‘I thought I was going to die that night,’ she confessed.

Trahern took her face in his hands, touching his forehead to hers. ‘But you found the strength to live.’ For a long moment he stood with her face close to his own. Her scent entranced him like summer dew.

And when she lifted her face he needed to kiss her again. His mouth covered hers, soothing away her pain. Offering her the broken pieces of himself.

When she broke free her lips were swollen, her cheeks bright, as though she were too embarrassed to mention what had just happened between them. He didn’t know what to say.

She seemed to sense his reticence, but before she could pull her hands away her hips accidentally bumped against his. She paled, realising what reaction she’d evoked.

‘Morren—’

She stepped back, covering her face with her hands. She had gone pale, but took a deep breath. ‘Don’t say it. I wanted you to kiss me, so you didn’t break your promise. This was my fault.’

About the Author

MICHELLE WILLINGHAM grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR*

THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*

HER WARRIOR KING*

HER WARRIOR SLAVE†

THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS**

THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS**

TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR*

Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone:

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

THE WARRIOR’S FORBIDDEN VIRGIN

AN ACCIDENTAL SEDUCTION**

INNOCENT IN THE HAREM

PLEASURED BY THE VIKING

*The MacEgan Brothers †prequel to The MacEgan Brothers mini-series **linked by character

SURRENDER TO
AN IRISH WARRIOR
VOYAGE OF AN
IRISH WARRIOR

Michelle Willingham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication:

To Chuck, my wonderful husband, who challenged me

to break the rules.

Acknowledgements:

With many thanks to my editor Joanne Grant and my agent Helen Breitwieser for believing in me and encouraging me. You are both such a wonderful support, and I can’t thank you enough for everything you do.

AUTHOR NOTE

Sometimes there are difficult books which demand to be written. I knew at the end of TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR that the character of Trahern MacEgan would need his own story. As a bard and storyteller, Trahern has always had the love and support of a strong family, despite his travelling nature. When tragedy strikes his heart, he turns inwards and loses sight of the man he is. Though his compassionate spirit is buried, he finds a woman who awakens him to love.

Morren Ó Reilly is a heroine who has made difficult sacrifices to save her sister. When Trahern rescues her, they find healing in each other. He is the strength she needs, and Morren becomes his steadfast rock when unexpected secrets unfold within Trahern’s past. Their love story is filled with emotional obstacles, but even in the darkest shadow lies hope for the future.

This was one of the most challenging books I’ve ever written, but I believe deeply in this story. I hope that you will enjoy the journey of Morren and Trahern as they find happiness together.

This is the last book in the MacEgan Brothers series. Other titles include: HER WARRIOR SLAVE (prequel to the series), HER WARRIOR KING (Patrick); HER IRISH WARRIOR (Bevan); THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH (Connor) and TAMING HER IRISH WARRIOR (Ewan). As a special bonus in this book you will find a short story—Voyage of an Irish Warrior. I first wrote this story for eHarlequin.com’s website.

Visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details. I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com or write to PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA.

SURRENDER TO
AN IRISH WARRIOR

Michelle Willingham

Chapter One

Ireland—1180

The autumn wind was frigid, cutting through his cloak in a dark warning that he needed to seek shelter. Yet Trahern MacEgan hardly felt the cold. For the past season, he’d felt nothing at all, his emotions as frigid as the surrounding air.

Vengeance consumed him now, along with the fierce need to find the men who had killed Ciara. He’d left his home and family, returning to the southwest of Éireann, where the Ó Reilly tribe dwelled at Glen Omrigh.

His brothers didn’t know of his intent to find the raiders. They believed he was travelling again, to visit with friends and tell his stories. As a bard, he rarely stayed in one place for very long, so they weren’t at all suspicious.

But for this journey, he’d wanted to be alone. His brothers had their wives and children to guard. He’d never risk their safety, not when they had so much to lose. He had no one, and he preferred it that way.

The land was more mountainous here, with green hills rising from the mist. A narrow road snaked through the valley, and misty warm clouds released from his horse’s nostrils. The emptiness suited him, for he’d never expected to lose the woman he’d loved.

Earlier in the summer, Ciara’s brother, Áron, had sent word that the cashel had been attacked by Viking raiders. Ciara had been caught in the middle of the battle, struck down and killed when she’d tried to flee.

The devastating news had kept him from Glen Omrigh for months. He didn’t want to see Ciara’s grave or hear the sympathy from friends. More than anything, he needed to forget.

But time hadn’t dulled his pain, it had only heightened it. He shouldn’t have left her. The guilt consumed him, eating away at the man he was.

Hatred flowed within his veins now, suffocating the pain of loss. The anguish had been replaced with rage, a sense of purpose. He was going to find the raiders, and when he did, they would suffer the same fate Ciara had endured.

When the sun had grown lower in the sky, he set up a fire and unpacked the tent. Though he could have finished his journey to Glen Omrigh, had he continued to ride for another few hours, he preferred to spend the night alone.

The flames licked at the wood, flaring bright orange against the night sky. Tomorrow, he would reach the cashel and begin tracking his enemy.

Trahern stretched out upon his cloak, watching the fire and listening to the sounds of the evening while he ate. In the distance, he heard the faint rustling of leaves against the forest floor. Likely animals. Even so, he reached for his blade.

The movement was heavier than a squirrel or a fox. No, this was human, not an animal. Trahern clenched his sword, waiting for the person to draw closer.

Abruptly, a figure emerged from the trees. It was a young maiden, perhaps thirteen, wearing a ragged white léine and a green overdress. Dirt matted her face, and she held out her hands near the fire. She was so thin, it looked as though she hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks. Long brown hair hung to her waist, and she wore no shoes.

Jesu, her feet must be frozen.

‘Who are you?’ he asked softly. She kept her gaze averted, not answering his question. Instead, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment before she beckoned to him.

‘Come and warm yourself,’ he offered. ‘I have food to share, if you are hungry.’

She took a step towards the fire but shook her head, pointing to the trees behind her. Trahern studied the place, but saw no one. Although the girl raised her hands to warm them in front of the fire, her expression grew more fearful. Again, she gestured toward the trees.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Coughing, she moved her mouth, as though she hadn’t spoken in a long time. ‘My sister.’

Trahern rose to his feet. ‘Bring her here. She can warm herself and eat. I’ve enough for both.’ It wasn’t true, but he didn’t care if they depleted his supplies or not. Better to let the women sate their hunger, for he could always hunt.

The girl shook her head again. ‘She’s hurt.’

‘How badly?’

She didn’t answer, but beckoned to him as she walked back into the forest. Trahern eyed his horse, then the wooded hillside. Though it was faster to ride, the trees grew too close for a horse.

He had no desire to venture into the woods, particularly when it would be dark within another hour. But neither could he allow this girl to leave with no escort. Grimacing, he fashioned a torch out of a fallen branch. He slung his food supplies over one shoulder, not wanting to leave them behind.

The girl led him uphill for nearly half a mile. The ground was covered with fallen leaves, and he was careful to hold the torch aloft.

They crossed a small stream, and not far away, he spied a crude shelter, built from the remains of an old roundhouse. When they reached it he followed the girl inside.

‘What is this place?’ he murmured. Isolated from anywhere else, he couldn’t imagine why it was here.

‘A hunting shelter,’ she answered. ‘Morren found it years ago.’

Inside, the hearth was cold, the interior dark. Then, he heard the unmistakable moans of a woman. ‘Build a fire,’ he ordered the girl, handing her the torch.

Then he leaned down to examine the woman lying upon the bed. She was racked with shivers, clutching the bedcovers to her chest. Her legs jerked with pain, and when he touched her forehead, she was burning with fever.

Trahern let out a curse, for he wasn’t a healer. He could tend sword wounds or bruises, but he knew nothing about illnesses that ravaged from inside the body. The woman was in a great deal of pain, and he didn’t have any idea what to do for her.

He eyed the young girl who was busy with the fire. ‘Your sister needs a healer.’

‘We don’t have one.’ She shook her head.

Trahern sat down and removed his shoes. Though they would never fit her, it was better than nothing. ‘Put these on. Tie them if you have to.’

She hesitated, and he gentled his tone. ‘Go back to my camp and take my horse. If you ride hard for the next few hours, you can reach Glen Omrigh. Take the torch with you.’

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t even consider sending a young girl out by herself in the dark. But between the two of them, he had a greater chance of sustaining the wounded woman’s life until help arrived. Trahern had no doubt that the Ó Reilly men would accompany the girl back with the healer, once she made it there safely.

‘If you can’t make it that far, seek help at St Michael’s Abbey.’

The girl started to refuse, but Trahern levelled a dark stare at her. ‘I can’t save her alone.’

He wondered what had become of their kin. Had they been killed during the raid? Since the girl had not mentioned anyone, Trahern suspected they were alone.

Reluctance coloured her face, but at last the girl nodded. ‘I’ll find someone.’ She tied his shoes on, using strips of linen. Without another word, she seized the branch he’d used as a torch and left them alone.

It would be hours before the girl returned, and he hoped to God she wouldn’t abandon them. Trahern struggled to remember what his brother’s wife, Aileen, would have done, when healing a wounded person. He recalled how she examined the wounded person from head to toe.

‘Sometimes, you’ll find an injury where you least expect it, ‘ she’d said.

Trahern moved beside the woman. Her eyes were closed, and she shuddered when he touched her hand, as though his fingers were freezing cold.

‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘You’ll be safe now.’ He studied her closely. Though her face was thin from hunger, her lips were full. Long fair hair lay matted against her cheek. He sensed a strength beneath the delicate features, and though the fever was attacking her body, she fought it back.

She wore a ragged léine that covered her torso, and the thin fabric was hardly enough to keep anyone warm. Trahern brought his hands gently down her face, to her throat. Down her arms, he touched, searching for whatever had caused the fever.

‘Don’t,’ she whimpered, her hands trying to push him away, then falling to her sides. Her eyes remained closed, and he couldn’t tell if his touch was causing her pain or whether she was dreaming. He stopped, waiting to see if she would regain consciousness.

When she didn’t awaken, he pulled back the coverlet. It was then that he saw the reason for her agony. Blood darkened her gown below the waist. Her stomach was barely rounded from early pregnancy, and she tightened her knees together, as if struggling to stop the miscarriage.

Jesu. He murmured a silent prayer, for it was clear that he’d arrived too late. Not only was she going to lose this child, but she might also lose her life.

You have to help her, his conscience chided. He couldn’t be a coward now, simply because of his own ignorance. Nothing he did would be any worse than the pain she was already suffering.

Reluctantly, he eased up her léine, wishing he could protect her modesty somehow. ‘It’s going to be all right, a chara. I’ll do what I can to help you.’

Morren Ó Reilly opened her eyes and screamed.

Not just from the vicious cramping that tore her apart, but because of the man seated beside her, his hand holding hers.

Trahern MacEgan.

Panic cut off her breath, seizing her with fear at his touch. She wrenched her hand away from him, and thankfully, he let go. The fever still clouded her mind, and she had no memory of what had happened during the past day.

