Surrender to an Irish Warrior (14 page)

‘Katla has promised to guard her. I believe she will.' Morren rubbed her arms. ‘And Jilleen wanted to remain behind with the others.'

He was about to deny it again, but she touched her hands to his. ‘You're not the only one who wants vengeance, Trahern.' Her voice had grown hard, reminding him of her rage last night. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Every time I see a child's face, I think of those men. They stole that from me.' Her blue eyes stared into his. ‘I don't sleep at night, because I see their faces. I remember what they did, and I relive it every day. I want it to end. I've had enough.'

When he looked into her blue eyes, he saw the same darkness that had haunted him over the past few months. The same despair that had torn him down, breaking his spirit into pieces.

He didn't want that for Morren. He wanted her to remain with her family, safe from harm. But then, hadn't he tried that himself? He'd lived with his brothers, trying to forget about Ciara. All it had wrought was madness.

Morren returned to her horse. She mounted the mare, sitting squarely upon the saddle. Her expression held determination and not a trace of fear.

Trahern swung up onto his own horse, Barra, and brought the animal alongside her. Morren stared straight ahead, pretending as though he weren't there. ‘You're going to stay with me,' he said. ‘In my tent. I won't allow any of these men to come near you.'

She paled, but jerked her attention to him, suddenly realising what he meant.

‘They're going to think we're lovers,' he said sharply. ‘And even if I deny it, it's what they'll believe.'

‘I don't care what they believe,' she insisted, her voice almost inaudible. ‘I trust that you'll keep me safe. And that you won't…touch me, either.' She looked away, an awkwardness suddenly lacing her tone.

He rested his hand upon Barra's mane. Though he wanted to make the promise, to vow that he wouldn't set a finger upon her, he couldn't speak the words.

In the end, he admitted the only truth he could. ‘I would die before hurting you.'

T
hey travelled from dawn until dusk that day, hardly speaking. Morren kept to herself, half-afraid Trahern would change his mind about bringing her along. The other men stayed away from her—partly out of respect, but mostly because of Trahern's fierce glare.

She studied him closely, realising that he hadn't shaved his head since they'd left the abbey. A light layer of hair was beginning to cover his scalp, and it was dark in colour, likely even softer now.

She shook the thoughts away, warning herself not to think of him in that way. They were friends. Barely that, for Trahern kept his emotions and thoughts so tightly guarded, she hardly knew him. The only time he released a part of himself was through his stories.

He became a different man, then. Teasing, soft-hearted. A kindly giant of a man who knew how to make a crowd of people leave with a smile.

He brought his horse closer to hers. ‘You're staring at me. What is it?'

She shook her head. ‘Nothing, really. I was wondering if you would tell another story tonight.'

The shield came down over his face. ‘Not tonight.'

And just like that, he'd grown distant again. Her attempt at friendship seemed to shrivel up in the face of his cool demeanour. Morren gripped the reins of her mare, pretending as though it didn't bother her one way or another.

But the truth was, it did. She couldn't stop thinking about his promise to share her tent. Her mind filled up with thoughts of his kiss. Though he'd conquered her mouth, there was nothing forceful about it. Despite the dizzying sensations he wrought inside of her, beneath it all, she sensed his restraint.

I would die before hurting you.

She believed it. And his intensity, his protective nature, seemed to draw her closer. Would he sleep beside her tonight, letting her draw comfort from his presence? Or would he turn back, as though she disgusted him?

Her heart turned cold at the thought. Though he'd insisted that she could leave her past behind, she didn't really believe him. Broken and violated, there was hardly anything left of the woman she'd been.

Yet, when she was with Trahern, he made her feel safe. When he'd kissed her, she'd forgotten about everything else.

She turned away, suddenly aware of what she was doing. There was no chance that a man like Trahern would heal her invisible wounds. He had his own cross to carry, of Ciara's death.

And perhaps that would never change.

Disappointment cloaked her as they stopped for the night. Morren sat beside him while they ate, but he didn't look at her. She was like a shadow, hardly noticed by anyone.

The men discussed their plans to travel to Laochre, a castle belonging to Trahern's brother, King Patrick. ‘You can stay with my brother and his wife and lend your testimony if we bring the men to trial,' Trahern said.

In other words, she would not go to the Viking settlement. Gunnar seemed to guess her dissatisfaction. While Trahern continued to speak of their plans, the Viking drew closer and sat on the opposite side of her. Trahern frowned, but he was busy drawing a map of the region in the dirt.

‘I know you have a reason for coming with us,' Gunnar murmured to her, beneath his breath. ‘I suspect you were a victim, weren't you?'

