The Warrior's Salvation (Warriors of Eriu Book 1) Page 3

  At first, he had simply stared gape-mouthed, having no idea what to do, say, or even think. With a nudge from Alastar and that cursed smirk of his, Jeoffrey sighed and directed Hamish to bring her to his farmstead. When Hamish tried to pass the unconscious lass into Jeoffrey’s arms, he flinched and shook his head. He was not ready to touch her then, nor was he ready now.

  His gaze left her battered face and shifted to observe the wee lad curled up next to her. He could not be older than three summers. His dark brown hair was an exact match to Clarice’s. He wondered if the lad’s eyes would be as blue as hers, or if he had his father’s eyes. Who was his father? Had Harrold sired this lad? Or had she married someone else? Where was Harrold? So many questions, and yet he cared not for the answers. She meant nothing to him and as soon as she was rested and healed, he would send her on her way.

  Clarice had no place in his life. He finally had what he desired in life; his farm. Mayhap he had always envisioned having a wife and children to accompany it, but those were just the dreams of a green lad. He knew the cruelty of loving and losing. He had done it twice and had no interest in ever doing it again. His farm would have to do.

  “Who do you suppose is the sire of her child?” Alastar whispered.

  Jeoffrey had had enough of his best mate and his tedious questions for the night. “Tis of nay concern to me. She will rest and then leave with all due haste.” He grumbled and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He did not have time for this. Nay, that was not the truth. He had all the time in the world for this; he just wished not to deal with it.

  “Right,” Alastar said skeptically as he walked toward the door. “I can sense you wish to be rid of me…and the lass...and the lad. But you cannot push everyone out of your life forever, Jeoff.” Alastar opened the door and looked back over his shoulder at Clarice. “Mark my words. Tis the work of the gods she should show up here like this.”

  “Fine time for you to finally become a serious man, Alastar,” Jeoffrey said wryly. “This may indeed be the work of the gods, but tis not a gift. Tis a curse sent to test my will.”

  “And a fine test it is,” Alastar replied suggestively, raising a brow. “Even with that horrid bruise on her face, her bird’s nest of hair, and tattered clothing, tis clear that Clarice is just as bonny as ever.” With that, he left Jeoffrey’s house, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  Looking down at the woman he had once meant to marry and the child another man had fathered, most likely Harrold, his heart lurched and an old ache awakened inside him of a past he had thought dead and buried. Aye, it was buried all right, right into his straw mattress, soft furs, and wool blankets. The worst part of it was that Alastar was correct. She was still beautiful. She was also still the same woman who had betrayed him.

  With disgust, he looked away from her. Beauty was only skin deep, he had to remember. Her full rosy lips and small button nose were only pleasant features hiding a traitorous heart. His heart must be traitorous as well, for it seemed content to dwell on what could have been and beat a little faster in her presence.

  Cursed woman. Cursed lies. He would get answers on the morrow. For now, he had nowhere to sleep but the cursed floor.

  ***

  After a life spent traveling all around Ériu with his father, never having established a true home for himself, Jeoffrey’s farm gave him a sense of peace and accomplishment he had always yearned for. He took care of his cattle, grew fresh fruits and vegetables to sell on market days, and even had chickens that supplied him with fresh eggs. His little farmstead kept him working hard, fed well, and happy. But now it was winter, and he lived off the grains and dried fruits the village had harvested in the autumn.

  When he had awoken on the hard, cold-packed earthen floor in his own home, he groaned in annoyance as he stretched his stiff back. Clarice and her son still lay content and warm in his bed. Her bruise was a terrible yellowish-brown color mixed with blues and purples. He cringed as he wondered what, or who, had done that to her. But she was none of his concern. He needed to escape before she awoke. He had no desire to speak with her. Heading quietly out the door, Jeoffrey went into the byre to check on his cattle and the chickens.

