?’
Aileen’s shoulders lowered, her face sombre. ‘We will tell her, once we have seen the body. I need to see the sores first to be sure. If it is the pox…then we’ll send for Illona.’
Connor helped her mount behind Whelon. ‘I’ll follow you soon.’
Slapping the mare’s flanks, the pair rode back towards the grounds. Beneath his breath, Connor murmured a prayer. He mounted the horse left behind by his brothers and spurred it onwards. Raising his eyes to the darkened skies, he wondered who would be spared.
And who would lie beneath the cold ground.
When Aileen reached theaenach, Whelon led her to the place where the bards had set up camp. Connor arrived shortly after. Confused, he stared at the place where a tent had been. Save a fallen rope and trampled grass, there was no sign of the men.