Her words froze up in her mouth, and she couldn't bring herself to admit anything.

‘Don't worry, Morren,' Gunnar said. ‘We all have our secrets to bear. And I have my own reasons for going to Gall Tír.' A dark look crossed his face. ‘Reasons that have nothing to do with the raiders.'

He was prevented from offering any further explanation when Trahern strode across and took Morren by the hand. ‘Go to our tent, Morren. It's late.'

He might as well have growled at Gunnar like a dog. But she was weary of listening to battle plans and had intended to sleep anyhow.

As soon as she reached the tent flap, she glanced back at Trahern. His expression softened in a silent apology, and she understood that his disgruntled mood was aimed at Gunnar and not herself. He didn't seem to trust the man, even now.

After hearing Gunnar's remark about having his own reasons for travelling with them, she was beginning to wonder if Trahern was right.

Inside the darkened space of the tent, she found a sleeping fur and a rough woollen blanket that he'd brought along. She took off her shoes and laid down upon the fur, pulling the wool coverlet over her. It was only a few minutes before the tent flap opened, and Trahern ducked inside.

‘Goodnight,' he mumbled, rolling as far away from her as he could. He had no coverlet, and he was resting on the cold ground.

‘Take this,' she offered, handing him the fur. ‘It will keep you warm.'

He didn't move, and she felt foolish holding it. Finally, she let it fall onto the ground in front of him. ‘Trahern, what is it? What's troubling you?' She sat up, facing him.

‘This was a mistake.' He held out the fur again. ‘I shouldn't have agreed to share a tent with you.'

His frustration seemed to fill up the tiny space. She couldn't understand his reluctance. Was she that abhorrent to him?

‘I'm sorry. If we stop somewhere on the morrow, I'll try to trade for another tent,' she said. Rolling over, she huddled in a ball to try to keep warm. It also hid her embarrassment, for how could she have known he would behave like this? ‘I didn't realise it would bother you to be near me.'

‘Morren,' he said quietly, ‘you misunderstand me.' He reached out and touched her shoulder. She found him stretched out on his side, propping his head on one hand as he regarded her. ‘It's nothing you've done wrong.'

‘Then what is it?' She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, as if trying to retreat within herself. ‘I don't understand.'

A faint smile cracked across his mouth. ‘If anything, it's my own fault.' He reached out and touched a lock of hair that had fallen across her shoulders. He lifted it to his face, breathing it in.

‘You look upon me as if you believe I could slay dragons.' His hand moved down her cheek. ‘I'm no saint, Morren.'

A strange prickle of longing tugged at her. She wanted to go to him, to feel his arms around her once more. But a moment later, he rolled away from her, facing the opposite side. It hurt to see it.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn't safe to remain this close to him, after all. She'd only get her heart broken.

 

An eerie cry broke through the stillness of the night. Trahern awoke and heard Morren tossing against the fur he'd laid
over her. Though he couldn't see her face, her breathing was unsteady.

‘It's a dream,' he said gently. But his voice did nothing to break through the nightmare. Fear ripped through her voice and she cried out, ‘Run, Jilleen!'

Trahern sat up and tried to rouse her from sleep. Seconds later, she was in his arms. Her skin was frigid, her body shaking. He held her as close as he could, with her seated in his lap. He stroked her hair, and his own heartbeat responded to her nearness.

‘Why won't it stop?' she wept. ‘Why do I have to relive it, night after night?' She clung to him, her tears dampening his tunic.

‘You're stronger than that. You can conquer your fear.'

She kept her hands around his neck, and in time, her body began to warm. It was torment to hold her this closely while instinctive needs pulled at him.

He wanted to wrap both of them in the furs, holding her skin against his own. Somehow, Morren Ó Reilly had slipped through his defenses. She needed his protection, nearly as much as he needed her.

Her fingertips pressed against his nape, her breathing slowly growing steady. ‘Sleep beside me,' she begged. ‘Please.'

To rest beside her would drain him of any remaining restraint. He couldn't do it. To feel her soft body pressed against his own, sleeping with her scent so close…it was unbearable.

But the need to comfort her was greater. He laid down beside her, keeping her in his arms. She nestled close to him, and he gritted his teeth, praying he could hold back any physical response to her nearness.

‘Thank you,' she breathed. When her bottom pressed against his groin, he hardened. Damn it. He couldn't stop the reaction, no matter how he tried.

‘It's all right,' she managed. Her voice held fear he hadn't
meant to cause, and he suppressed a curse. It had been so long since he'd been with any woman, the frustration of celibacy was starting to take its toll.

‘As I said before. I won't bother you.'

