Surrender to an Irish Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  The men were hauling more stones from the opposite side of the cashel, building the wall higher than it was before. Though it was beginning to resemble the height of the Lochlannach longphort, she didn’t like the look of it. ‘They’re piling the stones too high,’ she murmured to Jilleen. ‘It’s not stable.’

  Should she say something? Then again, the men knew what they were doing, didn’t they? The chief’s expression remained determined, and she doubted if the leader would listen.

  But Trahern might.

  She walked towards the wall, hoping to warn him. When she reached his side, the world seemed to stop. The pile of rocks shifted, and Trahern lunged, pushing her forward.

  ‘Get back!’ he roared. He struggled to keep the stones from falling onto her, just as Gunnar ran forward. Together, the two men leaned against the weight of the wall.

  Morren scrambled away, and seconds later, the rest of the balanced stones began to tumble.

  Chapter Eight

  Gunnar tried to block the stones, but Trahern strained hard, ordering, ‘Let them fall! It’s not worth breaking an arm.’

  The two men moved away at the same time, the wall collapsing without their weight to hold it.

  Trahern stumbled forward, leaning to kneel beside Morren. Her face was ashen, horrified. His own heartbeat shuddered within his chest, and he struggled against the instinct to pull her into an embrace. Instead, he touched her cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to be in the way. I saw the unbalanced wall and wanted to warn you.’ She reached out to his arm and he noticed the smear of blood. ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ He helped her rise, wiping the blood away.

  Her hand closed over his, her blue eyes filled with worry. Though she was still pale, relief had replaced the earlier horror. He squeezed her fingers, and was startled when she returned the gentle pressure.

  ‘I’m glad you’re all right.’ With a half-smile, she released his hand and walked to the gates, her sister beside her. He knew she planned to take a closer look at the fields, to see if any grain could be salvaged.

  ‘You missed an opportunity, Irishman,’ came an accented voice beside him. He glanced at Gunnar, who was eyeing Morren. ‘You should have told her that you needed her to tend that wound. Nothing like a woman to make a man feel better.’

  The teasing in the Viking’s voice reminded him a little too much of his brothers. Trahern sent him a glare. ‘I wouldn’t lie to her.’

  ‘Maybe one of the stones should have knocked your skull. Use a little sense, Irishman.’ Gunnar lifted some of the fallen stones aside. ‘Take advantage of what’s offered. Haven’t you seen the way she watches you?’

  ‘She trusts me. I’ve promised to take care of her, and that’s all.’

  ‘And if one of my kinsmen wanted to “take care of her”, I suppose you wouldn’t mind?’

  Trahern glared at Gunnar, but it did nothing to dim the man’s amusement. ‘I’d tear his arms off.’

  ‘Open your eyes, Irishman. She’s a fair woman. You should do more than take care of her.’

  He couldn’t do that. Morren had been hurt too badly, and he couldn’t betray Ciara by replacing her with another.

  Shaking his head, he told Gunnar, ‘I only met her a few days ago.’

  ‘Sometimes a few days is enough.’ Gunnar took a stone from him. ‘We’ll finish up here. Go and help her in the fields. She shouldn’t be alone, anyway.’ The Viking gave him a brief shove. ‘If she spurns you, we’ll drink a barrel of mead tonight.’

  ‘I tried to kill you, two days ago,’ Trahern pointed out. ‘Why in the name of Belenus would you want to drink with me?’

  ‘I’d drink with Loki himself, if the drink is good enough.’

  A flicker of a smile pulled at Trahern’s mouth, though he couldn’t quite understand why Gunnar was able to forgive him so easily. With a single slice of the blade, he might have killed the man.

  ‘There may come a time when I’m sorry I didn’t kill you,’ Trahern remarked. ‘For now, I’ll say that I’m glad Morren intervened.’

  ‘I’ll agree with you on that.’ Gunnar picked up one of the smallest stones and tossed it in the air. ‘When she turns you down, you’ll want that drink.’

