Humiliation burned her cheeks. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded. ‘I want my clothing.’
‘It was covered in blood. I had to remove it, to help you.’ His voice was heavy, as though weighted down by stones. ‘I’m sorry I could not save your child.’
The words cut through her, and she wept for the loss. A warm hand came down upon her hair as she hid her face from him. Though she supposed he’d meant to comfort her, she couldn’t bear anyone touching her.
‘Don’t.’ She shrank back from Trahern, binding the covers tightly to her skin.
He lifted his hands to show he meant no harm. ‘I’ve sent your sister for help.’ Studying her, he continued, ‘Until she returns, I’ll find something for you to wear.’
He rummaged through her belongings, and though Morren wanted to protest, she held her tongue. Another cramp rolled through her, and she couldn’t stop the gasp. The room tipped, and she lowered her head again, fighting the dizziness.
‘I’ve seen you before, but I don’t remember your name,’ he admitted, finding a cream-coloured léine within the bundle. He tossed it to her, turning his back while she pulled the gown over her head. ‘I am Trahern MacEgan.’
It disappointed Morren to realise that he didn’t recognise her at all. But then, his attentions had been focused on Ciara and hardly anyone else.
She knew Trahern well enough. During the months he’d spent living among her tribe, she’d listened to countless stories he’d told. It wasn’t often that a bard could captivate an audience, weaving a spell with nothing but words, but Trahern was a master.
‘Morren Ó Reilly is my name,’ she answered at last.
He didn’t show any sign that it meant anything to him, and she accepted it. Another dull cramp gripped her, and the pain threatened to sweep her under again.
‘Is your husband alive?’ he asked, a moment later. He’d phrased the question carefully, as though he already knew the answer.
‘I have no husband.’ And never would, God willing. Her sister, Jilleen, was the only family she had left. The only family she needed.
Trahern’s gaze met hers, but he offered no judgement. Neither did she offer an explanation. ‘When did you eat last?’
‘I don’t remember.’ Food was the very last thing she’d thought of when the pains had come upon her. The idea of eating anything made her stomach wrench. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘It might help.’
‘No.’ She buried her face on the ragged cloak her sister had used as a sheet. ‘Just leave me. My sister will return.’
He dragged a stool nearby and sat beside the bed. ‘I can see that you’re hurting,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I can do for you.’
‘Nothing.’ She bit her lip, wishing he would go, so she could release the tight control she held over the pain.
Trahern crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Your sister will return with the healer soon.’
‘No, she won’t.’ Morren couldn’t stop the gasp when an other wave of pain struck her. ‘Our mother was the healer. She died last year.’
Trahern leaned in, frustration lined upon his face. ‘Then she’ll go to the abbey and bring someone back.’
‘I don’t know if anyone will come,’ she answered honestly. The monks at St Michael’s would tend anyone brought to their abbey, but she doubted if any of the elderly brethren could make the journey here.
Trahern’s grey eyes were nearly black, his mouth taut with anger. Morren had never seen him this furious, and she tried to retreat as far away from him as possible. She closed her eyes, focusing on enduring one breath at a time.
‘Don’t blame Jilleen,’ Morren insisted. ‘She might still bring back someone to help.’
But even as she spoke the words, she suspected they were untrue. Her sister had gone, and there was no way of knowing if she would return. Ever since the night of the attack, Jilleen had not been the same.
Neither had she.
Morren gripped her arms tightly, not wanting to think of it again. Let it go, she told herself. The sacrifice was necessary.
‘Are there many survivors left at Glen Omrigh?’ he asked.
Morren shook her head, not knowing the answer. ‘I don’t know. We left, and I don’t know where the others fled. Possibly to other clans.’
‘How many of the Lochlannach attacked that night?’
Morren didn’t speak, the dark fear washing over her. She clenched her teeth, fighting to keep herself together.
But Trahern wouldn’t let it go. ‘How many, Morren? Did you see them?’
