Free Surrender to an Irish Warrior by Michelle Willingham Page B

glanced back at Morren, who answered his unspoken question. ‘Go with Gunnar. I’ll be fine with Jilleen.’
    â€˜I don’t want you unguarded.’
    â€˜She can stay with Katla,’ Gunnar offered. ‘My brother’s wife will keep her safe.’
    Trahern had no doubt of that. He imagined the Norsewoman would wield a spear against any man who threatened someone under her protection.
    â€˜It’s all right, Trahern. You may as well go with them and find the answers you’re seeking.’
    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 hadn’t suffered unduly from the miscarriage.
    â€˜I’ll be back later tonight,’ he promised.
    â€˜I know you will.’ She lifted her eyes to his, and they were a steady, deep blue. Although she didn’t 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.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I know you didn’t mean any harm.’
    He mumbled that it didn’t 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. ‘Have you claimed Morren as your woman?’
    â€˜Not in the way you’re suggesting. But I won’t allow you or any other man to bother her. I’ve sworn my protection.’
    â€˜Selfish bastard.’ Gunnar pushed open the door. ‘You don’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her.’
    â€˜You’re right.’ He offered no excuses, for Morren had endured enough.
    When they reached the interior of the dwelling, Trahern saw five men seated. Ciara’s brother, Áron, was there with aresigned expression. The man looked as though he’d given up hope.
    He’s avoiding me , Trahern realised. But why? Was it sorrow at losing Ciara…or guilt?
    â€˜This is our chief, Dagmar,’ 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 didn’t falter, but stared back, daring the man to voice a protest.
    â€˜I know you believe we were behind the attack that night,’ the chief began, ‘but it isn’t true. We’re trying to learn who was.’
    Trahern chose a seat beside Áron, studying each of the Lochlannach men. A man’s 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 Áron. Trahern had learned a bit of the Viking tongue from his grandfather as a child, but his abilities were limited.
    â€˜A runner returned last night from Corca Dhuibhne,’ the chief said. ‘The Irish and Ostmen are essentially one tribe there. They had no reason to attack Glen Omrigh.’
    Trahern could have told them that, for his own grandfather Kieran had spent a great deal of time in Corca Dhuibhne with the Ó Brannon family.
    â€˜What about Port Láirge?’ he ventured. ‘There’s a large settlement along the river.’
    The chief looked doubtful. ‘It’s a good distance from here, but possible.’ He shrugged as if it were no matter to him. ‘Gunnar, see to it.’
    Then he turned to the others. ‘It’s turning colder, and it will be more difficult to rebuild when the ground freezes. We’ll need a group of men to start working on the