Surrender to an Irish Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Did my father know?’

  Annle nodded. ‘He did. But they chose to treat you as their own son, a precious gift in the midst of Saraid’s tragedy.’ The old healer patted his hand. ‘Don’t let it bother you, Trahern.’

  But it did. Not only would he never know his true parents, but his family ties had been dissolved with a single revelation. He wasn’t a MacEgan. And knowing the truth was like a knife slashing through his heart.

  He bid farewell to Annle, but he was numb to the celebration going on around him. He saw Connor laughing with his wife, Aileen, and his brother waved.

  No. No longer his brother. He was Lochlannach, of the same blood as his enemy.

  Trahern kept walking, away from the crowd. Right now, he couldn’t seem to grasp what had happened or what he should do with the information.

  Behind him, he heard quiet footsteps following. He continued back to the castle, knowing who it was. But right now, he didn’t know what he could say to Morren.

  ‘Trahern?’ she called out to him, when he reached the spiral stairs. ‘Is everything all right?’

  No, it wasn’t. But he could only lift his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I just need to be alone for a time.’

  Long enough to decide what he should do about Annle’s confession. It was as if someone had swept his past clean, destroying his family.

  Morren moved closer, concern etched in her eyes. ‘Something happened since I spoke with you last. After you left Annle’s hut, you looked upset.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with the raiders,’ he reassured her. ‘You can go and join the others.’

  Morren took a step up, passing him until she stood above him on the stairs. She reached out to touch his cheek, her face lined with concern. ‘You’re still my friend, Trahern. Tell me.’

  He wanted to deny her again. He ought to hold his silence, not troubling her with his errant thoughts, yet Morren’s calm presence steadied him. She knew him as no other woman did and would not cast any judgement.

  ‘Come.’ Trahern took her hand and led her up the winding stairs until they reached the family chambers. He opened one of the doors and invited her inside. Turmoil and uncertainty shadowed his mind as he wondered how to begin. She didn’t push for answers, but simply waited.

  ‘Annle told me a story about my mother,’ he admitted. ‘It bothered me to hear it.

  He explained what he’d learned about the infant Saraid had lost and how she had raised him as her own.

  ‘I know she loved me,’ he admitted. ‘And I grew up believing I had five brothers.’

  ‘You did. Whether or not they are your brothers by birth, you know it’s the truth.’

  ‘I should tell them, but a part of me doesn’t want to. I’d rather they believed the lie.’

  ‘Just because you don’t possess MacEgan blood doesn’t change the feelings they have for you. You’re their brother and always will be.’

  ‘I don’t want to have Lochlannach blood running through me. Every time I think of them, I think of Ciara. And you.’ He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t want to be related to my enemy in any way.’

  He gripped her hair, lowering his forehead. ‘She was fleeing from Gall Tír, Morren. I was likely fathered by one of them.’

  She embraced him, wrapping her arms around his back in a gesture of silent comfort. ‘Nothing’s changed, Trahern. Nothing at all.’

  She was wrong. Something had changed, something between them. Though she claimed to be his friend, there was more. He held her tightly, breathing in her scent. He didn’t press her for anything further, but he couldn’t stop the physical response to her. The closeness of her body against his was a reminder that every time he touched her, he was desecrating Ciara’s memory.

  He was about to pull away when Morren’s hand moved up to the back of his head. The touch of her hands struck him aflame like a match against dry leaves.

  He wanted to draw her close and remove the layers between them. Instead, he took her hands and lowered them. Her smile faded, and she pulled them back. ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘No. Angry with myself.’

  She hugged her shoulders, shivering slightly. ‘You’re angry that I refused to wed you.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I promised myself I would never forget Ciara. That I would avenge what happened, even if I died in the attempt.’

  Her fingers moved up to touch her mouth, as though holding back what she wanted to say.

  ‘I’m angry at myself because…I’ve stopped thinking of her.’ He raised his eyes to hers, feeling raw and furious for being weak. ‘And because I want you, far more than is good for either of us.’

