Surrender to an Irish Warrior. Michelle Willingham

is over,’ he said. His voice was low, emotionless.

      But it wasn’t. Not by half. Morren curled her body into a ball, the dull pain sweeping over her. Her rounded stomach was now sunken and flat. From the pile of bloodstained rags nearby, she suspected the babe was gone.

      It was her punishment for all that had happened. Hot tears gathered in her eyes. No, she hadn’t wanted the child, not a permanent reminder of that awful night. But now that it was gone, she felt emptiness. A sense of loss for the innocent life that had never asked to be born from a moment of such savagery.

      I would have loved you, she thought, in spite of everything.

      She buried her face into the sheet, suddenly realising that she was naked beneath the covers, except for the linen between her legs.

      Humiliation burned her cheeks. ‘What have you done?’ she demanded. ‘I want my clothing.’

      ‘It was covered in blood. I had to remove it, to help you.’ His voice was heavy, as though weighted down by stones. ‘I’m sorry I could not save your child.’

      The words cut through her, and she wept for the loss. A warm hand came down upon her hair as she hid her face from him. Though she supposed he’d meant to comfort her, she couldn’t bear anyone touching her.

      ‘Don’t.’ She shrank back from Trahern, binding the covers tightly to her skin.

      He lifted his hands to show he meant no harm. ‘I’ve sent your sister for help.’ Studying her, he continued, ‘Until she returns, I’ll find something for you to wear.’

      He rummaged through her belongings, and though Morren wanted to protest, she held her tongue. Another cramp rolled through her, and she couldn’t stop the gasp. The room tipped, and she lowered her head again, fighting the dizziness.

      ‘I’ve seen you before, but I don’t remember your name,’ he admitted, finding a cream-coloured léine within the bundle. He tossed it to her, turning his back while she pulled the gown over her head. ‘I am Trahern MacEgan.’

      It disappointed Morren to realise that he didn’t recognise her at all. But then, his attentions had been focused on Ciara and hardly anyone else.

      She knew Trahern well enough. During the months he’d spent living among her tribe, she’d listened to countless stories he’d told. It wasn’t often that a bard could captivate an audience, weaving a spell with nothing but words, but Trahern was a master.

      ‘Morren Ó Reilly is my name,’ she answered at last.

      He didn’t show any sign that it meant anything to him, and she accepted it. Another dull cramp gripped her, and the pain threatened to sweep her under again.

      ‘Is your husband alive?’ he asked, a moment later. He’d phrased the question carefully, as though he already knew the answer.

      ‘I have no husband.’ And never would, God willing. Her sister, Jilleen, was the only family she had left. The only family she needed.

      Trahern’s gaze met hers, but he offered no judgement. Neither did she offer an explanation. ‘When did you eat last?’

      ‘I don’t remember.’ Food was the very last thing she’d thought of when the pains had come upon her. The idea of eating anything made her stomach wrench. ‘I’m not hungry.’

      ‘It might help.’

      ‘No.’ She buried her face on the ragged cloak her sister had used as a sheet. ‘Just leave me. My sister will return.’

      He dragged a stool nearby and sat beside the bed. ‘I can see that you’re hurting,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I can do for you.’

      ‘Nothing.’ She bit her lip, wishing he would go, so she could release the tight control she held over the pain.

      Trahern crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Your sister will return with the healer soon.’

      ‘No, she won’t.’ Morren couldn’t stop the gasp when another wave of pain struck her. ‘Our mother was the healer. She died last year.’

      Trahern leaned in, frustration lined upon his face. ‘Then she’ll go to the abbey and bring someone back.’

      ‘I don’t know if anyone will come,’ she answered honestly. The monks at St Michael’s would tend anyone brought to their abbey, but she doubted if any of the elderly brethren could make the journey here.

      Trahern’s grey eyes were nearly black, his mouth taut with anger. Morren had never seen him this furious, and she tried to retreat as far away from him as possible. She closed her eyes, focusing on enduring one breath at a time.

      ‘Don’t blame Jilleen,’ Morren insisted. ‘She might still bring back someone to help.’

      But even as she spoke the words, she suspected they were untrue. Her sister had gone, and there was no way of knowing if she would return. Ever since the night of the attack, Jilleen had not been the same.

      Neither had she.

      Morren gripped her arms tightly, not wanting to think of it again. Let it go, she told herself. The sacrifice was necessary.

      ‘Are there many survivors left at Glen Omrigh?’ he asked.

      Morren shook her head, not knowing the answer. ‘I don’t know. We left, and I don’t know where the others fled. Possibly to other clans.’

      ‘How many of the Lochlannach attacked that night?’

      Morren didn’t speak, the dark fear washing over her. She clenched her teeth, fighting to keep herself together.

      But Trahern wouldn’t let it go. ‘How many, Morren? Did you see them?’

      Staring directly into his face, she said, ‘I know…exactly how many men there were.’

      She could tell from the look on his face when he understood her meaning. Trahern expelled a dark curse, his gaze crossing over her broken body.

      She said nothing more. There was no need.

      When his hand reached out to touch hers, she pulled it back. And this time, when the darkness lured her in, she surrendered.

      She’d started bleeding again.

      It bothered Trahern, having to care for Morren in such an intimate manner. She was a stranger to him, and he knew nothing about how to fight the demons of sickness. Though he did his best to help her, he wondered if it would be enough.

      God help her, she was still burning with fever. Trahern gave her small sips of water and did his best to tend her. But he did not reach for her hand, nor touch her in any way. It wouldn’t bring her comfort anyhow.

      His rage against the Vikings heightened. The Lochlannach had done this to Morren, and worse, he feared they’d also violated Ciara. He renewed his vow of vengeance against the raiders. They would suffer for what they’d done. If what Morren said was true, that the tribe had scattered, then she might be his best hope of learning more about these raiders.

      The hours stretched onward, and Trahern kept vigil over Morren. In the middle of the night, she started shaking. Terror lined her face, and he wished he had some means of taking away her pain. But he knew nothing of plants or medicines. And he didn’t want to leave her alone, not when she’d lost so much blood.

      Helplessness cloaked him, and he wondered if Ciara had suffered like this or whether she’d died instantly. Had anyone taken care of his betrothed during her last moments?

      He stared down at his hands, wishing there was something he could do. There was only one thing he had left to offer—his stories. Though he’d been a bard for as long as he could remember, not a single tale had he uttered since Ciara’s death. He hadn’t been able to find the words any more. It was as if the stories had dried up inside him. Bringing laughter and entertainment to others seemed wrong, not when the woman he’d loved was