He managed to bring them both to safety, letting her down. Morren stared at him in horrified wonder. ‘We both need to bathe or they’ll never let us in the cashel.’
His gaze moved past her face, and heat flared up at the sight of her body. The mud had plastered her thin gown to her skin, outlining the generous curve of her breasts. One sleeve hung down, baring a shoulder. Her hair hung in muddy ropes across her skin, tendrils that flirted with her tight nipples.
He remembered kissing her, and how it had felt when the warmth of her tongue slid within his mouth. She was as desirable now as she had been yesterday. More so, with the way she’d smiled at him.
Trahern spoke not a word, but headed straight across the meadow towards the river. It wouldn’t have mattered if the water held a film of ice. Right now he wasn’t thinking of cleanliness, only drowning out the maddening lust that was rippling through him. He dove off the edge of the bank, breaking through the frigid water, and swimming long strokes to clean off the mud.
Morren watched him swim, not knowing what had caused him to go so swiftly. One moment, he’d been standing before her, and the next, he’d all but pushed her away.
She eyed the water, knowing how cold it had to be. But the mud was beginning to dry upon her skin, and if she didn’t clean it off, it would cause her skin to itch.
Did she dare join him in the water? It looked terrifyingly cold.
‘How bad is it?’ she asked him, when he surfaced. Droplets of water slid over his skin, down to his mouth.
‘Too cold for you.’ He strode out of the water, his clothes completely sodden. Though the remark was probably true, she didn’t like the way he assumed she was unable to handle the temperature.
It couldn’t be that bad, could it?
Before she could lose her courage, she dropped her brat and ran off the edge of the bank, plunging into the water feet first. The shock of the cold river was like a blade through her spine, numbing her. She surfaced again, her teeth chattering.
‘What in the name of Danu did you do that for?’ Trahern demanded. He strode back into the water, reaching out to hold her steady.
‘I n-n-needed to wash my hair.’
‘The water is so cold, there was likely ice on it this morning,’ he argued. ‘You could have drowned.’
‘I’m t-t-tall enough to stand in it.’ She reached back, trying to wash the mud from her hair. Trahern held her neck, quickly rubbing her scalp until the long strands were clean.
‘We could have heated a tub of water. You didn’t have to do this,’ he chided, lifting her out of the water. When the cold outside air hit her skin, she started trembling even more. Trahern wrapped her in the long brat, but the woollen wrap did little to warm her icy skin. Only Trahern’s body heat made it bearable.
‘I didn’t think it was that bad,’ she admitted. ‘You took a swim and didn’t seem affected.’
‘I’m larger than you, and the water isn’t as cold against my skin.’
Trahern carried her back to the cashel, his long strides crossing the grass without any effort. Morren clung to him tightly, as if trying to absorb the heat of his skin into her own.
Trahern was nearly at the gates when suddenly he stopped. He let her down, and her knees nearly buckled.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have gone into the water.’ She held tightly to her shoulders, shivering. But it wasn’t just the cold that made her shiver.
It was the dark look in his eyes, the look of a man who wanted her. He was giving her the chance to walk away, and she knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t lay a hand upon her.
But his restraint was taking a toll. His gaze was smouldering, like a fire that began upon her skin, working its way over her breasts, down to her thighs. Her nipples tightened beneath the wet wool of her gown, and Morren flinched as something unexpected began to warm between her legs.
Desire. Something about Trahern MacEgan was stirring up buried feelings she’d never expected to feel.
Perhaps she wasn’t quite as broken as she’d thought.
Right now, she wanted to move back into the circle of his arms. She wanted him to warm her up, to feel safe. Because she knew he would never, ever hurt her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Trahern murmured, taking a step closer. His head gleamed with water, his skin pale from the cold. But as soon as he was within a hand’s distance, she found herself staring at the prickles of hair upon his face, the unyielding strength in his arms.
‘Sorry for what?’ Her voice didn’t break a whisper, and her breath seemed trapped within her lungs.
‘For this.’ Trahern captured the back of her neck and pulled her into a hard kiss.
