Michelle Willingham - Surrender to an Irish Warrior

‘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.