Surrender to an Irish Warrior (4 page)

The man's gaze narrowed, and both of them saw the resemblance at the same time.

‘You're one of us, aren't you?' the foreigner murmured. ‘I didn't expect it.'

Trahern unsheathed his sword. ‘I'm not a damned
Lochlannach
, no.'

‘Then you haven't looked at yourself recently.' The man drew his own sword. ‘Why were you following me?'

‘Where is the girl?' Trahern countered, swinging his weapon hard. The Norseman met his blow, blocking it.

A long blade came arcing towards his head, and Trahern sidestepped to avoid it, deflecting the slice with his own weapon.

‘I suppose you mean the one we found at the
cashel
yesterday,' the man replied. ‘She's at our settlement. But I don't know if I'll let you follow us there. Not with the kind of welcome you've given me.' He lunged forward, his blade thrusting at Trahern's gut in a physical challenge.

Trahern parried it, steadying his balance before he renewed the attack. He focused upon the fight, letting his training flow through him, meeting blow for blow. Sweat gleamed upon his skin, but he drove the man back.

When his blade nicked his opponent's shoulder, satisfaction rippled through him. He'd been waiting half a year for this. He only wished he could fight against the other invaders, killing all of them.

He poured his rage, his grief, into the fight. It didn't matter to him that they were standing upon holy ground, that it was a sin against God to fight here. This man had slaughtered innocents, like Ciara. He'd violated women, and he deserved to die.

Behind the Viking, he spied Morren walking slowly. The folds of her gown draped over her thin body, and she gripped the edges of the borrowed cloak. The hood had slid down, revealing her golden hair. Fear and horror washed over her face.

It renewed his strength, and Trahern slashed a brutal blow toward his enemy's blade, sending the weapon spinning until it landed in the grass. The man's look of surprise changed
to grim acceptance, when Trahern grasped him by the hair, fitting his sword to his enemy's throat.

Staring hard at Morren, Trahern demanded, ‘Did this man dishonour you?'

A
ll the blood had left her face, and Morren knew without question that the Viking was going to die at Trahern's hands. His life depended upon her answer.

‘No,' she whispered. Then louder, ‘No, he wasn't one of them. He wasn't there that night.' She kept her voice steady, hoping he would believe her.

Trahern's iron gaze pierced her. ‘Don't lie. He deserves to die for what he did.' The blade remained tight at the Norseman's throat.

‘I'm not lying.' Though she didn't want to draw closer, she forced herself to intervene. When she stood within an arm's length of them, she pleaded, ‘Let him go, Trahern.'

It was clear he didn't want to. She took another step closer, but he snarled, ‘Stay back.'

There was no mercy on his face, and she feared he wouldn't listen to her words. She looked into his grey eyes, waiting. Letting him see that her words were true. The wildness in his demeanour was hanging on edge, as if he were fighting against the instinct to kill.

‘Let him go,' she repeated.

Moments seemed to border on eternity. After a long pause, Trahern lowered his blade. Shoving the man away, he sheathed his weapon.

Morren breathed a little easier. The Viking wiped at the blood on his shoulder, and sent her a grateful look. ‘Thank you for my life, fair one.'

She recognised the interest behind his compliment. With dark grey eyes and blond hair, many women would call the
Lochlannach
handsome.

Not her. She had no interest in any man, especially not a Viking.

‘Who are you, and why were you at the
cashel
?' she asked.

‘I am Gunnar Dalrata. And we were obeying the orders of our chief.' He cast a glance at Trahern, wiping the blood at his shoulder. The wound didn't appear deep, and the man hardly paid it any more heed than a scratch. ‘We were looking for more survivors, like the girl we found yesterday.'

‘Jilleen,' Morren breathed, her heartbeat quickening. ‘Where did you take her?'

‘We took her to our
longphort
,' Gunnar said. ‘You are welcome to join her. I'll provide you with an escort.'

‘Morren will go nowhere with you.' Trahern moved beside her, like a silent shield. His hand rested upon his sword hilt, poised to defend her. He looked as though he'd rather tear the Viking apart rather than release him.

‘The girl you found is my sister,' Morren told Gunnar. ‘Please, let her go. She's done nothing wrong.'

‘She is not a captive,' Gunnar argued. ‘But we didn't want her wandering out alone. We brought her with us when she asked for our healer.' He studied her, his grey eyes narrowing with concern.

Morren held on to her waist, refusing to explain. Though the bleeding had nearly stopped, she didn't feel like herself
any more. It was as though she were hollowed out inside, with hardly anything left.

The day had taken its toll upon her, and though she didn't want to feel any sort of weakness, she hadn't recovered as quickly as she'd wanted to. And worse, Trahern seemed to sense it.