Mary, Mother of God, what was Trahern doing here? Not a trace of softness did she see in his face. Though he was still the tallest man she’d ever seen, his appearance was completely changed. He’d shaved his head and beard, which made his features stark and cold. Stone-grey eyes stared down at her, yet there was emptiness in his gaze, not fury.

Beneath his tunic, tight muscles strained against the sleeves, revealing the massive strength of a warrior. Morren’s heartbeat quaked, and she dug her hands into the mattress, wondering if Jilleen had brought him. She saw no sign of her sister.

‘The worst is over,’ he said. His voice was low, emotionless.

But it wasn’t. Not by half. Morren curled her body into a ball, the dull pain sweeping over her. Her rounded stomach was now sunken and flat. From the pile of bloodstained rags nearby, she suspected the babe was gone.

It was her punishment for all that had happened. Hot tears gathered in her eyes. No, she hadn’t wanted the child, not a permanent reminder of that awful night. But now that it was gone, she felt emptiness. A sense of loss for the innocent life that had never asked to be born from a moment of such savagery.

I would have loved you, she thought, in spite of everything.

She buried her face into the sheet, suddenly realising that she was naked beneath the covers, except for the linen between her legs.

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 another 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 warmed 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.

‘Morren?’ he whispered. ‘Are you in pain?’

She remained far away from him, but her sobs grew muffled. ‘A bad dream. That’s all.’

He didn’t know what to say. Words were meaningless after what she’d suffered. It was no wonder nightmares bothered her.

‘And your fever?’

She rolled over to look at him. Her wheat-coloured hair hung against her face, and she looked as though she’d endured a gruelling night. ‘It’s better.’ He didn’t believe her and reached out to touch her forehead.

Morren cowered from him, and he let his hand fall away. A tightness formed within him, that she was unable to bear even a simple touch.

‘I’ll be all right,’ she insisted. ‘We need to find Jilleen today.’

Though her colour had improved, he wanted her to remain abed for at least another day. She might worsen if she pushed herself too hard. ‘I know you’re feeling better, but I’d rather you stayed here. I’ll leave you with food, water and firewood before I search for your sister.’

Morren sent him a steady look. ‘If you go without me, I’ll follow you as soon as you’ve left. She’s my sister, and I need to know that she’s safe.’ With a firm stubbornness, she raised her chin and began to sit up. ‘I’m going to search for her. With or without you.’

Trahern sat up on his side of the bed, suddenly realising that his feet were beneath the sheet. Some time in the middle of the night, Morren had covered them. He hadn’t expected the kindness.

He got up and returned to the bundle of clothing he’d found earlier. From within it, he found an overdress. The colours were dull, the wool coarse and prickly, but the material would keep her warm.

Once he helped Morren to find her sister, he would bring them somewhere safe. Perhaps to another clan, if the Ó Reillys hadn’t yet rebuilt their cashel.

A cold fury spread through his veins once more, as he imagined the devastating attack the Ó Reillys must have suffered. He simply couldn’t understand why the Lochlannach had tried to destroy an entire clan. A cattle raid was one matter, but this killing went beyond all else.

He needed to understand why. And after he’d found his enemies, he vowed to avenge Ciara’s death and bring both Morren and Jilleen to safety.

Picking up his pouch of supplies, Trahern used his knife to slice through the leather. He made crude shoes out of the material, insulating them with straw. He gave Morren one set and offered the laces from his tunic to tie them on. He nodded at his cloak. ‘Wear that. You’ll need it to stay warm.’

‘It’s too cold,’ she argued. ‘You’ll need to use it yourself. And I can use the cloak that was on the bed.’

‘Take both of them. You need to stay warm more than I do.’ When she was about to protest, Trahern picked up the garment and tossed it to her. If he had to fasten it himself, he’d make her wear it.

‘St Michael’s Abbey lies a few miles to the west,’ he continued. ‘We’ll stop there to rest.’

‘There’s no need to stop on my behalf.’ Morren eased to the end of the bed and stood. The woollen clothing hung against her thin body, and Trahern knew in his gut that she would never make it to Glen Omrigh. For that matter, he wasn’t certain she would reach the abbey without collapsing.

He suspected she would push herself beyond all endurance to help her sister. He couldn’t blame her for it. For his own brothers, he’d do the same. It didn’t matter how far or how weakened he was. If a family member needed him, he’d drag his body halfway across Éireann.

‘I’ll arrange to borrow horses from the monks,’ he said, concealing his irritation about losing his own mount, Barra. With luck, he’d get the horse back. ‘That will make it easier on you.’

She seemed to accept it, and started towards the door. Trahern stopped her by offering her a cup of water and food. ‘You’re not leaving until you’ve finished this.’ Though the dried meat wasn’t appetising in the least, the fare was better than nothing. After today, he’d have to hunt for more.

Morren drank and nibbled at the venison. Though she didn’t eat enough, in his opinion, at least it was a start. When they’d finished, he walked alongside her. ‘If you start to feel weak, tell me. We’ll stop and you can rest.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Morren insisted.

Trahern wanted to take her hand, to offer her support, but he knew she’d refuse. They travelled downhill, and he could see her breath in the cold autumn air. Morren stepped carefully through the fallen leaves, grasping at tree trunks for balance.

Her pallor matched the grey sky, and more than once she stumbled. When they reached the edge of the forest, where he’d made his camp two nights earlier, she looked ready to collapse.

‘Do you want to go on?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no choice.’

Her answer didn’t suit him at all. Without asking, he lifted her into his arms. ‘Pretend you’re walking.’

She looked panicked and struggled to get away from him. ‘Put me down.’

‘If I do, you’ll faint. And we’ll travel faster this way.’ They would have to stop at St Michael’s. Already he’d abandoned the idea of travelling to Glen Omrigh. There was no chance Morren could make the journey.

He stopped walking when he saw the tension in her body. ‘I know you don’t want me to carry you. But if you can endure this for another hour, we’ll be at the abbey.’

Her gaze wouldn’t meet his, but she didn’t protest again. Fear was etched within her posture, in the way she tried to distance herself.

She weighed hardly anything, and Trahern found that it was no hardship at all to carry her. How any man could attack a woman as vulnerable as Morren was beyond his comprehension.

She had a face that most men wouldn’t notice at first, soft, with unremarkable features. But her blue eyes surprised him. Although they were weary, there was strength and determination in them, despite her physical weakness.

‘Was the abbey attacked by the Lochlannach?’ he asked. If there were other threats lingering, he needed to know of them.

‘As far as I know, our cashel was the only victim.’ Morren turned her gaze to the horizon where the rolling hills merged into the mountains. ‘I still don’t understand why we were attacked. We’ve lived in peace among the Lochlannach for so long. Some of our women married among the Norse.’

Trahern walked through the tall grasses, holding Morren close. She couldn’t seem to relax, though he’d done nothing to threaten her.

‘Tell me the rest of the story,’ she asked quietly. ‘About Dagda and Eithne.’

It was natural to slip into the tale, spinning a distraction that both of them needed. Trahern continued where he’d left off, and in the midst of his storytelling, the strained tension in her body seemed to relax.

‘The god Dagda wanted to grant his son a piece of land, when Oengus grew to manhood. But the land that Dagda wished to offer was held by a man named Elcmar. Oengus did not want to kill Elcmar, and so it was that he and his men attacked during the celebration of Samhain.

‘When Oengus conquered Elcmar, he asked to rule the land, for one day and a single night. Afterwards, both would go to Dagda and ask who should rightfully possess the land.’

Though Morren remained silent, he saw her face softening as he wove the story. Her lips tilted upwards, when he spoke of Oengus’s trickery.

‘When both men came to Dagda, the god proclaimed that it now rightfully belonged to Oengus. For Samhain is a feast where time holds no meaning. And ruling it for a day and a night during that time of celebration is to rule it for eternity.’

When he’d finished the story, the stone walls of St Michael’s emerged over the horizon, less than a mile away. Trahern set Morren down, asking, ‘Do you want to walk the rest of the distance, or shall I carry you?’ He doubted she’d want to appear like an invalid in front of the monks, but if she lacked the strength, it was no hardship to continue the rest of the way.

‘I’ll walk,’ she answered.

Made of stone, the abbey stretched high above the landscape, flanked by a round tower. Arched windows, as tall as an ordinary man, encircled the structure, but he could not see any of the brethren at first. At the bottom of the hill, a silver strand of water wove through the countryside.

Morren held the edges of her cloak around her body, to guard against the cold. ‘You’re planning on leaving me here at the monastery, aren’t you?’

‘You’re not strong enough to reach the cashel.’ It was best to grant her the protection of the Church. In this way, he could ensure her safety. ‘I’ll find your sister and bring her back to you.’

‘I want to believe you. But I don’t.’

‘You think I’m the sort of man who would leave her there alone?’ His temper flared that she would think such a thing. ‘I’m the one who sent her for help. It’s my obligation to bring her back to you.’

‘Jilleen is just a girl, a stranger to you.’ She exhaled a breath, still not trusting him. ‘What if the Lochlannach found her?’

‘Stop thinking like that. We don’t know why she didn’t return. But I promise you, I’ll find her.’

‘You’re a bard, not a warrior.’

Trahern took a step forward, using his height in an unspoken warning. Morren met his gaze, and he rested his hand upon his sword. ‘Be assured, Morren, I know how to fight. And defend.’ He’d spent years of his life practising with his brothers. Though he might be older than many, he hadn’t lost any of his abilities. If anything, his instincts were sharper.

Morren’s blue eyes faltered, and she looked away. Good. He wasn’t used to women doubting him.

‘If I had been there that night,’ he vowed, ‘each and every one of the Lochlannach fighters would be dead. They’d not have laid a hand upon you or Ciara.’

Morren’s shoulders lowered. ‘Would that it were so.’ She didn’t look at him, and he saw that words would not convince her. She picked up the long hem of his cloak and continued walking.

They travelled on in silence until they reached the stone chapel. Trahern was about to enter when he sniffed the air. The acrid scent of smoke suddenly permeated the landscape.

Morren moved to the crest of the hill, and Trahern spied billowing smoke clouds rising in the distance. From his vantage point, he saw flames rising from the fallen cashel in the distance.

‘They’re back.’ Morren’s hands moved to cover her mouth, and her face went white.

Trahern half-pushed Morren towards the chapel. From within, he heard the plain chant of the monks echoing. ‘Stay here with the brethren. I’m going after them.’

‘You have no horse,’ she protested. ‘They’ll cut you down.’

‘They won’t touch me.’ Trahern checked his weapons and cast her one final look. ‘I’m going to find out why they’ve returned. And what it is they want.’

‘Be careful,’ she urged.

He caught her hand in his. ‘Wait for me, Morren. I’ll be back by sunset.’

Chapter Three

The remains of Glen Omrigh were ghostly, with charred grasses surrounding the cashel. The wooden palisade wall was blackened and ruined in sections, the air heavy with smoke.

Trahern crouched low in the tall grasses, watching the silhouettes of two horsemen. It had taken him nearly an hour to reach the fortress, due to the hilly terrain, and the afternoon sun had already begun to drift downwards.

