Chapter 2
Conor stared down at the unconscious young woman in his arms, a hard lump in his throat at the glistening wetness on her face.
She had looked up at him so tearfully, so fearfully, as if convinced that she was soon to breathe her last, but Conor and his men had never slaughtered women and children—unlike the accursed Normans who had ravaged their land.
Aye, he had been rough with her in wresting her out of the tent, but what else was he to do when she had hesitated? Mayhap she had been thinking to grab a knife with which to slash at him…although his gut instinct told him, now, that cold terror had kept her from readily obeying his command.
Now she lay limply against him, her long blond hair streaming over his arm and her cheeks so pale, which made Conor swallow hard again that he had swept her up so forcefully.
He judged her age at eighteen or nineteen—but by God, why was a young Norman woman as beautiful as this one traversing O’Byrne lands with only a dozen men to escort her?
A dozen dead men, Conor corrected himself grimly as he glanced at the bloody carnage wrought by his clansmen…and so swiftly, too.
The fire that had led them like a beacon to the camp now doused with dirt, only a thin tendril of smoke still wafting up into the thick canopy of brightly colored leaves.
Red and gold like the blood staining the ground and the gleaming color of his captive’s silken hair, for indeed, she was an O’Byrne prisoner now…Conor throwing a look of disgust at the only Norman left alive who still wept and sniveled like a girl.
“Cease your whimpering, fool! Are you a man or a child?”
At once the clearing grew quiet except for the low laughter of Conor’s clansmen as the cowering Norman was yanked to his feet to face him.
“You said you were on your way to Kildare, aye?”
“Y-yes, Lord, to Athy—ah, no, forgive me, I’m going to be sick!”
Conor watched with fresh disgust as the man, scrawny as a pole and pale as death, bent over and vomited upon the ground, the two clansmen who held him by the arms cursing and sidestepping the mess.
That made the others laugh again, but Conor waved them to silence, his patience growing thin. If not for the woman still unconscious in his arms, he would have pressed his own knife to the man’s throat to get him to speak, and quickly.
“Speak up, man, or I swear these moments will be your last. Damn you, how did you come to be in these woods? Who is this young woman? Are you mad to have strayed upon O’Byrne lands?”
For a brief moment, the Norman could only stare at Conor as if not comprehending him, but then his Adam’s apple bobbed and words began to rush from him in a high-pitched torrent.
“I am Joffrey, steward to Lord Edward Burgoyne of Sussex—and charged with delivering his daughter to her future husband. Our ship was bound for Dublin, but we were blown off course during a storm and-and we decided—I decided—not to wait upon repairs. It seemed the quickest route was due west through the mountains—”
“Are you serious, man?” Conor cut him off, incredulous. “Did no one apprise you of the danger? That these mountains belong to the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles, sworn enemies of the Normans? Look around you at your dead companions if you don’t believe me—”
“I believe you, Lord!”
“I’m no lord!” Conor shouted so vehemently that the young woman stirred in his arms, though still her head hung limply. “My father, Ronan Black O’Byrne, is chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes and you will soon answer to him—”
“Then…then you’re not going to kill me?”
The Norman’s query so plaintive, his red-rimmed eyes filling again with tears, that Conor swore under his breath and shook his head. This weepy scarecrow of a steward was no warrior and thus of no danger to them, which was evidenced when the man slumped with obvious relief between his two captors.
“Ah, God, thank you…thank you!”
“Enough, I don’t want your thanks. I want the name of this woman and to whom she is pledged—”
“Annalise Burgoyne to Baron Maurice de Saint Michael of Kildare. You know of him, Lord?”
Know of him? At the mention of so hated a name, Conor felt every muscle grow tense and he swore more vehemently, which made Joffrey gulp and stare at him wide-eyed.
Mayhap the steward once again fearing for his life when Conor spun hard on his heel, his harsh commands silencing the birdsong as morning sunlight began to filter through the trees.
