“I thought I was going to die that night,” she confessed.
Trahern took her face in his hands, touching his forehead to hers. “But you found the strength to live.” For a long moment he stood with her face close to his own. Her scent entranced him, like summer dew.
And when she lifted her face, he needed to kiss her again. His mouth covered hers, soothing away her pain. Offering her the broken pieces of himself.
When she broke free, her lips were swollen, her cheeks bright, as though she were too embarrassed to mention what had just happened between them. He didn’t know what to say.
She seemed to sense his reticence, but before she could pull her hands away, her hips accidentally bumped against his. She paled, realizing what reaction she’d evoked.
“Morren—”
She stepped back, covering her face with her hands. She had gone pale, but took a deep breath. “Don’t say it. I wanted you to kiss me, so you didn’t break your promise. This was my fault.”
“No.” He met her gaze. “But it’s another reason why you shouldn’t come with me. It’s better for both of us if we go our separate ways.”
Surrender to an Irish Warrior
Harlequin® Historical #1010—September 2010
Author Note
Sometimes there are difficult books that demand to be written. I knew at the end of Taming Her Irish Warrior that the character of Trahern MacEgan would need his own story. As a bard and storyteller, Trahern has always had the love and support of a strong family, despite his traveling nature. When tragedy strikes his heart, he turns inward and loses sight of the man he is. Though his compassionate spirit is buried, he finds a woman who awakens him to love.
Morren Ó Reilly is a heroine who made difficult sacrifices to save her sister. When Trahern rescues her, they find healing in each other. He is the strength she needs, and Morren becomes his steadfast rock when unexpected secrets unfold within Trahern’s past. Their love story is filled with emotional obstacles, but even in the darkest shadow lies hope for the future.
This was one of the most challenging books I’ve ever written, but I believe deeply in this story. I hope you will enjoy the journey of Morren and Trahern as they find happiness together. This is the last book in THE MACEGAN BROTHERS series. The other titles are Her Warrior Slave (prequel to the series), Her Warrior King (Patrick), Her Irish Warrior (Bevan), The Warrior’s Touch (Connor), and Taming Her Irish Warrior (Ewan). Visit my Web site at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details. I love to hear from readers. You may e-mail me at [email protected] or via mail at P.O. Box 2242, Poquoson, VA 23662 U.S.A.
MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
Surrender to an Irish Warrior
Praise for Michelle Willingham
The MacEgan Brothers
Her Warrior Slave
“Michelle Willingham writes characters that feel all too real to me. The tortured soul that is Kieran really pulled at my heartstrings. And Iseult’s unfailing search for her lost child made this book a truly emotional read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Willingham skillfully combines a cast of wonderfully original characters with a refreshingly different, meticulously detailed setting to create a vivid tale of love and danger in medieval Ireland.”
—Chicago Tribune
Her Warrior King
“The MacEgan tales just keep getting better. With Her Warrior King, Michelle Willingham has set a new standard of excellence. We will all be impatiently awaiting the next novel.”
—CataRomance, 4.5 stars
The Warrior’s Touch
“I know we all wish we could have a MacEgan for our very own, but since we cannot, be sure and pick up this not-to-be-missed tale of the MacEgan brothers, The Warrior’s Touch.”
—CataRomance, 4.5 stars
Her Irish Warrior
“Willingham not only delves into medieval culture, she also tells the dark side of being a woman in that era…. The bright side is that in romantic fiction, a happy ending is expected, and it’s delivered in this excellent, plot-driven, page-turner of a book.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 stars
To Chuck, my wonderful husband, who challenged me to break the rules.
Acknowledgments
With many thanks to my editor Joanne Grant and my agent Helen Breitwieser for believing in me and encouraging me. You are both such a wonderful support, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you do.
Available from Harlequin® Historical and MICHELLE WILLINGHAM
*Her Irish Warrior #850
*The Warrior’s Touch #866
*Her Warrior King #882
*Her Warrior Slave #922
*Taming Her Irish Warrior #966
**The Accidental Countess #981
**The Accidental Princess #985
*Surrender to an Irish Warrior #1010
And in eBook Harlequin Historical Undone!
The Viking’s Forbidden Love-Slave
The Warrior’s Forbidden Virgin
**An Accidental Seduction
Innocent in the Harem
*Pleasured by the Viking
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter One
Ireland—1180
The autumn wind was frigid, cutting through his cloak in a dark warning that he needed to seek shelter. Yet Trahern MacEgan hardly felt the cold. For the past season, he’d felt nothing at all, his emotions as frigid as the surrounding air.
