arrives. Dr. Birch won’t touch her if she’s this filthy.”
“But—”
“I’m too old to lift her by myself, Tray. And what maid do we have that can carry this poor girl? I know it’s not proper, but under the circumstances, it can’t be helped! Now quickly, come and help me. We must clean her up so that Dr. Birch may examine her once he arrives.”
* * *
Tray remained in his study, waiting for Dr. Birch to finish his examination of Alyssa. He paced, hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the carpet beneath his booted feet. Anger churned with restlessness. Vaughn would remain in Colwyn Bay for a few days while the ship took on water. No doubt he would make a useful sum by selling some of the hapless Irish prisoners to the shipbuilding industry across the bay in Liverpool and, just as quickly, gamble the ill-gotten pounds away at the gaming tables. Tray’s mind turned to Alyssa, as it did every unoccupied moment. What was it about her that drew out his heart and touched it? He rubbed his brow.
“Lord Trayhern?” Dr. Birch’s voice was quiet.
Tray turned toward the Englishman. He quickly took in the grim caste to Birch’s pinched features. Motioning him to sit down, he poured the doctor a glass of sherry from the sideboard and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” Birch said, lifting the glass to his lips. The fiery liquid slid down his throat, warming his stomach. He looked up at the lord of the manor.
“I think this is the worst case you’ve ever asked me to treat, animal or human,” he began with an effort, taking another sip of the sherry. His grizzled brown-and-white brows moved together as he studied the ruby-colored contents of the glass.
“I know,” Tray said softly, walking back to the window, folding his hands behind him. The silence grew, broken only by the sudden onslaught of pelting rain and the wind howling furiously around the manor. “Will she live?”
Birch walked stiffly to Tray’s side and they both stared out the window together. “The girl is gravely hurt, my lord,” he told him in a low tone. “Her skull is not cracked, but the force of the blow has surely addled her brain enough to make her unconscious. Someone must tend her almost hourly until she wakes, if she wakes. Has she urinated yet?”
“Her trousers were wet and smelled of it.”
Birch gave a little sigh. “That’s good. Her kidneys have not stopped working. If they do, she is as good as dead. Someone must—”
“I’ll be that someone, good doctor. Simply tell me what I must do.”
Birch gave him a surprised look. “It will be a thankless task, my lord. Surely one of your servants who has more time on his hands—”
“No, I will do it.”
“Very well. I’ll get Sorche to prepare a special herbal tea that must be carefully given to her every waking hour. That way, her kidneys will continue to function and she will be getting some nourishment.”
“I see,” Tray said.
“Her head wound must remain open to the air and be allowed to drain. It should be washed thrice daily with another herb I’ll have Sorche prepare for you.”
“Anything else?”
Birch’s eyes grew dark and angry. “That girl in there was once a virgin, but she isn’t anymore. Whoever raped her like that ought to be hanged. She’s still bleeding. I’ll give Sorche instructions on how to change the packing on a daily basis.”
Tray’s mouth thinned. “Very well. I’d like you to examine the boy before you leave, good doctor.”
“Of course. If the girl worsens, send one of your servants for me. There’s little else to be done for her unless she wakes up.”
“I will,” Tray promised.
* * *
Tray quietly entered his bedchamber nearly an hour later. The rain had stopped momentarily, but it would come back, pummeling against the french doors once again. March in Wales was cold and wet. His gaze moved across the room’s expanse and fastened hungrily on Alyssa’s unmoving features. Something old and hurting tore loose in Tray’s chest as he devoured her with his gaze. She looked frail in his huge bed. How long had it been since Shelby had lain there beside him? Tray shut his eyes for a brief second, the pain almost unbearable as it swept across him. God, how he missed her.
Opening his eyes, Tray went about the task of gathering the items he would need to tend to Alyssa. He tried to ignore the widening ache inside him when he gently lifted her into his arms in order to dribble a few drops of the herbal medicine between her parted lips. Her damp head lolled against his chest and the smell of jasmine encircled his nostrils. Tray inhaled the scent, his heart heavy. It was the scented soap that Sorche had used to clean Alyssa’s smooth, long limbs, limbs that were well shaped but pitifully thin from lack of food. Tray’s mouth drew into a grim line as he carefully rested her head against his shoulder. Taking a clean cloth, he dipped it into the vile concoction and placed it to the corner of her mouth.
“Come, sweet Aly, swallow the brew. I promise you, my beautiful redheaded colleen, that it will speed your recovery.” He continued to talk to her in low, gentle Gaelic tones. Was he trying to soothe himself or her? Tray wasn’t sure. The slender curve of her throat was exposed to his view and he watched it closely as he allowed a few more drops into her mouth. His breath caught and froze when he saw her swallow. It was a miracle! A miracle! Dr. Birch had said that in the most successful cases, the patient would automatically swallow instead of letting the liquid flow into the lungs. Tray pressed a small, feather-light kiss on her drying hair.
“Good, colleen. Stay alive. Sean is waiting for you. He’s safe, well fed and probably sleeping by now. And you, my sweet Aly, drink just a bit more and then I’ll let you rest for another hour. Now come, let’s see you swallow again.”
She swallowed, and Tray felt his hopes swell like a rainbow after a hard rain. He kept up the soft Gaelic banter throughout the feeding. Afterward, he changed the cloth Sorche had placed beneath her. It was wet with urine and slightly pinkish with blood, but Tray considered these healthy signs. Alyssa was fighting back. Fighting to live despite the horror she had suffered at the hands of the English.
* * *
It was near midnight, as Tray started to retire, that Alyssa began to tremble. Worried, Tray laid his large, calloused hand on her brow. He felt no fever. He built the fire higher, increasing the warmth in the room. And yet it didn’t stop her trembling. Neither did more blankets.
Grimly, Tray paced the room, alternately glancing at Alyssa and then glaring off into the darkness outside. It began to rain again, the wind lashing and howling outside Shadowhawk. With a growl of impatience, he took off the pile of blankets, allowing them to drop to the floor, then shrugged out of his robe and slid into the bed.
As gently as possible, he moved next to Alyssa, fitting his powerful body next to her shivering form. She was so pitifully small in comparison to his heavily muscled frame. Tray slipped his arm beneath her neck, carefully drawing her head onto his shoulder and fitting her protectively against him. The silk of her floor-length nightgown provided a minuscule barrier between his naked body and her. Alyssa’s trembling abated noticeably.
“Sleep, Aly. Just rest. No one is going to harm you, little