The invaders wore the clothing of the Lochlannach, Viking raiders by the look of it. Their long cloaks were fastened with large bronze brooches, and although the taller man wore no armour, Trahern sensed he would make a formidable opponent. His companion was shorter, with darker blond hair. Trahern grasped the hilt of his sword, while he pondered whether or not he could defeat them alone. It would be dangerous.

One of the huts was still burning, the thatch bright orange with flames. Smoke rose high into the air, the acrid scent smothering the cashel.

Trahern watched the two men as they patrolled the remaining huts, inspecting the contents. Not a single other person did he see. Any Ó Reilly survivors had abandoned the cashel.

Trahern kept one hand on his sword hilt when the men rode closer. Their faces showed displeasure, and he overheard them arguing in the Norse tongue.

They weren’t here to attack, it was clear, nor to steal the tribe’s valuables or supplies. Instead, the men’s expressions were grim, as though dissatisfied by what they saw.

Trahern moved in closer, keeping his body pressed to the ground. Dry grass tickled his face, the cold earth damp with frost. When he reached the outer palisade wall, he crept nearer to a burned section to get a better look.

One of the riders was on a familiar mount. It was Barra, the destrier that he’d paid a damned fortune for. The black horse was nervous from the smoke, prancing his feet. If the Lochlannach thief didn’t control Barra, he’d find himself on his backside.

Though Trahern wanted to attack the two men and regain his horse, logic forced him to hold back. He needed answers, and these men would lead him to them.

Within a few more minutes, the Vikings left the settlement and rode west. Trahern was torn between following them or entering the cashel to search for Jilleen Ó Reilly. Though he believed they’d taken her, he couldn’t be certain.

He cast a backward glance at the men before racing inside the cashel. Heavy smoke choked the air in his lungs, and heat blazed from the burning hut. He had only a few moments to spare before he had to follow the men.

Fate blessed him, for near the outer gate lay one of the shoes he’d given to Jilleen. Whether the girl had dropped it on purpose or whether she’d lost it didn’t matter. It confirmed that she was here. And he knew who’d taken her.

His fist curled around his sword hilt. The Lochlannach would answer for this.

Trahern picked up the shoe and ran back to the trail, running behind the men. He found a second shoe only a mile further, on the same path travelled by the riders.

When he reached the top of the next hill, he dropped low to study the men. They were travelling towards the Viking settlement along the coast. He’d seen it before, but knew he couldn’t make it there by nightfall, not without a horse.

He cursed, for he had no alternative except to turn back. He needed to borrow a mount from the monks.

Frustration shredded his patience, and he began the walk back to the abbey. Donning his own shoes once more, he imagined exactly how he would break through the Viking forces.

The abbot granted Morren the hospitality of St Michael’s, and an older monk, Brother Chrysoganus, led her to the guest house adjoining the monastery. He offered her a kindly smile and began filling a basin with water. When Morren realised he meant to bathe her feet as a gesture of welcome, she interrupted.

‘Forgive me, Brother Chrysoganus, but I would prefer to wash my own feet.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone touching her just now, even if it was a tradition.

The older man appeared surprised by her declaration, but he deferred. ‘If that is your wish.’ Offering her the basin, he added, ‘I must join the others for none. If you have need of anything afterwards, you’ve only to ask.’

Morren nodded, unwrapping the leather shoes Trahern had made for her. She rested her bare feet in the warm water.

‘Thank you, Brother.’ After he’d gone, she bathed her feet and let them sit in the warm water for a few minutes.

The bells sounded for none, and she heard the monks’ voices rising and falling in plain chant. The simple tones were soothing, but when her hands moved over her skin, she started to tremble.

Dark memories pulled her down, the men’s faces taunting her. Morren tried to block it out, but the nightmare of the attack returned. She lowered her head, nausea forming in her stomach. God help her, she couldn’t bear this. Her hands moved to her empty stomach, and the coldness seemed to envelop her, drowning her.

Don’t think of it, she warned herself. Forget.

Closing her eyes, she removed her feet from the basin and sank to her knees. The haunting voices of the monks echoed within the stone chapel, their prayers rising into the air. The coldness swallowed her up, taking her back into the numbness that she needed to survive. There had been no one to save her, no mercy. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such a fate.

Worse, there had come a time when she’d stopped fighting. She’d lain there, staring at the dark sky, waiting for it to be over. Shame swelled up inside her, for she should have struggled. Used her fists, her teeth—anything.

Instead, she’d prayed to die.

Her gaze fell upon the crude shoes lying beside the basin. Trahern had fashioned them for her, not wanting her to suffer from the cold. A hard lump formed in her throat at his kind gesture.

She suspected he wasn’t coming back. Though he’d sworn he’d return at sunset, she wasn’t certain he would keep his word. Her hands clenched together, and Morren forced herself to rise. Leaving the guest chamber behind, she stumbled to the one place that would offer sanctuary to her troubled thoughts: the garden.

Inside the monks’ small courtyard there were neatly tended plots that had not a single weed. A few heads of cabbage were left behind, along with herbs. In the corner, tucked away behind one of the apple trees, she saw an abandoned garden.

It was covered in dead weeds, left alone to grow over. Perhaps the monks no longer had a need for it, but she longed for something useful to do.

Over the next few hours, Morren busied herself clearing out the waste, working the good nutrients back into the barren soil. Perhaps, in the spring, they might find a purpose for the bed. The soil needed to rest through the winter, but in spring it would yield a good harvest if someone tended to it.

The distraction did nothing to cease her worry for Trahern. Likely another attack was happening at the cashel right now. He was alone, and though his strength was undeniable, if the Lochlannach found him they would kill him.

The thought made her nerves constrict tighter, and Morren voiced a silent prayer for his welfare. Though Trahern was hardly more than a stranger to her, he’d saved her life. If he hadn’t been there to tend her, she’d have bled to death.

She only wished he hadn’t sent her sister for help. Jilleen was her only family, her only companionship. Without her, Morren had no one.

She ripped out the weeds from the roots, as though she could tear out her own frustrations and fears. She longed to return to the cashel, to see for herself the extent of the damage, but her body couldn’t endure it. Even now, she fought the dizziness that threatened her vision with bright spots.

She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but in time Brother Chrysoganus brought her a simple repast of bread and cheese. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’

‘Thank you, Brother.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts, realising she was hungrier than she’d thought. ‘I hope you don’t mind I spent my time working.’

Chrysoganus leaned heavily upon his walking stick, inspecting her efforts. ‘Not at all. I fear we’ve let that particular plot go fallow, but now that you’ve cleared it back, we’ll find a use for it. Thank you for your labour.’ He peered closer at the earth. ‘My hands can’t pull the weeds as easily as I’d like. Often the gardening falls to the younger brethren.’

Morren softened at his thanks, offering a tentative smile. Since she had no silver or possessions to offer the monastery in return for their hospitality, her skill was all she could give.

‘I’ve saved the weeds in a small pile over there,’ she said. ‘Cover them with leaves, and in the spring till the mixture into the soil, along with animal droppings,’ she advised. ‘Your garden will give you a good harvest.’

His craggy face formed an amused smile. ‘Will it, now?’

She rested her dirty palms on her lap and nodded. Broaching the subject she feared, she asked, ‘Have the fires in the cashel stopped?’

Chrysoganus’s smile faded, and he sat down upon a large, flat stone near the edge of the garden. ‘No, not yet. We don’t know who started them, but it must have happened early this morning.’

‘Not everyone died in the attack,’ Morren said slowly. ‘Why didn’t the survivors come here?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t be certain. We prepared the guest house, in anticipation of their arrival, but you and your companion have been the only folk we saw.’

How could it be that not a single person had taken sanctuary in the abbey? The fear she’d held back was starting to intensify. She’d wanted to believe that she could bring Jilleen back home, that they could find their place again and start over. But it was more likely that everyone was gone.

She looked into Brother Chrysoganus’s sympathetic brown eyes. ‘My travelling companion, Trahern MacEgan, went to look for my sister. He promised to return at sunset.’

‘I will see to it that accommodation is prepared for him.’ The monk inclined his head in a silent farewell as he took his leave.

After he’d left, Morren rose. Though her body ached and she still felt weak, she forced herself to walk to the tallest point of the abbey grounds. She needed to see her home, though it had been destroyed.

Each step was a struggle, and when at last she reached the topmost point of the hill in front of the abbey, she peered down and saw a rider approaching, a spear in his hand.

But it wasn’t Trahern.

Gunnar Dalrata knew he’d been followed. It was only out of sheer luck that he’d happened to see the grass ripple before his eyes, otherwise he’d not have seen the intruder watching them from outside the cashel.

He gripped his spear tighter and eyed his brother. Hoskuld didn’t seem to notice, but Gunnar remained a few paces behind. Glancing backwards, he spied the runner.

An Irishman. Had he been one of the Ó Reilly survivors?

Gunnar thought about alerting Hoskuld, but for what purpose? The Irishman had done nothing, except observe. He might have been looking for the girl they’d taken yesterday.

They crested the hill, and still the man pursued them. Was he planning to follow them to the settlement on foot? With another glance, Gunnar saw that the intruder had stopped at the top of the hill. Moments later, the man turned back.

Gunnar brought his horse alongside Hoskuld’s. ‘Someone was following us. I want to know why.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No. The man is on foot and unarmed from what I can tell. I want to question him.’

‘Bring him with you,’ Hoskuld suggested.

Gunnar’s expression turned grim. ‘I might.’ He quickened the pace of his mount, riding hard. He was about to overtake the Irishman when he happened to look up. The man was moving in the direction of St Michael’s Abbey, and in the distance, he saw the reason.

A woman stood at the top of the hill in front of the abbey. She was waiting for the man, and as Gunnar rode past, he saw the sudden fear and fury overtake the man’s expression.

It intrigued him. Perhaps the best way to get his answers was to await the man at the abbey. With his spear gripped in his hand, he rode up the hill to St Michael’s.

He saw the woman at closer range then. With fair hair and a quiet sort of beauty, her face would make any man want to fight for her. But when she caught sight of him, she fled.

Gunnar wheeled his horse back, keeping his spear aloft. When the Irishman arrived, he would be waiting.

Trahern tore up the hillside, his legs taking long strides. Anger gave him a speed he normally wouldn’t have. By God, he’d murder the Viking where he stood if he laid a hand on Morren.

It was the longest mile he’d ever run in his entire life. Fear punctuated his stride, along with guilt at having left her. Jesu, he shouldn’t have let Morren remain behind.

As he reached the top, he saw Morren disappear towards the chapel. Thank God, she’d had the good sense not to remain. He hardly felt his own exhaustion as he lunged towards the waiting rider. Energy roared through him as he seized the man’s spear and tossed it aside, dragging the Viking from his horse.

His enemy weighed nearly as much as he did, and Trahern grimaced when the man used his own strength to knock him to the ground.

‘I don’t like being followed,’ the man remarked, his voice heavy with a Norse accent. He twisted, wrestling Trahern to the side.

‘Neither do I.’ Trahern grunted, throwing the man off him. When the Viking stood up straight, he was startled to realise that they were the same height. Few men were as tall as himself, and even fewer possessed his strength.

The man’s gaze narrowed, and both of them saw the resemblance at the same time.

‘You’re one of us, aren’t you?’ the foreigner murmured. ‘I didn’t expect it.’

