with me to my home. Do you understand? You’ll have to ride on the back of my stallion. I don’t have a coach and time is of the essence. Your cousin is badly injured and I must get her home and then send for a doctor to help her.”
“Y-yes, sir. I can do that.” He shyly reached out, his hand wrapping tightly in the folds of the wool coat Tray wore. “Who are you?”
Tray grimly ignored his question. He limped along the passageway and up the stairs, never more glad to reach the fresh salt air of Colwyn Bay than now. I’m the black sheep of the Trayhern family, he thought with grim irony. An unwanted son who will inherit everything and who is hated by almost every family member. Except for Paige. As they walked down the gangway, Tray mentally answered Sean’s earlier question. I’m Irish because an Irishwoman raised me as her own. Because my father accused me of killing my mother and sent me north so I could be out of his sight. Sadness enveloped Tray, as it always did when he thought of the mother he had never known.
Her name had been Isolde, a beautiful Welsh name for a lovely black-haired, gray-eyed woman. And in his father’s grief over her death, Harold named him Tristan, a Welsh name meaning sorrowful. And sorrow had followed his existence from the day of his birth. Tray would never forget when Sorche, his Irish wet nurse and foster mother, had answered his gravely asked question as to why he was named Tristan. Sorche sadly told him that his father blamed him for Isolde’s death and he would forever be called Tristan as a result. That day he had begged Sorche to call him Tray, because in Welsh the name Trayhern meant “strong as iron,” and he would be strong, he promised her. He would turn into the boy that his father wanted him to be; he would no longer bring sorrow and unhappiness to everyone.
Tray slowed his pace as he neared the area where Sergeant Porter was holding his blood bay Arabian stallion. So much for a seven-year-old’s dreams, he thought wearily. From that day forward, everyone at Shadowhawk called him Tray. But try as he might, Tray learned that his father would never be proud of his crippled son.
“Hold the girl for me until I get mounted, Sergeant,” he commanded, placing Alyssa in the stunned soldier’s arms.
Porter’s eyes widened with shock. “My lord?”
The Englishman gave Tray an angry look but stood there with the girl wrapped securely in the warmth of the black wool cloak. Rasheed, the Arabian stallion, moved mettlesomely beneath Tray as he mounted.
“Stand,” Tray ordered the stallion in Welsh. Obediently, the animal became a living statue as the girl was transferred back to Tray’s arms.
Tray looked down at Sean, who was shivering, his arms wrapped about his skinny body. He glanced at Porter.
“Sergeant, give the boy your cloak. I’ll make sure you get it back.”
Porter glared at the young ruffian, but he shoved his cloak into the boy’s awaiting hands without a word.
“Now help him up here. Behind me.”
This was scandalous! But Porter did as told, flushing red to the roots of his brown hair as he grudgingly obeyed. Didn’t Lord Trayhern realize the picture that he presented? No one rode anywhere on a lord’s horse, especially two Irish prisoners of war!
Sean’s arms wrapped tightly around Tray’s waist.
“All right, lad?” he asked, barely turning his head.
“I’m ready, sir.”
“Good. We won’t be going any faster than a brisk walk, but hold on. Rasheed hasn’t been run for a few days and he’s feeling his fettle.”
Sean’s narrow face brightened, his left eye almost swollen shut. “We’re good riders, sir! There isn’t an Irishman alive who can’t ride a horse!”
Tray managed a tight smile and returned his attention to the unconscious cargo in his arms. With just a light pressure of Tray’s left calf against Rasheed’s barrel, the animal turned around. Soon they were free of the cloying, snarling quayside traffic and headed out of dingy Colwyn Bay for Shadowhawk, which sat on the cliffs above the restless Irish Sea.
The afternoon was dreary and cold, and Tray felt Sean huddling close, seeking his bodily warmth. Tray pulled the girl more tightly to him, concerned. Her translucent skin was bruised and bloodied. He lifted her barely exposed face to his and placed his ruddy cheek against her nostrils, willing her to be breathing still, willing her to be alive. He felt the utter relaxation of her body against him and the pitiful outward bow of her rib cage beneath his fingers. His heart took a sudden, pounding leap. There! He had felt it. A baby’s breath of moist heat from her nostrils. Live, sweet Alyssa, he begged her silently, breathe…just a bit longer and you’ll be safe and warm.
As he looked down on her waxen features, Tray wondered if she would live. That same pallor had existed on Paige’s face when he had discovered her on the beach. His thoughts sped forward. He would have to get a doctor immediately. As long as she was still breathing, he knew the girl could be saved. For the first time since his wife’s death, Tray felt a ribbon of hope thread through him. How could that be? A nine-year-old boy clung to him and a girl who could be no more than eight and ten years lay unconscious in his arms.
“Tell me about yourself, lad. How did you get caught up in this rebellion?”
Sean tried to still his chattering teeth. The wool cloak helped, but his bare legs were exposed, hanging like thin branches across the stallion’s broad back. Was this man really the son of an Earl? If so, he was English and not to be trusted. Sean decided it was safer to lie. “M-my family and I were working on a farm outside of Wexford when we were trapped by the soldiers.”
“And the English thought you were part of the rebellion?” Tray asked grimly.
“Yes, sir. Me, my cousin Alyssa and—and my sister, Shannon. They thought we were a part of it. But we weren’t, sir. I swear it.”
“How old is your cousin, Sean?”
“Seven and ten, sir.”
She was of marrying age. Tray hesitated for a moment. “Married?”
“No, sir. Alyssa wouldn’t stand for just any man to ask for her hand.”
Tray’s expression eased momentarily as he drank in her pale features. Although her auburn hair hung in dirtied ropes about her square face, he could imagine the fire that lay beneath those proud yet vulnerable features. One look at that stubborn, slightly cleft chin would warn any man that she was not to be taken lightly. Anguish burned through Tray. He knew Alyssa had been raped by one man, if not more than one. And doubtless she had been a virgin before the English soldiers mistook her as part of the rebellion. His black brows drew down into a scowl.
“Was she betrothed?” If she was, the man might not ever want her; she would be soiled, if she even lived. And Tray found himself wanting Alyssa to live. He wanted to hear her speak, to hear the quality of her voice. What color were her eyes? Their long auburn lashes lay thick and curled against her shadowed cheeks. Her femininity was obvious even beneath the specter of bruises and dirt.
“No, sir. She didn’t want to marry. Said most men were clods of dirt.”
Tray couldn’t suppress the chuckle that welled up inside his chest. “She did, did she?”
“Alyssa has never been known to watch her words, sir.” Sean shut his eyes. “That’s
