Surrender to an Irish Warrior (5 page)

He returned to the pallet, rolling onto his stomach. He did his best to shut her out, but he sensed she was still awake.

‘I'd ask you to tell me more of your story,' she murmured, ‘but I can see that you're tired.'

Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. ‘In the morning, perhaps.' He could easily have continued the tale of Eithne and Dagda, but telling stories would only intensify the connection with her. And the truth was, he didn't want her watching him with those blue eyes. Though he had no intention of laying a finger upon her, he couldn't deny that she was beautiful.

‘It was a sword,' she said softly.

‘What was?'

‘Ciara. You asked me how she died, and I promised to tell you if you helped my sister.'

His fingers dug into the pallet, his lungs tight. He couldn't speak, feeling as though a stone were crushing him. But the need to know was greater than his desire for secrets.

‘She was cut down by one of their swordsmen,' Morren said. ‘I don't think he meant to strike her, but she was fleeing behind the man when he swung his weapon.'

‘Did she suffer?' He couldn't stop the question, though he feared the answer.

‘It was quick.'

The words granted him a slight reprieve, but he didn't release his tight grip upon the pallet. Though he'd give anything in his power to have Ciara back, if she'd had to die, at least she hadn't lingered.

‘Thank you,' he said. And meant it. He'd tormented himself with images of her death, wishing to God he knew what
had happened. Hearing the truth made it somewhat easier to bear.

‘She was a friend,' Morren added. ‘And you gave her happiness. She often spoke of how much she loved you.'

The invisible grip around his heart squeezed tighter. A thickness rose in his throat, and he felt the need to leave.

Without a word of explanation, Trahern threw open the door and strode outside. He stumbled through the darkness, the night enfolding him. A lonely cross rested upon the hillside, shadowed in the moonlight.

He fell to his knees before it, the pain of loss suffocating him. He might die tomorrow, killing the bastards who'd taken her life. And God help him, he didn't care.

Whether minutes or an hour passed, he didn't know. But he sensed Morren's presence standing behind him. Her hand settled upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He knew what it cost her, to reach out with a physical touch.

‘Go back to the guest house,' he said. ‘I'll join you later.'

Her fingers squeezed his shoulder, and she obeyed.

In the distance, Trahern heard the faint sound of the monks' footsteps as they returned to the chapel for
vigils
.

 

In the morning, Morren was feeling better, and she had no doubt she could finish the journey this time. Trahern had arranged to borrow horses from the monks, with the promise to return them within a few days.

They rode south, and along the way, she saw Trahern's face tighten with restrained anger. He didn't speak to her; outwardly, it appeared that countless plans and strategies consumed his mind.

In his expression, she saw vengeance. He believed he would find the
Lochlannach
who were responsible for the attack, and that she would be able to identify the guilty men.

A shiver passed over her. Although the men deserved to die for what they'd done, she'd never wanted to be an executioner.
Morren slowed her pace, torn between wanting her own vengeance and wanting to forget.

Trahern drew back, turning concerned. He handed her the water bag. ‘You're looking pale. Would you rather go back?'

‘No. I'm all right.' It wasn't physical weakness that bothered her; it was her own fear of what would happen when they reached the
longphort
.

After a drink, she handed back the water bag and took the reins again. ‘It's not far. We'll be there in less than an hour.' Before Trahern could argue, she urged her horse into a walk, forcing him to follow. No matter what the danger was, she couldn't leave Jilleen alone.

Trahern brought his horse alongside hers, and though he didn't protest, she caught him watching her. A few cuts marred his chin and scalp where he'd shaved the hair off again. With his size and fierce appearance, she had no doubt he would intimidate many of the Vikings.

Yet she'd seen a different side to him. Last night, he'd remained outside until
vigils
was finished. Gone was the hardened warrior and in his place was a man consumed by grief. A part of her had wanted to bring him peace. Without thinking, she'd touched his shoulder.

His skin had been warm, the muscles tight and knotted. He'd flinched with shock, but then relaxed when he saw that it was her.

She'd almost pulled back her hand but didn't. Instead, she'd squeezed his shoulder. It had been an impulse, born from a fleeting moment when he'd needed comfort. When she'd returned alone to her pallet, her cheeks had burned with embarrassment. Would he understand that it was friendship she'd offered, nothing more?

