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cheeks bespoke his age, his hair had not yet grown white. His demeanour had ever been gentle, and she could not fault him for his persistent courtship.
    ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You are not so old.’ He fell into step beside her, and they walked among the wild orange crocosmia blossoms flowering upon the hillside.
    ‘I know of your grief,’ he said, his hand brushing against hers. ‘You should have told him.’
    Aileen grew rigid. ‘What do you mean? Told whom?’ Eachan could not know the truth of what she had done.
    ‘Told Connor that you carry his child.’
    Her hands moved to her scarlet cheeks. Was it that evident? Did everyone know her secret?
    ‘Why—what makes you th-think—’
    ‘I saw you that night. And it was right that you offered yourself to protect the harvest.’ He gestured over the land, the fields swelling with stalks of grain and green corn. ‘The gods have blessed us for it.’
    He took her hand in his. ‘I do not fault you for it. I know you care for him, and you do not care for me.’
    His kindness eased her battered heart, and unbidden tears swelled. ‘It isn’t that. You have been good to me.’
    ‘I would take care of you,’ he offered, squeezing her hand. ‘You and the babe. No one need know that it isn’t mine.’
    The tear spilled over. ‘Eachan, you do not deserve a bride such as me.’
    He raised her hand to his lips. ‘I would like to think that we could be friends. And you need a father for your child.’
    She knew there were herbs to end the life of the unborn babe, but she could never consider taking them. Eachan’s offer brought a tear streaming down her face. He wiped it away with a knuckle. ‘Will you accept me as your husband? Will you let me look after you?’
    She did not consider refusing him. His kindness enfolded her like a warm woollen shawl. She put her hand in his, even knowing that it meant abandoning her dreams of wedding a warrior like Connor.
    After the summer waned and the harvest grew ready for threshing, Aileen took Eachan as her husband. But even as she spoke the vows binding them together, he knew her heart belonged to another.
    As the child grew within her, and Eachan continued to court her, Aileen made her own vow. She silently promised to be a good wife to Eachan. She would put Connor from her mind and learn to love her husband.

Chapter 3
    Banslieve, Ireland 1175
    H is days and nights ran together in a faded tapestry of pain, helplessness, and anger. Connor had grown to despise the pungent aroma of garlic that Aileen used upon his wounds to prevent fever. But more than that, he hated his inability to control his healing.
    The cuts and bruises joined a host of other scars. The Ó Banníon’s primitive form of justice spurred his rage and bitterness. His friends had turned on him, men he’d trusted with his life. They’d obeyed their chieftain’s commands blindly, and it was their betrayal that bothered him most of all. So be it. When he regained his strength, they would regret their actions.
    If he regained his strength , he thought dully.
    His hands had swollen up to three times their normal size, the pain only relieved when Aileen gave him a sleeping draught.
    ‘Ó Banníon’s men,’ he asked Aileen one evening when she held out a wooden mug of bitter liquid. ‘Have you seen any of their tribe?’
    ‘No. Were they the ones who did this to you?’ She tipped the drink into his mouth, offering him little choice but to drink it. He felt like a newborn babe, helpless to even hold a cup.
    ‘They were. I wondered if they came back for me.’
    ‘If they did, I heard nothing of it.’ Aileen took the cup away. ‘Why did they attack you?’
    ‘I was punished for a crime I did not commit.’
    ‘What happened?’
    Connor kept silent. He had no wish to relive those moments, nor to share his shame with a woman he barely knew. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. But when I find them, they will regret their actions.’
    ‘You should let the Brehon