He kept his gaze fixed upon Gunnar, but his words were meant for her. ‘We'll go to the settlement at dawn and bring back Jilleen.'

‘We should go with him now,' Morren insisted.

‘You're too weak to make the journey. Give it one more night.' Trahern sent Gunner a dark look. ‘Unless you want me to go back with him.'

She hesitated. A part of her resisted the idea of leaving Jilleen for one more night, especially when she didn't know whether or not her sister was all right. Then again, she hardly trusted Trahern not to get himself killed on account of his temper.

‘She's unharmed,' Gunnar said. ‘I promise you that.'

Morren stared at the
Lochlannach
, but he didn't appear to be lying. His grey eyes held sincerity, and he added, ‘The rest of the Ó Reilly tribe sought sanctuary with us.' He sent a distasteful look back towards the church.

The monks had begun returning from prayer, and the abbot quickened his pace at the sight of them. His face curdled with unspoken anger, and he reached for the long cross hanging around his neck as if warding off demons.

A grim expression formed upon his face when he reached them. Several of the other monks flanked him, as if in silent protection. Morren took a step back, distancing herself from the men.

‘I'll return to the
longphort
and let them know to expect you,' Gunnar said, whistling for his horse. He spoke not a word in greeting to the abbot, but gave a cold nod.

Before he could mount, Trahern interrupted. ‘I'll be wanting my horse back.'

The edges of the Norseman's mouth curved up. ‘Come and fetch him, then.'

A cloud drifted across the afternoon sun, shadowing the abbot's face. Trahern inclined his head. ‘My apologies, Father.'

The abbot folded his arms. ‘To shed blood upon holy ground is a sin.'

The chastising tone in the priest's voice seemed to stoke Trahern's anger. Morren took another step away while the two men confronted each other.

Trahern's height towered over the diminutive abbot. His grey eyes turned to granite. ‘I granted him mercy.'

The two men locked gazes, with the abbot making the sign of the cross. It seemed less like a blessing and more like an absolution, Morren thought.

‘There is still hatred in your heart.'

‘And there it will remain, until every last one of them is dead.' When Trahern turned back to her, she saw the pain cloaked behind his anger.

It frightened her to see him so intent upon vengeance. She doubted if he cared anything at all for his soul.

He's as lost as I am.

 

Trahern hardly spoke to Morren the rest of the night. God above, he didn't know what was happening to him. It was as if he'd stepped outside himself, becoming a man who cared about nothing. He'd almost murdered the Norseman, simply because of the man's heritage.

It didn't seem to matter that Gunnar Dalrata hadn't been there on the night of the attack. Everything about the man grated upon him, like sand in an open wound.

Innocent women had suffered and died on the night of the attack, due to men like Gunnar. The blood lust had seized him
with the need to avenge, the need to kill. But Morren's voice had broken through the madness, soothing the beast.

He moved to sit at the low wooden table at the centre of the room. The interior of the guest house was not large, but there were six pallets set up within the space, three on either side with the table to separate them.

The remains of their meal lay upon the table, and Trahern frowned at how little Morren had eaten. It was hardly enough to keep a child alive, much less a woman.

He'd wanted to pursue the
Lochlannach
tonight, but there was no chance Morren could endure the journey. If he ventured further than five miles, no doubt she would collapse.

She stepped quietly to a pallet on the far side, lying down with her back to him. Delicate and fragile, he didn't miss the worry that burdened her. Despite her physical weakness, there was no doubt of her determination to reach her sister.

Trahern poured water into a wooden bowl and splashed it on his face. Water trickled down his stubbled cheeks, and he felt the prickle of hair forming on his scalp and beard. Though most Irishmen prided themselves on their hair and beards, he wanted to strip it all away.

He didn't want warmth or comfort—only the cold reminder of what he'd lost.

With his blade, he shaved off the hair, never minding the nicks upon his flesh. Without it, he appeared more fearsome. Different from the others, a man not to be trusted. If changing his physical appearance kept others away from him, so be it.

When it was done, he set the knife back on the table, a flicker of light gleaming off the blade. There were traces of his blood upon it, but he didn't care.

He poured more water into the wooden bowl, using his palms to spill more of it over his head, the droplets washing away the blood. The remaining water in the bowl rippled, then fell still. In the reflection, he saw his angry features, the
monster who lived for violence. A man who no longer cared if he lived or died.

A man who looked like one of the Vikings.

Trahern wanted to hurl the bowl across the room, because he wanted nothing to do with them. They were savage murderers, not men. He loathed the fact that their appearances were similar.

