Her hand clamped over his. “No, Trahern. I don’t want it. Not without you.”
Her rejection burned through him, and he rolled over to face the opposite wall. In his mind, he remembered how it had felt to join their bodies together. It had been far more than consummating a marriage. It was a way of giving to her, and he’d loved watching the way her face would tighten with pleasure.
But, God forgive him, he couldn’t let her bear a child. He wouldn’t cause her pain and suffering, not when it could be prevented.
Somehow, he had to make her understand that.
His brother King Patrick arrived late the following afternoon, despite the snow. Queen Isabel fretted over him, and Trahern asked to meet with him and all of the MacEgan brothers.
“I need to speak with you and our brothers privately,” he said. “Along with Annle, if you can arrange it.”
“I thought we’d finished with the Gall Tír matter,” Patrick said. “Is something else wrong?”
Although it wasn’t over, Trahern didn’t want to discuss Katla’s involvement. Patrick had done everything he could, and he preferred to handle the rest on his own. “That isn’t why I need to see all of you.”
“Is it about Morren?”
He shook his head. “Something else.”
The mention of his wife made him uneasy, for she hadn’t spoken to him since last night. When he’d tried to make conversation, she’d answered his questions. But there was sadness in her voice, along with regret.
“Within the hour,” he said. “In your chamber.”
As soon as he made the request, he felt a sense of emptiness. It was the right thing to do, telling them the truth about his birth mother. And yet, he feared Annle was wrong, that his confession would change the way they saw him.
As he waited, one by one, his brothers arrived. Connor, Ewan, Patrick, and Bevan. Each one a warrior, like himself. Patrick, the king of their province, who would put everyone else’s needs before his own. Bevan, a stoic warrior, whose actions often said what words could not. Connor, a teasing man who had lost the use of one hand but was no less a fighter. And Ewan, the youngest of them who had struggled to find his own strength but had proven his worth time and again.
They waited for him to speak, their silent glances trying to reassure him that whatever happened, they would stand together. As they always had.
Annle was the last to arrive. Her wrinkled face was placid, for she knew why Trahern had summoned her here.
“Tell them what you know, Annle,” Trahern urged. His brothers appeared uneasy, but they gathered around the old healer. Annle sat down, resting her hands upon one knee. And after she’d finished her story, Trahern’s hands tightened into fists. It broke him apart, but the truth had to be spoken.
“I’m not one of you,” he said at last. “Not by blood. I may have been raised a MacEgan, but Duncan and Saraid were not my parents.”
Patrick’s mouth tightened into a line. “You learned of this a few nights ago. And you said nothing until now.” There was disapproval in his tone, laced with the authority of a king.
Trahern eyed each one of them. “I could have remained silent about it. Unless Annle had spoken, you wouldn’t have known differently. But there has always been honesty between us. And trust.”
Bevan looked as though he wanted to speak, but he closed his mouth again. The scars lining each of his cheeks tightened, and he glanced over at Ewan.
His youngest brother appeared angry at the revelation. “What do you want us to say?” Ewan demanded. “Do you want us to cast you out? Pretend that all the years don’t matter?”
“I don’t know what matters to you,” Trahern replied. “All I know is that the life I knew was a lie. I believed that Saraid was my mother.”
“She was,” Annle interrupted. “In every way, she was. She loved you no differently from any of the others.”
“She might have loved you a little more,” Patrick said. He rubbed at his chin, and Trahern noticed the slight traces of gray in his brother’s hair. “Whenever you scraped a knee or got a bruise, she coddled you. There was more than one time that I wanted to drown you for it.”
An unexpected laugh broke forth. “You tried.”
“All of us tried to kill each other,” Bevan added. “Have you forgotten when Liam convinced us that we could fly, if only we concentrated hard enough?”
“I was seven,” Trahern remembered. “It was Midsummer’s Eve, when I was home visiting from fostering.” He’d been so glad to see his family again, he’d spent all day playing with his brothers. “We climbed the highest tree we could manage.” A pang caught him, as he thought of the eldest MacEgan brother, Liam, who had died in battle years ago. “Liam told me to close my eyes, flap my arms as hard as I could, and jump.”
Bevan grinned. “You realized he was lying when you hit the third branch.”
Ewan was smiling, too. “I wish I’d been there to see it.”
