Lord of Shadowhawk Read online

  And then an excruciatingly painful thought came to Alyssa. No man would want her now. She was damaged goods. No self-respecting farmer would consider her for a wife. Alyssa bowed her head, feeling the hotness of tears that matched the burning anguish in her heart. Hadn’t her father impressed upon her time and again that a woman’s purity was the most valuable asset she could offer a man? A soft sob escaped from her lips. No one would ever want her now; she was blind, and no better than a common whore.

  “Little one?”

  Alyssa jerked her head to the left, toward Tray’s soft voice. Tears splattered across her cheeks and she clutched her hands protectively to her chest.

  Tray quietly pulled a chair over and sat down, facing her. He had risen more than two hours earlier, working in the adjacent drawing room, which began to resemble his study more and more with each passing day. His gray gaze lingered on Alyssa’s flushed features and he saw anguish in her haunted expression.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he coaxed gently.

  “N-nothing, my lord. Didn’t you know that all Irish weep easily? Remember, you told me it was all right to cry.”

  A slight smile pulled at his well-shaped mouth. In the past four days, some of the natural tension between them had dissipated, and upon occasion, when Tray was able to get past her defenses, they could talk almost as if they were friends. He hoped this would be one of those times. At least she was no longer trying to hide her true feelings from him. He pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and leaned forward.

  “Here,” he offered, placing the linen against her clenched hand.

  An understanding silence stretched between them. Tray sat back, watching Alyssa dry her eyes. “People usually cry when they’re very happy or very sad,” he noted quietly, knowing there was little in her life that she could be happy about. “Are you crying because you miss Ireland?”

  Alyssa knotted the handkerchief in her lap, her head bowed and face hidden by the natural barrier of her hair. “I awoke happy this morning, my lord. And then…then I began to think of the future.” She compressed her lips and closed her eyes, her voice low with strain. “I’m blind. I’m damaged goods. Of what use am I to anyone? No man will ever look at me as wifely material now.” She opened her slender fingers in a gesture of frustration. “What man who must work from dawn to dusk in the fields would want a helpless blind girl? He would need a strong woman at home to care for him.”

  Tray’s mouth grew into a grim line. He had no defense against her, nor, he was discovering, did he want any. Alyssa was simply herself, without the training that society normally placed on women of his class. Her freshness and vitality made him feel more alive than he could ever recall.

  “You’ve been here almost two weeks and I haven’t found you to be in the way,” he said, forcing a lightness to his voice he didn’t feel. It wouldn’t do any good to dwell on the negatives of her situation. “And Sorche was telling me that as you grow stronger, she’ll teach you how to card wool. She also felt that you could help in her kitchen, since you’re insisting upon walking around. So you see, you aren’t useless.” And then his voice deepened. “If I hadn’t already given my word to send you back to Ireland when you recovered, I would ask you and Sean to remain here at Shadowhawk.”

  Alyssa’s lips parted and she turned toward him. Sweet Jesus, if she could only see! Then she could tell if Tray was lying to her or not. She could look into his eyes and know if he spoke the truth. She was getting more adept at listening and judging the quality of the voices around her. And if this method could be trusted, Lord Trayhern meant what he said. Then another thought occurred to her.

  “As what?” she asked faintly.

  “What do you mean?”

  It took all her courage to blurt it out. “I’ve heard of lords taking a mistress. I—I don’t ever want to be touched by another Englishman. I don’t want to bring further shame on my family by being known as a mistress to an enemy of Ireland.”

  Tray tried patiently to take her fervently spoken admission in stride. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I would turn you into an unwilling mistress?”

  Alyssa gave a small shrug. “I don’t know what to think of your attentions, my lord. In Ireland, the titled English ride into our villages, pointing out the young women they want, who are then dragged off to their manor or castle. When next we see them, if we see them at all, they are always dressed in finery, yet look so sad.”

  Her voice trailed off and Alyssa crumpled the handkerchief between her hands. “Father always told me that love could exist between a man and his wife, and that there was no need for a mistress. He said my heart would tell me when I found a man I could love. But now it’s too late. I’m soiled, like those women who were dragged off, shamed and dishonored. I couldn’t bear to stay here at Shadowhawk. For any reason.”

