The Faery Bride (The Celtic Legends Series Book 2) by Lisa Ann Verge
Authors: Lisa Ann Verge
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learning Welsh myself, seeing that I’ll be staying here for a while.” Aileen gazed upon the sleeping man while her palms itched. “With no woman to run the house, you’ve got your hands full. I can’t have you following me about when you’ve your own chores to see to.”
Nor can I have you watching too closely, seeing too much, suspecting there’s more to this healing of mine than wood–anemone plasters and herb broths.
If there still is.
She gestured to the patient. “This man will need some of that plaster I had one of the girls make up yesterday,” she said. “You remember, with the wood anemone?”
“Aye, I’ll be telling them, though only God will know if they’ll set to it, with their minds all a–flutter.”
Marged skittered away. Aileen dug her fingernails into her palms and took a look around the room. The tumble of healthy men who’d laid their pallets along the edges of the hall last night had long dispersed to their chores outside. Now, the hall murmured with the rustle of the wounded testing their sore limbs, with the banter of soldier and maidservant, nobody paying her much mind.
Shielded by the huge fire which roared in the center hearth, Aileen knew she could try to lay hands on him, if she dared. She flexed her fingers. She hesitated. I was exhausted last night, that’s all. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering what was wrong with her, and by morning’s light she’d convinced herself it had been the situation, no more. She’d witnessed a bloody battle, had her own life threatened, felt the sudden presence of the Sídh, and spent a whole afternoon and evening in healing. It was no wonder that she’d no strength left for the likes of Rhys, no wonder she’d felt nothing but the power and intensity of a man beneath her hand.
The breath she sucked in burned all the way to her lungs. Look at yourself Aileen, with no more sense than these young maidservants flipping their hair. The coming of Samhain—that was what was causing her blood to roil. She’d be fooling herself to deny that Rhys, for all his faults, was a fine cut of a man. Samhain was rutting season for humans, and she was human enough to be swept along with it all.
She unfurled her fingers. There was only one way to know for sure. Clenching her jaw, she let her hand drift down upon the wounded man.
She felt it immediately—the sensation of dipping her hands into a thicker medium, the resistance against her fingers, and then a subtle current of life rippled through her, as if the sluice gates of a river opened upon a dry lake. Relief shuddered through her so strongly she didn’t sense the woman standing over her until the visitor said something in Welsh.
Aileen glanced up and found herself staring past a protruding belly to the hesitant smile of a young Welsh woman. The Welsh woman bobbed her head and began babbling in a soft, gentle voice, then thrust a package at her as Aileen stood up, leaving Aileen no choice but to grasp the gift against her. She listened to the gurgle of the woman’s words, thinking she’d have to learn some Welsh—and soon.
“She’s thanking you for saving her husband’s life—the one with the javelin wound in his shoulder.” Dafydd sauntered to the end of the pallet and snapped his fur–lined mantle free of drizzle. “She’s offering you a leg of lamb. Much prized.”
“Tell the young woman that I’m moved by her generosity.” Aileen’s gaze skittered away from Dafydd’s clear hazel eyes. In the rush of transporting the wounded yesterday she’d managed to avoid him, but now he stood before her with knowledge in his gaze, a dangerous knowledge. She fixed her attention on the young woman dressed in homespun, a girl no older than her sister Cairenn. “But tell her that it is my gift to her, and her growing family, that she keeps this lamb.”
Dafydd translated swiftly. The young woman smiled, bobbed, and then lumbered off toward the doorway without taking the
Nor can I have you watching too closely, seeing too much, suspecting there’s more to this healing of mine than wood–anemone plasters and herb broths.
If there still is.
She gestured to the patient. “This man will need some of that plaster I had one of the girls make up yesterday,” she said. “You remember, with the wood anemone?”
“Aye, I’ll be telling them, though only God will know if they’ll set to it, with their minds all a–flutter.”
Marged skittered away. Aileen dug her fingernails into her palms and took a look around the room. The tumble of healthy men who’d laid their pallets along the edges of the hall last night had long dispersed to their chores outside. Now, the hall murmured with the rustle of the wounded testing their sore limbs, with the banter of soldier and maidservant, nobody paying her much mind.
Shielded by the huge fire which roared in the center hearth, Aileen knew she could try to lay hands on him, if she dared. She flexed her fingers. She hesitated. I was exhausted last night, that’s all. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, wondering what was wrong with her, and by morning’s light she’d convinced herself it had been the situation, no more. She’d witnessed a bloody battle, had her own life threatened, felt the sudden presence of the Sídh, and spent a whole afternoon and evening in healing. It was no wonder that she’d no strength left for the likes of Rhys, no wonder she’d felt nothing but the power and intensity of a man beneath her hand.
The breath she sucked in burned all the way to her lungs. Look at yourself Aileen, with no more sense than these young maidservants flipping their hair. The coming of Samhain—that was what was causing her blood to roil. She’d be fooling herself to deny that Rhys, for all his faults, was a fine cut of a man. Samhain was rutting season for humans, and she was human enough to be swept along with it all.
She unfurled her fingers. There was only one way to know for sure. Clenching her jaw, she let her hand drift down upon the wounded man.
She felt it immediately—the sensation of dipping her hands into a thicker medium, the resistance against her fingers, and then a subtle current of life rippled through her, as if the sluice gates of a river opened upon a dry lake. Relief shuddered through her so strongly she didn’t sense the woman standing over her until the visitor said something in Welsh.
Aileen glanced up and found herself staring past a protruding belly to the hesitant smile of a young Welsh woman. The Welsh woman bobbed her head and began babbling in a soft, gentle voice, then thrust a package at her as Aileen stood up, leaving Aileen no choice but to grasp the gift against her. She listened to the gurgle of the woman’s words, thinking she’d have to learn some Welsh—and soon.
“She’s thanking you for saving her husband’s life—the one with the javelin wound in his shoulder.” Dafydd sauntered to the end of the pallet and snapped his fur–lined mantle free of drizzle. “She’s offering you a leg of lamb. Much prized.”
“Tell the young woman that I’m moved by her generosity.” Aileen’s gaze skittered away from Dafydd’s clear hazel eyes. In the rush of transporting the wounded yesterday she’d managed to avoid him, but now he stood before her with knowledge in his gaze, a dangerous knowledge. She fixed her attention on the young woman dressed in homespun, a girl no older than her sister Cairenn. “But tell her that it is my gift to her, and her growing family, that she keeps this lamb.”
Dafydd translated swiftly. The young woman smiled, bobbed, and then lumbered off toward the doorway without taking the
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