  Her shoulders lowered in confusion, but still, she didn’t speak.

  ‘Leave, Morren,’ he said. ‘Now. Before I do something I’ll regret.’

  He wasn’t thinking clearly, the anger and sexual frustration mingling together in a way that made him feel like an animal.

  ‘You’re not betraying Ciara,’ she whispered, taking a step closer. ‘She loved you. And she would want you to go on living.’ Before he could argue, she stood on her tiptoes and brought his mouth down to hers.

  God above, but he needed this. He needed Morren’s gentleness, her soothing warmth. And she seemed to sense it.

  Without breaking the kiss, he led her to a chair and sat down, pulling her into his lap. Her breath caught, but still he didn’t stop kissing her.

  He tasted the seam of her mouth, and she allowed him entrance. But when his tongue touched hers, she emitted a soft gasp.

  ‘You shouldn’t have started this,’ he murmured, cupping her nape. He shut out the raging voices that told him how wrong this was. He didn’t care. Morren had reached out to him, and damned if he’d turn down this moment with her.

  He’d kissed her like this before, but she seemed tentative all of a sudden. ‘Don’t be afraid, Morren.’

  ‘You wouldn’t hurt me, I know.’ Her whisper was tremulous.

  ‘Never in a thousand years.’ He nipped at her mouth again, feeling hazy with desire. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She let her hand slide down the back of his tunic, her cool hand exploring his skin. The rippling touch sent a grinding pulse of heat through his groin, and his fingers curled against the seat of the chair.

  She sensed it and drew back. ‘I didn’t mean to cause you pain.’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘No, it feels good.’ To show her he meant it, he loosened the ties of his tunic and lifted it away, baring his skin. He held still, seeing the mixture of fear and curiosity on her face. When she didn’t move, he lifted her palms to his chest.

  ‘Go on.’ He leaned back, closing his eyes. She’d refuse, no doubt. Even Ciara had preferred to let him do the touching.

  But Morren surprised him. Her hands slid over his muscled chest, slowly. Fingertips traced the battle scars from years ago, gently learning the planes of his body. ‘When did you get these?’

  ‘Years ago, in the battle against the Normans.’ He didn’t open his eyes, and it was torment to feel her caressing his skin.

  Get her out now, his brain warned. Stop her before it goes too far.

  ‘You’re strong.’ Morren’s hands moved over the taut muscles of his stomach. Lower, until they brushed the ties of his trews.

  The head of him strained to meet her touch, and he caught her hands. His breathing had grown hoarse as he fought to keep himself under control.

  ‘Morren, stop,’ he managed.

  She drew her hands back, her lips parted in shock. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head. ‘I’m about to do something very wrong, if you don’t leave.’

  She moved away from his lap, but his harsh words hadn’t dimmed the curiosity. ‘What…would happen?’

  He leaned forward, resting his wrists upon his knees. Heat burned through his skin, his body craving hers. ‘I’d remove the gown you’re wearing. I’d take o
ff every layer until you were sitting naked upon my lap.’

  Her expression grew wary; colour stained her cheeks. She took a step backwards, her hands gripping her arms. ‘Then what?’

  Her voice held a trace of interest, and he stood up. Her innocent question aroused him even more. Though he didn’t want to frighten her, she needed to understand. Advancing towards her, he brought his hands to the curve of her waist, sliding down to her hips.

  ‘I’d put you in that chair, Morren, and I’d kiss every last inch of your skin.’ He leaned up, pressing his mouth against her throat. ‘Here.’

  His hands held her in place while he lowered his head to the curve of her breast. Through the woollen fabric, he breathed a warm breath upon her nipple. It tightened, and he caught the faint shudder of her desire. ‘Here,’ he whispered.

  Then he brought his leg between hers, lifting her weight to straddle him. Though her gown and his trews kept the barriers between them, he knew she could feel his thick erection against her thigh. ‘I’d even kiss you there, Morren.’

  The rise and fall of her lungs was quickening, and he sensed that if he touched her intimately, she would be wet. Sleek with desire.