He started to leave her, but she took his hands and returned them around her waist. Snuggling against him, she said, ‘Stay. Please.'

He wrapped the fur around her, pulling it over both of them. But then, without warning, she rolled over to face him. Her mouth hovered near his, and the invitation to kiss her was intoxicating.

‘Tell me another story, Trahern,' she pleaded.

He shut his eyes, struggling to think. They both needed the distraction, before he did something he'd regret. But her mouth was so close to his, and his body was fighting against the urge to lose himself in her kiss.

‘There was a warrior named Tristan who loved an Irish princess named Iseult.' He touched Morren's hair, sliding his fingers down her cheek. ‘She was a woman he couldn't have. A woman he should never have desired.'

His thumb moved down to her lips. Her breath caught, her eyes staring into his.

‘But he loved her, didn't he?' Morren whispered. ‘Even though it was wrong.'

‘Yes.' His hand moved to her face. ‘He loved her.'

Morren touched her mouth to his, and the sweetness of her lips turned into desire he'd never expected. Every thought of vengeance, every memory of Ciara, seemed to dissipate. There was only Morren.

Fragile and soft, her body moulded to his, her arms pulling him closer. He was careful not to rest on top of her, keeping her at his side.

The kiss turned hungrier, slashing him with the need to remove the barriers between them, to feel her skin against
his own. His body ached to be inside her, to push away the loneliness.

Instinctively, his hand moved to her breast, gently cupping the weight, his thumb caressing her nipple. The tip grew erect, but when he stroked her, she moaned and pulled back.

‘I'm sorry.'

She turned her back on him, curving her body with her knees up. Her shoulders caved inwards, and he cursed himself for pushing her too far.

‘Morren, I never meant for this to happen.' He sat up, wondering if he should leave.

‘No,' she whispered. ‘I just thought…that I might be able to overcome my fear. I wanted to know what it would be like, if a good man touched me.' He heard the soft shudder of her voice, but she wasn't weeping. There seemed to be an uneasiness, mingled with self-degradation.

‘I blame myself,' she whispered. ‘Not you.' She reached out to him and he held her close, stroking her back. She rested her head upon his chest, as if absorbing comfort from him. And he began another tale, this one of his own making.

‘There was a sultan, long ago,' he began, ‘who had a hundred concubines.' He paused, waiting for her to respond. Hoping he could distract her with a story, easing the physical tension in her body.

She waited for long moments, then asked, ‘Tell me.'

Trahern lifted the fur coverlet over her. ‘Each night, he took a different lover. But no matter how beautiful the women were, he was unsatisfied. And one day, he met a young maiden in the market place. She was fleeing from a man who wanted to claim her.'

Morren curled both palms beneath her cheek, listening to his story. She looked innocent, and her lips were parted with interest.

Trahern found himself wanting to kiss her again, to touch the curves of her body and awaken her to a sensual pleasure.
One that would help her to see that lovemaking could be breathtaking.

‘The sultan reached down and lifted the maiden onto his horse. He carried her to safety.'

‘He protected her,' she whispered. She leaned on one arm, still watching him.

‘The sultan was captivated by her beauty, though he knew no man had ever touched her. He wanted to keep her for himself.

‘He wanted to gift her with the finest silks and jewels, using whatever means he could, to win her heart.'

‘And did he?' Morren reached out and touched his chest with her hand. When she did, it was as if she'd reached inside him, to take his own heart. The past crumbled away, leaving room for nothing else but her. This frightened woman, who needed him as badly as he needed her. It shook him to the core, when he realised what had happened.

‘Did he win her love?' Morren whispered again. Her hand fell away from his chest, and Trahern felt as though someone had poured mud into his veins, choking out everything. He couldn't think right now.

‘I'll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow,' he promised. He laid down with his back to her. With every last fibre of determination, he forced the desire back.

And just as he closed his eyes, trying to grasp at sleep, he felt the warmth of a fur coverlet that she'd slid over him.

 

Trahern avoided her for the next several days. He'd kept to his side of the tent, while Morren remained on hers. From time to time, she would awaken at night to feel his warm body pressed against hers. Though she'd shied away at first, in time, she'd grown accustomed to it.

He never intentionally slept beside her. It was simply that the tent was too small for a man of his size to avoid her. Any
slight movement would bring him close. In time, she felt the need to sleep in his arms.

On the last night, after she was certain he was asleep, she'd moved beside him to share in his body warmth. The nights had grown so much colder, it made it easier to endure the frigid ground. And there was something reassuring about having his large form beside her. She'd snuggled close to him, her mind drifting back to the night when he'd touched her more intimately. His hand had caressed her nipple.