Surrender to an Irish Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  He knew he should feel betrayed by Patrick, angry at being pressured into this arrangement. But…he didn’t. It was as if Ciara’s hold had relaxed upon him. He suspected his betrothed would have understood the need.

  But now he had to convince Morren of the necessity. And he hadn’t the faintest idea how.

  ‘Did he agree?’ Isabel demanded of Patrick, later that morning. ‘Will he marry her?’

  Her husband led her up the winding spiral stairs to their bedchamber. ‘You’re an interfering woman, Isabel MacEgan.’

  She saw the wicked intent in his eyes and let her brat fall to the floor. ‘Trahern deserves happiness. And it’s time he married. He’s not getting any younger.’

  ‘But is Morren Ó Reilly the right woman for him?’

  ‘Are you blind? Haven’t you seen the look on his face when he watches her? And the way she can’t tear herself from his side? She worried about him all day while he was at Gall Tír.’

  ‘I did see them in the garden last night,’ he admitted.

  ‘Oh? And what were they—?’ Her words were cut off when her husband pulled her into a deep kiss. A sigh fell from her mouth, and she fitted her body to his. As he lowered her onto their bed, he kissed her until she couldn’t catch her breath.

  When at last he broke free, he answered, ‘That’s what they were doing, a stór. And it’s why I agreed to your idea of pressuring him into the marriage.’

  Isabel reached to remove his tunic, never minding that it was the middle of the day. Even after so many years, she’d never stopped loving her husband. ‘I’ll make certain their wedding day is unforgettable.’

  ‘If she says yes.’

  ‘She’d be a fool not to marry a MacEgan man.’ And with that, Isabel pulled him into her arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The first night of Samhain was cold and crisp. As the sun set over the fields, Morren saw a bound sheaf of corn, shaped in the form of a woman. The Cailleach, or the Hag, as it was known, was surrounded by young girls, each daring one another to reach out and touch the crone.

  Annle, a former healer of the MacEgan tribe, watched over the girls, her wrinkled mouth stretched into a smile. She was the most respected of the elderly women. Nearly seventy years of age, she had watched generation after generation of Mac Egans rise up and be succeeded by their sons and grandsons.

  She sat upon a chair, observing the children’s excitement. With gnarled hands, she helped some of the younger children tie on their masks. Morren wore the bark mask Liam had decorated for her, though it scratched at her face. It wasn’t at all attractive, but after the boy’s hard work, she wouldn’t say anything to hurt his feelings.

  Trahern’s mask was made of beaten gold, and it was large enough to cover the top half of his face, baring his mouth. There was something different about him tonight. He appeared distracted, and he’d hardly spoken to her. She wondered if it was because of the time they’d spent together in the garden. Even thinking of it evoked a trembling within her skin, a sense that there was much more he hadn’t taught her.

  Liam brought forth his carved-turnip lantern, with a candle stub burning inside. ‘See?’ He showed her the light. ‘This will drive off the evil spirits.’

  Morren pretended to be frightened, and the boy beamed at her. ‘It’s quite terrible,’ she said.

  With a lightness to his step, Liam went to join his cousin Cavan, who had two missing front teeth.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Cavan urged. ‘Sir Anselm promised us cakes.’

  The two boys joined the other children, collecting treasures and sweets from the tribe members. They played more fortune-telling games, and a group of the older children competed for apples.

  Trahern’s brother Connor had hung a rope over a tree branch and mounted a horizontally spinning cross containing two lighted candles and two apples hanging from each of the ends. The older boys leapt into the air, trying to bite the apples off without being burned by the candles.

  Trahern had taken his seat at the far side, near one of the fires. He began telling the legend of Nera, a man who had wed the faery king’s daughter and saved his clan from the sídhe. Morren was about to move closer when she heard Annle speak.

  ‘His mother would have been proud to see him,’ the old healer whispered.

  Morren drew near and saw that the woman’s brat had fallen to the ground. Her narrow shoulders were bowed, her frail fingers lined with blue veins. ‘A shame, really, that she died so young.’