Trahern unsheathed his sword. ‘I’m not a damned Lochlannach, no.’

‘Then you haven’t looked at yourself recently.’ The man drew his own sword. ‘Why were you following me?’

‘Where is the girl?’ Trahern countered, swinging his weapon hard. The Norseman met his blow, blocking it.

A long blade came arcing towards his head, and Trahern sidestepped to avoid it, deflecting the slice with his own weapon.

‘I suppose you mean the one we found at the cashel yesterday,’ the man replied. ‘She’s at our settlement. But I don’t know if I’ll let you follow us there. Not with the kind of welcome you’ve given me.’ He lunged forward, his blade thrusting at Trahern’s gut in a physical challenge.

Trahern parried it, steadying his balance before he renewed the attack. He focused upon the fight, letting his training flow through him, meeting blow for blow. Sweat gleamed upon his skin, but he drove the man back.

When his blade nicked his opponent’s shoulder, satisfaction rippled through him. He’d been waiting half a year for this. He only wished he could fight against the other invaders, killing all of them.

He poured his rage, his grief, into the fight. It didn’t matter to him that they were standing upon holy ground, that it was a sin against God to fight here. This man had slaughtered innocents, like Ciara. He’d violated women, and he deserved to die.

Behind the Viking, he spied Morren walking slowly. The folds of her gown draped over her thin body, and she gripped the edges of the borrowed cloak. The hood had slid down, revealing her golden hair. Fear and horror washed over her face.

It renewed his strength, and Trahern slashed a brutal blow toward his enemy’s blade, sending the weapon spinning until it landed in the grass. The man’s look of surprise changed to grim acceptance, when Trahern grasped him by the hair, fitting his sword to his enemy’s throat.

Staring hard at Morren, Trahern demanded, ‘Did this man dishonour you?’

Chapter Four

All the blood had left her face, and Morren knew without question that the Viking was going to die at Trahern’s hands. His life depended upon her answer.

‘No,’ she whispered. Then louder, ‘No, he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t there that night.’ She kept her voice steady, hoping he would believe her.

Trahern’s iron gaze pierced her. ‘Don’t lie. He deserves to die for what he did.’ The blade remained tight at the Norseman’s throat.

‘I’m not lying.’ Though she didn’t want to draw closer, she forced herself to intervene. When she stood within an arm’s length of them, she pleaded, ‘Let him go, Trahern.’

It was clear he didn’t want to. She took another step closer, but he snarled, ‘Stay back.’

There was no mercy on his face, and she feared he wouldn’t listen to her words. She looked into his grey eyes, waiting. Letting him see that her words were true. The wildness in his demeanour was hanging on edge, as if he were fighting against the instinct to kill.

‘Let him go,’ she repeated.

Moments seemed to border on eternity. After a long pause, Trahern lowered his blade. Shoving the man away, he sheathed his weapon.

Morren breathed a little easier. The Viking wiped at the blood on his shoulder, and sent her a grateful look. ‘Thank you for my life, fair one.’

She recognised the interest behind his compliment. With dark grey eyes and blond hair, many women would call the Lochlannach handsome.

Not her. She had no interest in any man, especially not a Viking.

‘Who are you, and why were you at the cashel?’ she asked.

‘I am Gunnar Dalrata. And we were obeying the orders of our chief.’ He cast a glance at Trahern, wiping the blood at his shoulder. The wound didn’t appear deep, and the man hardly paid it any more heed than a scratch. ‘We were looking for more survivors, like the girl we found yesterday.’

‘Jilleen,’ Morren breathed, her heartbeat quickening. ‘Where did you take her?’

‘We took her to our longphort,’ Gunnar said. ‘You are welcome to join her. I’ll provide you with an escort.’

‘Morren will go nowhere with you.’ Trahern moved beside her, like a silent shield. His hand rested upon his sword hilt, poised to defend her. He looked as though he’d rather tear the Viking apart rather than release him.

‘The girl you found is my sister,’ Morren told Gunnar. ‘Please, let her go. She’s done nothing wrong.’

‘She is not a captive,’ Gunnar argued. ‘But we didn’t want her wandering out alone. We brought her with us when she asked for our healer.’ He studied her, his grey eyes narrowing with concern.

Morren held on to her waist, refusing to explain. Though the bleeding had nearly stopped, she didn’t feel like herself any more. It was as though she were hollowed out inside, with hardly anything left.

The day had taken its toll upon her, and though she didn’t want to feel any sort of weakness, she hadn’t recovered as quickly as she’d wanted to. And worse, Trahern seemed to sense it.

He kept his gaze fixed upon Gunnar, but his words were meant for her. ‘We’ll go to the settlement at dawn and bring back Jilleen.’

‘We should go with him now,’ Morren insisted.

‘You’re too weak to make the journey. Give it one more night.’ Trahern sent Gunner a dark look. ‘Unless you want me to go back with him.’

She hesitated. A part of her resisted the idea of leaving Jilleen for one more night, especially when she didn’t know whether or not her sister was all right. Then again, she hardly trusted Trahern not to get himself killed on account of his temper.

‘She’s unharmed,’ Gunnar said. ‘I promise you that.’

Morren stared at the Lochlannach, but he didn’t appear to be lying. His grey eyes held sincerity, and he added, ‘The rest of the Ó Reilly tribe sought sanctuary with us.’ He sent a distasteful look back towards the church.

The monks had begun returning from prayer, and the abbot quickened his pace at the sight of them. His face curdled with unspoken anger, and he reached for the long cross hanging around his neck as if warding off demons.

A grim expression formed upon his face when he reached them. Several of the other monks flanked him, as if in silent protection. Morren took a step back, distancing herself from the men.

‘I’ll return to the longphort and let them know to expect you,’ Gunnar said, whistling for his horse. He spoke not a word in greeting to the abbot, but gave a cold nod.

Before he could mount, Trahern interrupted. ‘I’ll be wanting my horse back.’

The edges of the Norseman’s mouth curved up. ‘Come and fetch him, then.’

A cloud drifted across the afternoon sun, shadowing the abbot’s face. Trahern inclined his head. ‘My apologies, Father.’

The abbot folded his arms. ‘To shed blood upon holy ground is a sin.’

The chastising tone in the priest’s voice seemed to stoke Trahern’s anger. Morren took another step away while the two men confronted each other.

Trahern’s height towered over the diminutive abbot. His grey eyes turned to granite. ‘I granted him mercy.’

The two men locked gazes, with the abbot making the sign of the cross. It seemed less like a blessing and more like an absolution, Morren thought.

‘There is still hatred in your heart.’

‘And there it will remain, until every last one of them is dead.’ When Trahern turned back to her, she saw the pain cloaked behind his anger.

It frightened her to see him so intent upon vengeance. She doubted if he cared anything at all for his soul.

He’s as lost as I am.

Trahern hardly spoke to Morren the rest of the night. God above, he didn’t know what was happening to him. It was as if he’d stepped outside himself, becoming a man who cared about nothing. He’d almost murdered the Norseman, simply because of the man’s heritage.

It didn’t seem to matter that Gunnar Dalrata hadn’t been there on the night of the attack. Everything about the man grated upon him, like sand in an open wound.

Innocent women had suffered and died on the night of the attack, due to men like Gunnar. The blood lust had seized him with the need to avenge, the need to kill. But Morren’s voice had broken through the madness, soothing the beast.

He moved to sit at the low wooden table at the centre of the room. The interior of the guest house was not large, but there were six pallets set up within the space, three on either side with the table to separate them.

The remains of their meal lay upon the table, and Trahern frowned at how little Morren had eaten. It was hardly enough to keep a child alive, much less a woman.

He’d wanted to pursue the Lochlannach tonight, but there was no chance Morren could endure the journey. If he ventured further than five miles, no doubt she would collapse.

She stepped quietly to a pallet on the far side, lying down with her back to him. Delicate and fragile, he didn’t miss the worry that burdened her. Despite her physical weakness, there was no doubt of her determination to reach her sister.

Trahern poured water into a wooden bowl and splashed it on his face. Water trickled down his stubbled cheeks, and he felt the prickle of hair forming on his scalp and beard. Though most Irishmen prided themselves on their hair and beards, he wanted to strip it all away.

He didn’t want warmth or comfort—only the cold reminder of what he’d lost.

With his blade, he shaved off the hair, never minding the nicks upon his flesh. Without it, he appeared more fearsome. Different from the others, a man not to be trusted. If changing his physical appearance kept others away from him, so be it.

When it was done, he set the knife back on the table, a flicker of light gleaming off the blade. There were traces of his blood upon it, but he didn’t care.

He poured more water into the wooden bowl, using his palms to spill more of it over his head, the droplets washing away the blood. The remaining water in the bowl rippled, then fell still. In the reflection, he saw his angry features, the monster who lived for violence. A man who no longer cared if he lived or died.

A man who looked like one of the Vikings.

Trahern wanted to hurl the bowl across the room, because he wanted nothing to do with them. They were savage murderers, not men. He loathed the fact that their appearances were similar.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, for his great-uncle Tharand had been a Lochlannach, as well as his mother’s father. Even so, he’d never truly compared himself to the foreigners. But when he’d battled against Gunnar, for the first time he’d not looked down upon his enemy. They were the same height, the same build. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Jesu, how could he even consider bringing Morren into their settlement? She’d endured enough suffering. It was best to leave her here, where she wouldn’t have to face the men who had harmed her.

But then he’d never know who the raiders were. Without her, he couldn’t identify them. Trahern gritted his teeth, fingering his dagger before sheathing the blade. There was no choice but to bring her.

He risked a glance at her sleeping form on the opposite side of the guest house. Like a ghostly spirit, Morren appeared caught between the worlds of the living and the dead. Though she claimed she wanted to live, to take care of her sister, after the horror she had endured he wondered if she would ever find contentment in her life.

She rolled over, her golden hair veiling one cheek. She slept with her hands clenched on the coverlet, as though she were still trying to defend herself.

He wondered if she preferred him to sleep far away from her. Or was it better to remain nearby, to keep her safe, if any other guests arrived at the monastery?

To avoid making a decision, he spent time clearing away the dishes and leftover food. Silence descended over the abbey, with all the monks asleep until vigils, which would begin in a few hours.

He chose the pallet furthest from Morren, deciding it would make her more comfortable. Stretching out on the fur coverlet, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

In his mind, he saw Ciara’s face. Her spirit haunted him, with a smile that tore him apart.

I love you, she’d whispered in his ear on the morning he’d left. He’d kissed her goodbye, never suspecting that it was the last time he’d ever hold her in his arms. So many things he’d never said. He hadn’t told her that he’d loved her. And now, she’d never know it.

He shifted restlessly on his pallet and turned to find Morren watching him.

‘I can’t sleep,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve tried, but I’m too worried about Jilleen.’

Trahern stood and crossed the room, sitting down upon one of the pallets close by. He stretched out beside her, careful to keep a physical distance from her. He propped up his head on one elbow, watching her. ‘Are you afraid of visiting the Lochlannach?’

Her mouth tightened, and she nodded. ‘Yes. I know Gunnar said she wasn’t a captive, but if that were true, why didn’t she come back? Why didn’t they send their healer?’

