Surrender to an Irish Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Will you be all right if I do this?’ he asked, moving faster. He brought her beneath him, balancing his weight on both hands. The change in pace made her body rise to meet his.

  ‘More,’ she breathed, wanting him to feel the same way she was feeling now. She wanted him to come apart, to see the rush of pleasure in his own expression.

  Her encouragement was all he needed. He raised her knees, and with each penetration, she cried out with a keening need. Her hips moved in counterpoint to his, faster and faster. At last, she wrapped both legs around his waist, holding on to him while he surged deep inside.

  She felt him the instant he shuddered, his body finally succumbing to the explosion rocking within her. With his last thrust, he sent her past the brink once again, and she trembled in his arms.

  His large body covered hers, and she could do nothing but hold him. Tears filled her up inside, and she cried.

  For he’d reawakened the part of her that had been lost.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Are you ready?’ Trahern asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Morren clung to the reins of her horse, her posture tense. The grey gown she’d chosen was one she’d altered to fit, given by Katla. It moulded to her waist, and she’d braided her hair back from her face, her hood shielding her head. It was bitter cold, and Trahern wished they were anywhere but outside the gates of Gall Tír.

  He’d much rather take her back to the chamber they’d shared at Laochre, and warm her, skin to skin. Over the past three days since their handfasting, he’d made love to her during most of the night hours, falling asleep with her hair against his lips, her body nestled beside him.

  And each time, he cursed himself for it. He’d never intended for this marriage to be anything but an arrangement. But with each day that passed, he found himself fighting what was happening between them. He’d let himself love a woman once, and Ciara’s death had almost destroyed him. Love had weakened him, leaving a monster in its wake. A man without a soul.

  He couldn’t let it happen again. Already, he’d let Morren get too close to him. The sooner she identified the men and returned home to her clan, the better. He’d come here for justice, to avenge Ciara and the Ó Reilly clan. And he couldn’t forget that purpose.

  He brought his horse alongside Morren’s. ‘It will be over in a few hours,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll find them, and I’ll send you back to Laochre.’

  She gave a nod, but her cheeks were unnaturally pale. Her knuckles whitened on the reins as she followed him inside.

  Leading their group was his brother, King Patrick, surrounded by his retainers. Beside the King rode their youngest brother, Ewan, and his wife, Honora. Trahern was grateful that Honora had come, for unbeknownst to the Hardrata people, she was a skilled warrior who would help him to guard Morren.

  His nerves were drawn taut as a bowstring when he helped Morren dismount. She kept her face hooded, to hide her features. The Viking guards were on edge, for the presence of Laochre soldiers evoked a physical threat.

  This was not a visit among friends, and they knew it.

  Morren clenched his hand, her eyes searching. Her fingers were cold in his, and he leaned in to murmur softly, ‘Tell me if you see any of them. Or if you want to leave at any time, Ewan will take you back.’

  ‘I’d rather see this through.’ She walked beside him, and one of the Hardrata guards led them to the house of the chief, near the centre of the settlement.

  Gunnar remained behind the others, and Trahern saw tension in the man’s face. There was something more the Lochlannach wasn’t telling him. A reason for being here that had nothing to do with the attack on the Ó Reillys. But there was no time to ask why.

  Before they reached the chief’s hut, Morren’s hand suddenly tightened so hard upon his, he thought she was going to break his fingers. He looked to see the source of her anxiety, and one of the men standing nearby abruptly walked away.

  He hardly glimpsed the man’s face, but he leaned over to his brother Ewan. ‘Follow him.’

  Ewan had a talent for slipping away, unnoticed. And Trahern had no doubt his brother would find the guilty man. More than all else, Trahern wanted to join in the pursuit, but he had to speak with the chief. He forced himself to remain patient as they entered the chief’s dwelling.

  Vigus Hardrata sat upon an elaborately carved chair upon a dais, one that had been passed down for generations. It had been made by Trahern’s grandfather Kieran, as a gift to his sister Aisling, who had wed one of the Hardrata warriors.

  The chair was also an unspoken reminder of the ties between them. The chief stood and invited Patrick to sit with him.