Staring directly into his face, she said, ‘I know…exactly how many men there were.’
She could tell from the look on his face when he understood her meaning. Trahern expelled a dark curse, his gaze crossing over her broken body.
She said nothing more. There was no need.
When his hand reached out to touch hers, she pulled it back. And this time, when the darkness lured her in, she surrendered.
She’d started bleeding again.
It bothered Trahern, having to care for Morren in such an intimate manner. She was a stranger to him, and he knew nothing about how to fight the demons of sickness. Though he did his best to help her, he wondered if it would be enough.
God help her, she was still burning with fever. Trahern gave her small sips of water and did his best to tend her. But he did not reach for her hand, nor touch her in any way. It wouldn’t bring her comfort anyhow.
His rage against the Vikings heightened. The Lochlannach had done this to Morren, and worse, he feared they’d also violated Ciara. He renewed his vow of vengeance against the raiders. They would suffer for what they’d done. If what Morren said was true, that the tribe had scattered, then she might be his best hope of learning more about these raiders.
The hours stretched onward, and Trahern kept vigil over Morren. In the middle of the night, she started shaking. Terror lined her face, and he wished he had some means of taking away her pain. But he knew nothing of plants or medicines. And he didn’t want to leave her alone, not when she’d lost so much blood.
Helplessness cloaked him, and he wondered if Ciara had suffered like this or whether she’d died instantly. Had anyone taken care of his betrothed during her last moments?
He stared down at his hands, wishing there was something he could do. There was only one thing he had left to offer—his stories. Though he’d been a bard for as long as he could remember, not a single tale had he uttered since Ciara’s death. He hadn’t been able to find the words any more. It was as if the stories had dried up inside him. Bringing laughter and entertainment to others seemed wrong, not when the woman he’d loved was gone and could no longer hear the legends.
But now, while Morren was fighting for her life, he saw it as a way of bringing comfort without a physical touch.
The story of Dagda and Eithne flowed from inside him, the way he’d told it to others, year after year. Morren’s trembling grew calmer when he used his voice to soothe her.
‘Dagda was a god who invoked goodness among the earth and in the fields,’ Trahern murmured. ‘But one day he saw a beautiful woman whom he desired as no other before. Her name was Eithne.’
Trahern wrung out a cold cloth and set it upon Morren’s forehead, careful not to touch her skin. He told the story, using every nuance of his voice to capture her attention.
He spoke of the god who seduced Eithne and gave her a son. Trahern continued until his voice was nearly hoarse, stopping just before dawn.
Morren shuddered, struggling as the fever drew her deeper. She thrashed on the small pallet, her face tight with pain.
‘Don’t,’ he ordered her. ‘You’re not going to give up now.’
‘I’ve no wish to die,’ she whispered, leaning forward when he offered her another sip of water. Her skin was flushed hot, her body limp and weakened. ‘I have to look after my sister.’
She lifted her eyes to his. They were a deep blue, the colour of the sea. Within them, he
saw a rigid strength to match his own.
‘You’re going to live,’ he insisted.
Her expression was glazed with fever, but she pleaded with him, ‘Trahern, when my sister returns, don’t tell her about the child.’
Whatever he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that. His mouth tightened into a line. ‘How could she not already know?’
‘I…hid it from her. Jilleen knows what happened to me on the night of the raid. She doesn’t need to know about the child—she’s only thirteen.’
‘She’s old enough. And it will fall to her, to take care of you after this.’ He couldn’t stay with her indefinitely.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Say nothing.’
His hand clenched into a fist. ‘I can make no such promise.’
Chapter Two
The next morning and afternoon went by with still no sign of her sister. Worries eroded her conscience, and Morren tried to convince Trahern to leave.
‘Jilleen is just a girl,’ she argued. ‘She shouldn’t be travelling alone.’ Her own wild fears came back to haunt her, of all the things that could happen to her sister. ‘You have to bring her back.’
