His large body covered hers, and she could do nothing but hold him. Tears filled her up inside, and she cried.
For the demons had been vanquished at last.
Chapter Twenty
“Areyouready?”Trahernasked quietly.
“Yes.” Morren clung to the reins of her horse, her posture tense. The gray gown she’d chosen was one she’d altered to fit, given by Katla. It molded to her waist, and she’d braided her hair back from her face, her hood shielding her head. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and Trahern wished they were anywhere but outside the gates of Gall Tír.
He’d much rather take her back to the chamber they’d shared at Laochre and warm her, skin to skin. Over the past three days since their handfasting, he’d made love to her during most of the night hours, falling asleep with her hair against his lips, her body nestled beside him.
And each time, he cursed himself for it. He’d never intended for this marriage to be anything but an arrangement. But with each day that passed, he found himself fighting what was happening between them. He’d let himself love a woman once, and Ciara’s death had almost destroyed him. Love had weakened him, leaving a monster in its wake. A man without a soul.
He couldn’t let it happen again. Already, he’d let Morren get too close to him. The sooner she identified the men and returned home to her clan, the better. He’d come here for justice, to avenge Ciara and the Ó Reilly clan. And he couldn’t forget that purpose.
He brought his horse alongside Morren’s. “It will be over in a few hours,” he reassured her. “We’ll find them, and I’ll send you back to Laochre.”
She gave a nod, but her cheeks were unnaturally pale. Her knuckles whitened on the reins as she followed him inside.
Leading their group was his brother King Patrick, surrounded by his retainers. Beside the king rode their youngest brother Ewan and his wife Honora. Trahern was grateful that Honora had come, for unbeknownst to the Hardrata people, she was a skilled warrior who would help him guard Morren.
His nerves were drawn taut like a bowstring when he helped Morren dismount. She kept her face hooded to hide her features. The Norse guards were on edge, for the presence of Laochre soldiers evoked a physical threat. This was not a visit among friends, and they knew it.
Morren clenched Trahern’s hand, her eyes searching. Her fingers were cold in his, and he leaned in to murmur softly. “Tell me if you see any of them. Or if you want to leave at any time, Ewan will take you back.”
“I’d rather see this through.” She walked beside him, and one of the Hardrata guards led them to the house of the chief, near the center of the settlement.
Gunnar remained behind the others, and Trahern saw tension in the man’s face. There was something more theLochlannachwasn’t telling him. A reason for being here that had nothing to do with the attack on the Ó Reilly’s. But there was no time to ask why.
Before they reached the chief’s hut, Morren’s hand suddenly tightened so hard upon his, he thought she was going to break his fingers. He looked to see the source of her anxiety and one of the men standing nearby abruptly walked away.
He hardly glimpsed the man’s face, but he leaned over to his brother Ewan. “Follow him.”
Ewan had a talent for slipping away, unnoticed. And Trahern had no doubt his brother would find the guilty man. More than all else, Trahern wanted to join in the pursuit, but he had to speak with the chief. He forced himself to remain patient as they entered the chief’s dwelling.
Vigus Hardrata sat upon an elaborately – carved chair upon a dais, one that had been passed down for generations. It had been made by Trahern’s grandfather Kieran, as a gift to his sister Aisling, who had wed one of the Hardrata warriors.
The chair was also an unspoken reminder of the ties between them. The chief stood and invited Patrick to sit with him.
“Something has gone wrong,” Vigus began. “You would not have brought soldiers among us, otherwise.”
Patrick gave a nod of acknowledgement and motioned Trahern to approach the dais. All eyes turned to him as he took Morren’s hand. She lowered her hood, revealing her face to the chief. Beneath her serene expression, he saw the bone-deep fear. He sent her a silent look of reassurance that he would keep her safe. Even so, she didn’t release his hand.
“This past summer, my wife’s home, Glen Omrigh, was attacked by five of your men,” he said. “They burned homes and killed innocent people.”
“And how do you know they were Hardrata?” the chief asked.
“One of the raiders returned to the Ó Reilly cashel seeking the rest of his payment,” Trahern asserted. “He claimed that Gall Tír was his home before he died.”
The chief betrayed no emotion on his face. “If what you say is true, we will not let such actions go unpunished.” He leaned forward, steepling his hands. “But there must be evidence of your claims.” His blue eyes were cold, his gray hair ragged against his bearded face. The chief reminded Trahern of his great-uncle Tharand, a stoic man who valued honor above all else.
Trahern reached into the pouch at his waist and poured a handful of coins into his palm. Offering them to the chief, he said, “Few men would have coins such as these. They are from an ancient hoard.”
One of the Lochlannach leaned forward to examine the coins. He whispered into the chief’s ear, and the chief’s expression darkened. “A man may possess coins such as these. But it does not make him a murderer.”
“We have witnesses who saw the men,” Trahern continued. “Those who lost sons and fathers.” His voice hardened. “Women were violated, and we demand justice.”
“Why did the Ó Reilly chieftain send you in his stead?” Vigus asked.