  Tray had to stop himself from reaching out and caressing her wine-colored hair. Her words cut like a sword through his heart. Did Alyssa realize that she had welcomed his embrace each nightfall when she was unconscious? He had savored those precious hours with Alyssa at his side, soothing away the dreams that plagued her sleeping hours. Regardless of how Alyssa felt, a large part of him wanted her to remain at Shadowhawk. And yet, Tray had to acknowledge her view of the situation. He kept his voice carefully neutral when he spoke.

  “When I was married, Alyssa, I never once considered having a mistress. And your father is right, there can be love between a man and his wife. I had that once and I can assure you, it leaves a man no desire to have a mistress.”

  Alyssa’s eyes grew deep jade as she heard the carefully veiled pain in his tone. “You were married?”

  “My wife died over a year ago while giving birth to our child.” Who had a deformed foot, like me, he almost said. Why was he telling her this? He never spoke of his personal life to anyone. Not even to Sorche, who had tried repeatedly and without success to get him to talk about his grief over losing Shelby and his son.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. You didn’t deserve that kind of misfortune. You have been so kind to Sean and me.”

  Tray held her compassionate gaze, watching as she effortlessly reached out to comfort him when her own immediate situation was far worse than his. A lump formed in his throat at her unselfishness, and Tray had to swallow hard before he spoke.

  “That’s behind me now. You can’t live in the past. You must live in the present. And speaking of the present,” he went on, trying to ignore the pain in his heart, “I thought if you felt up to it, you could accompany me to the stable. One of my favorite Welsh brood mares has just given birth to Rasheed’s first foal of the year. It’s a beautifully formed little bay that strongly resembles his sire in every way. Since you have a fondness for horseflesh, I see no reason why you can’t put some of your knowledge to work with the foals and get them accustomed to a human handling them.” Tray was totally unprepared for the blossoming glow that shone in her face. Alyssa’s lips parted and he groaned inwardly, wanting to kiss their ripe softness. And when he saw her eyes glisten with tears, he knew that this time they were tears of happiness.

  “My lord—”

  “Call me Tray,” he ordered abruptly. “I don’t like being reminded that I carry an English title any more than you like being reminded of the English. Well, will you come with me after morning tea?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes, my—I mean…Tray…” She said his name softly, fervently.

  He nodded, knowing he had to leave and not wanting to. There was important work that begged for his attention, yet it was the first time Alyssa had smiled for him. He felt his chest swelling with such happiness that he thought he might die from the reward of the sweet, welcoming smile that danced in her eyes and pulled her lovely full lips upward.

  * * *

  Fortunately, Paige had equaled Alyssa in height, so the dress didn’t drag or rise above her slender booted ankles, although the burgundy velvet riding habit was a bit out of fashion.

  Sorche stood back, admiring
her handiwork with Alyssa’s costume, a huge smile wreathing her ruddy features. If they didn’t make a lovely pair! Tray’s dark good looks matched perfectly with Alyssa’s alabaster skin and auburn hair, which was tucked into a chignon at the nape of her neck. “Mind you, Tray, don’t keep her out long! If Dr. Birch finds out that you’re doing this, he’ll flay you alive!”

  “She’s too lovely to tire. I won’t keep her long, Mother.”

  Alyssa reached out, her hand encountering Tray’s arm. Shyly, she placed her hand across the wool of his coat sleeve and rose. Her heart was pounding at the base of her throat and she felt a giddiness sweep through her. The resonant tone of Tray’s voice sent an ache through her untutored body, leaving her breathless, slightly frightened and deliciously aware of being a woman. As always, from the day that she had begun exercising on her own, Tray would simply offer his arm and she would walk at his side.

  “I assure you,” Tray said, “I don’t intend to get Alyssa chilled.”

  Swallowing a smile, Alyssa stepped forward. She was grateful as Tray painted a verbal picture of where they were. He seemed to monitor her needs, never taking deep strides that would make her run to keep up. As they sauntered down the long hall paneled in dark walnut, which he said was graced with many portraits of the Trayhern family, Alyssa became acutely aware of Tray’s decided limp. She could feel his body shift with each stride. Had he injured himself? Was he in pain? Biting back those questions, Alyssa remained silent, keeping her hand light against his arm. She didn’t want to cause any undue distress to his injured leg.

