Trahern stared into his brother’s face. He’d been so caught up in his grief and his need for revenge that he’d kept everyone away. “I wanted to die,” he admitted. “Every time I saw you with Aileen or Patrick with Isabel, I was eaten up with jealousy. All I could think of was what I’d lost with Ciara.”
“It was terrible, seeing you like that.” Connor rested his scarred hand upon Trahern’s shoulder. “We’re family, Trahern. And whether you know it or not, your pain was ours.” His dark expression softened. “If Morren is the cause of bringing you back to us, I can only be grateful to her.”
As they walked toward the inner bailey, Connor’s words forced his spirits even lower. For they weren’t truly family, were they? His brothers believed that they shared the same parents when there was no blood between them. All they had were memories.
He held his tongue, not wanting to lose that. Though Morren had claimed his brothers would stand by him, even knowing the truth, he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Not yet, for he didn’t want to relinquish the MacEgan name.
In the small courtyard, several couples waited with the priest. Among them, he saw his youngest brother Ewan holding the hand of his new wife Honora.
Though the pair had been married only a few weeks ago, there was no dimming their happiness. Honora rushed forward and hugged him. “Ewan told me you were here, Trahern. I’m so glad to see you.” She reached up and rubbed his head, smiling at the new growth of hair. “You’re looking more handsome, I must say.”
He ignored her comment and voiced the question, “Why is it that women are fascinated with touching my head?”
“Enjoy it,” Ewan urged. “If women would come up and rub my head, I’d shave it every day.”
“And I’d run them through with a blade,” Honora retorted. “Watch yourself, MacEgan.”
Ewan kissed his wife. “You can rub my head whenever you want,a stór. Or other things.”
Honora’s face turned crimson. “I can’t believe you said that out loud.”
His brother’s teasing made him laugh, and with his humor restored, Trahern joined them to watch the handfastings. Couple after couple spoke their promises, and Father Brían blessed the marriages, combining pagan and Christian traditions. It was the way of their family, remembering the past, along with the present.
When the last marriage was completed, he ignored the emptiness of disappointment. Morren hadn’t come. He wondered if she’d changed her mind again. Grimacing, he turned away, ignoring the platters of steaming food that were brought forth from the kitchen.
“Trahern,” came a voice. It was Connor’s wife Aileen. Her face was pale, but she took him aside from the others. “I spoke with Morren this afternoon.”
The devastated expression on her face made him wary. “Is she all right?”
Aileen’s nod was hesitant. “She told me . . . everything.” Tears filled up the healer’s eyes, and she reached out to take his hands. “I understand now why you’re so protective of her.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s coming to join you and Father Brían now.” Aileen reached out and touched his cheek. “But you should know something, Trahern. Though her body may have fully healed, there are some injuries that haven’t. And I doubt if she’ll have children.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he responded. It was the truth. He didn’t own his own land, and he had no need for heirs.
“I bid you happiness,” Aileen said, stepping away. Within moments, he saw Morren arriving to speak with the priest. Her hair was crowned with heather, and she wore a gown he’d never seen before. The forest green silk was trimmed with fur, the cloth vibrant in color.
“It’s the gown you meant for Morren to have,” Aileen murmured. “Isabel arranged to purchase the silk, after you sent that lad off with a handful of coins the other morning.”
“It wasn’t enough for silk,” he argued.
“No, but Isabel contributed some. She thought there would come an occasion when Morren would need a finer gown. And I see now she was right.”
It pleased him to know that he’d contributed to the gown, though he’d only intended to offer Morren something better to wear than her traveling clothes.
“We spent most of the day sewing,” Aileen continued. She rubbed at her fingers. “Morren looks beautiful, don’t you think?”
Trahern took a step forward, then another. His bride’s hair was intertwined with tiny golden balls, which accentuated the fair color of the strands. “She does.”
He walked past Aileen to join Morren. He took her hands in his, feeling spellbound by her appearance. “The gown looks well on you. You’re beautiful, Morren.”
Her cheeks grew pink, and she gave his hands a faint squeeze. “Thank you.”
Then they turned to the priest, and Trahern grew aware that all of his brothers and wives had come close to hear their vows. As he spoke the words that bound him to Morren, he didn’t miss the way Patrick drew Isabel closer. Or the way each of his brothers held his wife, as if to echo the promises made. He was glad for their presence, though the burden of his past weighed down upon him.
Morren’s hand squeezed his, her blue eyes soft. Though she appeared uncomfortable with everyone watching them, her lips curved in a faint smile. Whether she meant to reassure him or herself, he didn’t know. But when he looked into her eyes, he was startled at the contentment of having her at his side.
