“I’ll be back later tonight,” he promised.
“I know you will.” She lifted her eyes to his, and they were a steady, deep blue. Although she didn’t appear confident, she put on the appearance of bravery.
Without thinking, his hand reached out to her cheek. He touched it with his palm, and she flinched. The reaction was so fast, he dropped his hand away.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”
He mumbled that it didn’t matter, but inwardly, it bothered him to think that any unexpected touch would have such an effect upon her. He left without another word, following Gunnar outside the house to another rectangular structure. The air had turned even colder, hinting at a freezing rain or snow.
The Norseman stopped before the entrance, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Have you claimed Morren as your woman?”
“Not in the way you’re suggesting. But I won’t allow you or any other man to bother her. I’ve sworn to protect her and her sister.”
“Selfish bastard.” Gunnar pushed open the door. “You don’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her.”
“You’re right.” He offered no excuses, for Morren had endured enough.
When they reached the interior of the dwelling, Trahern saw five men seated. He saw Ciara’s brother Áron, who met his gaze with a resigned expression. The man looked as though he’d given up hope.
He’s avoiding me, Trahern realized. But why? Was it sorrow at losing Ciara . . . or guilt?
“This is our chief, Dagmar,” Gunnar said. A taller, older man, the chief wore costly gold rings and a band around his upper arm to denote his rank. Shrewd brown eyes stared into his own, as if assessing his measure. Trahern didn’t falter but stared back, daring the man to voice a protest.
“I know you believe we were behind the attack that night,” the chief began, “but it isn’t true. We’re trying to learn who it was.”
Trahern chose a seat beside Áron, studying each of theLochlannachmen. A man’s posture and demeanor would often proclaim his guilt when he spoke false words. But so far, he saw nothing.
The chief spoke the Irish language, out of courtesy for himself and Áron. Trahern had learned a bit of the Norse tongue from his grandfather as a child, but his abilities were limited.
“A runner returned last night from Dingle,” the chief said. “The Irish and Ostmen are essentially one tribe there. They had no reason to attack Glen Omrigh.”
Trahern could have told them that, for his own grandfather Kieran had spent a great deal of time in Dingle.
“What about Port Láirge?” he ventured. “There’s a large settlement along the river.”
The chief looked doubtful. “It’s a good distance from here, but possible.” He shrugged as if it were no matter to him. “Gunnar, see to it.”
Then he turned to the others. “It’s turning colder, and it will be more difficult to rebuild when the ground freezes. We’ll need a group of men to start working on the foundations tomorrow. The sooner we rebuild, the sooner the Ó Reilly’s can return to their own cashel.” The conversation turned toward the needs of the Irish clan and how many of the survivors should make the journey.
Trahern watched the men, feigning his attention, but his true interest was in learning just why they wanted to help the Ó Reilly’s. Though it was common for one Irish clan to assist another, there was no discussion of what would be given to the Dalrata in return. Finally, after the men ended the meeting and began leaving for their own houses, he asked Áron.
“They are planning to expand their own territory,” Áron answered. “We’ve granted the Dalrata people some of our land in return for their help. With fewer clan members, we don’t need the space.”
Trahern didn’t like it. “How much land?”
“Not as much as you might think.” Áron sent him a warning look and lowered his voice to a whisper as they returned to the center of the longphort. “Trahern, if it weren’t for them, we’d be dead. We lost all of our harvest to the fires, and they’ve invited us to stay with them through the winter.”
“I wouldn’t trust them if I were you, Áron.”
“We’ve no choice.” He stopped walking and shook his head. “You might be suspicious, but I am grateful for theLochlannach. You’re welcome to come with us on the morrow, when we rebuild the cashel.”
“I might.” The more time he spent with the men, the more he could learn about what happened that night.
“Why did you come back, Trahern?” Áron asked suddenly. His face tightened with wariness, as though he didn’t want Trahern to be here.
“I intend to avenge Ciara’s death. I’m going to find the men who were responsible for the attack.”
Áron seemed unsettled, his gaze shifting back toward the Norsemen. More than ever, Trahern was convinced that the man knew something.
