Surrender to an Irish Warrior. Michelle Willingham

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