  ‘Something has gone wrong,’ Vigus began. ‘You would not have brought soldiers among us, otherwise.’

  Patrick gave a nod of acknowledgement and motioned Trahern to approach the dais. All eyes turned to him as he took Morren’s hand. She lowered her hood, revealing her face to the chief. Beneath her serene expression, he saw the bone-deep fear. He sent her a silent look of reassurance that he would keep her safe. Even so, she didn’t release his hand.

  ‘This past summer, my wife’s home, Glen Omrigh, was attacked by five of your men,’ he said. ‘They burned homes and killed innocent people.’

  ‘And how do you know they were Hardrata?’ the chief asked.

  ‘One of the raiders returned to the Ó Reilly cashel seeking the rest of his payment,’ Trahern asserted. ‘He claimed that Gall Tír was his home before he died.’

  The chief betrayed no emotion on his face. ‘If what you say is true, we will not let such actions go unpunished.’ He leaned forward, steepling his hands. ‘But there must be evidence of your claims.’ His blue eyes were cold, his grey hair ragged against his bearded face. The chief reminded Trahern of his Great-Uncle Tharand, a stoic man who valued honour above all else.

  Trahern reached into the pouch at his waist and poured a handful of coins into his palm. Offering them to the chief, he said, ‘Few men would have coins such as these. They are from an ancient hoard.’

  One of the Lochlannach leaned forward to examine the coins. He whispered into the chief’s ear, and the chief’s expression darkened. ‘A man may possess coins such as these. But it does not make him a murderer.’

  ‘We have witnesses who saw the men,’ Trahern continued. ‘Those who lost sons and fathers.’ His voice hardened. ‘Women were violated, and we demand justice.’

  ‘Why did the Ó Reilly chieftain send you in his stead?’ Vigus asked.

  ‘Because he is dead,’ Trahern responded, ‘and cannot speak for those whose voices were silenced.’ His anger was rising, and he rested his hand around Morren’s shoulders. ‘I also speak on behalf of my wife.’

  An uneasy silence filled the space. His brother Patrick intervened, saying, ‘As leader of the Hardrata, you are likely aware of which men left the longphort last summer.’

  The chief gave a slight nod. ‘But they deserve to be questioned.’

  Patrick inclined his head. ‘And we are here to witness their confession.’ The threat of war hung between the men like an invisible blade. ‘Bring them here and let them speak.’

  The chief whispered to his servant, his expression furious. ‘It is true that several of our men left, to visit one of the tribes in the west. One did not return.’

  Gunnar stepped forward at that moment. He extended a knife, hilt first. ‘I believe this belonged to the raider. It hung at his side.’

  Trahern shot a look at Gunnar. He recalled Gunnar removing the blade, and it was definite evidence against the intruder they’d captured.

  The chief examined the blade, and his grim mood heightened. ‘This did belong to Illugi, the man who did not return.’

  A hint of satisfaction passed over Gunnar’s face before he nodded at Trahern, as if to confirm his support. Trahern was grateful for it. He’d known that the coins were not enough to support his claims, but Gunnar’s proof was undeniable.

  Vigus rose from his chair. ‘The
four men will face their trial this afternoon. You may observe, if that is your wish.’

  The noise of a man struggling resounded from behind them. Trahern saw his brother Ewan coming forward with his captive, the man Morren had identified earlier.

  ‘Release me,’ the Lochlannach demanded. But when he saw the chief staring at him, he froze. His gaze flickered over the visitors, stopping upon Morren. She raised her chin and confronted him.

  Like the face of Death, she stared at him, willing him to acknowledge his guilt.

  ‘She lies!’ the man proclaimed. ‘Whatever she told you, Vigus, I have done nothing to her.’

  The chief ignored the man’s protestations and signalled to another servant. ‘Bind Brael, and prepare him to face his trial by fire.’

  Rage lined the chief’s face, and Vigus stared at Brael. ‘The woman gave no accusations at all. You proclaimed your guilt when you tried to deny it.’ With a wave of dismissal, he commanded, ‘Take him.’