Chapter Twelve
Need and primal hunger rushed through Trahern as he captured her lips. He wasn’t thinking clearly, and he knew on the deepest level that this was wrong. But she was so damned beautiful, and seeing her smile had made it impossible to ignore the desire he was feeling.
He expected Morren to push him away. Right now, his guilt roared at him not to do this. He was behaving as badly as the raiders who’d attacked her.
But feeling her mouth against his, and the soft way her arms wound around his neck…it was like a balm upon his spirit. Her body fit against him, and she was kissing him back.
Her freezing skin had begun to warm, and he held her tightly against him. At last, his common sense won over, and he ended the kiss.
She was staring at him, her blue eyes mirroring his own desire. But there was fear beneath it, and shame. She held herself tightly, rubbing her arms.
‘Trahern—’
‘Don’t. I lost sight of myself for a moment.’ He raked a hand over his head, feeling like a criminal. Not at all sorry that he’d broken the rules, but sorry for the consequences. ‘Perhaps Katla will have some dry clothes, and you can sit by the fire to get warmer.’
The truth was, he wanted to wrap Morren up in a blanket, letting his body heat warm her skin. In his mind, he imagined them near a fire, with her naked body lying atop his. He’d caress the curve of her hip and her smooth skin.
The tendrils of anger snaked through his mind as he thought of how he was betraying Ciara with those very thoughts.
‘I’m going back to get the grain,’ he told Morren, needing the brief escape. He was grateful for the heavy bundle, for it kept his hands occupied. When he reached her side again, she cast an uncertain glance at him.
‘You’re looking as though you want to set the cashel on fire again,’ Morren remarked, glancing at him. ‘What’s the matter?’
Everything. I’m a bastard who needs to go and soak his head.
‘Nothing. I’m just cold.’
She nodded, pulling her wet clothes tighter against her body. ‘I’m dreaming of that fire right now. But none of us has any extra clothing, and I know the chief hasn’t sent the supplies yet.’
But as they entered the cashel, they discovered Morren was wrong. Supplies were there, but not from the Lochlannach.
Instead, a group of four monks had arrived from St Michael’s Abbey, along with the abbot. The abbot himself was directing the brothers on how to dispense the food and clothing.
Trahern’s suspicions prickled, though Morren appeared glad to see them. Why had the monks ventured forth now, after the death of the first raider? Had they learned of the man’s demise? He couldn’t quite bring himself to welcome them.
Morren left his side to greet Brother Chrysoganus, and Trahern left to put the grain away with the harvest from the previous day. He returned to the men’s hut, intending to warm himself by the fire. His clothing had turned clammy, and he saw Ciara’s brother, Áron, taking a drink of ale from one of the skin containers.
He didn’t speak any greeting, though the sight of Áron sobered him. It was as if the man had guessed what he’d been doing with Morren, only minutes ago.
Áron came to stand by the fire, his expression tight. ‘I heard you’re leaving us.’
‘I’m going to Gall
Tír,’ he admitted. ‘To find the rest of them.’
‘Are you taking her with you?’
He knew Áron meant Morren. ‘No. I was hoping you or some of the Ó Reillys would come with me.’
‘I’ll go,’ came a voice. Gunnar Dalrata stood at the entrance, and his expression furrowed when he saw Trahern’s soaked appearance. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I went for a swim.’
Gunnar’s face lightened with amusement. ‘On purpose?’ He paused in thought, then added, ‘I suppose if I spent the morning with Morren Ó Reilly, I would need a cold swim.’ His eyes were teasing, and Trahern didn’t miss the way Áron’s anger heightened.
‘Close your mouth, Lochlannach. You’re revealing your lack of brains again.’
No sooner had Áron spoken the words than Gunnar’s arm shot out and took him by the throat. He gripped Áron hard and pressed him up against the wall of the hut. ‘I could squeeze yours out, Irishman.’