  Out here, even with the winter chill turning his breath into icy wisps with every exhale, he felt free to let his mind wander. If only his mind would stop wandering to the dark-haired, blue-eyed lass lying in his bed. Why was she here? What had happened to her? And why did it matter who had fathered her child? Why did a horrible burning feeling consume his chest when he thought about all they could have had together if she had not done the unthinkable and betrayed him?

  “What’s dat?” Startled, Jeoffrey dropped a fresh egg he had just picked out of the hay in his chicken coop and spun on his heels. The egg cracked and splattered all over his leather boots, but the tiny voice that had grabbed his attention so abruptly kept his gaze. So, the child did have the same blue eyes as his mother. He was the spitting image of her, in fact.

  Looking from the egg oozing down the toe of his boot to the lad pointing to something behind him, Jeoffrey turned to follow the lad’s gaze. “That?” Jeoffrey croaked, feeling a tightness in his chest as he realized he was conversing with Clarice’s child. “Tis a chicken. Have you never seen one before?” The lad shook his head and then looked down quizzically at the broken egg.

  “What’s dat?” The lad pointed to the pile of shell and yellowish-clear liquid half on Jeoffrey’s foot and half on the hay-strewn byre floor.

  “Tis an egg. Well…a broken egg now.” The child protruded his wee lip and his chin began to quiver as if he feared a rebuke for causing the egg to break.

  “Tis alright, lad,” Jeoffrey said calmly as he kneeled in front of the child and swallowed hard as he took in the lad’s features more closely. He had tiny freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose and his blue eyes darkened the further they got from the pupil, just like Clarice’s. His shoulder-length dark brown hair had a slight curl to it, also like his mamas. He was a beautiful child and Jeffrey felt his own frown forming. They could have made a child just as beautiful together, he was certain of it. But she had chosen otherwise.

  “I’m sorry,” the lad whispered and folded his hands contritely in front of him.

  “Tis nay problem,” Jeoffrey smiled as he ruffled the child’s hair. “We have more. Would you like to help me gather them? We will eat them to break our fast.” The lad smiled and nodded, making Jeoffrey grin in response.

  “Good. Follow me.” Jeoffrey came up to his full height and surprised himself when he put his hand out to the wee lad. The child gripped Jeoffrey’s fingers with his and something warmed deep in Jeoffrey’s chest. It was not the child’s fault that his mother had deserted him. He could not help but enjoy the company of the lad, even if his mama was the bane of Jeoffrey’s existence.

  As they walked over to the chickens to gather more eggs carefully into a basket, the lad came closer to Jeoffrey and tugged on his tunic sleeve. “You will help Mama?” The lad’s voice shook with emotion and Jeoffrey wanted to squeeze the child to him, to protect him and tell him everything would be alright. But he could not make such a promise because he still had no idea what had happened and no intention of letting Clarice stay here longer than she needed to heal.

  “Aye. I will help her with her injuries.” That was the most he could promise.

  Before the lad could ask any more questions, Clarice came hobbling around the corner from the house, leaning on the walls of the byre to keep herself from collapsing. “Jeoffrey!” She cried frantically as she lurched forward.

  “Aye?” Jeoffrey responded.

  “Aye?” the wee lad responded.

  Jeoffrey snapped his head down to look at the lad quizzically. He was named Jeoffrey, as well? Why would Clarice name another man’s son after him? He did not know but it felt like a swift punch to the gut. How dare she agree to marry him, leave suddenly in the middle of the night with his own cousin, and then have the cruelest sense of humor
by naming her son after him? Was she mad, or just the most heartless woman in all the land?

  “Mama!” The lad shouted as he ran over to Clarice, who was still leaning against the byre wall for support, hunched over like a wounded animal. Looking at her through narrowed eyes, he supposed she was much like a wounded animal. He felt a twinge of pity for her condition, but it was hidden well beneath a very hefty layer of anger, resentment, and now an overwhelming sense of betrayal that she would name her son after him.

  “Och, Wee Jeoff. I was so worried when I awoke and you were missing!” She clung to him and, though it clearly pained her to move, she kneeled to the lad’s level and ran her hands through his shoulder-length brown locks, the exact same shade as her own.