‘I don’t know. But we’ll find out tomorrow.’ He studied her, and her blue eyes filled with worry. ‘If you’d feel safer staying behind, I promise I’ll bring her back to you.’

Morren sat up, drawing her knees close. ‘You shouldn’t go alone.’ Her arms tightened around her knees, and she lowered her forehead. He suspected she didn’t trust him to keep his word from the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

‘I wish I were stronger,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid that the longer I wait, the more danger Jilleen faces. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have left.’

‘Tomorrow,’ he promised. ‘We’ll get her back.’ A grim feeling slid over him, and he added, ‘I suppose we should have kept Gunnar as a hostage.’

‘No. You were right to release him.’ She met his gaze. ‘And I rather doubt the monks would have allowed it.’

He shot her a sidelong smile. ‘No? Perhaps with a generous gift to the monastery, they would turn a blind eye.’

Morren shook her head, her mouth softening. Clearly she thought he was teasing, and though that wasn’t entirely true, it eased the tension. ‘Gunnar owes you a debt now,’ she added. ‘It may keep us both safe.’

‘The Lochlannach have no honour.’

She started to speak, but fell silent, almost as if she wanted to argue with him but had changed her mind.

Trahern leaned back, staring at the ceiling. ‘I don’t like bringing you there. I think you should stay here at the abbey.’

‘I’ll be all right. With each day, my strength improves.’

He didn’t think it was enough. ‘We’ll borrow horses. And if there’s any sign of danger, I’m sending you back.’ He could defend them long enough for her to get to safety, of that he was certain.

Morren laid back down, and he wondered suddenly why the monks had left them alone in the guest house. In an intimate space such as this, it seemed too close. He could smell the fragrance of Morren’s skin, like crushed rosemary. It intrigued him, and he found himself staring at her. Her features were soft, with clear blue eyes and fair hair that fell below her shoulders, as though she’d cut it a few years back. Her nose had a slight tilt, an imperfection that drew his attention to her mouth.

He forced his gaze away, rising from the pallet and stalking towards the fire. He added more peat, regaining control of his errant thoughts. What was the matter with him? He supposed his response was because he hadn’t been with anyone since Ciara. He wasn’t a damned monk, able to shut out his body’s instincts.

‘Are you all right?’ Morren asked, sitting up again.

‘Yes.’ He poked at the fire, though it needed no tending. ‘I wanted to ensure that the fire would last for the night.’

He returned to the pallet, rolling onto his stomach. He did his best to shut her out, but he sensed she was still awake.

‘I’d ask you to tell me more of your story,’ she murmured, ‘but I can see that you’re tired.’

Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. ‘In the morning, perhaps.’ He could easily have continued the tale of Eithne and Dagda, but telling stories would only intensify the connection with her. And the truth was, he didn’t want her watching him with those blue eyes. Though he had no intention of laying a finger upon her, he couldn’t deny that she was beautiful.

‘It was a sword,’ she said softly.

‘What was?’

‘Ciara. You asked me how she died, and I promised to tell you if you helped my sister.’

His fingers dug into the pallet, his lungs tight. He couldn’t speak, feeling as though a stone were crushing him. But the need to know was greater than his desire for secrets.

‘She was cut down by one of their swordsmen,’ Morren said. ‘I don’t think he meant to strike her, but she was fleeing behind the man when he swung his weapon.’

‘Did she suffer?’ He couldn’t stop the question, though he feared the answer.

‘It was quick.’

The words granted him a slight reprieve, but he didn’t release his tight grip upon the pallet. Though he’d give anything in his power to have Ciara back, if she’d had to die, at least she hadn’t lingered.

‘Thank you,’ he said. And meant it. He’d tormented himself with images of her death, wishing to God he knew what had happened. Hearing the truth made it somewhat easier to bear.

‘She was a friend,’ Morren added. ‘And you gave her happiness. She often spoke of how much she loved you.’

The invisible grip around his heart squeezed tighter. A thickness rose in his throat, and he felt the need to leave.

Without a word of explanation, Trahern threw open the door and strode outside. He stumbled through the darkness, the night enfolding him. A lonely cross rested upon the hillside, shadowed in the moonlight.

He fell to his knees before it, the pain of loss suffocating him. He might die tomorrow, killing the bastards who’d taken her life. And God help him, he didn’t care.

Whether minutes or an hour passed, he didn’t know. But he sensed Morren’s presence standing behind him. Her hand settled upon his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. He knew what it cost her, to reach out with a physical touch.

‘Go back to the guest house,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you later.’

Her fingers squeezed his shoulder, and she obeyed.

In the distance, Trahern heard the faint sound of the monks’ footsteps as they returned to the chapel for vigils.

In the morning, Morren was feeling better, and she had no doubt she could finish the journey this time. Trahern had arranged to borrow horses from the monks, with the promise to return them within a few days.

They rode south, and along the way, she saw Trahern’s face tighten with restrained anger. He didn’t speak to her; outwardly, it appeared that countless plans and strategies consumed his mind.

In his expression, she saw vengeance. He believed he would find the Lochlannach who were responsible for the attack, and that she would be able to identify the guilty men.

A shiver passed over her. Although the men deserved to die for what they’d done, she’d never wanted to be an executioner. Morren slowed her pace, torn between wanting her own vengeance and wanting to forget.

Trahern drew back, turning concerned. He handed her the water bag. ‘You’re looking pale. Would you rather go back?’

‘No. I’m all right.’ It wasn’t physical weakness that bothered her; it was her own fear of what would happen when they reached the longphort.

After a drink, she handed back the water bag and took the reins again. ‘It’s not far. We’ll be there in less than an hour.’ Before Trahern could argue, she urged her horse into a walk, forcing him to follow. No matter what the danger was, she couldn’t leave Jilleen alone.

Trahern brought his horse alongside hers, and though he didn’t protest, she caught him watching her. A few cuts marred his chin and scalp where he’d shaved the hair off again. With his size and fierce appearance, she had no doubt he would intimidate many of the Vikings.

Yet she’d seen a different side to him. Last night, he’d remained outside until vigils was finished. Gone was the hardened warrior and in his place was a man consumed by grief. A part of her had wanted to bring him peace. Without thinking, she’d touched his shoulder.

His skin had been warm, the muscles tight and knotted. He’d flinched with shock, but then relaxed when he saw that it was her.

She’d almost pulled back her hand but didn’t. Instead, she’d squeezed his shoulder. It had been an impulse, born from a fleeting moment when he’d needed comfort. When she’d returned alone to her pallet, her cheeks had burned with embarrassment. Would he understand that it was friendship she’d offered, nothing more?

Bitterly, she turned her head against the wind, staring into the empty horizon. She knew full well that she was forever damaged, a woman no man would ever want.

Her hand moved to her barren stomach, and a tendril of sorrow took root. Once, she’d dreamed of becoming a mother.

Of feeling soft arms wrap around her neck, a child’s cheek resting upon hers.

The ache of emptiness became a physical pain within her womb. And then it rose into anger.

Those men had taken away the promise of any other children. Never before had she thought of it in that way.

Her knuckles tightened upon the reins, the unfettered rage battering against the shield of calm she’d wrapped around herself.

Don’t think of it. Put it in the past, where it belongs.

But when she met Trahern’s dark gaze, she saw the reflection of herself in his eyes.

Chapter Five

The longphort rested a few miles inland from Beanntraí, along the river and facing the south-west coast. Vivid blue water nestled against the shoreline, while in the distance, shadowed mountains hovered. Although the structure had been built centuries earlier, the Vikings had continually expanded, adding stone outbuildings to the settlement.

Trahern examined the longphort with the eyes of an invader, looking for flaws. From their elevated vantage point, he could see inside the fortress. Three circular outer walls formed multiple layers of defence, with deep gullies between each fosse. The interior longhouses were arranged in quadrants, each set of dwellings forming a square. Most rested on raised platforms to avoid flooding.

At a closer look, Trahern saw at least a dozen men stationed at all points around the outer palisade. It would not be easy to infiltrate.

But then, they wouldn’t have to. Gunnar had invited them here, presumably to join the survivors. Trahern’s suspicions sharpened. He’d promised himself that if any danger threatened Morren, he’d send her back to the abbey without hesitation.

He brought his horse alongside hers. ‘Are you ready?’

‘I am.’ Upon her face, he saw a renewed willpower. Though she still hadn’t fully recovered, Morren looked ready to do battle on behalf of her sister.

Before she could ride forward, Trahern rested his hand upon her horse. ‘Stay close to me. I don’t want you endangering yourself. If you see one of the raiders, tell me. I’ll take care of him.’

He shielded her as he took the lead, riding inside. Though it was brutally cold, he was numb to the elements. Vengeance warmed his blood as he thought of the men who had murdered Ciara and violated Morren. They would answer for their crimes with their lives.

When they reached the first outer wall, armed men held their spears aloft in a silent threat. Trahern met their guarded gazes with his own. But when they spied Morren, there was hesitation in their stance.

He stopped at the first gate, knowing that word would spread of their arrival. He kept his hand firmly upon his sword, waiting quietly. The enemy guards never broke eye contact, and neither did he.

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed before he spied Gunnar striding towards them. The Viking kept one hand upon his sword, seemingly unconcerned that he was on foot while Trahern and Morren had the advantage of being on horseback.

‘I see you decided to join us,’ he greeted them. With a glance at Morren, he added, ‘Your sister awaits you within my brother’s house.’

Morren’s mouth tightened in a line, as though she wanted to run Gunnar through with a weapon of her own. ‘I want to see Jilleen now.’

‘Follow me,’ Gunnar bade them. He gestured to two older boys, ordering them to come and take the horses.

Trahern dismounted and reached over to help Morren down. He didn’t keep his hands at her waist any longer than was necessary, and Morren’s face showed relief when he released her from his touch.

She kept his cloak tightly wrapped around her, as though she could shut out all the bad memories. Not once did she look at him.

Trahern didn’t like seeing any woman retreat inside herself this way, and it renewed his anger. He remained beside Morren, ignoring the silent stares of those they passed. No one else spoke to them, and tension coloured their arrival.

‘Morren.’ A young man approached, nodding his head in greeting. It was one of the Ó Reillys, Trahern guessed.

Morren started at his voice, her face flooding with embarrassment. She kept her gaze averted, as though afraid of what else he might say to her.

Trahern led her away, following Gunnar deeper into the longphort. Other clan members spoke to Morren as she passed, and most appeared surprised to see her. Did they know what had happened to her on the night of the attack? It didn’t seem so.

Trahern planned to speak with the survivors in private, to determine why they had come to dwell among the Vikings. The lack of fear or anxiety among the people was startling. They behaved as though they were among family and friends, not the enemy.

He couldn’t understand it. Distrust curled up inside him, and he stared at the Ó Reillys, wondering what had led them here, of all places.

When they reached one of the longhouses within the centre of the longphort, Gunnar led them inside. A fire warmed the interior while the yeasty scent of bread emanated from a covered pan. Two other men were engaged in conversation, and an older woman sat with Jilleen, her watchful gaze unmistakable.

When Morren saw her sister, she ran forward, embracing her tightly. Jilleen held still at first, but then gripped Morren hard. Silent tears streamed down her face.