  Trahern didn’t respond, but helped the other men push the remaining stones aside. They stared at the wall, debating the best way to rebuild it. ‘We need mortar,’ Gunnar pronounced.

  ‘Leave it,’ a voice interrupted. It was the Viking chief, Dagmar. ‘I’ve decided that we’ll stay through the night instead of going back.’ Dagmar pointed at the dwellings that were nearly finished. ‘We’ll need to finish two shelters: one for the men, and one for the women.’

  Trahern glanced toward the fields where Morren and her sister had gone.

  ‘Go with her, Irishman.’ Gunnar nodded at him. ‘Or I’ll go in your place.’

  ‘Not if you want to keep your arms attached,’ he retorted.

  The Viking gave a knowing smile and pointed to a row of iron tools. ‘You might need those.’

  Trahern picked up two of the scythes, heading outside the cashel. He didn’t care about the remaining work. The two shelters were nearly completed, and there were enough men to finish them. He didn’t want Morren to be alone at any moment.

  Especially not here, when he wasn’t certain whom he could trust.

  Morren walked through the burned barley field, past the charred grain. Fragile golden stalks struggled against the freezing weather, their heads lowered. Though it was late for harvesting, there might be some way of saving some of the grain. They would have to begin cutting it today, if possible.

  After a few minutes of walking around the perimeter, Jilleen mumbled an excuse about speaking to Katla about the thatching. Morren didn’t pay much heed to it, until she looked back and saw her sister returning inside the cashel.

  She thought about calling her back, but changed her mind. Maybe it was for the best, having Jilleen work alongside the other women. It wasn’t good for her sister to be so isolated from the others.

  Morren folded her arms and stared at the barley, trying to determine where to start. The east section seemed to have the least amount of damage, whereas the portion closest to the cashel was burned into ash.

  ‘Do you need help?’ a voice interrupted. She turned and saw Trahern standing before her. In one hand, he held two iron scythes.

  She sent him a grateful smile. ‘I’d be glad of it. It seems my sister is finding other things to do.’

  His mouth gave a slight upward curve. ‘When I was her age, I did whatever I had to, to avoid work.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you as a lazy boy.’ She meant the words as teasing, and Trahern returned a slow smile.

  ‘I used to charm the girls into doing my share of the work.’

  ‘You couldn’t have charmed me.’

  He seemed to take the words as a challenge, and suddenly, his expression changed. The look in his eyes was the sort that would make younger girls blush and older girls flirt. He was looking at her as though nothing else in the world mattered. Like he wanted to drop the scythes and pull her close, kissing her. And she had a feeling, she would like it. A lot.

  A flood of embarrassed warmth seized her, as she forced the vision away. To distract herself, Morren took the scythe from him, testing its weight in her hand.

  Her gaze moved toward the first row of grain. ‘We’ll cut the barley that’s ready. But if you see any with a grey rot, leave it. I want nothing to contaminate the good grain.’ She walked forward, tracing her fingertips over the golden spears.

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’ he asked.

  ‘Take that side of the field, and I’ll work over here,’ she directed.

  Trahern unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground. ‘We’ll bundle it with this.’

  Though she didn’t like the thought of him working in the cold with no outer garment, they had nothing else. And he seemed to understan
d that this was important to her.

  He moved to the edge of the field and grasped a handful of grain, slicing it with the scythe, near the ground.

  He’d done this before, Morren realised. Someone had taught him to gather and slice, preserving the stalks that would be used to feed the livestock over the winter.

  She remained a few paces to his left, picking up the blade and cutting the grain. Handful after handful fell beneath the scythe, and she created a small pile upon his cloak. It was a welcome respite, losing herself in the mindless monotony.

  ‘I used to have a small garden outside my home when I was fostered,’ she confessed, when Trahern came to drop his own bundle of grain on the cloth. ‘As a child, I loved watching the seedlings grow. My grandmother once told me that the faeries blessed the land and the harvest.’