‘Let him be.’ Trahern moved beside Gunnar in a silent warning. Though Gunnar appeared unwilling, eventually he released Áron. The Norseman had a hot temper, one that could get him into trouble or be useful under the right circumstances. It was a risk, but Gunnar had proven himself to be a strong fighter already.
‘You can go with us,’ Trahern said to Gunnar, ‘as long as you keep your aggression aimed only at our enemies. I don’t need you practising on the Ó Reillys.’
‘I don’t know why you’d want one of them to go with us,’ Áron said, coughing and rubbing his throat. ‘He’d turn traitor at the first opportunity.’
Though once he’d have agreed with Áron, Trahern couldn’t count Gunnar among the enemy. He ignored Áron’s prediction and asked again, ‘Are you coming with us?’
‘I am, yes.’ Áron rubbed at his throat again, coughing as he regarded the two men. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d want Gunnar to come along. Too much blood in common.’
‘What do you mean?’
Áron moved towards the entrance. ‘Look at yourself, Trahern. You’re one of the Lochlannach, whether you’ll admit it or not.’
‘I’m a MacEgan. And there may be Norse blood on my grandfather’s side, but—’
‘No.’ Áron paused at the doorway, and Trahern saw that it had begun to rain. Water spattered against the doorway, and an earthen smell rose up from the ground. ‘You’re a bastard son.’
Before Trahern could seize him, Áron had already ducked outside into the rain.
Trahern knew he could pursue the man, but what good would it do? It was nothing but words, and he refused to let them bother him. There were enough MacEgans who were descended from and had intermarried among the Vikings. He didn’t question who he was.
Yet he was still tempted to go after Áron and deny it, knocking some sense into the man. He glared at the rain, even knowing they were better off without him. When he turned around, Gunnar was staring at him.
‘What?’ Trahern demanded. ‘You don’t believe what he said, do you?’
‘No.’ Gunnar met his gaze, eye to eye. ‘Not really.’
‘Then why, in God’s name, are you staring at me?’
Gunnar gave a shrug. ‘Nothing, MacEgan.’ Though the Lochlannach’s tone was casual, there was a glint in his eye. ‘It’s nothing that would concern you.’
But now, Trahern sensed that Gunnar was lying. And he didn’t know what to make of it.
The rains came down that evening, soaking the ground and the fields. Morren had remained in her wet clothes, for the monks had nothing for her to wear. Still, they were grateful for the bread and fresh meat. Brother Chrysoganus had blessed the meal, offering prayers for the rebuilding. The abbot had already returned with one of the other monks, leaving only two behind.
When the evening rain continued to pound, Chrysoganus attempted to entertain the folk with tales of crusaders who had gone to Jerusalem.
‘They prayed to God for victory against the Turks,’ Chrysoganus explained. ‘And many fell in battle, to join their Eternal Father.’
As the monk expounded upon the virtues of dying for the faith, lecturing on ways that men could devote their lives to God, Morren saw Trahern shifting in his seat. Several of the older adolescent boys were growing restless, staring outside as if pleading for an escape.
When the monk paused to drink a sip of ale at the end of one of his tales, Morren moved towards Trahern and leaned to whisper in his ear, ‘Why don’t you tell a story of your own? I remember how you used to make us laugh, last winter.’
He started to shake his head, but she leaned down to whisper again. Her cheek brushed against his, and the warmth of his skin seemed charged with an unexpected intensity. ‘Please, Trahern. I think we’re all tired of hearing about dying pilgrims.’
Before he could say no, she rose to her feet. If Trahern needed prodding, she was glad to do it.
‘Thank you, Brother Chrysoganus. I’m certain you must be hungry after so many tales. Why don’t we have another story from Trahern, while you go and enjoy your own meal?’ She reached out and offered the monk a bit of bread.
The older man’s face creased into a smile. ‘That’s kind of you.’
Trahern eyed her as though he didn’t care for her actions. She knew it had been many months since he’d told stories to a crowd. But surely they were still there.
When she’d been hurting that night, he’d eased her pain with the power of his voice. He’d made her forget about her loss, weaving a spell around her grief.