Bitterly, she turned her head against the wind, staring into the empty horizon. She knew full well that she was forever damaged, a woman no man would ever want.

Her hand moved to her barren stomach, and a tendril of sorrow took root. Once, she'd dreamed of becoming a mother. Of feeling soft arms wrap around her neck, a child's cheek resting upon hers.

The ache of emptiness became a physical pain within her womb. And then it rose into anger.

Those men had taken away the promise of any other children. Never before had she thought of it in that way.

Her knuckles tightened upon the reins, the unfettered rage battering against the shield of calm she'd wrapped around herself.

Don't think of it. Put it in the past, where it belongs.

But when she met Trahern's dark gaze, she saw the reflection of herself in his eyes.

T
he
longphort
rested a few miles inland from Beanntraí, along the river and facing the south-west coast. Vivid blue water nestled against the shoreline, while in the distance, shadowed mountains hovered. Although the structure had been built centuries earlier, the Vikings had continually expanded, adding stone outbuildings to the settlement.

Trahern examined the
longphort
with the eyes of an invader, looking for flaws. From their elevated vantage point, he could see inside the fortress. Three circular outer walls formed multiple layers of defence, with deep gullies between each fosse. The interior longhouses were arranged in quadrants, each set of dwellings forming a square. Most rested on raised platforms to avoid flooding.

At a closer look, Trahern saw at least a dozen men stationed at all points around the outer palisade. It would not be easy to infiltrate.

But then, they wouldn't have to. Gunnar had invited them here, presumably to join the survivors. Trahern's suspicions sharpened. He'd promised himself that if any danger
threatened Morren, he'd send her back to the abbey without hesitation.

He brought his horse alongside hers. ‘Are you ready?'

‘I am.' Upon her face, he saw a renewed willpower. Though she still hadn't fully recovered, Morren looked ready to do battle on behalf of her sister.

Before she could ride forward, Trahern rested his hand upon her horse. ‘Stay close to me. I don't want you endangering yourself. If you see one of the raiders, tell me. I'll take care of him.'

He shielded her as he took the lead, riding inside. Though it was brutally cold, he was numb to the elements. Vengeance warmed his blood as he thought of the men who had murdered Ciara and violated Morren. They would answer for their crimes with their lives.

When they reached the first outer wall, armed men held their spears aloft in a silent threat. Trahern met their guarded gazes with his own. But when they spied Morren, there was hesitation in their stance.

He stopped at the first gate, knowing that word would spread of their arrival. He kept his hand firmly upon his sword, waiting quietly. The enemy guards never broke eye contact, and neither did he.

 

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before he spied Gunnar striding towards them. The Viking kept one hand upon his sword, seemingly unconcerned that he was on foot while Trahern and Morren had the advantage of being on horseback.

‘I see you decided to join us,' he greeted them. With a glance at Morren, he added, ‘Your sister awaits you within my brother's house.'

Morren's mouth tightened in a line, as though she wanted to run Gunnar through with a weapon of her own. ‘I want to see Jilleen now.'

‘Follow me,' Gunnar bade them. He gestured to two older boys, ordering them to come and take the horses.

Trahern dismounted and reached over to help Morren down. He didn't keep his hands at her waist any longer than was necessary, and Morren's face showed relief when he released her from his touch.

She kept his cloak tightly wrapped around her, as though she could shut out all the bad memories. Not once did she look at him.

Trahern didn't like seeing any woman retreat inside herself this way, and it renewed his anger. He remained beside Morren, ignoring the silent stares of those they passed. No one else spoke to them, and tension coloured their arrival.

‘Morren.' A young man approached, nodding his head in greeting. It was one of the Ó Reillys, Trahern guessed.

Morren started at his voice, her face flooding with embarrassment. She kept her gaze averted, as though afraid of what else he might say to her.

Trahern led her away, following Gunnar deeper into the
longphort
. Other clan members spoke to Morren as she passed, and most appeared surprised to see her. Did they know what had happened to her on the night of the attack? It didn't seem so.

Trahern planned to speak with the survivors in private, to determine why they had come to dwell among the Vikings. The lack of fear or anxiety among the people was startling. They behaved as though they were among family and friends, not the enemy.

He couldn't understand it. Distrust curled up inside him, and he stared at the Ó Reillys, wondering what had led them here, of all places.