  Morren buried her face against Trahern during the trial. Heated coals were set upon the ground until they glowed red-hot. One of the men broke down and confessed his guilt, which earned him the punishment of exile. The Hardrata people turned their backs upon him, treating him as though he no longer existed.

  Icy fear slashed through her. They were just going to let him go? With no other penalty than to become an outlaw? Her hands trembled as she watched him, but as he passed the group of Ó Reilly men, she saw Áron Ó Reilly seize the raider. Áron took his dagger and slit the outlaw’s throat before anyone could stop him.

  The Ó Reilly met Trahern’s gaze. ‘For Ciara.’

  The Hardrata people pretended as though they’d seen nothing. Morren covered her mouth with her hands, horrified at what she’d just witnessed.

  Trahern pulled her close and whispered in her ear, ‘An outlaw may be killed with no consequences. It’s why the others haven’t confessed their guilt.’

  Though she could hardly bear to watch, she was unable to tear her gaze away. One by one, the remaining raiders were forced to walk across the glowing coals. Their screams pierced through her consciousness, though Morren tried to block out the sound.

  It was a brutal trial, where it was believed that God would protect the innocent. A man whose flesh did not burn would be allowed to go free. But in this instance, she knew that each of the men was guilty.

  Another raider stumbled when he walked across the coals, and his clothing caught on fire. He cried out for help and tried to run. Within moments, the fire consumed him, and his screams fell silent.

  It was then that Morren caught the last raider staring at her. His features had haunted her through her nightmares. He’d been the first man to attack her, and she’d never forgotten him. His cold gaze ripped through her with hatred. Though he had accepted his trial and punishment, there was no remorse upon his face—only anger that he’d been caught.

  She learned from the chief that his name was Egill Hardrata, a mercenary who’d been punished for lesser crimes once before. But Egill remained silent throughout the questioning, his face defiant. Neither he, nor the other surviving raider, would admit who had paid them to attack.

  Egill and the other raider stumbled toward the gates, their feet bleeding and charred from the coals. But when Áron Ó Reilly attacked, Egill dodged the blow and tripped the Ó Reilly man, stealing the blade away.

  It was as if he’d ignored the pain of his wounded feet. As if nothing could penetrate the shield of indifference he’d cloaked around himself.

  The last rays of the afternoon sun were dying, the evening slipping free of its shadows. Even when both men were gone, Morren couldn’t seem to release the rigid tension in her shoulders. Aye, it was doubtful that either of the raiders would survive without shelter or food, now that it was nearly winter. But their faces would remain imprinted upon her memory—the faces of her nightmare.

  Morren wasn’t aware she was weeping until Trahern’s hand brushed across her cheek, wiping the tears away. ‘It’s over, a stór,’ he murmured. ‘They won’t trouble you again.’

  She knew it, but right now, everything within her was so tired. ‘I wish we could leave now,’ she pleaded. She’d had enough of torture and death.

  Trahern lifted her hood over her hair, trying to protect her from the cold wind. ‘It’s late, Morren. I’ll have Ewan take you back to Laochre in the morning.’

  ‘What about you?’ He spoke as if he wasn’t coming with them. She shivered, not knowing his intentions.

  Trahern’s hand went to his sword hilt, his gaze focused on the outlaws’ path. ‘Patrick is staying behind to speak with the chief.’ He eyed Áron, who had mounted his horse and was preparing to follow the outlaws. ‘And I have unfinished business, a stór.’

  Though he’d implied that he would protect Áron and bring him back, she suspected there was much more that he meant to do.

  ‘I’m going with you,’ Gunnar demanded.

  Trahern stared at the Lochlannach and shook his head. ‘This isn’t your fight.’ He strode toward the horses, adding, ‘Áron Ó Reilly is past talking. He wants the blood of those men, and I don’t want him going after them alone.’

  He saw no reason for Gunnar to join them. For that matter, he didn’t understand why the Norseman had come on this journey. From the time they’d left the Ó Reilly cashel, Gunnar had kept his reasons to himself.

  Trahern stopped short, suddenly wanting the answers. He turned on the Lochlannach, demanding, ‘You never did say why you came to Gall Tír.’