  Trahern moved in front of her, to a new section. ‘I believed in magic, as a child. It’s why I taught myself all the stories from the poet who used to visit our ringfort.’ He met her gaze, and his eyes held remembrance. ‘I thought, by learning the tales, I might learn the magic, too.’

  He gripped his scythe with the ease of a weapon. Once more, he swung at the grain, slicing the stalks. Morren kept parallel to him as she worked. ‘Your stories have a magic of their own. They bring comfort to the people.’

  He looked slightly embarrassed at the compliment, but nodded his thanks. They worked alongside each other for the next hour, and only when her arms began aching, did she stop to rest.

  Trahern continued wielding the scythe, his muscles flexing as he cut away the ruin. She’d known he was strong, but she found herself entranced by the way his arms bulged against the sleeves of his tunic as he swung.

  He’d kept the wall from falling on her, shielding her with his own body. It humbled her to realise that he’d protected her without thinking, out of instinct.

  A light shiver tingled through her skin as she watched him. Though she lowered her head, pretending to cut more of the grain, she couldn’t stop herself from watching Trahern’s movements.

  His shoulders tightened, the blade moving steadily. She couldn’t hope to keep up with his punishing pace. Instead, she worked slowly, sneaking glances at him with her peripheral vision.

  Despite his physical strength, his soul seemed caught up within the past, clinging to the memories of Ciara. She wondered if he would ever find another woman, someone to soothe the raw wounds no one else could see.

  He caught her looking at him when he’d reached the middle of the third row and lowered his scythe. Colour stained her cheeks, and she looked away.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He approached, and she saw a line of sweat sliding down his throat beneath his tunic. He drew closer, and Morren lowered her own scythe. She was embarrassed that she’d managed to cut only half of what he’d accomplished.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, adjusting her brat over her head to keep it warm. ‘My arms were tired.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be working this hard,’ he said. ‘It’s too soon.’ Guilt coloured his face, as though he’d forgotten about her injuries.

  When he moved closer, she started to feel lightheaded. His height towered over her, and her grip tightened upon the handle of the scythe. ‘It needs to be done.’

  ‘But not by you.’ Trahern took the scythe from her. ‘Go back with the others. I’ll finish here.’

  ‘You can’t possibly finish it today. Not alone.’ She wiped her palms upon her skirts. ‘Besides, it’s getting late. We’ll go back together.’

  Trahern strode back to the bundle of grain lying upon his cloak. He helped her gather up more of the barley, using the cloak to wrap the grain into a large sheaf.

  She struggled to lift the bundle, which was far heavier than she’d imagined. He tried to take it from her, but Morren refused to allow it. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘If you want to try.’ He waited as she adjusted the sheaf, her cold fingers trembling on the knotted wool that bound it. The bundle was awkward and slipped from her hands several times. She tried again to hoist it onto her shoulders, because she wanted to prove to him that she’d regained her strength.

  ‘It weighs half as much as you do,’ he said quietly. ‘And you may as well bring back the tools.’

  ‘I’m being foolish, aren’t I?’ Morren sighed and set down the barley.

  Trahern lifted the bundle onto his shoulder with no effort at all while she retrieved the two iron scythes. ‘Not foolish. Over-ambitious, perhaps.’

  They returned to the cashel, but just before they reached the gates, Adham Ó Reilly approached. His brown hair was damp, as though he’d taken the time to smooth it before coming to see her. Trahern moved beside her, his posture guarded.

  ‘Morren,’ Adham greeted her. ‘I’m glad to see you’re unharmed.’

  She set down her scythe, returning the greeting. ‘Adham.’

  Why had he come to speak to her? Was he hoping to renew his courtship? She didn’t want that at all.

  ‘I thought you might need help.’

  Two hours after they’d been working? She doubted if that was his intention.

  ‘We’ve finished for the day,’ Trahern remarked. ‘Morren has no need of your “help”.’ MacEgan’s height towered over Adham by a full head, and he openly glared at the man as he set down the bundle of grain.

  ‘I’d rather hear her own wishes,’ Adham said, his eyes meeting hers.