  “Did I tell you how lovely you look in that riding habit?” Tray said, looking over at her. God, Alyssa was such a beauty! The tendrils of auburn hair at her temples and hairline softened the angularity of her thin features, making her appear temptingly feminine. He boldly drank in the warmth that rested in her now emerald eyes and the upward curve of her lips. “I’m looking forward to the time when you can sit on a horse. I’ll wager you’re a fine horsewoman.”

  Alyssa felt heat rise from her neck and sweep across her face. Bewildered by her reaction to Tray, she touched her flaming cheek in distress. He made her feel like laughing with joy. “Thank you, my—Tray. I didn’t know one could ride if blind.”

  “Why not? I’d accompany you. I have a Welsh cob gelding who’s trustworthy. He’s quite old, but steady. I think you could handle him.”

  “At one time, I could handle any horse,” she replied longingly, remembering those wonderful days not very long ago.

  Tray opened the door that led outdoors. He guided her down the stairs, taking a firm grip on her hand. Alyssa had finally stopped cringing every time Tray touched her, partly because he made a point of touching her elbow, arm, shoulder or hand each time he visited with her. Alyssa daintily took the steps without problem. At the base of the stairs, he again offered her his arm and they resumed their leisurely walk to the stable, which stood on the other side of a huge hedge. The day was cool, with scudding gray clouds moving swiftly across the lush green landscape of the valley and snowcapped peaks in the distance.

  “Any horse?” he challenged in a teasing tone. “Even stallions?”

  “Yes, even a stallion.”

  “My lady, pardon me for saying so, but women shouldn’t be handling something so fierce and dangerous as a stallion.”

  Alyssa winced inwardly when he called her “my lady.” Because of her birthright and her humiliating dishonor, she could never claim that title. Yet she didn’t want to correct Tray. His voice sounded light and ebullient, as if he were truly happy.

  She raised her chin, a glint of gold in the depths of her emerald eyes. “Stallions respond even better to a woman’s hand than a man’s.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Men use a whip and brute strength to force a stallion to respect them. It’s only the pain that the horse kneels to, not the man. But if you use firmness, your voice and the whip only upon rare occasion, the stallion becomes your friend.”

  Tray studied her profile, thinking that she had the most provocative lips he’d ever seen. The slender length of her neck was like a white swan’s, and he found himself wanting to place small, moist kisses along its entire length, to feel Alyssa respond to him, woman to man. Ruthlessly, he crushed all those longings, knowing that they were only dreams. And dreams never came true. Tray addressed her impertinence over the topic of stallions instead, with a bit of mockery.

  “Firmness? Your voice? With a stallion? Never.”

  “All right,” Alyssa fired back, “how did you tame that Arabian stallion of yours? Did you beat him into submission? Did you draw welts upon his skin, bloody him and force him to kneel to you?”

  Tray slid his hand beneath her elbow as they approached the stone stable. “Has anyone ever accused you of being outspoken?”

  Alyssa halted at his side as she heard a door opening. The wonderful scent of sweet, dried hay enveloped her like a heady perfume. On its heels was the exquisite fragrance of horses and freshly rubbed leather. She inhaled the odors deeply, relaxing.

  “My father taught all of us to speak our minds. I suppose your gently bred Englishwomen are taught to bridle their speech?”

  He grinned, guiding her into the freshly swept cobblestone-floored stable. The horses welcomed them with a chorus of whinnies and neighs. “Sometimes silence is the better part of valor, my lady. For men and women.”

  “Well, I won’t be bridled! If you ask me for an opinion, I will state it plain.”

  Tray’s smile widened as he slowly eased Alyssa into a walk, moving toward the stalls, which faced one another in long rows. “And I never want you to change that about yourself, little one. I like your honesty. It’s refreshing.”

  She seemed taken aback. “You do?”