It shouldn't have surprised him, for his great-uncle Tharand had been a
Lochlannach
, as well as his mother's father. Even so, he'd never truly compared himself to the foreigners. But when he'd battled against Gunnar, for the first time he'd not looked down upon his enemy. They were the same height, the same build. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Jesu
, how could he even consider bringing Morren into their settlement? She'd endured enough suffering. It was best to leave her here, where she wouldn't have to face the men who had harmed her.

But then he'd never know who the raiders were. Without her, he couldn't identify them. Trahern gritted his teeth, fingering his dagger before sheathing the blade. There was no choice but to bring her.

He risked a glance at her sleeping form on the opposite side of the guest house. Like a ghostly spirit, Morren appeared caught between the worlds of the living and the dead. Though she claimed she wanted to live, to take care of her sister, after the horror she had endured he wondered if she would ever find contentment in her life.

She rolled over, her golden hair veiling one cheek. She slept with her hands clenched on the coverlet, as though she were still trying to defend herself.

He wondered if she preferred him to sleep far away from her. Or was it better to remain nearby, to keep her safe, if any other guests arrived at the monastery?

To avoid making a decision, he spent time clearing away the dishes and leftover food. Silence descended over the abbey,
with all the monks asleep until
vigils
, which would begin in a few hours.

He chose the pallet furthest from Morren, deciding it would make her more comfortable. Stretching out on the fur coverlet, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

In his mind, he saw Ciara's face. Her spirit haunted him, with a smile that tore him apart.

I love you
, she'd whispered in his ear on the morning he'd left. He'd kissed her goodbye, never suspecting that it was the last time he'd ever hold her in his arms. So many things he'd never said. He hadn't told her that he'd loved her. And now, she'd never know it.

He shifted restlessly on his pallet and turned to find Morren watching him.

‘I can't sleep,' she confessed. ‘I've tried, but I'm too worried about Jilleen.'

Trahern stood and crossed the room, sitting down upon one of the pallets close by. He stretched out beside her, careful to keep a physical distance from her. He propped up his head on one elbow, watching her. ‘Are you afraid of visiting the
Lochlannach
?'

Her mouth tightened, and she nodded. ‘Yes. I know Gunnar said she wasn't a captive, but if that were true, why didn't she come back? Why didn't they send their healer?'

‘I don't know. But we'll find out tomorrow.' He studied her, and her blue eyes filled with worry. ‘If you'd feel safer staying behind, I promise I'll bring her back to you.'

Morren sat up, drawing her knees close. ‘You shouldn't go alone.' Her arms tightened around her knees, and she lowered her forehead. He suspected she didn't trust him to keep his word from the way she wouldn't meet his gaze.

‘I wish I were stronger,' she continued. ‘I'm afraid that the longer I wait, the more danger Jilleen faces. If it weren't for me, she wouldn't have left.'

‘Tomorrow,' he promised. ‘We'll get her back.' A grim
feeling slid over him, and he added, ‘I suppose we should have kept Gunnar as a hostage.'

‘No. You were right to release him.' She met his gaze. ‘And I rather doubt the monks would have allowed it.'

He shot her a sidelong smile. ‘No? Perhaps with a generous gift to the monastery, they would turn a blind eye.'

Morren shook her head, her mouth softening. Clearly she thought he was teasing, and though that wasn't entirely true, it eased the tension. ‘Gunnar owes you a debt now,' she added. ‘It may keep us both safe.'

‘The
Lochlannach
have no honour.'

She started to speak, but fell silent, almost as if she wanted to argue with him but had changed her mind.

Trahern leaned back, staring at the ceiling. ‘I don't like bringing you there. I think you should stay here at the abbey.'

‘I'll be all right. With each day, my strength improves.'

He didn't think it was enough. ‘We'll borrow horses. And if there's any sign of danger, I'm sending you back.' He could defend them long enough for her to get to safety, of that he was certain.

Morren laid back down, and he wondered suddenly why the monks had left them alone in the guest house. In an intimate space such as this, it seemed too close. He could smell the fragrance of Morren's skin, like crushed rosemary. It intrigued him, and he found himself staring at her. Her features were soft, with clear blue eyes and fair hair that fell below her shoulders, as though she'd cut it a few years back. Her nose had a slight tilt, an imperfection that drew his attention to her mouth.

He forced his gaze away, rising from the pallet and stalking towards the fire. He added more peat, regaining control of his errant thoughts. What was the matter with him? He supposed his response was because he hadn't been with anyone since
Ciara. He wasn't a damned monk, able to shut out his body's instincts.

‘Are you all right?' Morren asked, sitting up again.

‘Yes.' He poked at the fire, though it needed no tending. ‘I wanted to ensure that the fire would last for the night.'