‘One more day.’ Trahern folded his arms across his chest. ‘I won’t leave you behind when you’re still unwell.’
‘I’m afraid for her, Trahern. Please.’
‘Not until you’re strong enough.’ He held out a plate of food, but Morren could hardly bring herself to eat any of the dried venison or the tart apples he’d brought. ‘Try to eat.’
She forced herself to pick at a piece of the venison. ‘Why did you come back?’ The meat tasted bland, and she struggled to chew it.
‘I came to avenge her death.’
She knew he meant Ciara. ‘How did you hear of it?’
‘Her brother sent word. I want to know the rest.’
She saw the terrible expression on his face and held her tongue. Some things were better left unremembered.
‘Tell me,’ he ordered. ‘You were there.’
‘No.’ She saw no reason to torment him. It wouldn’t change Ciara’s fate.
Irritation flashed over his face. ‘I’ve the right to know what happened to her. We were betrothed.’
She kept silent, meeting his gaze with her own stubbornness.
‘I want to know everything,’ he insisted. ‘And I will revisit the same upon my enemies tenfold.’ The ferocity of his glare left her no doubt that he meant what he said.
‘Tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘Take me back to Glen Omrigh, and help me find Jilleen. Then I’ll tell you what you wish to know.’
‘You’ll tell me now.’
‘Or what?’ she taunted. He could say nothing to threaten her. The worst had already happened.
Fury flashed over Trahern’s face and he strode outside, slamming the door behind him. When he’d gone, Morren drew her knees up. The pain had abated, though the dizziness remained. She reached for another piece of meat, forcing herself to choke it down.
You have to live, she told herself. For Jilleen.
Her hands moved to her midsection once more, and the soft, sunken skin bruised her spirits. After the massive bleeding, she didn’t know if she would ever be able to bear another child.
It didn’t matter. No man would want her, after what had happened, and she had no wish to let anyone touch her.
Slowly, Morren eased her feet to the side of the bed, wondering if she had the strength to stand. She set both hands on the edge, gingerly easing her feet down.
The door opened, and Trahern stopped short. ‘Don’t even consider it. You’re too weak.’
He moved towards her, and out of instinct, Morren shrank from him, pulling her legs back onto the bed.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ he swore. ‘But you’ll never make it back to Glen Omrigh if you exert yourself too soon.’
He moved over by the hearth, adding more wood to the fire. His shoulders flexed with hardly any effort at all as he arranged the oak logs into a small stack.
‘It’s just a fever,’ she said. ‘It will go away in a few days.’
He crouched by the hearth, eyeing her. ‘You said your mother was a healer. What would she have done for you?’
‘Raspberry-leaf tea, I suppose. Or willow bark, if the fever got too hot.’
He shrugged. ‘I saw neither when I was out getting water. I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She would find them herself, if the bleeding continued. It seemed to be lessening.
Trahern stopped arranging the wood for a moment. The firelight gleamed against his head, and she wondered why he’d shaved his hair and beard. The clothing he wore was hardly more than a slave would wear, as though he cared nothing for his appearance.
He grieved for Ciara, she realised. He’d loved her.
Morren studied him, not understanding how such a fierce, hot-tempered man could stay at her side all night telling stories. Amidst the smothering fever, she’d heard his deep voice. It had reached within her, giving her something to hold on to. She let her gaze fall over his face, noticing the worn lines and exhaustion. He hadn’t slept at all, using the captivating tale to ease her pain. And something within her was grateful for it.
‘Where are the others?’ he asked. ‘Your kinsmen?’
‘Jilleen and I have no one else. Our parents are both dead.’
He returned to her bedside, holding out the food once more. ‘How long have you been living here?’
She took one of the apples, with no true intent of eating it. ‘Since the attack happened, in early summer.’
‘And you’ve been here alone since then?’