‘Are you all right?’ Morren demanded. ‘Have they taken care of you?’ Jilleen nodded, her face pale.

Trahern moved closer, keeping a close watch on the older woman. ‘What happened?’

‘Gunnar found her wandering around Glen Omrigh,’ the older woman interrupted. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘How could you have let a young girl go off traveling alone? Don’t you know what might have happened to her?’

He knew the risk, but there had been no choice. Morren would have bled to death, had he left her alone. He had no intention of justifying himself to a Lochlannach, however, and he bit back his own retort. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Katla Dalrata,’ the woman answered. Fine lines etched her eyes, and he guessed she was slightly older than himself. She reached out to touch Jilleen’s shoulder. ‘You should be thankful that we found her.’

He recognised the scolding for what it was—concern over Jilleen’s welfare. For that reason, he took no offence and refused to respond to the chastisement.

‘I’m sorry, Morren.’ More tears welled up in Jilleen’s eyes. ‘They wouldn’t let me leave.’

‘Hush. It’s all right. I’m fine now.’ Morren pulled her sister back into a hug, soothing her. ‘Trahern took care of me.’

Her gaze met his in a silent plea not to say anything more. He wasn’t about to make a thirteen-year-old girl feel any guiltier than she already did. With a slight nod of his head, he gave Morren his promise.

The fierce loyalty she felt towards Jilleen was something he understood. The bond between family was unbreakable. But even as Morren murmured to her sister, stroking her back in comfort, her eyes didn’t leave his.

There was thankfulness there, a softness he hadn’t seen before, lining the curve of her jaw. Without meaning to, he found himself studying her mouth. The barest flush of rose tinted the skin, her lips unremarkable, yet they drew his attention.

He snapped his attention back to Gunnar, feeling his own cheeks grow warm. ‘Why did the Ó Reillys come here? I can’t imagine that they would want anything to do with the Lochlannach.’

Gunnar’s stance turned defensive. ‘We offered to help them rebuild after we learned what had happened. Most of their homes were destroyed by fire, and we gave them a place to stay.’

Trahern didn’t for a moment believe that was true. ‘I saw you at the cashel yesterday. You set the remaining homes on fire, didn’t you?’

The Viking didn’t deny it. ‘It’s easier to rebuild when the old wood is gone. Our chief ordered us to burn the remains in order to clear out the rest.’

It seemed entirely too convenient. ‘If that were true, why wouldn’t you have done it months ago? Why wait until now to rebuild?’ There was no conceivable reason to wait.

Gunnar’s expression tightened. ‘There weren’t enough of the Ó Reillys at first. Only three, before the other survivors joined us.’ He looked angry at having to explain himself. ‘We’ve gone back every day, and more of them are returning.’

‘How many Ó Reillys are there now?’

‘About a dozen.’ Gunnar’s gaze turned hard. ‘Whether or not you believe our intentions doesn’t matter. The Ó Reillys are here, and we’ve chosen to help them.’

‘They could have gone to the abbey,’ Trahern argued.

‘True enough,’ Gunnar acceded, ‘but they chose not to. They preferred not to be indebted to the abbot.’

‘Why?’

‘More tithes,’ was all Gunnar would say. His hand moved to the battle-axe slung at his waist. ‘Enough questions. You’ve found the girl, and if that’s what you wanted, you can take her and leave.’

‘What I want is to find the men who attacked and bring them to justice.’ Trahern let his own hand drift down to his waist, settling upon the hilt of his sword. ‘If they are among your kinsmen, be assured, I’ll find them.’

Or Morren would. Inwardly, he tensed at the thought of her having to face her attackers. She shouldn’t have to.

‘Our men were not responsible,’ Gunnar insisted. ‘And we’ve already sent men to investigate the settlements nearby.’

‘Why would you? If what you say is true, it’s not your affair.’

‘It is, when my kinsmen are accused of trying to annihilate an Irish clan. The peace between us is fragile enough.’

‘With reason.’

Gunnar shook his head in disgust and pushed the door open. ‘The Ó Reillys trust us to help them. You should do the same.’

He wouldn’t trust a Lochlannach with a dog, but Trahern didn’t say so. As it was, he intended to take Morren and her sister away from this place as soon as possible.

‘I’m beginning to wonder if Gunnar was telling the truth,’ Morren whispered to Trahern, as they shared a meal that night among the other Lochlannach. ‘I haven’t seen any of the men who were there on the night of the attack.’

She’d studied each of the Vikings, but none of the men had the faces that haunted her dreams. The survivors of her clan appeared unconcerned, which reassured her. Enough of her people had seen the raiders with their own eyes, and it was doubtful that the enemy was here.

Even so, she found it hard to relax. She kept searching the unfamiliar faces, the hard knot of fear tight within her stomach, mingled with hunger.

Trahern had hardly touched any of his food. He eyed the Vikings as though expecting them to attack at any moment. ‘I don’t trust them.’

He picked at a bit of fish with his dagger, but his grip remained tight on the weapon. ‘This is the closest Lochlannach settlement, Morren. Someone here was involved.’

His dark insistence sent a chill over her, for a part of her wanted to believe that she might be safe here, with her people.

‘I hope you’re wrong.’ She turned her attention back to the food, his black mood shadowing her own. To distract herself, she finished the remainder of the fish and drank the sweetly fermented mead.

Jilleen sat beside her, hardly speaking at all. Though they had spent several hours together, her sister had remained quiet and had withdrawn inside herself, like a shadow.

Not once did Jilleen make eye contact with anyone, and

Morren realised she’d been wrong to hide with her sister. By isolating both of them, she’d made it even harder for her sister to rejoin the Ó Reilly survivors.

Regrets filled her up inside, but she couldn’t dwell upon them. She had to look after Jilleen and give both of them the best possible life. Their parents were dead, so it fell upon her shoulders to plan their futures.

The very thought was overwhelming. To distract herself, Morren reached for a honey cake that was topped with dried apple slices. The flaky crust melted on her tongue, the apples mingling with the sweetness of the honey. She closed her eyes, licking her fingertips and savouring the intense flavours. It had been so long since they’d had good food.

When Morren opened her eyes, Trahern’s expression had transformed suddenly. His mouth formed a tight line, his grey eyes hooded. He gripped the edge of the low table, and an unexpected flush crossed over her. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned away, and anger lined his face again.

Morren supposed it was his bad mood tainting his enjoyment of the meal. She glanced around at the people and she saw Katla watching her. Though the Norse woman had been infuriated with Trahern earlier, she offered a warm smile, her grey eyes softened with friendliness. She wore a crimson gown with a fawn-coloured apron fastened with golden brooches at the shoulders. A grey shawl hung across her arms.

Katla approached them, her expression contrite. ‘I was upset earlier,’ she apologised. ‘I want to welcome you and your sister to our home. You may stay with us, if you wish.’ A bleakness crossed over the woman’s eyes, as if in memory of the attack. But she forced the smile back again, her eyes resting upon Jilleen. ‘Your sister was glad to see you, I know.’

Morren gave a nod. ‘Thank you for looking after her.’

Katla’s smile grew strained, but she looked upon Jilleen with fondness. ‘She reminds me of my daughter.’

There was pain in Katla’s voice, but Morren didn’t press for answers. It explained why the woman had taken such an interest in looking after Jilleen. Despite the reasons, she was grateful for the woman’s care.

Katla tore off a piece of bread and added it to Jilleen’s plate without asking. Her eyes didn’t miss much, and no doubt she’d noticed the young girl’s thin frame. ‘You should have joined the others sooner,’ Katla scolded gently. ‘It’s not safe for women to be alone.’

Morren hesitated, not knowing what to say. Excuses faltered on her tongue. No one knew what had happened to her on the night of the attack, except Jilleen. And only Trahern knew of her miscarried babe.

‘She had no desire to live among the enemy,’ Trahern interrupted, his tone cool.

Katla uttered a laugh. ‘The enemy, are we? And who provided food and shelter for the Ó Reillys, these four months past? Who sent men to Glen Omrigh every day, helping to clear it out for rebuilding?’

‘Are we expected to believe that you’re overly generous?’ Trahern asked. He didn’t bother to keep the sardonic tone from his voice.

Katla rested her palms on the table, meeting his accusatory look with her own indignant glare. ‘Who are you to doubt us, Irishman?’

To distract Trahern, Morren placed a goblet of mead into his hand. In the midst of the argument, Jilleen had shrunk back, leaving her own food unfinished. She stared down at the table, as though she wanted to disappear.

‘I’ve no reason to trust you,’ Trahern responded. ‘Your people killed the woman I intended to marry.’

Katla’s face turned scarlet. ‘You’re wrong.’ She reached out and snatched his food away. ‘And if you won’t believe that, then you can leave.’

‘Katla,’ another man said softly. He came up behind her and replaced the food. ‘Leave him be.’

From the protective way the man rested his hands upon the woman’s shoulders, Morren suspected he was her husband. Katla didn’t apologise, however, and Trahern stood. He ignored both of them and strode out of the longhouse.

Morren cast a glance at Jilleen, who still hadn’t looked up from her food. ‘Wait here,’ she advised her sister. ‘I’ll be back.’

Trahern’s restless energy, his caged anger, made him a threat to anyone who came too close. Soon enough, someone would provoke him, and she didn’t know if she could calm his temper. Perhaps it would be best if he left.

The thought was strangely disappointing. In the past few days, Trahern had taken care of her, protecting her from harm. His steady presence had silenced her fears. If he went away, she would have to face all the questions that she didn’t want to answer.

Outside, the wind whipped at the thatched roofs. The night sky was dotted with stars and all around them were the mingled voices of Irish and Viking.

Trahern stood with his back to her, his tall form silhouetted in the darkness. The outdoor fires cast a slight glow, barely enough to see. An invisible weight bore down on his shoulders, and, like her sister, he appeared to stand apart from the others.

Moreen stepped nearer to him, keeping her tread loud enough to be heard. There was a restlessness brewing within him, of a man who didn’t want to be here. He needed his freedom, and she had no right to ask him to remain.

‘You don’t have to stay on my behalf,’ she offered gently. ‘There’s nothing to keep you here.’

He turned, his massive height overshadowing her. His grey eyes locked onto hers, and the fury seemed to drift away. With each breath, he grew calmer. ‘That isn’t true.’

Colour rose to her cheeks. Though she knew she meant nothing to him, his tone suggested otherwise. ‘We’ll be all right.’

‘I left Ciara behind, thinking she would be safe.’ He took a step forward. ‘I said goodbye to her, believing that the others would protect her.’

The night air prickled the back of her neck, and she took a step backwards. ‘You couldn’t have known what would happen. They set our homes on fire in the middle of the night. No one was expecting the attack.’

‘You’re asking me to do the same thing again. To leave you and your sister behind, at the mercy of these Lochlannach.’

She drew the edges of her brat tighter. His face was determined and fierce, his entire body rigid with pain. ‘It’s not the same. Some of my cousins and friends are here.’

‘I promised your sister I wouldn’t let any harm come to you.’ Trahern reached out and drew her brat over her head for warmth.