The people needed an escape right now. She settled back down, gesturing for him to sit in the centre of the crowd. When he rose to take his place, he studied the group as if determining the type of story that was needed.
Trahern began with a tale of Lugh of the Long Arm, his rich baritone voice filling up the small hut. He described the journey Lugh travelled on his way to greet King Nuada. And with his words, he drew everyone into his story, letting them envision the young Lugh who longed to enter the kingdom.
‘Before they would allow him entrance, Lugh had to demonstrate a skill.’ Trahern unsheathed his sword, brandishing it in the air like a champion. His muscles flexed, and a few of the Lochlannach women cheered. Morren kept silent, but she stared at Trahern’s strong arm. She’d felt those same arms around her, shielding her.
Though she’d been cold before, now a warmth began to rise up beneath her skin. She leaned closer to hear his tale better.
‘Now it was that Lugh intended to show his prowess with his blade,’ Trahern continued. ‘He offered his skill to the guard, and was denied entrance. “We have swordsmen more skilled than yourself,” said the gatekeeper.’ Trahern sheathed his sword, sitting down once more.
‘Not to be deterred, Lugh offered his skills as a harpist. Then a poet. And once more, as a sorcerer. When he was turned away each time, he was despondent, for he could think of no other skill that would get him inside. He had seen the fair maiden Nás at a distance, and longed to be with her.’
His gaze settled upon Morren, his low tone enfolding her like a caress. As he spoke of Nás’s virtues, Trahern didn’t take his eyes off her. He focused upon her mouth, and Morren brought her hands to her lips, remembering the dizzying kiss and the way Trahern had made her feel.
She wondered…what it would be like if he touched her elsewhere. Would she fall beneath his spell, enchanted like one of his stories?
As Trahern continued the tale, describing all of Lugh’s efforts to gain entrance to the palace, Morren found herself caught up in the story. She wrapped her arms around her knees, watching the way Trahern had restored the good humour of the tribe.
He was meant to be a storyteller, she realised. A man who could command a group to join in his vivid imagination, bringing them entertainment in the midst of such ruin.
She found herself leaning forward to hear the end of the tale. ‘And finally, when Lugh approached for the last time, the guard reminded him that they had someone who could perform each of the talents. �
��But do you have one who can perform them all?” Lugh responded. The guard could think of no man with such power. And so Lugh was allowed to enter the kingdom of Tara.’
Trahern left his seat to loud cheering and applause, and he inclined his head. Though he remained quiet, there was a satisfaction on his face, almost as if he’d missed storytelling.
The rain had softened enough for the women to return to their own hut, and before Morren followed them, she stopped to speak with Trahern.
‘You’ve a gift, Trahern MacEgan. I’ve missed your stories.’
He answered her smile, and when she saw him without the mask of anger, returning to the good-hearted man he’d once been, she felt warm from the inside.
After he’d gone, she held the story within her, as if holding a part of the man himself.
Although an hour had passed since the storytelling, restlessness gripped Trahern. He moved to the far end of the cashel, his mind filled with errant thoughts.
He’d met Ciara on a night such as this. He’d told her stories, watching her face light up with interest. And their friendship had gradually transformed into a love that had filled him up inside.
He leaned back, sitting against the palisade wall in the shadows. Remembering her didn’t hurt as much as it once had. He could still see her smile, almost imagine her arms around him. She’d been a woman like no other, one who had laughed and brought her warmth to those around her.
But she wasn’t coming back. He didn’t want to accept it, but he understood the truth. He closed his eyes, letting the grief wash over him and through him. Morren was right. If she were here now, Ciara wouldn’t like the man he’d become. He’d let the hatred shape him, and he’d lost all sense of himself.
Tonight, when he’d told the story of Lugh, he’d resurrected a piece of his spirit. He’d felt content. And when he’d watched Morren smile, it had made him grateful. She’d been through so much darkness, he wanted to give her more.
The kisses they’d shared were unlike anything else he’d known. Even with Ciara. The way Morren clung to him, the way she opened up to him with such trust…it was humbling.
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