Surrender to an Irish Warrior. Michelle Willingham
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