Morren wanted to step back, but she found herself unable to move. Something about his protective air held her locked in place.

‘Do you want me to escort both of you to the abbey instead?’ he asked.

She knew Trahern meant to bring her to safety, but she couldn’t hide among the monks forever. She had to return to her clan, for the sake of Jilleen. And that meant staying here.

‘Thank you,’ she told Trahern, ‘but no. It’s best for my sister if we remain among our people here. When the rest of the Ó Reillys return to Glen Omrigh, we’ll go with them.’

‘I don’t like it, Morren.’

‘My kinsmen trust the Dalrata people well enough, and they’ve been here for months.’ Beyond that, she saw no other choice.

‘What happened to your chieftain?’ he asked.

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Lúcás died, I suppose. I don’t know which of the men is leader now.’

‘And neither do they.’ Trahern pointed back to the dwelling. ‘Haven’t you seen the way they look to each other, waiting for someone else to lead? Were Lúcás’s sons also killed?’

‘I don’t know. They aren’t among the survivors. But even so, there are a few men who might fill Lúcás’s place.’

Their chieftain had not been the strongest leader, often preferring to let the others make decisions. Morren had never particularly cared for him, though she couldn’t say why. For now, perhaps it was best if her clan remained blended with the Lochlannach.

Trahern led her across the longphort, towards the gates. ‘Until someone becomes the chieftain, your tribe has essentially fallen into the hands of the Lochlannach.’

‘The Dalrata weren’t our enemy,’ she pointed out. ‘Several of our women married them. It isn’t as though we have no ties.’

Trahern stopped and surveyed the entire structure, which dominated the landscape. Easily as large as his brother’s kingdom, the Viking holdings stretched out to the western sea.

‘I wouldn’t trust them. And neither should you.’

She crossed her arms and regarded him. ‘You don’t trust anyone any more.’ She exhaled, not understanding what had happened to him. Had one woman’s death affected him this profoundly?

She remembered his laughing demeanour, the way he’d always had a story to tell. The way he would swing a child up onto his shoulders, teasing and joking with others. That man was now gone.

‘I’ve reason to be angry,’ he responded. ‘Until I’ve had my vengeance, I don’t care how I appear to others.’

‘You’re letting it destroy the man you were.’

‘And are you the same woman you were?’ His words cut her down, and she looked away in shame.

‘Neither of us will ever be the same. But I’ve chosen to bury my feelings about what happened. I can’t indulge myself in anger or weeping. I have a sister to take care of.’

‘Do you really believe that you can simply forget about what happened?’

‘I don’t have a choice.’

His tone altered, turning gentle. ‘It’s a poison, Morren. It festers inside you, until you think you’re going to go mad.’

She shivered, for there was a truth to his words. Every time she pushed away the nightmares, they only returned stronger than before.

‘I tried to forget and go on with my life,’ he continued. ‘I have a family. Four brothers, all married with children of their own. And every time I looked at them and saw their happiness, I thought of Ciara. She was taken from me, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let the raiders find happiness of their own.’

She pulled away, feeling even colder. ‘Your need for revenge has changed you. Ciara wouldn’t have wanted that.’

Turning her back on him, Morren strode back to the house where she’d left her sister. The autumn air shifted against her hair, sending the cold onto the back of her neck. Behind her, she heard Trahern’s footsteps trailing her. He wouldn’t let her alone, not even for a moment.

Before she reached the house, he said, ‘Morren, wait.’

She stopped walking, but didn’t move to face him. He could say what he wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything.

‘If you intend to stay among the Lochlannach, then I won’t leave. Not until I know you’ll be safe.’

His sense of honour was so strong that she suspected it would be some time before he’d leave her. The thought made her feel even more like a burden. ‘I’m not your obligation. If you stay, it’s for your own reasons. Not because you feel some need to guard me.’

She kept moving forward, but Trahern intercepted her, standing in her path. He looked into her eyes, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You don’t believe you need protection from them?’

‘Not if it’s given by a man who will brood and sulk the entire time. Or tell me that I’d be better off taking my sister some place isolated from everyone.’

The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I’m not brooding.’

‘You are. And I’ve no doubt that you’d complain at every moment.’

He seemed taken aback, but she didn’t apologise for the truth.

‘You think I’m behaving like a child.’ Without warning, his mouth curved upwards. It was the first time she’d seen him smile, and it transformed him from an angry warrior into a man.

A handsome man, if she were honest. She’d never really thought about it, but Trahern MacEgan was a man who had captured the attentions of many women in her clan, not just Ciara. Months ago, he’d worn his hair and beard long, but now, his shaved head and face were a stark contrast to his grey eyes. The smooth skin sharpened his features, like a honed blade.

And right now, he was staring straight at her with amusement. She didn’t know whether he was silently laughing at her or whether he’d recognised his own faults.

‘I promise not to sulk or complain,’ he said, gesturing for her to walk in front of him. ‘But I still won’t trust the Lochlannach.’

She didn’t doubt that. ‘You have the same purpose, the desire to find those who were responsible for the attack. Despite your suspicions, I know there are men who want to find the raiders, the same as you.’

‘They’ll have to prove themselves first.’ When they returned to the longhouse, he pushed open the door, waiting for her to enter. Morren glanced back at him. Although Trahern was no longer smiling, at least he seemed more relaxed and less likely to kill the next man he saw.

‘Where will you sleep tonight?’ she asked, before they rejoined the others. She saw her sister seated near the Lochlannach chief, but Jilleen appeared uncomfortable. As she walked to them, Gunnar rose to his feet. The Norseman offered an open smile of interest.

Trahern’s hand came down on her shoulder in an unmistakable message. She forced herself not to pull away, though she wanted to. ‘I won’t be leaving your side, Morren. Tonight, I’ll sleep wherever you are.’

Chapter Six

Jilleen Ó Reilly was a coward. A weak-minded, self-centred coward, and she hated herself for it.

Though she’d been with the Dalrata people for several days now, she’d allowed them to treat her like a small child. Katla had given her clothes and although she’d brought her among the other girls her age, Jilleen knew she didn’t fit in with them. She was an outsider. Different.

Already they’d branded her as a stranger, and though they’d said nothing impolite, she sensed their distance. And why would they want to befriend an Irish girl? She wasn’t one of them and never would be. Although there were some ties among the married women, it didn’t matter so much now. After the raid, few of her people lived. Hardly more than a dozen, it seemed.

The horror of that night washed over her, and her stomach wrenched into twisted knots. She wished she could just close her eyes and shut out every memory. She’d seen what the men had done to her sister, and hatred burned through her veins while she’d watched.

Not just for what they’d done to Morren, but also hatred at herself. She’d hidden in the trees, instead of going for help. She’d done nothing to stop the men, and that made her the worst coward of all.

Tonight, seeing Morren among the others, she knew that her sister had changed. Still shy, of course, but Morren no longer smiled. Jilleen couldn’t help but blame herself. If she hadn’t allowed herself to be caught, none of this would have happened.

She would make up for it somehow. The fervent need to atone for Morren’s suffering overshadowed everything else.

Jilleen’s gaze settled upon Trahern MacEgan. The giant had frightened her at first, the night she’d found him. But she’d remembered his storytelling, and the kind way about him. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d known he could help Morren with the fever.

And so he had. He’d protected her, and she saw the way he watched over Morren, even now.

Though Jilleen had never been much of a matchmaker, if she helped put them together, there was a strong chance that Trahern would take care of Morren.

Maybe that would make up for her cowardice.

Maybe.

‘We’re going to meet tonight to discuss the attack,’ Gunnar said, when the crowd had begun to dissipate. ‘Áron thought you would want to attend.’

At the mention of Ciara’s brother, Trahern tensed. He hadn’t seen Áron, hadn’t known that he’d returned. Áron wasn’t among the other Ó Reillys, and it struck him as strange that the man hadn’t greeted them.

He glanced back at Morren, who answered his unspoken question. ‘Go with Gunnar. I’ll be fine with Jilleen.’

‘I don’t want you unguarded.’

‘She can stay with Katla,’ Gunnar offered. ‘My brother’s wife will keep her safe.’

Trahern had no doubt of that. He imagined the Norsewoman would wield a spear against any man who threatened someone under her protection.

‘It’s all right, Trahern. You may as well go with them and find the answers you’re seeking.’

He would have preferred it if Morren came with him, but she was looking pale. It was best if she got some rest. He also wanted the healer to look over her in the morning, to be sure she hadn’t suffered unduly from the miscarriage.

‘I’ll be back later tonight,’ he promised.

‘I know you will.’ She lifted her eyes to his, and they were a steady, deep blue. Although she didn’t appear confident, she put on the appearance of bravery.

Without thinking, his hand reached out to her cheek. He touched it with his palm, and she flinched. The reaction was so fast, he dropped his hand away.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm.’

He mumbled that it didn’t matter, but inwardly it bothered him to think that any unexpected touch would have such an effect upon her. He left without another word, following Gunnar outside the house to another rectangular structure. The air had turned even colder, hinting at a freezing rain or snow.

The Norseman stopped before the entrance, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘Have you claimed Morren as your woman?’

‘Not in the way you’re suggesting. But I won’t allow you or any other man to bother her. I’ve sworn my protection.’

‘Selfish bastard.’ Gunnar pushed open the door. ‘You don’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her.’

‘You’re right.’ He offered no excuses, for Morren had endured enough.

When they reached the interior of the dwelling, Trahern saw five men seated. Ciara’s brother, Áron, was there with a resigned expression. The man looked as though he’d given up hope.

He’s avoiding me, Trahern realised. But why? Was it sorrow at losing Ciara…or guilt?

‘This is our chief, Dagmar,’ Gunnar said. A taller, older man, the chief wore costly gold rings and a band around his upper arm to denote his rank. Shrewd brown eyes stared into his own, as if assessing his measure. Trahern didn’t falter, but stared back, daring the man to voice a protest.

‘I know you believe we were behind the attack that night,’ the chief began, ‘but it isn’t true. We’re trying to learn who was.’

Trahern chose a seat beside Áron, studying each of the Lochlannach men. A man’s posture and demeanour would often proclaim his guilt when he spoke false words. But so far, he had found nothing.

The chief spoke the Irish language, out of courtesy for himself and Áron. Trahern had learned a bit of the Viking tongue from his grandfather as a child, but his abilities were limited.

‘A runner returned last night from Corca Dhuibhne,’ the chief said. ‘The Irish and Ostmen are essentially one tribe there. They had no reason to attack Glen Omrigh.’

Trahern could have told them that, for his own grandfather

Kieran had spent a great deal of time in Corca Dhuibhne with the Ó Brannon family.

‘What about Port Láirge?’ he ventured. ‘There’s a large settlement along the river.’

The chief looked doubtful. ‘It’s a good distance from here, but possible.’ He shrugged as if it were no matter to him. ‘Gunnar, see to it.’

Then he turned to the others. ‘It’s turning colder, and it will be more difficult to rebuild when the ground freezes. We’ll need a group of men to start working on the foundations tomorrow. The sooner we rebuild, the sooner the Ó Reillys can return to their own cashel.’ The conversation turned towards the needs of the Irish clan and whether or not all of the survivors should make the journey.