  When Morren reached her side, she lifted the woollen shawl over the old woman, and was rewarded by a warm smile. Annle’s eyes were distant, staring at the back of one of the men. ‘Trahern looks like his father. Not like the others.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Annle gave a secretive smile. ‘Nothing. Only an old woman’s foolishness. Go and enjoy the stories.’ Her lips curved into a wrinkled smile. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  Morren didn’t understand the woman’s enigmatic response, but she squeezed Annle’s hand before she departed. She sat near the fire, listening to Trahern weave his spell over the people.

  ‘Nera warned his people that the sídhe were coming to Rath Cruachan, intending to attack. He prepared his warriors, but as they readied their weapons, he thought of his wife and newborn son, waiting for him beyond the golden gates of the faery world.’

  Trahern’s gaze fell upon her, his grey eyes compelling her not to look away. Morren felt her cheeks grow warm, uncertain of whether he was still telling the story or not.

  ‘She meant everything to him. And he would not let her go, despite the betrayal of the others.’

  A shiver crossed over her, and she heard the faint cry of Alanna, Genevieve’s young infant. Trahern’s face softened when he spied the babe, and he continued his tale, weaving the victory of Nera over the immortals and the reunion with his wife and son.

  When the story was over, Trahern stood. He waited until the group had dispersed before lifting his mask away.

  ‘Is it heavy?’ she asked, pointing to the gold.

  ‘A little. But the children enjoy it when I wear it.’ He held the mask in his palm. ‘Will you walk with me? There’s…something I need to speak with you about.’

  No longer was he the smooth, confident storyteller. He appeared uneasy about what he had to say.

  She knew he’d spoken with his brothers this morning about Gall Tír. More than likely they wouldn’t allow her to go with them. But she wasn’t about to be left behind. Not now, not when they were so close.

  She joined Trahern, removing her mask and letting it dangle from her fingertips. He took her past the barren fields, towards the channel that divided the mainland from a nearby island. He’d brought a torch with him, and along the way, he asked her to gather brush and wood for a fire. When they’d reached the edge of the cliffs, they worked together to build a small fire, lining it with stones.

  ‘I’m going with you to see the Lochlannach,’ she insisted, after they sat down beside the flames. ‘Whatever happened won’t change that.’

  Trahern didn’t answer for a while, but stared out at the sea. ‘My brother refused to send men to help us plead our case.’ There was disbelief on his face, but also the sense that he was holding something back.

  ‘We don’t need his men,’ Morren insisted. ‘We can go with the others and demand justice.’ She moved to sit beside him and placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘We could. But having the King guarding our backs would make a stronger case.’ His hand moved beside hers. ‘There is…a way he would help us.’

  She waited, but he seemed to struggle with the words. More than once, he looked upon her face, before at last he blurted it out. ‘If you married me.’

  ‘What?’ The words broke free before she could stop them. Marry him simply to gain soldiers and to strengthen their case before the Lochlannach? ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I didn’t expect him to suggest it,’ he confessed. ‘But he’s right. If you were my w
ife, the MacEgans would become your family. It’s a stronger reason to argue before the Lochlannach.’

  Her mouth nearly dropped open. Had he really said that? He wasn’t asking her to marry him because he cared about her or wanted to share his life with her. No, this was about vengeance, once again.

  Out of nowhere, anger descended over her. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I won’t marry you.’ Every reason for it was wrong. She took slow, deep breaths, trying to push back the frustration within. Marriage had never entered her mind, but if she’d considered it, the last thing she wanted was an offer because his brother had suggested it.

  Trahern stared out at the water again. ‘I thought you might refuse. But there are other reasons.’ His hand closed over hers. ‘I could protect you. No man would ever hurt you again.’

  She pulled her hand away. ‘Do you think that’s all that matters to me?’ Rising to her feet, she strode to the edge of the cliff. Below, the turbulent water swept over the rocks in pooling waves of foam.