‘Yes.’ Morren’s gaze fixed upon his. ‘I don’t know how many of the Ó Reillys are left.’ The only person she’d wanted near her, after that night, was Jilleen. She hadn’t returned to the cashel after they’d fled, nor to St Michael’s Abbey. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know of her shame.
‘After we find your sister, you should stay at Glen Omrigh,’ Trahern said quietly. ‘It isn’t right for the two of you to be alone.’
She rolled the apple between her palms, not wanting to think about the future. Enduring each hour at a time was all she could manage. ‘I’ll find a place for us. Somewhere.’
He studied her, as if trying to ascertain her worth. ‘Do you know enough of your mother’s healing? Your skill would hold great value with another clan.’
She shook her head. ‘I know the plants and trees and their uses. But I’m not a healer.’ More often than not, her kinsmen had asked for her guidance when the crops were failing. Her talent lay in making things grow.
Outside, the wind shifted through the trees. Morren huddled beneath the coverlet, sensing what was to come. A change in the weather was imminent.
‘You should put on your cloak,’ she advised. ‘It’s going to rain.’
As if in answer to her prediction, she heard the soft spattering of droplets. Minutes later, the thatched roof began leaking, the water puddling upon the earthen floor, transforming it into mud. Trahern grimaced and lifted up his cloak to shield his head from the water. The rain felt cool upon her face, easing the fever.
‘Take the other end of this,’ Trahern said, holding out his cloak. ‘We’ll share the shelter until it stops.’
She made no move to take it. ‘I don’t mind the wetness.’
‘It’s not good for you. You’ll catch a chill and get even weaker than you already are.’ He sat down beside her on the bed, offering her the other end.
Morren scooted far away from him. Trahern’s head towered over her, making her feel uncomfortable.
‘I’m not planning to touch you,’ he said gruffly. ‘There’s no harm in both of us using the cloak for shelter.’
Without waiting for her argument, he tossed the end over her head. She lifted the wool from her face, shielding her head from the rain.
The heavy cloak held his scent, masculine and safe. She could feel the heat of his body within the cloth, and her cheeks war
med from more than the fever.
Trahern wasn’t looking at her, but he stared at the fire sputtering on the hearth. Rain dampened his face, and she saw the light stubble of beard upon his face.
She’d thought him handsome before, when his dark hair had touched his shoulders, his beard masking his features.
Now, he’d stripped away all traces of that man. Cold and hardened, he wasn’t the same at all. And yet, he’d stayed up all night at her side. He hadn’t abandoned her, not once. It wasn’t the demeanour of a monster, but of a man she didn’t understand.
Morren shivered, thinking of his devotion to Ciara. It was as if no other woman in the world had existed. Certainly, he hadn’t noticed her.
‘I remember when you first came to our cashel last year,’ she said. ‘You stayed up all night, telling your stories.’
He sobered, and she wondered if she shouldn’t have spoken. ‘I used to be a bard, yes.’
‘And you stayed with us all winter long. Because of Ciara?’
He gave a nod. Drawing his knees up, he discarded the cloak and sat up. She noticed his bare feet and wondered what had happened to his shoes.
‘Get some sleep, Morren. If you’re well enough, we’ll find Jilleen in the morning.’ Trahern laid down again, drawing the cloak over both of them. In his eyes, she saw his own exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in two days.
When he caught her staring, he added, ‘I promise, I won’t touch you.’
Strangely, she believed him. He had no interest whatsoever in her, and she felt herself relaxing in his presence.
‘You should sleep, as well,’ she offered. ‘It was my fault that your rest was disturbed last night.’
He cast a wary look. ‘You needed someone to watch over you. And there’s no threat from me, I promise.’
When she rolled to the other side of the bed with his cloak shielding her hair, the anxiety that clenched her nerves tight seemed to soften.
Perhaps he really could keep her safe.
Trahern heard the sound of muffled weeping, a few hours before dawn. Morren remained with her back to him, the cloak draped over her. Her shoulders trembled, and his body tensed.
Surrender to an Irish Warrior Page 2