  Gunnar evaded the question. ‘I’ve reasons of my own.’

  ‘If you want to come with us, you’d better share those reasons.’

  The Norseman stared at him, as if shifting the decision in his mind. ‘My mother was taken,’ he said at last. ‘When I was a young boy, we lost her. One moment she was holding my hand, and the next, she was stolen away on horseback.’

  He expelled a breath, admitting, ‘I’ve always wondered what happened to her. We looked among all the surrounding clans and settlements. But she was gone.’

  ‘You think the people of Gall Tír took her.’

  He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I’ve never known. But when I saw your face, I had my suspicions.’

  A coldness pierced through Trahern, when he understood what Gunnar was suggesting. He’d heard Annle’s story that night, about the Norse woman who had come to them and borne a child.

  ‘She was pregnant when they took her,’ he admitted. ‘My father told me about it when I was older.’ Regret threaded through Gunnar’s voice.

  Without speaking, Trahern reached inside his tunic and unfastened the necklace Annle had given him. When he saw the image of the fish, Gunnar’s fingers closed over the piece.

  ‘She loved the sea,’ he admitted. ‘My father gave her that.’ From inside a fold of his tunic, Gunnar pulled out a chipped piece of stone. He held it up to the necklace, and the two pieces fit together. ‘This is all I have of her.’ Gunnar withdrew the stone, his expression resigned. ‘I was too young to remember her, but I swore I would find out what happened. I promised my father.’

  ‘Is your father still alive?’

  Gunnar shook his head. ‘He died a few years ago.’

  It was unsettling, realising he would never know the father who had given him life. And yet, Gunnar Dalrata was his blood brother, his true kin, though they had been separated for most of their lives.

  ‘Our mother died after my birth,’ Trahern admitted. A sense of sadness crossed over him for the mother he’d never known. ‘But she was given sanctuary by the MacEgans. Saraid MacEgan took her in.’

  There was a weariness in Gunnar’s face, but he accepted it. ‘Does the King know?’

  Trahern shook his head. ‘I’ll tell him, soon enough. And the rest of my broth—’ He broke off, realising that he could no longer call them that. ‘The rest of the MacEgans,’ he amended.

  Gunnar mounted his horse. ‘If you’d like to know about our father, you’v
e only to ask.’ A hint of sadness darkened his mood. ‘He was a poet and a storyteller. Like yourself.’

  They spent the night at Gall Tír, and though Trahern had returned to sleep, he’d remained restless. Morren wrapped her arms around him, trying to warm his cold skin.

  ‘Did you find Áron?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye. He’s back with the others. We didn’t find the raiders, though.’

  So they were still alive. And knowing the truth made it even harder for her to sleep. She burrowed closer to Trahern, but when her hand moved down his stomach, he caught her fingertips and squeezed them. ‘Not tonight, a stór.’

  It was the first time he’d turned her away. She was glad he had his back turned, so he wouldn’t see her humiliation. Was it because they’d now had their justice? Was he planning to set her aside and send her home again?

  A heaviness settled in her stomach, her throat dry. She pulled back from him, turning away to try to sleep. With only a few words, he’d made it clear that the arrangement would soon end.

  She’d been naïve to think that he might change his mind. Though Trahern had taught her not to fear a man’s touch, the very thought of being with anyone else struck her as wrong. He was the only man she could imagine being intimate with.

  Aye, the past few nights had been passionate and loving, but the shadow of the past wasn’t entirely gone. Trahern kept her fears at bay, never forcing her to do anything she didn’t want. But he was the only man she trusted. The only man she wanted.

  And though his body heat warmed her skin this night, she was freezing inside, for already she feared she’d lost him.

  As soon as light dawned in the sky, Trahern was gone. Morren rode with Ewan and Honora on the way back to Laochre. Ewan claimed that Trahern would catch up to them, but after two hours of riding, there was no sign of him or the other Ó Reilly men.

  King Patrick had remained behind, with his own soldiers, to speak with the Hardrata chief. He intended to ease the peace between their people.