Trahern watched the men, feigning his attention, but his true interest was in learning just why they wanted to help the Ó Reillys. Though it was common for one Irish clan to assist another, there was no discussion of what would be given to the Dalrata in return. Finally, after the men ended the meeting and began leaving for their own houses, he asked Áron.

‘They are planning to expand their own territory,’ Áron answered. ‘We’ve granted the Dalrata people some of our land in return for their help. With fewer clan members, we don’t need the space.’

Trahern didn’t like it. ‘How much land?’

‘Not as much as you might think.’ Áron sent him a warning look and lowered his voice to a whisper as they returned to the center of the longphort. ‘Trahern, if it weren’t for them, we’d be dead. We lost most of our harvest in the fires, and they’ve invited us to stay with them through the winter.’

‘I wouldn’t trust them if I were you, Áron.’

‘We’ve no choice.’ He stopped walking and shook his head.

‘You might be suspicious, but I am grateful. You’re welcome to come with us on the morrow, when we rebuild the cashel.’

‘I might.’ The more time he spent with the men, the more he could learn about what had happened that night.

‘Why did you come back, Trahern?’ Áron asked suddenly. His face tightened with wariness, as though he didn’t want Trahern to be here.

‘I intend to avenge Ciara’s death. I’m going to find the men who were responsible for the attack.’

Áron seemed unsettled, his gaze shifting back to the Lochlannach. More than ever, Trahern was convinced that the man knew something.

‘I know you cared for my sister,’ Áron admitted. ‘I would have been glad to call you brother. But nothing will bring her back. Finding the men won’t change that.’

Trahern took a step closer, revealing the icy anger he’d caged. ‘I will find them, Áron. And they will answer for her death.’

Áron nodded, but refused to make eye contact. He cast a glance at the Viking dwelling where the women slept. ‘How did you come to travel with Morren? We never knew what had happened to her.’

Trahern held back, not wanting to reveal too much. ‘I found her and Jilleen in an abandoned hunter’s cottage in the woods. I brought them to the abbey first, but then learned you had come here.’

‘We searched for them, but thought they were both dead.’ Áron’s expression grew pained. But Trahern sensed that it was false, that no one had searched for the women. His uneasiness trebled.

‘When I saw the men going after Jilleen,’ Áron continued, ‘I feared the worst.’

‘And you did nothing to help her?’ His fist curled over the wooden door frame. ‘She’s a girl, for God’s sakes.’

‘You weren’t there that night,’ Áron responded, his voice growing cold. ‘All the homes were on fire and the fields, too. We were trying to get the children out. We weren’t prepared for the attack.’ He reddened, staring off into space. ‘When Morren and Jilleen didn’t return over those few months, we assumed they were either dead or prisoners.’

‘You left them behind. No one searched,’ Trahern accused.

‘I lost my sister and my parents that night,’ Áron said. ‘I had enough of my own dead to bury.’

It didn’t assuage Trahern’s anger that the clan was so caught up in their own problems, they’d ignored two of their own kin. ‘What happened to Morren’s family?’

‘She and her sister were already alone. Their parents died last year, and if they had uncles or aunts, we never met them.’ Áron thought a moment and added, ‘There was a man who courted Morren, I think. Adham Ó Reilly was his name.’

That brought him up short. Trahern tried to remember if he’d seen Morren with anyone, but to be honest, he’d spent so little time with the rest of the Ó Reilly clan, he didn’t know.

‘What happened to Adham?’

‘He is still here.’

Trahern didn’t respond, but it was as though a strand of tightened steel had pulled through his stomach. Though he’d never met Adham, he had little faith in any of the Ó Reilly men.

There had been no reason for the clan to abandon Morren, despite the danger.

‘I’ll come with you when you leave,’ Trahern said. ‘And I intend to take my horse back from Gunnar.’

Áron ventured a smile. ‘I’ll arrange it.’

The two men crossed through the longphort, but Trahern departed Áron’s company, continuing on to Katla’s dwelling, where Morren was staying. The tall woman intercepted him at the door and nearly shoved him outside again. ‘You cannot come inside. Only the women may stay.’

Trahern ignored her. ‘Your husband is here, is he not?’

Katla planted both hands on her hips. ‘I trust Hoskuld with my life. I don’t, however, trust you.’

‘I swore to Morren that I’d keep her and Jilleen safe,’ Trahern argued. ‘If it bothers you to have a guard, then I’ll take them somewhere else.’

‘You aren’t her family,’ Katla argued. ‘You haven’t the right.’

‘I’m the only man who’s shown any concern for them, so aye, I have the right.’ He wasn’t going to let a sharp-tongued Norsewoman badger him.

‘Stubborn brute of an Irishman,’ she cursed, trying to shut the door on him.

‘That, and more.’ He didn’t back down, but met her fierce brown eyes with his own, keeping the door open with the strength of one thigh. ‘No harm will come to them.’

Morren had risen to her feet, sleepy-eyed, her fair hair neatly braided. ‘It’s all right, Katla. He can stay.’

‘And what about the others? They’ve no need to be bothered by a man such as him.’

Morren touched Katla’s shoulder. ‘Trahern would do nothing to hurt any of the women. But if you’d rather, I will go elsewhere to sleep.’

Something knotted up inside him at her quiet offer to stay at his side. Her trust in him was unexpected, humbling even.

Katla stared at both of them, sending Trahern a heated look of disapproval. Pointing to the far end of the longhouse, she ordered, ‘Stay on that side, then.’

Trahern waited until the woman had reached the opposite side before approaching Morren. He eyed her carefully, wondering if she wanted him to leave. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘I wasn’t truly sleeping,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t like to dream.’

He didn’t press her to answer why. ‘Do you want me to go? I’ll sleep outside if it would make you more comfortable.’

‘Don’t be foolish. It may freeze tonight. And what good are you, if you’re dead?’

Her macabre remark made it hard not to smile. ‘Are you certain?’

She nodded and patted the ground beside her. ‘Sit with me and tell me what you learned from the others.’

In a low voice, he relayed all of the information to her, but left out any mention of Adham. Though he didn’t know the man, he distrusted him for leaving Morren behind. He also wondered what feelings she held for Adham, if any.

‘They’re going back to the cashel in the morning,’ he told her, ‘to rebuild the homes. Do you want to come?’

Morren hesitated. ‘Will you go?’

He gave a nod. ‘I had planned to, yes. I want to speak with the other Ó Reilly men about the attack.’ He softened his tone, suddenly aware of the dark memories Glen Omrigh would hold for her. ‘But if you’d rather remain here—’

‘No, I need to return.’ She looked over at her sleeping sister. ‘I think it would be best for Jilleen, as well.’

She leaned back, her spine resting against the wall of the hut. With their voices lowered, she had to lean closer to him to hear. He wondered if it made her fearful, being so near to him.

‘Trahern, how long will you stay?’

Until I know you’re safe, he almost said, but stopped himself. She might misunderstand the words.

Protecting Morren and her sister was a way of atoning for his mistakes with Ciara. He wanted to be certain that her clan didn’t fall victim to the Vikings or be absorbed into the Dalrata tribe. And that would take time he didn’t have.

Though he didn’t like the idea of wintering amongst the Lochlannach, soon enough it would be too dangerous to travel. ‘Long enough to help your clan rebuild,’ he admitted. ‘I want to know why the Lochlannach are so interested in your land. I suspect that there’s more that the chief isn’t telling us.’

He cast a look over at Katla, who had gone to sleep. ‘Among the Ó Reillys, I may learn more about the attack. And, if we work hard, you might spend the winter in your own homes.’

Morren shook her head. ‘Even if we rebuild, we don’t have the supplies we need to last through the winter. Not unless any of the harvest was spared.’ A despondent look crossed her face. ‘I doubt if anyone tended the fields.’

‘There’s time enough to hunt. If everyone works together, we could preserve enough meat.’

‘But we’ve no grain.’ She drew her knees up, growing quiet for a time. ‘And it’s too late to plant.’

‘We could trade for what you need,’ he offered. ‘There’s always hope.’ He opened his palm to her.

She looked into his eyes, and he saw softness mingled with determination. Tentatively she lifted her hand and placed it in his. ‘You’re right. There’s hope.’

He curved his fingers over hers, knowing what it had meant for her to reach out to him. The serene beauty of her face caught him like a spear between the ribs. For Morren Ó Reilly was more than what she seemed, with a strength veiled beneath the delicate features. Her wistful blue eyes had seen too much horror. He found himself wanting her to find happiness again.

But not with Adham Ó Reilly.

He didn’t know where these possessive thoughts had come from. She needed a steady man to take care of her, to push away the nightmares of her past. Why should it matter if it were Adham, or Gunnar, or any other man?

Because those men didn’t know what she’d suffered. They hadn’t held the body of her child in the palm of their hand, nor did they know the unimaginable torment that she’d locked away.

She shouldn’t have to reveal it. They didn’t need to know.

Morren’s gaze fell to his feet. The ties of his shoes were loose, the leather stiff from the cold. She reached out to his feet, meaning to bind them.

The light brush of her hands against his feet sent a rush of blood through his body. Though she did nothing more than adjust the ties, the gesture was unexpectedly arousing.

He couldn’t have stopped the reaction if he’d tried to stop breathing. The light scent of her hair, the fragile air about her, made him want to pull her close.

What in the name of God was wrong with him? Was he so desperate for a woman that he’d consider touching Morren? He loathed himself for the betraying thoughts that desecrated Ciara’s memory.

He jerked away from Morren and stood. ‘Go to sleep. We’ll leave in the morning.’ Without a word of explanation, he moved as far away from her as he dared.

But as he tried to force sleep, all he could think about was her.

At dawn, Morren rode back with the others toward Glen Omrigh. She hadn’t been back in so many months, she was almost afraid of what she’d find.

Trahern had sent two of the Vikings back to the monastery to return the ageing horses they’d borrowed. Now that he was riding his own mount once again, he appeared more relaxed.

And yet, not once had he spoken. His cool demeanour unnerved her. Last night, he’d treated her like a vial of poison, after she’d mistakenly touched the ties of his foot coverings. She’d done it without thinking, the way she would adjust a child’s laces.

But Trahern had behaved strangely ever since. He’d not spoken to her this morn, nor had he met her gaze. If it weren’t for his protective guard, she’d have thought he was avoiding her.

He must have thought she was reaching out to him, wanting him in the way a woman desired a man. That wasn’t true at all. Her cheeks flushed red. But even if it were, he’d treated her like discarded goods, a woman contaminated.

It cut through her, reaching down to the pain she’d tucked away, flaring the anger back. It wasn’t my fault. I’m not to blame for it.

She knew that, in her heart, but she forced her emotions back, burying them deep. Don’t think of it. She clenched the reins of her horse, fighting back tears that she refused to shed. Although Trahern had saved her life, she suspected he viewed her as a burden.

And why? Had she ever demanded anything of him? The more she thought of it, the more resentful she grew. He treated her like a younger sister or a child he felt responsible for. But she was a grown woman, more than capable of surviving on her own. She didn’t need Trahern.

Morren closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. She would be no man’s inconvenience, nor would she let her fear transform her into a shadow. She had to think of Jilleen.

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