  ‘No. I thought—’

  ‘You didn’t think at all.’ She whirled and nearly stumbled. He caught her wrists, bringing her away from the edge. ‘If I needed a guard, I could hire one. I don’t need a husband.’

  ‘You’re afraid of marriage.’

  ‘No, I’m angry. I can’t believe you’d think so little of me. Or yourself. Let’s see…my brother thinks I should get married, so that’s reason enough.’

  ‘I don’t dance to my brother’s tune,’ he argued. ‘I make my own decisions. And I think we would make a good match.’

  He didn’t understand. Not at all.

  ‘I don’t know that we would.’ Morren pushed him away, fury and humiliation making tears spring up in her eyes. But she wouldn’t let herself cry.

  His hands moved to rest on her shoulders. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to share my bed, Morren. You know that.’

  From deep inside, all the broken dreams seemed to spill out in jagged shards. ‘I don’t want a shadow marriage, Trahern. I want a husband who will love me or no husband at all.’

  He didn’t pull back, as she’d expected him to. Instead, his thumbs dipped into her shoulders, stroking at the tension there. ‘And you don’t believe you could care for a man like me.’

  Her head fell back against his chest as his hands loosened the knots in her nape. She struggled over the words, afraid of revealing too much. ‘That isn’t what I said.’

  His hands moved to her hair, gently caressing her. Just the simple touch began to coax a response. She leaned into him and murmured, ‘You mean more to me than any man, Trahern. But I know I’ll never fill the space Ciara left behind.’ She took a breath and then stepped away. ‘I won’t be a substitute, or an excuse. It’s not enough for me.’

  The expression on his face was unreadable, his grey eyes revealing nothing.

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ he said at last.

  Food and drink were passed around, and the children were asleep inside the huts. Trahern donned his mask once more, as did Morren. The adults were laughing, enjoying the celebration while old Annle regaled them with stories of her own.

  He’d lost his mood of celebration, his mind spinning with discontent. Morren was right. He’d asked her to wed, not because he wanted her as a woman, but as a means of furthering his revenge. He knew he couldn’t present a true show of force against the Lochlannach without his brother Patrick’s support.

  He hadn’t been thinking about the long term of marriage, or how she would perceive his intentions. She had a right to be angry.

  What startled him was his disappointment that she’d refused. He hadn’t expected to feel anything about the arrangement. In his mind, he’d envisioned it as a military strategy, a way of accomplishing a goal.

  And by thinking of it as such, he wouldn’t be betraying Ciara’s memory. It disquieted him, for he hadn’t been thinking of her quite as much any more. Already he’d begun replacing her with Morren. He didn’t even know how or when it had happened.

  Guilt filled up within him, for Morren had been right. She’d seen right through his poor excuse of a marriage. And yet he sensed it would have been a good match.

  He squeezed Morren’s hand, leading her past a few of the onlookers. Gunnar stood on the outskirts, as though he wanted to join with the MacEgan tribesmen, but dared not. Trahern stared hard at the man, suddenly seeing things he hadn’t before. The Norseman’s height towered over the others, and he sat near the others, intent upon a story Annle was telling.

  The older woman was speaking of Trahern’s parents and the way his father, Duncan, had struggled to win the love of his mother, Saraid. Trahern moved closer to listen, keeping Morren’s hand in his.

  ‘One night, when Saraid was heavy with her fourth child,’ Annle began, ‘she discovered a foreign woman wandering outside the ringfort. Like herself, the woman was expecting a babe, and so Saraid invited the woman to stay with them.

  ‘Not a word did the woman speak,’ Annle continued, her ancient voice holding them captive. ‘And all wondered who she was. Did she come from the land of Tír na nÓg? Was she a faery in disguise?’

  Gunnar moved forward through the crowd without warning, his attention locked upon Annle. ‘What did she look like?’

  His question broke through the spell, and a few of the MacEgans were irritated by his interruption.

  But Annle only motioned him to sit with the others. Trahern found himself gripping Morren’s hand tightly.