  Morren knew that, with a word from her, Adham would return to the others. He wasn’t the confrontational sort. But she wasn’t certain how to send him away without sounding rude.

  When Adham stepped closer, Morren shied away. Her hand brushed against Trahern’s without really meaning to. His strong fingers closed over hers in a silent promise to guard her. Adham saw her response and frowned.

  ‘I’ll be fine with Trahern,’ she said. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go back with the others,’ Trahern ordered. He kept his grip firm upon her palm, and reached for the scythe with his other hand, grasping it like a weapon.

  ‘I’m sorry, Morren,’ Adham blurted out. ‘I couldn’t find you afterwards, and…’ He lowered his gaze with regret. ‘…I thought you had died that night.’

  His brown eyes never left hers, as though asking for forgiveness. She saw him as the awkward, quiet man he’d always been. A man who would sooner hide from an attack than grab the nearest weapon. It disappointed her, realising that she’d considered him as a suitor once.

  ‘You shouldn’t have left her alone, to protect herself and Jilleen,’ Trahern admonished. ‘Aye, she’s alive, but no thanks to men like you.’

  Morren didn’t like them fighting over her. She felt like a scrap of meat, caught between two dogs. But Trahern was right. Neither Adham, nor any of the other men, had done anything to look after her and Jilleen. They’d been left to fend for themselves.

  Adham sent her a wary look, as though he didn’t want her alone with Trahern. She didn’t yield, but sent him a steady gaze.

  In the end, he lowered his head in farewell. ‘Perhaps later we can talk.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ But she gave no commitment. Right now she couldn’t unravel the tangled thoughts inside. Trahern was still holding her hand, and even after Adham left, he didn’t let go.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

  Nonetheless, Trahern handed her the scythe again and picked up the bundle. ‘Did you want to speak to him?’

  ‘Not really.’ She started walking back to the cashel, not meeting his gaze. ‘I know I shouldn’t be angry with him, but I am. If he’d truly cared about me—’

  ‘Nothing would have stopped him from reaching your side.’

  She lifted her eyes to Trahern’s. The fierce intensity made her flush. For a moment, it was as if he were speaking of himself. And though they were virtual strangers to one another, she sensed that Trahern was a man of strong passion. A man who would love a woman with every breat
h in his body.

  She caught the hint of pain beneath his words, the memory of Ciara. No doubt if he’d been there that night, he’d have protected his betrothed with his life.

  Morren ached for his loss, and wished she had the words to say it. In the end, she touched her fingertips to his face before leaving him.

  When they reached the interior of the cashel, Morren could smell a rich stew bubbling on one of the outdoor fires. Her stomach was roaring with hunger, and it was all she could do not to run towards the food.

  Two of the huts were now completed, with a third begun. At this pace, the cashel would be rebuilt within another week or two. Morren replaced the scythes they’d borrowed and nearly bumped into Gunnar.

  He eyed the pair of them, but Morren didn’t quite understand the look he flashed at Trahern. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘We managed to save some of the grain,’ she explained.

  ‘Good.’ Gunnar pointed towards one of the newer huts. ‘We’re using that shelter for tools and food. The women will sleep there, and the men in the hut we just finished.’

  Trahern went to place the bundle inside the hut Gunnar had designated. Even though he left her for only a brief moment, she noticed that he kept glancing back at her.

  Ever vigilant, she had no doubt that Trahern would never let anything happen to her. Today, he’d let down his guard, showing her traces of the man she’d once known. The afternoon they’d spent together, though tiring, was one she’d remember. It felt good to be useful, to bring back an offering that would help her people.

  And somehow, when she was around Trahern, she managed to find a part of herself she’d lost. He made her forget the darkness.

  But how long would he stay?

  ‘Your sister is with Katla,’ Gunnar was saying, as Trahern returned to them. ‘They’re preparing for the meal tonight.’

  Morren didn’t understand why her sister had abandoned the fields, to work among strangers, but at least she hadn’t been alone. ‘I’ll join her and help. I understand we’re not returning to the longphort tonight?’