“You did. Whether or not they are your brothers by birth, you know it’s the truth.”
“I should tell them, but a part of me doesn’t want to. I’d rather they believed the lie.”
“Just because you don’t possess MacEgan blood doesn’t change the feelings they have for you. You’re their brother and always will be.”
“I don’t want to haveLochlannachblood running through me. Every time I think of them, I think of Ciara. And you.“ He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t want to be related to my enemy in any way.”
He gripped her hair, lowering his forehead. “She was fleeing from Gall Tír, Morren. The child she bore was likely from one of them.”
She embraced him, wrapping her arms around his back in a gesture of silent comfort. “Nothing’s changed, Trahern. Nothing at all.”
She was wrong. Something had changed, something between them. Though she claimed to be his friend, there was more. He held her tightly, breathing in her scent. He didn’t press her for anything further, but he couldn’t stop the physical response to her. The closeness of her body against his was a reminder that every time he touched her, he was desecrating Ciara’s memory.
He was about to pull away when Morren’s hand moved up to the back of his head. The touch of her hands struck him aflame like a match against dry leaves.
He wanted to draw her close and remove the layers between them. Instead, he took her hands and lowered them. Her smile faded, and she pulled them back. “You’re angry with me.”
“No. Angry with myself.”
She hugged her shoulders, shivering slightly. “You’re angry that I refused to wed you.”
He shook his head slowly. “I promised myself I would never forget Ciara. That I would avenge what happened, even if I died in the attempt.”
Her fingers moved up to touch her mouth, as though holding back what she wanted to say.
“I’m angry at myself because . . . I’ve stopped thinking of her.” He raised his eyes to hers, feeling raw and furious for being weak. “And because I want you, far more than is good for either of us.”
Her shoulders lowered in confusion, but still, she didn’t speak.
“Leave, Morren,” he said. “Now. Before I do something I’ll regret.”
He wasn’t thinking clearly, the anger and sexual frustration mingling together in a way that made him feel like an animal.
“You’re not betraying Ciara,” she whispered, taking a step closer. “She loved you. And she would want you to go on living.”
Before he could argue, she stood on her tiptoes and brought his mouth down to hers. God above, but he needed this. He needed Morren’s gentleness, her soothing warmth. And she seemed to sense it.
Without breaking the kiss, he led her to a chair and sat down, pulling her into his lap. Her breath caught, but still, he didn’t stop kissing her.
He tasted the seam of her mouth, and she allowed him entrance. But when his tongue touched hers, she emitted a soft gasp.
“You shouldn’t have started this,” he murmured, cupping her nape. He shut out the raging voices that told him how wrong this was. He didn’t care. Morren had reached out to him, and damned if he’d turn down this moment with her.
He’d kissed her like this before, but she seemed tentative, all of a sudden. “Don’t be afraid, Morren.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me, I know.” Her whisper was tremulous.
“Never in a thousand years.” He nipped at her mouth again, feeling hazy with desire. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She let her hand slide down the back of his tunic, her cool hand exploring his skin. The rippling touch sent a grinding pulse of heat through his groin, and his fingers curled against the seat of the chair.
She sensed it and drew back. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”
He gritted his teeth. “No, it feels good.” To show her he meant it, he loosened the ties of his tunic and lifted it away, baring his skin. He held still, seeing the mixture of fear and curiosity on her face. When she didn’t move, he lifted her palms to his chest.
“Go on.” He leaned back, closing his eyes. She’d refuse, no doubt. Even Ciara had preferred to let him do the touching.
But Morren surprised him. Her palms slid over his muscled chest, slowly. Fingertips traced the battle scars from years ago, gently learning the planes of his body. “When did you get these?”
