He’d wanted to pursue theLochlannachtonight. But there was no chance Morren could endure the journey. If he ventured farther than five miles, no doubt she would collapse.
She stepped quietly to a pallet on the far side, lying down with her back to him. Delicate and fragile, he didn’t miss the worry that burdened her. Despite her physical weakness, there was no doubt of her determination to reach her sister.
Trahern poured water into a wooden bowl and splashed it onto his face. Water trickled down his stubbled cheeks, and he felt the prickle of hair forming on his scalp and beard. Though most Irishmen prided themselves on their hair and beards, he had wanted to strip it all away.
He didn’t want warmth or comfort—only the cold reminder of what he’d lost.
With his blade, he shaved off the hair, never minding the nicks upon his flesh. Without it, he appeared more fearsome. Different from the others, a man not to be trusted. If changing his physical appearance kept others away from him, so be it.
When it was done, he set the knife back on the table, a flicker of light gleaming off the blade. There were traces of his blood upon it, but he didn’t care.
He poured more water into the wooden bowl, using his palms to spill more of it over his head, the droplets washing away the blood. The remaining water in the bowl rippled, then fell still. In the reflection, he saw his angry features, the monster who lived for violence. A man who no longer cared if he lived or died.
A man who looked like one of the Norsemen.
Trahern wanted to hurl the bowl across the room, because he wanted nothing to do with them. They were murderers, not men. He loathed the fact that their appearances were similar.
It shouldn’t have surprised him, for his great uncle Tharand had been aLochlannach, as well as his mother’s father. Even so, he’d never truly compared himself to the foreigners. But when he’d battled against Gunnar, for the first time he’d not looked down upon his enemy. They were the same height, the same build. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
Jesu, how could he even consider bringing Morren into their settlement? She’d endured enough suffering. It was best to leave her here, where she wouldn’t have to face the men who had harmed her.
But then, he’d never know who the raiders were. Without her, he couldn’t identify them. Trahern gritted his teeth, fingering his dagger before sheathing the blade. There was no choice but to bring her.
He risked a glance at her sleeping form on the opposite side of the guest house. Like a ghostly spirit, Morren appeared caught between the worlds of the living and the dead. Though she claimed that she wanted to live, to take care of her sister, he wondered if she would ever find contentment in her life.
She rolled over, her golden hair veiling one cheek. She slept with her hands clenched on the coverlet, as though she were still trying to defend herself.
He wondered if she preferred him to sleep far away from her. Or was it better to remain nearby, to keep her safe if any other guests arrived at the monastery?
To avoid making a decision, he spent time clearing away the dishes and leftover food. Silence descended over the abbey, with all the monks asleep until Vigils, which would begin in a few hours.
He chose the pallet farthest from Morren, deciding it would make her more comfortable. Stretching out on the fur coverlet, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
In his mind, he saw Ciara’s face. Her spirit haunted him, with a smile that tore him apart.
I love you,she’d whispered in his ear on the morning he’d left. He’d kissed her goodbye, never suspecting that it was the last time he would ever hold her in his arms. So many things he’d never said. He hadn’t told her that he’d loved her. And now, she’d never know it.
He shifted on his pallet and turned to find Morren watching him.
“I can’t sleep,” she confessed. “I’ve tried, but I’m too worried about Jilleen.”
Trahern stood and crossed the room, sitting down upon one of the pallets close by. He stretched out beside her, careful to keep a physical distance from her. He propped up his head on one elbow, watching her. “Are you afraid of visiting theLochlannach?”
Her mouth tightened, and she nodded. “Yes. I know Gunnar said she wasn’t a captive, but if that were true, why didn’t she come back? Why didn’t they send their healer?”
“I don’t know. But we’ll find out in the morning.” He studied her, and her blue eyes filled with worry. “If you’d feel safer staying behind, I promise I’ll bring her back to you.”
Morren sat up, drawing her knees close. “You shouldn’t go alone.” Her arms tightened around her knees, and she lowered her forehead. He suspected she didn’t trust him to keep his word from the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I wish I were stronger,” she continued. “I’m afraid that the longer I wait, the more danger Jilleen faces. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t have left.”
“On the morrow,” he promised. “We’ll get her back.” A grim feeling slid over him, and he added, “I suppose we should have kept Gunnar as a hostage.”
“No. You were right to release him.” She met his gaze. “And I rather doubt the monks would have allowed it.”
He shot her a sidelong smile. “No? Perhaps with a generous gift to the monastery, they would turn a blind eye.”
Morren shook her head, her mouth softening. She thought he was teasing, and though that wasn’t entirely true, it eased the tension. “Gunnar owes you a debt now,” she added. “It may keep us both safe.”
