glanced back at Morren, who answered his unspoken question. âGo with Gunnar. Iâll be fine with Jilleen.â
âI donât want you unguarded.â
âShe can stay with Katla,â Gunnar offered. âMy brotherâs wife will keep her safe.â
Trahern had no doubt of that. He imagined the Norsewoman would wield a spear against any man who threatened someone under her protection.
âItâs all right, Trahern. You may as well go with them and find the answers youâre seeking.â
He would have preferred it if Morren came with him, but she was looking pale. It was best if she got some rest. He also wanted the healer to look over her in the morning, to be sure she hadnât suffered unduly from the miscarriage.
âIâll be back later tonight,â he promised.
âI know you will.â She lifted her eyes to his, and they were a steady, deep blue. Although she didnât appear confident, she put on the appearance of bravery.
Without thinking, his hand reached out to her cheek. He touched it with his palm, and she flinched. The reaction was so fast, he dropped his hand away.
âIâm sorry,â she murmured. âI know you didnât mean any harm.â
He mumbled that it didnât matter, but inwardly it bothered him to think that any unexpected touch would have such an effect upon her. He left without another word, following Gunnar outside the house to another rectangular structure. The air had turned even colder, hinting at a freezing rain or snow.
The Norseman stopped before the entrance, eyeing him thoughtfully. âHave you claimed Morren as your woman?â
âNot in the way youâre suggesting. But I wonât allow you or any other man to bother her. Iâve sworn my protection.â
âSelfish bastard.â Gunnar pushed open the door. âYou donât want her, but you donât want anyone else to have her.â
âYouâre right.â He offered no excuses, for Morren had endured enough.
When they reached the interior of the dwelling, Trahern saw five men seated. Ciaraâs brother, Ãron, was there with aresigned expression. The man looked as though heâd given up hope.
Heâs avoiding me , Trahern realised. But why? Was it sorrow at losing Ciaraâ¦or guilt?
âThis is our chief, Dagmar,â Gunnar said. A taller, older man, the chief wore costly gold rings and a band around his upper arm to denote his rank. Shrewd brown eyes stared into his own, as if assessing his measure. Trahern didnât falter, but stared back, daring the man to voice a protest.
âI know you believe we were behind the attack that night,â the chief began, âbut it isnât true. Weâre trying to learn who was.â
Trahern chose a seat beside Ãron, studying each of the Lochlannach men. A manâs posture and demeanour would often proclaim his guilt when he spoke false words. But so far, he had found nothing.
The chief spoke the Irish language, out of courtesy for himself and Ãron. Trahern had learned a bit of the Viking tongue from his grandfather as a child, but his abilities were limited.
âA runner returned last night from Corca Dhuibhne,â the chief said. âThe Irish and Ostmen are essentially one tribe there. They had no reason to attack Glen Omrigh.â
Trahern could have told them that, for his own grandfather Kieran had spent a great deal of time in Corca Dhuibhne with the à Brannon family.
âWhat about Port Láirge?â he ventured. âThereâs a large settlement along the river.â
The chief looked doubtful. âItâs a good distance from here, but possible.â He shrugged as if it were no matter to him. âGunnar, see to it.â
Then he turned to the others. âItâs turning colder, and it will be more difficult to rebuild when the ground freezes. Weâll need a group of men to start working on the