“It’s just a fever,” she said. “It will go away in a few days.”
He crouched by the hearth, eyeing her. “You said your mother was a healer. What would she have done for you?”
“Raspberry leaf tea, I suppose. Or willow bark if the fever got too hot.”
He shrugged. “I saw neither when I was out getting water. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She would find them herself, if the bleeding continued.
Trahern stopped arranging the wood for a moment. The firelight gleamed against his head, and she wondered why he’d shaved his hair and beard. The clothing he wore was hardly more than a slave would wear, as though he cared nothing for his appearance.
He grieved for Ciara, she realized. He’d loved her.
Morren studied him, not understanding how such a fierce, hot-tempered man could stay at her side all night telling stories. Amid the smothering fever, she’d heard his deep voice. It had reached within her, giving her something to hold onto. She let her gaze fall over his face, noticing the worn lines and exhaustion. He hadn’t slept at all, using the captivating tale to ease her pain. And something within her was grateful for it.
“Where are the others?” he asked. “Your kinsmen?”
“Jilleen and I have no one else. Our parents died last winter.”
He returned to her bedside, holding out the food once more. “How long have you been living here?”
She took one of the apples, with no true intent of eating it. “Since early summer.”
“And you’ve been here alone since then?”
“Yes.” Morren’s gaze fixed upon his. “I don’t know how many of the Ó Reilly’s are left.” The only person she’d wanted near her, after that night, was Jilleen. She hadn’t returned to the cashel after they’d fled, nor to St. Michael’s Abbey. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know of her shame.
“After we find your sister, you should return to Glen Omrigh,” Trahern said quietly. “It isn’t right for the two of you to be alone.”
Morren rolled the apple between her palms, not wanting to think about the future. Enduring each hour at a time was all she could manage. “I’ll find a place for us. Somewhere.”
He studied her, as if trying to ascertain her worth. “Do you know enough of your mother’s healing? Your skill would hold great value with another clan.”
She shook her head. “I know the plants and trees and their uses. But I’m not a healer.” More often than not, her kinsmen had asked for her guidance when the crops were failing. Her talent lay in making things grow.
Outside, the wind shifted through the trees. Morren huddled beneath the coverlet, sensing what was to come. A change in the weather was imminent.
“You should put on your cloak,” she advised. “It’s going to rain.”
As if in answer to her prediction, she heard the soft spattering of droplets. Minutes later, the thatched roof began leaking, the water puddling upon the earthen floor, transforming it into mud. Trahern grimaced and lifted up his cloak to shield his head from the water. The rain felt cool upon her cheeks, easing the fever.
“Take the other end of this,” Trahern said, holding out his cloak. “We’ll share the shelter until it stops.”
She made no move to take it. “I don’t mind the wetness.”
“It’s not good for you. You’ll catch a chill and get even weaker than you already are.” He sat down beside her on the bed, offering her the other end.
Morren scooted far away from him. Trahern’s head towered over her, making her feel uncomfortable.
“I’m not planning to touch you,” he said gruffly. “There’s no harm in both of us using the cloak for shelter.”
Without waiting for her argument, he tossed the end over her head. She lifted the wool from her face, shielding her head from the rain.
The heavy cloak held his scent, masculine and safe. She could feel the heat of his body within the cloth, and her cheeks warmed from more than the fever.
Trahern wasn’t looking at her, but he stared at the fire sputtering on the hearth. Rain dampened his cheeks, and she saw the light stubble of beard upon his face.
She’d thought him handsome before, when his dark hair had touched his shoulders, his beard masking his features.