  It’s just a story, he told himself. Like the thousands of others you’ve told. And yet, it wasn’t. He sensed it, and couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

  ‘The woman looked like you,’ Annle admitted to Gunnar. ‘She had long golden hair that she wore in a thick braid down to her waist. We thought she had wandered from the settlement at Gall Tír.’ She waited for a slight pause, adding, ‘But we were wrong.’

  Reaching for a drink of mead, Annle waited before continuing her tale. ‘It is said that those who offer hospitality to strangers receive the blessings of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Saraid knew this, and she befriended the woman. And when the time came, the woman bore her child.’ She paused, raising her eyes to meet the crowd. ‘At the first light of dawn, both mother and child disappeared. Whether they were mortal or not, no one knows. But after that, the MacEgans were blessed with prosperity.’

  The applause from the crowd made the old woman smile as she took the hand of a young man, letting him escort her back to her home.

  Trahern didn’t move. He saw the thoughtful look upon Gunnar’s face, and then the man turned to stare at him. There was speculation on his face, as though he were trying to discern an uncertain truth.

  A sickening portent took root in Trahern’s stomach. Against his better judgement, he excused himself from Morren’s side and followed Annle.

  Her steps were slow, and she leaned upon the young man for balance. Trahern caught up to them and offered, ‘I’ll walk with her.’

  Annle smiled and took his arm. ‘And how are you, Trahern? You seem better than the last time we saw you. The children spoke of your stories and how much they enjoyed them.’

  He murmured his thanks for the compliment, but slowed his pace. ‘Annle, about your story…’

  ‘You want to know if it’s true.’ Her voice grew hushed, and she stopped walking. The ancient blue eyes seemed to reach inside him. ‘What does it matter, Trahern?’

  ‘You know what happened to the woman, don’t you?’

  Annle began walking again, and he was forced to remain at her side. ‘I do.’ She gestured for him to open the door to her hut. He did and saw that someone had already brought in hot stones to warm the interior for her. Annle was the oldest woman in the tribe and beloved by all.

  ‘I don’t look like my brothers,’ he said, when they were inside. ‘I always thought I looked like my grandfather. But there’s more, isn’t there?’

  ‘You’ve seen the ones who do look like you.’ She leaned heavily upon him as he helped her sit
down. ‘And it troubles you.’

  The Lochlannach.

  The coldness bled from Trahern’s heart and through his veins, fear snaking up into his throat. ‘No. It’s not true.’

  Annle folded her hands on her lap. ‘The Lochlannach woman came to us, long ago. She gave birth to a son the very night after Saraid gave birth. But your mother’s child was sickly. He came too soon, and there was nothing I could do to save him.’

  Annle reached out for Trahern’s hand. ‘I know you can guess what your mother did. The woman was bleeding, and she died that night. Saraid took you and raised you as her own.’

  He wanted to deny it, to give all the reasons why it couldn’t be true. But his physical appearance didn’t lie. His height and his features were not like his brothers.

  You’re a Lochlannach, Áron had said. Trahern’s jaw tightened, hating the thought that it was true. Even Gunnar had believed he was one of them, from the moment Trahern had tried to kill the man. His eyes had been blinded to the truth, it seemed.

  He wanted to drive his fist into a wall, anything to burn off the reckless anger rising inside. But Annle’s delicate hand held firm, squeezing his palm.

  He forced himself to take a breath. ‘You said the woman didn’t come from Gall Tír.’

  ‘She wasn’t one of the Hardrata tribe,’ Annle agreed. ‘She’d fled their settlement, begging us for sanctuary.’

  ‘What happened to her, after she died?’

  Annle’s quiet smile held amusement. ‘You know that she didn’t truly disappear. We buried her along the sea cliff, and covered the place with stones.’

  The healer took his hand. ‘The woman may have given birth to you, but Saraid gave you a home and a family. You may not be a MacEgan by blood, but…’ she reached out and touched his heart ‘…you are here, where it counts.’

  Trahern didn’t hear the rest of what she said, words of consolation and words trying to explain the lies. He’d always believed that Saraid and Duncan were his parents. And his mother had treated him as though he were born of her own flesh.