  “Dis man show me…eggs…and ch-chickens,” the child stumbled over his words as he tried to pronounce them for the first time.

  For the first time since stepping outside, her gaze snapped up to Jeoffrey’s and a look of pain flashed in her deep blue eyes. He winced at the unsightly bruise marring her face and had to fight the instinctive desire to hold her close and nurture her wounds. To tell her everything would be alright. But, she was no longer his to nurture and nothing was right at all. It would be soon, he vowed, once he had her healed and out of his life forever.

  Silently, Jeoffrey walked past them as he headed for his house with the basket of eggs. He needed to be away from her with all haste.

  “Jeoffrey…” she croaked, trying to grab his attention, but he forced himself to straighten his spine, keep his resolve, and continue walking in silence. “My thanks,” she whispered, almost to herself when he ignored her. He wanted to keep walking and pretend she did not exist, but she did exist and she was terribly wounded. No matter how much hate for the woman thrummed through his veins, he could not cruelly leave her outside to hobble back in alone.

  Walking back over to her and the lad, he put his hand out hesitantly and nodded. “Let me help you into the house.” She hesitated for a moment, looking at his outstretched hand and then back up to his face. He clenched his jaw to keep from shouting at her to take it before he changed his mind. His contempt for her was very close to overpowering all his sense of honor. She had abandoned him. Why should he now be burdened with her care? The answer came to him just as quickly as the question had. Because he was a good man and she was a woman in need. Because he would not be cruel like his father. He would help her heal, see to her needs, and let them be on their way in a few days’ time.

  She must have sensed his inner battle, for a frown turned her perfectly plump lips downward at the same moment she moved away and refused his help. With a groan of pain, she struggled to get up and off her injured knees and back on her feet. Her wee son tried to help her as a good lad should, but he was much too young to be of any use. She stumbled to the ground with a grunt.

  “Come,” he heard himself whisper and he knelt to wrap his hands around her waist in support. The feel of her slender waist beneath his grip sent painful reminders of the many nights he had held her just like this in the past. Nay, not just like this. On those nights, there were no clothes to serve as a barrier between her flesh and his. On those nights, he had held her tight in a fit of passion as he drove into her and she screamed his name. On those nights, she was his. It was on one of those very nights he had held her tightly against him after a wondrous night of love making and asked her to be his wife. And then she left him.

  Swallowing back the pain and his pride, he used his strength to bear her weight, feeling her weak arms wrap around his shoulders for more support. Her brown locks tickled his lightly bearded cheek and he had to hold his breath to keep from inhaling her scent. She may be as beautiful as the day she left him, but beauty was only skin deep, he reminded himself once more.

  Fortunately, the door to his home was still wide open and he easily helped her back into his bed. “You must rest, Clar—” He paused. He could not yet bring himself to utter her name out loud. It would make this all too real and he so desperately wished to pretend it was not. He had spent four years convincing himself that he did not love her anymore. He thought of Treasa, the woman he fell in love with most recently before the battle where he slew his father. Suddenly, those feelings of affection for Treasa seemed like a speck of sand on an expansive beach when compared to the intense wave of emotions he was feeling for Clarice. He questioned if he had ever truly loved Treasa, or if it had simply felt good to be in a bonny lass’s presence again.

  Aye, he had bedded many women these past four years, desperately seeking to drive out the pain of loss and betrayal. No woman ever meant more than a night of fulfilling the needs of the flesh…until Treasa had come along. But now, looking at Clarice again, he was left to wonder if he had truly loved Treasa for herself, or simply for the companionship she had offered during the loneliest time of his life.

  She stayed silent as he turned away from her and began to work on the fire. It was frigid inside his home, and he wasn’t sure if it was the air or his heart that left him so cold. Wee Jeoffrey sat on the bed next to his mama and held her hand in silence. Good. Silence was good. Grabbing an iron pot, he turned around. “I will get water from the well. I can boil these eggs.” He looked over at the wee lad and nodded. “You will enjoy them and they will make you grow strong.” He felt a smile start to form on his lips when he saw the look of pride flash in Wee Jeoffrey’s eyes, but he forced it away. He could not get attached.

