Michelle Willingham - Surrender to an Irish Warrior

Without thinking, his hand reached out to her cheek. He touched it with his palm, and she flinched. The reaction was so fast, he dropped his hand away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm.’

He mumbled that it didn’t matter, but inwardly it bothered him to think that any unexpected touch would have such an effect upon her. He left without another word, following Gunnar outside the house to another rectangular structure. The air had turned even colder, hinting at a freezing rain or snow.

The Norseman stopped before the entrance, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘Have you claimed Morren as your woman?’

‘Not in the way you’re suggesting. But I won’t allow you or any other man to bother her. I’ve sworn my protection.’

‘Selfish bastard.’ Gunnar pushed open the door. ‘You don’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her.’

‘You’re right.’ He offered no excuses, for Morren had endured enough.

When they reached the interior of the dwelling, Trahern saw five men seated. Ciara’s brother, Áron, was there with a resigned expression. The man looked as though he’d given up hope.

He’s avoiding me, Trahern realised. But why? Was it sorrow at losing Ciara…or guilt?

‘This is our chief, Dagmar,’ Gunnar said. A taller, older man, the chief wore costly gold rings and a band around his upper arm to denote his rank. Shrewd brown eyes stared into his own, as if assessing his measure. Trahern didn’t falter, but stared back, daring the man to voice a protest.

‘I know you believe we were behind the attack that night,’ the chief began, ‘but it isn’t true. We’re trying to learn who was.’

Trahern chose a seat beside Áron, studying each of the Lochlannach men. A man’s posture and demeanour would often proclaim his guilt when he spoke false words. But so far, he had found nothing.

The chief spoke the Irish language, out of courtesy for himself and Áron. Trahern had learned a bit of the Viking tongue from his grandfather as a child, but his abilities were limited.

‘A runner returned last night from Corca Dhuibhne,’ the chief said. ‘The Irish and Ostmen are essentially one tribe there. They had no reason to attack Glen Omrigh.’

Trahern could have told them that, for his own grandfather

Kieran had spent a great deal of time in Corca Dhuibhne with the Ó Brannon family.

‘What about Port Láirge?’ he ventured. ‘There’s a large settlement along the river.’

The chief looked doubtful. ‘It’s a good distance from here, but possible.’ He shrugged as if it were no matter to him. ‘Gunnar, see to it.’

Then he turned to the others. ‘It’s turning colder, and it will be more difficult to rebuild when the ground freezes. We’ll need a group of men to start working on the foundations tomorrow. The sooner we rebuild, the sooner the Ó Reillys can return to their own cashel.’ The conversation turned towards the needs of the Irish clan and whether or not all of the survivors should make the journey.

Trahern watched the men, feigning his attention, but his true interest was in learning just why they wanted to help the Ó Reillys. Though it was common for one Irish clan to assist another, there was no discussion of what would be given to the Dalrata in return. Finally, after the men ended the meeting and began leaving for their own houses, he asked Áron.

‘They are planning to expand their own territory,’ Áron answered. ‘We’ve granted the Dalrata people some of our land in return for their help. With fewer clan members, we don’t need the space.’

Trahern didn’t like it. ‘How much land?’

‘Not as much as you might think.’ Áron sent him a warning look and lowered his voice to a whisper as they returned to the center of the longphort. ‘Trahern, if it weren’t for them, we’d be dead. We lost most of our harvest in the fires, and they’ve invited us to stay with them through the winter.’

‘I wouldn’t trust them if I were you, Áron.’

‘We’ve no choice.’ He stopped walking and shook his head.

‘You might be suspicious, but I am grateful. You’re welcome to come with us on the morrow, when we rebuild the cashel.’

‘I might.’ The more time he spent with the men, the more he could learn about what had happened that night.

‘Why did you come back, Trahern?’ Áron asked suddenly. His face tightened with wariness, as though he didn’t want Trahern to be here.

‘I intend to avenge Ciara’s death. I’m going to find the men who were responsible for the attack.’

Áron seemed unsettled, his gaze shifting back to the Lochlannach. More than ever, Trahern was convinced that the man knew something.

‘I know you cared for my sister,’ Áron admitted. ‘I would have been glad to call you brother. But nothing will bring her back. Finding the men won’t change that.’

Trahern took a step closer, revealing the icy anger he’d caged. ‘I will find them, Áron. And they will answer for her death.’

Áron nodded, but refused to make eye contact. He cast a glance at the Viking dwelling where the women slept. ‘How did you come to travel with Morren? We never knew what had happened to her.’

Trahern held back, not wanting to reveal too much. ‘I found her and Jilleen in an abandoned hunter’s cottage in the woods. I brought them to the abbey first, but then learned you had come here.’

‘We searched for them, but thought they were both dead.’ Áron’s expression grew pained. But Trahern sensed that it was false, that no one had searched for the women. His uneasiness trebled.

‘When I saw the men going after Jilleen,’ Áron continued, ‘I feared the worst.’

‘And you did nothing to help her?’ His fist curled over the wooden door frame. ‘She’s a girl, for God’s sakes.’

‘You weren’t there that night,’ Áron responded, his voice growing cold. ‘All the homes were on fire and the fields, too. We were trying to get the children out. We weren’t prepared for the attack.’ He reddened, staring off into space. ‘When Morren and Jilleen didn’t return over those few months, we assumed they were either dead or prisoners.’

‘You left them behind. No one searched,’ Trahern accused.

‘I lost my sister and my parents that night,’ Áron said. ‘I had enough of my own dead to bury.’

It didn’t assuage Trahern’s anger that the clan was so caught up in their own problems, they’d ignored two of their own kin. ‘What happened to Morren’s family?’

‘She and her sister were already alone. Their parents died last year, and if they had uncles or aunts, we never met them.’ Áron thought a moment and added, ‘There was a man who courted Morren, I think. Adham Ó Reilly was his name.’

That brought him up short. Trahern tried to remember if he’d seen Morren with anyone, but to be honest, he’d spent so little time with the rest of the Ó Reilly clan, he didn’t know.

‘What happened to Adham?’

‘He is still here.’

Trahern didn’t respond, but it was as though a strand of tightened steel had pulled through his stomach. Though he’d never met Adham, he had little faith in any of the Ó Reilly men.

There had been no reason for the clan to abandon Morren, despite the danger.

‘I’ll come with you when you leave,’ Trahern said. ‘And I intend to take my horse back from Gunnar.’

Áron ventured a smile. ‘I’ll arrange it.’

The two men crossed through the longphort, but Trahern departed Áron’s company, continuing on to Katla’s dwelling, where Morren was staying. The tall woman intercepted him at the door and nearly shoved him outside again. ‘You cannot come inside. Only the women may stay.’