Vengeance consumed him now, along with the fierce need to find the men who had killed Ciara. He’d left his home and family, returning to the southwest of Éireann, where the Ó Reilly tribe dwelled at Glen Omrigh.
His brothers didn’t know of his intent to find the raiders. They believed he was travelling again, to visit with friends and tell his stories. As a bard, he rarely stayed in one place for very long, so they weren’t at all suspicious.
But for this journey, he’d wanted to be alone. His brothers had their wives and children to guard. He’d never risk their safety, not when they had so much to lose. He had no one, and he preferred it that way.
The land was more mountainous here, with green hills rising from the mist. A narrow road snaked through the valley, and misty warm clouds released from his horse’s nostrils. The emptiness suited him, for he’d never expected to lose the woman he’d loved.
Earlier in the summer, Ciara’s brother, Áron, had sent word that the cashel had been attacked by Viking raiders. Ciara had been caught in the middle of the battle, struck down and killed when she’d tried to flee.
The devastating news had kept him from Glen Omrigh for months. He didn’t want to see Ciara’s grave or hear the sympathy from friends. More than anything, he needed to forget.
But time hadn’t dulled his pain, it had only heightened it. He shouldn’t have left her. The guilt consumed him, eating away at the man he was.
Hatred flowed within his veins now, suffocating the pain of loss. The anguish had been replaced with rage,
a sense of purpose. He was going to find the raiders, and when he did, they would suffer the same fate Ciara had endured.
When the sun had grown lower in the sky, he set up a fire and unpacked the tent. Though he could have finished his journey to Glen Omrigh, had he continued to ride for another few hours, he preferred to spend the night alone.
The flames licked at the wood, flaring bright orange against the night sky. Tomorrow, he would reach the cashel and begin tracking his enemy.
Trahern stretched out upon his cloak, watching the fire and listening to the sounds of the evening while he ate. In the distance, he heard the faint rustling of leaves against the forest floor. Likely animals. Even so, he reached for his blade.
The movement was heavier than a squirrel or a fox. No, this was human, not an animal. Trahern clenched his sword, waiting for the person to draw closer.
Abruptly, a figure emerged from the trees. It was a young maiden, perhaps thirteen, wearing a ragged white léine and a green overdress. Dirt matted her face, and she held out her hands near the fire. She was so thin, it looked as though she hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks. Long brown hair hung to her waist, and she wore no shoes.
Jesu, her feet must be frozen.
‘Who are you?’ he asked softly. She kept her gaze averted, not answering his question. Instead, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment before she beckoned to him.
‘Come and warm yourself,’ he offered. ‘I have food to share, if you are hungry.’
She took a step towards the fire but shook her head, pointing to the trees behind her. Trahern studied the place, but saw no one. Although the girl raised her hands to warm them in front of the fire, her expression grew more fearful. Again, she gestured toward the trees.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Coughing, she moved her mouth, as though she hadn’t spoken in a long time. ‘My sister.’
Trahern rose to his feet. ‘Bring her here. She can warm herself and eat. I’ve enough for both.’ It wasn’t true, but he didn’t care if they depleted his supplies or not. Better to let the women sate their hunger, for he could always hunt.
The girl shook her head again. ‘She’s hurt.’
‘How badly?’
She didn’t answer, but beckoned to him as she walked back into the forest. Trahern eyed his horse, then the wooded hillside. Though it was faster to ride, the trees grew too close for a horse.
He had no desire to venture into the woods, particularly when it would be dark within another hour. But neither could he allow this girl to leave with no escort. Grimacing, he fashioned a torch out of a fallen branch. He slung his food supplies over one shoulder, not wanting to leave them behind.
The girl led him uphill for nearly half a mile. The ground was covered with fallen leaves, and he was careful to hold the torch aloft.
They crossed a small stream, and not far away, he spied a crude shelter, built from the remains of an old roundhouse. When they reached it he followed the girl inside.
‘What is this place?’ he murmured. Isolated from anywhere else, he couldn’t imagine why it was here.
‘A hunting shelter,’ she answered. ‘Morren found it years ago.’
Inside, the hearth was cold, the interior dark. Then, he heard the unmistakable moans of a woman. ‘Build a fire,’ he ordered the girl, handing her the torch.
Then he leaned down to examine the woman lying upon the bed. She was racked with shivers, clutching the bedcovers to her chest. Her legs jerked with pain, and when he touched her forehead, she was burning with fever.
Trahern let out a curse, for he wasn’t a healer. He could tend sword wounds or bruises, but he knew nothing about illnesses that ravaged from inside the body. The woman was in a great deal of pain, and he didn’t have any idea what to do for her.
