Read Online The Warrior's Touch by Michelle Willingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Michelle Willingham
Ads: Link
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.
Ewan’s attention centred on his hands. ‘What did they do to you?’
Connor held up his bandaged hands, trying to make light of it. ‘They’re broken, but the rest of me is whole. A few nicks with a dagger, a bash upon the head. That is all.’
‘Did they break your hands or crush them?’ Trahern asked quietly. Connor sensed the edge in his question.
‘Broken or crushed, what does it matter?’ he asked, keeping his tone hopeful. But he met his brother’s grave expression, acknowledging the possibility. They would not speak of it in front of Ewan.
‘How long must you wear the bandages?’ Ewan asked.
‘Another moon, perhaps two.’
Ewan uncurled his own palms, white scars lining the edges. Four years ago, the boy had faced an enemy Norman knight who tortured him for information, carving his dagger into Ewan’s
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.
Ewan’s attention centred on his hands. ‘What did they do to you?’
Connor held up his bandaged hands, trying to make light of it. ‘They’re broken, but the rest of me is whole. A few nicks with a dagger, a bash upon the head. That is all.’
‘Did they break your hands or crush them?’ Trahern asked quietly. Connor sensed the edge in his question.
‘Broken or crushed, what does it matter?’ he asked, keeping his tone hopeful. But he met his brother’s grave expression, acknowledging the possibility. They would not speak of it in front of Ewan.
‘How long must you wear the bandages?’ Ewan asked.
‘Another moon, perhaps two.’
Ewan uncurled his own palms, white scars lining the edges. Four years ago, the boy had faced an enemy Norman knight who tortured him for information, carving his dagger into Ewan’s
Similar Books