  ‘I’d use my tongue to taste your salt. I’d kiss you until you trembled, lick your folds until you screamed.’

  When he leaned back to look at her, her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed. Her mouth was swollen from his kiss earlier, and he wanted to capture it again, driving her closer to her own fulfilment.

  She moved her body against his length, and he sensed how close she was. He pressed her back against the wall, his hands just below her arms. Her breasts strained against the wool, and he lowered his mouth to them once again.

  ‘Then, do you know what I’d do?’ he murmured, dangerously close to her nipple. The sensitive nub rose up against his cheek, and the aching pain of arousal was so deep, he was close to losing control.

  ‘What would you do?’ she breathed, her breath coming in short gasps.

  ‘I’d lift your skirts and I’d join my body with yours. I’d suckle you here…’ his mouth took possession of her breast, dampening the fabric ‘…and then I’d let you ride me. Slow and deep…’ He used his fingers to stroke the other nipple, and her face was tight with need.

  ‘Or hard and fast.’ He lifted his leg between hers, rubbing her. Coaxing her to reach for the release she craved. ‘I’d give my body to you, Morren. For your pleasure alone.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  He took her mouth in a fierce kiss, and that was all it took to send her over the edge. Morren gripped his neck, clinging to him in the storm of her release.

  It was too much. She trembled as waves of shaking pleasure rocked through her. Her centre felt wet and swollen, craving more.

  Trahern groaned, holding her tight, and his face suddenly transformed, before relaxation came over him. Something had happened, and she suspected his frustration wasn’t as bad as it was before.

  She shuddered, resting her face against his chest. Her hands moved over his skin, tracing a pattern over his muscles, her nails scraping against his taut nipple.

  Then, when she realised what she was doing, she pulled back. Embarrassment and shame washed over her. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, I should go.’

  A coldness seemed to fill the air between them. He released her, remaining silent.

  And yet she couldn’t stop herself from the babble of words that came out. ‘I know you had other reasons for wanting to wed me. That it wasn’t about…love.’ Her shoulders lowered, and she bared her most secret shame. ‘But even if I’d agreed, I could never be what you wanted.’

  ‘What is it you think I wanted?’ There was a steel to his voice, and she turned from him, unable to look.

  ‘You’re a man who should have children. I can’t give that to you.’

  ‘It was only going to be a temporary marriage,’ he told her. ‘An arrangement.’

  His voice was cold, like the stone walls of the chamber. ‘I—I know,’ she stammered. ‘I just thought that—you would expect me to act as your wife. In all ways.’

  She lowered her forehead to the wall, feeling all the world like a fool. He was a man, the same as any other. When she’d thrown herself at him, he’d taken what she’d offered. And she was desperately afraid that he’d want her to share his bed, making love to her.

  The thought of any man joining with her body made her feel nervous and sick. She hadn’t minded the way Trahern had touched her tonight, for he’d caressed her with words, as much as anything else. It had been so different from the violence she’d experienced.

  But he would want more. She didn’t believe they could have a celibate marriage, not from the way he’d caressed her.

  ‘I’m not an animal, Morren,’ he told her. ‘Believe me. I can keep my hands off of you.’

  Oh, Heaven above, she’d offended him. It wasn’t at all what she’d intended.

  Face him, she urged herself. She turned around and saw the irritation in his grey eyes, the palpable frustration. She forced herself to speak. ‘I don’t think I could…lie there and let it happen again. Not with any man.’

  His jaw tightened. ‘As I’ve said, when I offered you a marriage arrangement, I wasn’t intending to consummate it.’ He let out a breath. ‘But you should know that I would never ask you to lie there and endure my touch.’ His eyes held an unnamed emotion as he softened his tone. ‘I promise you, you’d enjoy it.’

  A shiver passed through her. When he’d touched her earlier, she’d felt liquid inside, before the sweet torment had sent a flood of release pulsing within.

  She swallowed her fear back. ‘Perhaps. But you wouldn’t enjoy being with me, if we were to—’ Her voice broke off in humiliation. She couldn’t even speak the words.