He eyed the young girl who was busy with the fire. ‘Your sister needs a healer.’
‘We don’t have one.’ She shook her head.
Trahern sat down and removed his shoes. Though they would never fit her, it was better than nothing. ‘Put these on. Tie them if you have to.’
She hesitated, and he gentled his tone. ‘Go back to my camp and take my horse. If you ride hard for the next few hours, you can reach Glen Omrigh. Take the torch with you.’
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t even consider sending a young girl out by herself in the dark. But between the two of them, he had a greater chance of sustaining the wounded woman’s life until help arrived. Trahern had no doubt that the Ó Reilly men would accompany the girl back with the healer, once she made it there safely.
‘If you can’t make it that far, seek help at St Michael’s Abbey.’
The girl started to refuse, but Trahern levelled a dark stare at her. ‘I can’t save her alone.’
He wondered what had become of their kin. Had they been killed during the raid? Since the girl had not mentioned anyone, Trahern suspected they were alone.
Reluctance coloured her face, but at last the girl nodded. ‘I’ll find someone.’ She tied his shoes on, using strips of linen. Without another word, she seized the branch he’d used as a torch and left them alone.
It would be hours before the girl returned, and he hoped to God she wouldn’t abandon them. Trahern struggled to remember what his brother’s wife, Aileen, would have done, when healing a wounded person. He recalled how she examined the wounded person from head to toe.
‘Sometimes, you’ll find an injury where you least expect it,’ she’d said.
Trahern moved beside the woman. Her eyes were closed, and she shuddered when he touched her hand, as though his fingers were freezing cold.
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll be safe now.’ He studied her closely. Though her face was thin from hunger, her lips were full. Long fair hair lay matted against her cheek. He sensed a strength beneath the delicate features, and though the fever was attacking her body, she fought it back.
She wore a ragged léine that covered her torso, and the thin fabric was hardly enough to keep anyone warm. Trahern brought his hands gently down her face, to her throat. Down her arms, he touched, searching for whatever had caused the fever.
‘Don’t,’ she whimpered, her hands trying to push him away, then falling to her sides. Her eyes remained closed, and he couldn’t tell if his touch was causing her pain or whether she was dreaming. He stopped, waiting to see if she would regain consciousness.
When she didn’t awaken, he pulled back the coverlet. It was then that he saw the reason for her agony. Blood darkened her gown below the waist. Her stomach was barely rounded from early pregnancy, and she tightened her knees together, as if struggling to stop the miscarriage.
Jesu. He murmured a silent prayer, for it was clear that he’d arrived too late. Not only was she going to lose this child, but she might also lose her life.
You have to help her, his conscience chided. He couldn’t be a coward now, simply because of his own ignorance. Nothing he did would be any worse than the pain she was already suffering.
Reluctantly, he eased up her léine, wishing he could protect her modesty somehow. ‘It’s going to be all right, a chara. I’ll do what I can to help you.’
Morren Ó Reilly opened her eyes and screamed.
Not just from the vicious cramping that tore her apart, but because of the man seated beside her, his hand holding hers.
Trahern MacEgan.
Panic cut off her breath, seizing her with fear at his touch. She wrenched her hand away from him, and thankfully, he let go. The fever still clouded her mind, and she had no memory of what had happened during the past day.
Mary, Mother of God, what was Trahern doing here? Not a trace of softness did she see in his face. Though he was still the tallest man she’d ever seen, his appearance was completely changed. He’d shaved his head and beard, which made his features stark and cold. Stone-grey eyes stared down at her, yet there was emptiness in his gaze, not fury.
Beneath his tunic, tight muscles strained against th
e sleeves, revealing the massive strength of a warrior. Morren’s heartbeat quaked, and she dug her hands into the mattress, wondering if Jilleen had brought him. She saw no sign of her sister.
‘The worst is over,’ he said. His voice was low, emotionless.
But it wasn’t. Not by half. Morren curled her body into a ball, the dull pain sweeping over her. Her rounded stomach was now sunken and flat. From the pile of bloodstained rags nearby, she suspected the babe was gone.
It was her punishment for all that had happened. Hot tears gathered in her eyes. No, she hadn’t wanted the child, not a permanent reminder of that awful night. But now that it was gone, she felt emptiness. A sense of loss for the innocent life that had never asked to be born from a moment of such savagery.
I would have loved you, she thought, in spite of everything.
She buried her face into the sheet, suddenly realising that she was naked beneath the covers, except for the linen between her legs.
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