Surrender to an Irish Warrior Read Online Free PDF Page B

struggled. Used her fists, her teeth—anything.
    Instead, she’d prayed to die.
    Her gaze fell upon the crude shoes lying beside the basin. Trahern had fashioned them for her, not wanting her to suffer from the cold. A hard lump formed in her throat at his kind gesture.
    She suspected he wasn’t coming back. Though he’d sworn he’d return at sunset, she wasn’t certain he would keep his word. Her hands clenched together, and Morren forced herself to rise. Leaving the guest chamber behind, she stumbled to the one place that would offer sanctuary to her troubled thoughts: the garden.
    Inside the monks’ small courtyard there were neatly tended plots that had not a single weed. A few heads of cabbage were left behind, along with herbs. In the corner, tucked away behind one of the apple trees, she saw an abandoned garden.
    It was covered in dead weeds, left alone to grow over. Perhaps the monks no longer had a need for it, but she longed for something useful to do.
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    Over the next few hours, Morren busied herself clearing out the waste, working the good nutrients back into the barren soil. Perhaps, in the spring, they might find a purpose for the bed. The soil needed to rest through the winter, but in spring it would yield a good harvest if someone tended to it.
    The distraction did nothing to cease her worry for Trahern. Likely another attack was happening at the cashel right now. He was alone, and though his strength was undeniable, if the Lochlannach found him they would kill him.
    The thought made her nerves constrict tighter, and Morren voiced a silent prayer for his welfare. Though Trahern was hardly more than a stranger to her, he’d saved her life. If he hadn’t been there to tend her, she’d have bled to death.
    She only wished he hadn’t sent her sister for help. Jilleen was her only family, her only companionship. Without her, Morren had no one.
    She ripped out the weeds from the roots, as though she could tear out her own frustrations and fears. She longed to return to the cashel , to see for herself the extent of the damage, but her body couldn’t endure it. Even now, she fought the dizziness that threatened her vision with bright spots.
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    She didn’t know how many hours had passed, but in time Brother Chrysoganus brought her a simple repast of bread and cheese. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’
    â€˜Thank you, Brother.’ She wiped her hands on her skirts, realising she was hungrier than she’d thought. ‘I hope you don’t mind I spent my time working.’
    Chrysoganus leaned heavily upon his walking stick, in specting her efforts. ‘Not at all. I fear we’ve let that particular plot go fallow, but now that you’ve cleared it back, we’ll find a use for it. Thank you for your labour.’ He peered closer at the earth. ‘My hands can’t pull the weeds as easily as I’d like. Often the gardening falls to the younger brethren.’
    Morren softened at his thanks, offering a tentative smile. Since she had no silver or possessions to offer the monastery in return for their hospitality, her skill was all she could give.
    â€˜I’ve saved the weeds in a small pile over there,’ she said. ‘Cover them with leaves, and in the spring till the mixture into the soil, along with animal droppings,’ she advised. ‘Your garden will give you a good harvest.’
    His craggy face formed an amused smile. ‘Will it, now?’
    She rested her dirty palms on her lap and nodded. Broaching the subject she feared, she asked, ‘Have the fires in the cashel stopped?’
    Chrysoganus’s smile faded, and he sat down upon a large, flat stone near the edge of the garden. ‘No, not yet. We don’t know who started them, but it must have happened early this morning.’
    â€˜Not everyone died in the attack,’ Morren said slowly. ‘Why didn’t the survivors