  There was not a doubt in her mind that she would freeze up or scream, the way she had with Adham. And she didn’t want her fears to damage their friendship.

  Trahern took her hand in his. ‘I would enjoy every moment of it, Morren.’ His thumb slid over her palm, but his words grew careful, his tone even. ‘But I’ll honour your wishes. We’ll finish the matter at Gall Tír, and then I’ll take you back to Glen Omrigh.’

  Her heart seemed to grow brittle at his suggestion. She didn’t want to be brushed aside again. ‘That’s not what I want.’ Her words came out as a whisper, and Trahern took his hand away. Resting it against the wall, he touched his forehead to hers.

  ‘If you want something more—’ His mouth nipped at her ear lobe, his tongue swirling over the soft skin. Shivers poured through her, drenching down her breasts and between her thighs. She clung to him for balance, afraid her knees would buckle.

  ‘I’ll teach you whatever you want to learn.’

  She found it hard to think clearly. Against her better judgement, he was coaxing a response she’d never anticipated. Her body was acting on its own needs, ignoring the common sense of her brain. She’d inadvertently pressed herself closer to him, needing the warmth of his embrace.

  But it was still only an arrangement, Morren reminded herself. Not a true marriage. Even if he did somehow drive away the demons of her past, their paths weren’t meant to join together.

  Closing her eyes, she pushed him back. ‘Take me back to the others,’ she pleaded. ‘Let us enjoy the first night of Samhain among your family.’

  Trahern stared at her for a moment, but he gave a nod that he’d heard her. Within minutes, he escorted her down the stairs and outside again. He put on the golden mask once more, and as soon as he did, she sensed the distance widening between them. Her own mask was crumbling apart, so she let it fall to the ground.

  The atmosphere had changed during their absence, and it sent a wave of uncertainty through her. Masked men and women paired off, retiring to the shadows. Trahern’s hand rested upon her waist, and she caught a glimpse of Connor and Aileen slipping away together. The blond man looked upon his wife with the same expression of desire she’d seen in Trahern’s eyes, just
moments ago—as if he would lift the world on his shoulders for her.

  The fires burned brightly in the night sky, and around the huts turnip lanterns rested upon the doorways. Other men and women ate, drank and laughed together. Morren spied one couple kissing amidst cheers, their hands bound together with three coloured cords.

  They must have handfasted, she realised. Bound together in marriage for a year and a day. If they did not suit as husband and wife, both could be free of each other after the trial period.

  It was what Trahern had offered her—a temporary union. And though it wasn’t threatening in any way, it bothered her. He’d already admitted that after they faced the men of Gall Tír, he would end the marriage.

  He didn’t even want to try, she realised. That’s what troubled her. He treated the suggested union as one easily discarded. Her frustration heightened, for what woman wanted a marriage like that? Yet she couldn’t deny the feelings she held for him in her heart. He made her feel safe, almost beloved. It bothered her to let him go.

  In the firelight, Trahern’s mask gleamed, and though he attempted a smile when his brother Patrick greeted him, she saw the strain beneath it and a hint of guilt. Would he tell Patrick the truth of his birth, that they were not brothers? Or would it matter at all?

  They passed by a table of food, and Trahern reached for a loaf of bread. She, in turn, chose a flask of wine. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, and he chose a place for them beside one of the fires. Tearing the loaf in half, he handed her the bread. She tasted it and then took a sip of wine from the flask, passing it to him.

  His fingers brushed against hers when he took the flask, and her heartbeat quickened. In the firelight, his hair was a dark colour, still cut close to his scalp. Grey eyes watched over her, and the rest of the world seemed to slip away.

  ‘You look like an ancient god, wearing that,’ she teased, pointing towards his mask.

  His mouth didn’t smile, but he removed the mask and set it aside. ‘I’m not a god, Morren. Just a man.’

  A man she’d turned away. A soft shiver of regret flowed over her skin at the memory. Trahern had shown her that a man’s touch didn’t have to be degrading or painful. It could be something beautiful.