  “Jeoffrey, wait,” Clarice whispered. He stopped in his tracks before opening the front door but did not turn around. Nay, he would look upon her as little as possible. “I would like to explain myself—”

  “Nay!” he shouted and spun on his heels, feeling slightly ashamed as he saw her son flinch at his raised voice. Taking a calming, deep breath, Jeoffrey repeated, “Nay. Tis not necessary. I will return.”

  ***

  Clarice had awoken in a strange home with a pounding headache and a foul taste in her mouth. Where was she? Where was Wee Jeoff? Panic consumed her every thought and, forgetting her injuries, she bounded out of the strange bed, opened the door and ran outside frantically. Her entire body ached and her knees pained her so badly, she could hardly move her legs to walk. But fear for her child drove her forward. She heard voices coming from inside a byre up ahead.

  Leaning on the byre wall, she came around the corner and saw the most precious sight in the word: her son. “Jeoffrey!” she had shouted in both panic and relief. It wasn’t until she heard both voices respond to the name, that she looked away from her son and remembered everything from last night before she had blacked out from pain and exhaustion. They had, by some twisted game of the gods, stumbled right into Jeoffrey’s life.

  The man stood before her now, looking as wonderfully handsome as he ever had, his dark scruffy beard lining his strong jaw and his darkest of eyes glaring at her, filled with so much disgust she felt as if she may vomit. To see that look in his eyes destroyed her. But her son was safe, thank all the gods.

  Jeoffrey would most assuredly be wondering why her son was also named Jeoffrey. Would he figure it out on his own? Would he even believe her? Wee Jeoff looked just like her and it would have to be her word he trusted, and she knew he held no trust or affection for her at all.

  And when he had wrapped his arms around her waist to bring her back inside the house, it was like a torrent of memories rained down upon her pounding head. His touch had always been her undoing. She was clay in his hands, susceptible to all manner of emotions when he held her. Did he also remember those many nights of pleasure they shared? Did he think of the love they felt for one another, the urgent need they felt to be as one, the devastating sense of loneliness during the days when they had to pretend not to love one another for fear of being torn apart? When the heir to the High Throne of Ériu fell in love with a serf’s daughter, naught but heartache was destined to follow. And that was precisely what she had lived with for the past four years. Devastating, heart-wrenching, breath-stealing pain.


  She needed to explain to him why she left. Once he had placed her back in his bed and turned his back on her, it took all her strength to muster the courage to speak to him. And he had turned her down. His rigid stance, his hard voice, his narrowed gaze…it was all the evidence she needed to know the truth she always suspected. He did not know why she left and he hated her for it. That realization was like a knife to her gut, twisting and reopening wounds that had truly never healed. It was just as well, for now. She could not, would not, have this conversation in front of Wee Jeoff. He thought Harrold was his papa. Harrold had been good to them and she missed him terribly.

  She suspected why Harrold had given up his entire life to help them, even pretending marriage to protect them. He had given up all chance of ever having a wife and family of his own to save them from Elim’s cruelty. Aye, she believed she knew exactly why he did it, but he never said and she never asked. It was not her secret to tell and now that he was gone, he could not tell it. But she knew. She shook her head. The truth was worthless. It did not save her from the pain of her reality.

  “Mama?” she heard Wee Jeoff ask and her gaze moved from the door Jeoffrey had just shut behind him and over to her child. “I saw a chicken!” he squealed with delight and began to run around the perimeter of the small farm house, clucking like the strange animal he had just discovered.

  She laughed for the first time in a long time, so pleased to see Jeoff smile. “Aye, darling. Tis a chicken. We did not have them in Caledonii. They are wonderful animals and their eggs are delicious. Jeoffrey is correct. They will make you strong and healthy.”

  “Eggs! I helped him get eggs!” he smiled and spun in a circle, then stopped and frowned. “I made the man break one,” he said sadly as he hung his head.