Trahern unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground. “We’ll bundle it with this.”
Though she didn’t like the thought of him working in the cold with no outer garment, they had nothing else. And he seemed to understand that this was important to her.
He moved to the edge of the field and grasped a handful of grain, slicing it with the scythe near the ground.
He’d done this before, Morren realized. Someone had taught him to gather and slice, preserving the stalks which would be used to feed the livestock over the winter.
She remained a few paces to his left, picking up the blade and cutting the grain. Handful after handful fell beneath the scythe, and she created a small pile upon his cloak. It was a welcome respite, losing herself in the mindless monotony.
“I used to have a small garden outside my home when I was fostered,” she confessed, when Trahern came to drop his own bundle of grain on the cloth. “As a child, I loved watching the seedlings grow. My grandmother once told me that the faeries blessed the land and the harvest.”
Trahern moved in front of her, toward a new section. “I believed in magic, as a child. It’s why I taught myself all the stories from the poet who used to visit our ringfort.” He met her gaze, and his eyes held remembrance. “I thought that, by learning the tales, I might learn the magic, too.”
He gripped his scythe with the ease of a weapon. Once more, he swung at the grain, slicing the stalks. Morren kept parallel to him as she worked. “Your stories have a magic of their own. They bring comfort to the people.”
He looked slightly embarrassed at the compliment but nodded his thanks. They worked alongside each other for the next hour, and only when her arms began aching, did she stop to rest.
Traherncontinuedwieldingthescythe, his muscles flexing as he cut away the ruin. Morren had known he was strong, but she found herself entranced by the way his arms bulged against the sleeves of his tunic as he swung.
He’d kept the wall from falling onto her, shielding her with his own body. It humbled her to realize that he’d protected her without thinking, out of instinct.
A light shiver tingled through her skin as she watched him. Though she lowered her head, pretending to cut more of the grain, she couldn’t stop herself from watching Trahern’s movements.
His shoulders tightened, the blade moving steadily. She couldn’t hope to keep up with his punishing pace. Instead, she worked slowly, sneaking glances at him with her peripheral vision.
Despite his physical strength, his soul seemed caught up within the past, clinging to the memories of Ciara. She wondered if he would ever find another woman, someone to soothe the raw wounds no one else could see.
He caught her looking at him when he’d reached the middle of the third row and lowered his scythe. Color stained her cheeks, and she looked away.
“Is something wrong?” He approached, and she saw a line of sweat sliding down his throat beneath his tunic. He drew closer, and Morren lowered her own scythe. She was embarrassed that she’d managed to cut only half of what he’d accomplished.
“No. I’m fine.” She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, adjusting her woolenbratover her head to keep it warm. “My arms were tired.”
“You shouldn’t be working this hard,” he said. “It’s too soon.” Guilt colored his face, as though he’d forgotten about her injuries.
When he moved closer, she started to feel lightheaded. His height towered over her, and her grip tightened upon the handle of the scythe. “It needs to be done.”
“But not by you.” Trahern took the scythe from her. “Go back with the others. I’ll finish here.”
“You can’t possibly finish it today. Not alone.” She wiped her palms upon her skirts. “Besides, it’s getting late. We’ll go back together.”
Trahern strode back to the bundle of grain lying upon his cloak. He helped her gather up more of the barley, using the cloak to wrap the grain into a large sheaf.
She struggled to lift the bundle, which was far heavier than she’d imagined. He tried to take it from her, but Morren refused to allow it. “I can manage.”
“If you want to try.” He waited as she adjusted the sheaf, her cold fingers trembling on the knotted wool that bound it. The bundle was awkward and slipped from her hands several times. She tried again to hoist it onto her shoulders because she wanted to prove to him that she’d regained her strength.
“It weighs half as much as you do,” he said quietly. “And you may as well bring back the tools.”
“I’m being foolish, aren’t I?” Morren sighed and set down the barley.
Trahern lifted the bundle onto his shoulder with no effort at all while she retrieved the two iron scythes. “Not foolish. Overambitious, perhaps.”
They returned to the cashel, but just before they reached the gates, Adham Ó Reilly approached. His brown hair was damp, as though he’d taken the time to smooth it before coming to see her. Trahern moved beside her, his posture guarded.
“Morren,” Adham greeted her. “I’m glad to see you’re unharmed.”
She set down her scythe, returning the greeting. “Adham.”
