Free The Warrior's Touch by Michelle Willingham Page A

him stay.
    ‘I intend to compensate you for your trouble of caring for my hands,’ he said. ‘Is there something you desire?’
    Aileen prepared bowls of warm pottage, not answering his question. His stomach turned at the thought of eating yet another bowl of the warm gruel. If he never saw it again, it would be too soon.
    ‘Aileen?’ he repeated.
    She pushed a strand of hair back from her cheek. ‘No, there is nothing. I’ll tend your hands, and then you’ll go.’
    Her voice sounded tired as she motioned for him to sit down. With a wooden spoon, she scooped up the horrible pottage and held it toward him.
    ‘Must I truly eat that?’ he asked, putting on his most charming voice. ‘I thought you made honey cakes the other day.’
    A gleam warmed her eye. ‘You sound like my daughter used to, when she was a babe.’ Without mercy, she shovelled in the warm gruel.
    He forced himself to choke the mouthful down. When she held out the second bite, he eyed it with distaste. She wielded the spoon like a weapon, poised to attack him. But he had a warrior’s defence training. When she moved forward with another spoonful, he quickly turned his head. The pottage hit his cheek instead, falling to the ground with a heavy glop.
    Her mouth twitched. ‘You did that on purpose.’
    ‘Of course I did.’ Connor’s gaze narrowed, and he watched her for the next move. She was going to try again, and he intended to be ready.
    She prepared another spoonful. ‘You cannot run away.’
    He moved sideways, but the pottage landed upon his neck as he dodged the spoon.
    A laugh burst forth from her. She pinned him to the ground, her body forcing him motionless. He couldn’t help his own laugh, feigning weakness. ‘I surrender.’
    She relaxed a moment, a genuine smile transforming her face. Exactly what he was hoping for.
    He seized the advantage. With pottage covering his face, he lifted his head and smeared his cheek against her own. Wet gruel caked her face and she emitted a sound of disgust. ‘I thought you surrendered.’
    ‘A battle strategy. And it worked.’
    ‘It wasn’t fair.’
    ‘I don’t fight fair, a stór .’
    ‘This calls for vengeance.’ She smeared another handful of the mess upon his face, but he nipped at her fingers and she jerked back.
    The softness of her curves pressing against him made him once again aware of her body. Aileen Ó Duinne was most definitely a woman, and one who intended to win this battle. He eased himself to a seated position, her bottom nestled in his lap. His body tightened with arousal.
    Wild dark curls had fully escaped her braid, framing a face covered in pottage. Her sage green eyes brightened with teasing. ‘You look like a babe learning to feed himself.’
    ‘I’ll need you to wash my face,’ he said softly.
    She got up from his lap, and brought back a dampened linen cloth. She knelt beside him and touched it to his cheeks and mouth.
    ‘You forgot your own face.’
    At the reminder, she folded the cloth again and cleaned away the mess. She missed a spot at the corner of her mouth, and he imagined kissing it away, tasting her smooth skin. She intrigued him. Though she had not the traditional beauty of the women he liked, Aileen had captured his attention.
    ‘I think I have a way of making the pottage more palatable,’ she suggested.
    ‘Offer it to your sheep?’
    ‘No.’ She brought forth a container of honey to sweeten the gruel and stirred some into the pottage. ‘Is that better?’
    ‘A little.’ He accepted the offering as a truce, and was pleased to see her smiling again.
    Changing the subject, he said, ‘I was serious about my earlier offer. There must be something I can grant you in return for my care.’
    She shrugged. ‘You cannot give me what I want most.’
    ‘And what is that?’
    ‘I want to be the tribe’s healer again. But I can’t change that, can I? They believe I’m cursed.’
    ‘Then change their foolish superstitions.’
    ‘It would be