  “Of course. You remind me of my stallion, Rasheed. A little while ago you asked me if I beat him into submission.” Tray pulled her to a halt, mere inches separating them, his hand resting gently against her arm. “I spent a great deal of time, travel and money to acquire Rasheed. I believe his beauty, intelligence and spirit could enhance our more cold-blooded Welsh stock. Ahmed, my Egyptian groom, came with Rasheed. After I had purchased the horse, we began the long journey back to Wales. Ahmed taught me some Arabic and I taught him some Welsh. The Egyptians, like the Irish, understand horses. Ahmed told me if I ever raised a whip to the stallion, the horse would never forgive me, nor would I ever gain his trust.” Tray reached out, lightly brushing her flushed cheek, feeling the velvet pliancy of her skin beneath his fingers. Alyssa stood, her unseeing eyes wide and dark, head slightly tilted, listening to his every word. She blinked once, assimilating his grazing touch, but did not cringe back in fear as she had so many times before.

  “I have the trust of all my animals that live here at Shadowhawk. And I have the trust of my servants and the tenants who till the soil around my estate. So you see, little one, I agree that firmness coupled with love breeds respect. And trust.” He gave her arm a light squeeze. “Come, I want you to meet the stallion who carried you and Sean from the ship to Shadowhawk.” He added dryly, “He has a decided weakness for females.”

  Her heart thundered achingly in her breast in those precious seconds when they stood so close to each other. Alyssa could feel the heat of Tray’s powerful body, and his male scent was like a welcoming perfume to her awakening senses. Gathering her scattered wits she replied, “Like his master, no doubt.”

  Tray’s laughter was deep and rich, ringing through the scrupulously clean stable.

  Chapter Six

  Alyssa’s eyes positively glowed with life as Tray introduced her to his stallion, Rasheed, who immediately thrust his small velvety muzzle into her outstretched hands. Resting his hand lightly on her shoulder, Tray watched Alyssa seduce the horse with a soft, cajoling voice and gentle hands as she lavished him with strokes of praise and affection.

  “Oh! He’s wonderful. Wonderful!” she breathed, taking time to shed her kidskin gloves. Her long, slender fingers o
utlined and caressed the stallion’s head and tiny ears.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you, my lady, have put a spell on this rascal,” Tray noted wryly. “He’s standing like a lamb beneath your hand.” Indeed, Rasheed normally would snort and bugle in his stall when anyone approached. Now he stood like a docile gelding, head and neck extended across his stall door to receive all of Alyssa’s loving attention.

  “He feels so warm and sleek,” she whispered, running her hand down from his jaw and following the proud curve of his neck. “And powerful.”

  “He’s all of that,” Tray agreed, idly scratching Rasheed’s forelock, his gaze locked upon Alyssa. My God, she was radiant. Tray felt as if the breath had been knocked from his body, his heart beginning to pound like a trip-hammer as he watched her come to life. So, this was the real Alyssa. The child-woman who adored nature and animals as much as he did. Her cheeks bloomed rosy with health, and her softly confident voice revealed an inner joy that blanketed both him and the quiet stallion.

  “Look at this!” Alyssa whispered, slowly running her hand the length of Rasheed’s head.

  “What?” Tray asked, pleasure at her unexpected happiness making him smile.

  “His forehead…why, it’s sunken inward. Why? Has he been hurt? A bone broken, perhaps?”

  Tray captured her fingers, now cool and smudged from scratching the horse so vigorously. He had expected Alyssa to suddenly freeze, but she waited calmly, her hand relaxed within his as he guided them down the length of Rasheed’s head. “Only the Arabian has this dished type of head. Here, feel how the concave shape of his skull allows his nostrils to drink in larger drafts of air.”

  Alyssa drew closer, her body nearly touching Tray’s as she allowed him to outline Rasheed’s flaring nostrils with her fingers. A tingle of unmitigated excitement spiraled dizzily through her. Why hadn’t she been aware of how gentle Tray’s touch had been before? She felt the rough calluses on his palm chafe pleasantly against her flesh, and her attention shifted unconsciously to Tray—not the very rich lord of an estate, but the man. She allowed him to guide her fingers upward, tracing the outline of Rasheed’s nostril passage. If her instincts served her correctly, Tray seemed reluctant to release her hand. As reluctant as she was to have him do so. She had to swallow against the onslaught of new emotions that threatened to engulf her, and her voice was faint when she spoke.