Surrender to an Irish Warrior. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
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