When they reached one of the longhouses within the centre of the
longphort
, Gunnar led them inside. A fire warmed the interior while the yeasty scent of bread emanated from a covered pan. Two other men were engaged in conversation,
and an older woman sat with Jilleen, her watchful gaze unmistakable.

When Morren saw her sister, she ran forward, embracing her tightly. Jilleen held still at first, but then gripped Morren hard. Silent tears streamed down her face.

‘Are you all right?' Morren demanded. ‘Have they taken care of you?' Jilleen nodded, her face pale.

Trahern moved closer, keeping a close watch on the older woman. ‘What happened?'

‘Gunnar found her wandering around Glen Omrigh,' the older woman interrupted. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘How could you have let a young girl go off traveling alone? Don't you know what might have happened to her?'

He knew the risk, but there had been no choice. Morren would have bled to death, had he left her alone. He had no intention of justifying himself to a
Lochlannach
, however, and he bit back his own retort. ‘Who are you?'

‘I am Katla Dalrata,' the woman answered. Fine lines etched her eyes, and he guessed she was slightly older than himself. She reached out to touch Jilleen's shoulder. ‘You should be thankful that we found her.'

He recognised the scolding for what it was—concern over Jilleen's welfare. For that reason, he took no offence and refused to respond to the chastisement.

‘I'm sorry, Morren.' More tears welled up in Jilleen's eyes. ‘They wouldn't let me leave.'

‘Hush. It's all right. I'm fine now.' Morren pulled her sister back into a hug, soothing her. ‘Trahern took care of me.'

Her gaze met his in a silent plea not to say anything more. He wasn't about to make a thirteen-year-old girl feel any guiltier than she already did. With a slight nod of his head, he gave Morren his promise.

The fierce loyalty she felt towards Jilleen was something he understood. The bond between family was unbreakable.
But even as Morren murmured to her sister, stroking her back in comfort, her eyes didn't leave his.

There was thankfulness there, a softness he hadn't seen before, lining the curve of her jaw. Without meaning to, he found himself studying her mouth. The barest flush of rose tinted the skin, her lips unremarkable, yet they drew his attention.

He snapped his attention back to Gunnar, feeling his own cheeks grow warm. ‘Why did the Ó Reillys come here? I can't imagine that they would want anything to do with the
Lochlannach
.'

Gunnar's stance turned defensive. ‘We offered to help them rebuild after we learned what had happened. Most of their homes were destroyed by fire, and we gave them a place to stay.'

Trahern didn't for a moment believe that was true. ‘I saw you at the
cashel
yesterday. You set the remaining homes on fire, didn't you?'

The Viking didn't deny it. ‘It's easier to rebuild when the old wood is gone. Our chief ordered us to burn the remains in order to clear out the rest.'

It seemed entirely too convenient. ‘If that were true, why wouldn't you have done it months ago? Why wait until now to rebuild?' There was no conceivable reason to wait.

Gunnar's expression tightened. ‘There weren't enough of the Ó Reillys at first. Only three, before the other survivors joined us.' He looked angry at having to explain himself. ‘We've gone back every day, and more of them are returning.'

‘How many Ó Reillys are there now?'

‘About a dozen.' Gunnar's gaze turned hard. ‘Whether or not you believe our intentions doesn't matter. The Ó Reillys are here, and we've chosen to help them.'

‘They could have gone to the abbey,' Trahern argued.

‘True enough,' Gunnar acceded, ‘but they chose not to. They preferred not to be indebted to the abbot.'

‘Why?'

‘More tithes,' was all Gunnar would say. His hand moved to the battle-axe slung at his waist. ‘Enough questions. You've found the girl, and if that's what you wanted, you can take her and leave.'

‘What I want is to find the men who attacked and bring them to justice.' Trahern let his own hand drift down to his waist, settling upon the hilt of his sword. ‘If they are among your kinsmen, be assured, I'll find them.'

Or Morren would. Inwardly, he tensed at the thought of her having to face her attackers. She shouldn't have to.

‘Our men were not responsible,' Gunnar insisted. ‘And we've already sent men to investigate the settlements nearby.'

‘Why would you? If what you say is true, it's not your affair.'

‘It is, when my kinsmen are accused of trying to annihilate an Irish clan. The peace between us is fragile enough.'

‘With reason.'

Gunnar shook his head in disgust and pushed the door open. ‘The Ó Reillys trust us to help them. You should do the same.'

He wouldn't trust a
Lochlannach
with a dog, but Trahern didn't say so. As it was, he intended to take Morren and her sister away from this place as soon as possible.

 

‘I'm beginning to wonder if Gunnar was telling the truth,' Morren whispered to Trahern, as they shared a meal that night among the other
Lochlannach
. ‘I haven't seen any of the men who were there on the night of the attack.'

She'd studied each of the Vikings, but none of the men had the faces that haunted her dreams. The survivors of her clan appeared unconcerned, which reassured her. Enough of her people had seen the raiders with their own eyes, and it was doubtful that the enemy was here.

Even so, she found it hard to relax. She kept searching
the unfamiliar faces, the hard knot of fear tight within her stomach, mingled with hunger.

Trahern had hardly touched any of his food. He eyed the Vikings as though expecting them to attack at any moment. ‘I don't trust them.'

He picked at a bit of fish with his dagger, but his grip remained tight on the weapon. ‘This is the closest
Lochlannach
settlement, Morren. Someone here was involved.'

His dark insistence sent a chill over her, for a part of her wanted to believe that she might be safe here, with her people.

‘I hope you're wrong.' She turned her attention back to the food, his black mood shadowing her own. To distract herself, she finished the remainder of the fish and drank the sweetly fermented mead.

Jilleen sat beside her, hardly speaking at all. Though they had spent several hours together, her sister had remained quiet and had withdrawn inside herself, like a shadow.

Not once did Jilleen make eye contact with anyone, and Morren realised she'd been wrong to hide with her sister. By isolating both of them, she'd made it even harder for her sister to rejoin the Ó Reilly survivors.

Regrets filled her up inside, but she couldn't dwell upon them. She had to look after Jilleen and give both of them the best possible life. Their parents were dead, so it fell upon her shoulders to plan their futures.

The very thought was overwhelming. To distract herself, Morren reached for a honey cake that was topped with dried apple slices. The flaky crust melted on her tongue, the apples mingling with the sweetness of the honey. She closed her eyes, licking her fingertips and savouring the intense flavours. It had been so long since they'd had good food.

When Morren opened her eyes, Trahern's expression had transformed suddenly. His mouth formed a tight line, his grey
eyes hooded. He gripped the edge of the low table, and an unexpected flush crossed over her. ‘What is it?'

‘Nothing.' He turned away, and anger lined his face again.

Morren supposed it was his bad mood tainting his enjoyment of the meal. She glanced around at the people and she saw Katla watching her. Though the Norse woman had been infuriated with Trahern earlier, she offered a warm smile, her grey eyes softened with friendliness. She wore a crimson gown with a fawn-coloured apron fastened with golden brooches at the shoulders. A grey shawl hung across her arms.

Katla approached them, her expression contrite. ‘I was upset earlier,' she apologised. ‘I want to welcome you and your sister to our home. You may stay with us, if you wish.' A bleakness crossed over the woman's eyes, as if in memory of the attack. But she forced the smile back again, her eyes resting upon Jilleen. ‘Your sister was glad to see you, I know.'

Morren gave a nod. ‘Thank you for looking after her.'

Katla's smile grew strained, but she looked upon Jilleen with fondness. ‘She reminds me of my daughter.'

There was pain in Katla's voice, but Morren didn't press for answers. It explained why the woman had taken such an interest in looking after Jilleen. Despite the reasons, she was grateful for the woman's care.

Katla tore off a piece of bread and added it to Jilleen's plate without asking. Her eyes didn't miss much, and no doubt she'd noticed the young girl's thin frame. ‘You should have joined the others sooner,' Katla scolded gently. ‘It's not safe for women to be alone.'

Morren hesitated, not knowing what to say. Excuses faltered on her tongue. No one knew what had happened to her on the night of the attack, except Jilleen. And only Trahern knew of her miscarried babe.

‘She had no desire to live among the enemy,' Trahern interrupted, his tone cool.

Katla uttered a laugh. ‘The enemy, are we? And who provided food and shelter for the Ó Reillys, these four months past? Who sent men to Glen Omrigh every day, helping to clear it out for rebuilding?'