“Leave the dead to rot where they lie as a warning to any other Norman bastards who dare to enter our mountains! Mount up!”
His clansmen at once obliging him, Conor heard fresh whimpering as Joffrey was flung across a saddle like a felled deer—while he hoisted himself up onto his stallion and settled his limp captive across his lap with her head lolling against his shoulder.
A quick glance at her ashen pallor, her slightly parted lips the color of the palest rose, all he allowed himself before riding from the clearing, the pounding of hooves following after him.
“The bride-to-be of Maurice de Saint Michael is among us? Where?”
“At my dwelling-house, Father,” Conor said as Ronan stared at him as if he didn’t quite believe the astonishing news he had just uttered, his mother, Triona, appearing just as startled.
Conor always felt he saw himself in Ronan, the two of them were so alike from their shared height and powerful build, slate gray eyes, and midnight hair, though his father’s was tinged with gray…
while his twin sister, Eva, favored Triona with her coppery hair and stunning beauty, their parents still so striking a couple.
“You left her there alone?” his mother now queried, glancing with concern at Ronan.
“No, not alone. I’ve posted guards at the entrance to prevent any escape, but I doubt she will try anything—”
“You doubt?” Ronan echoed so forcefully that he began to cough, Triona rushing to his side to rub his back.
Her efforts did little to help his father, who continued to cough while Conor swallowed uncomfortably to see him so ill, Ronan’s forehead beaded with sweat.
Already he regretted sharing news that could have waited until midday, his parents seated in front of a hearth fire and eating their morning meal when he had burst into their dwelling-house.
Now they both stood and still stared at him as Ronan’s coughing thankfully subsided, Conor seizing the moment to hastily apprise them of everything that had happened up until moments ago.
The attack at the Norman camp, the slain guards, their two prisoners.
The steward, Joffrey, locked up inside the prison house where his wretched weeping could be heard through a shuttered window.
Annalise Burgoyne left in Conor’s bedchamber for he didn’t know where else to deposit her, the prison house no fit place for such a valuable prisoner.
She had regained consciousness during the ride back to the stronghold, but hadn’t uttered a word and kept her eyes downcast as if she couldn’t bear to look upon him as her slender form trembled from head to foot in his arms.
Could he blame her after how harshly he had treated her? Conor was not one to feel pity for any Norman, he so hated them all, but her quaking vulnerability had moved him, he couldn’t deny it.
Enough to leave her within the comfort of his dwelling-house, attended by a trusted serving woman, though he could see from Ronan’s darkening expression that his formidable father—illness or no—didn’t approve.
“Are you mad, Conor? What if she takes a knife to the servant’s throat to try and effect an escape?”
“I…I don’t think she will, Father. She’s very slight of figure and fainted at the sight of her dead guards. Her only words begging me to spare her and her steward, Joffrey, just before she went limp in my arms—”
“By God, did you hear that nonsense, Triona? The wench must be fair indeed to have our son treat her so solicitously! Take her to the prison house at once to join her steward until I decide what is to be done with her.”
“I don’t know, husband,” Triona began softly, her hand still rubbing Ronan’s back as if she expected another fit of coughing.
“So highborn a young woman is valuable, indeed, and should be treated as such, I do not fault Conor’s judgment.
As the bride-to-be of a hated enemy, surely she is worth more to us in sound health than to become sickly languishing in a drafty cell, aye? ”
Ronan’s low curse made Conor certain that he didn’t favor Triona’s assessment, either, though his shoulders seemed to slump and he settled with a heaving sigh into his chair.
“God help me, I can’t argue with the both of you, this illness has made a weak man out of me.”
“No, no, never weak,” insisted Triona, who bent over him to kiss his cheek and then run her palm across his forehead.
“Your fever has eased, husband, a good sign. You will be fit and well again soon—and no decisions need to be made quickly about our Norman prisoners. It will be days before that bastard Saint Michael discovers his bride is missing, which gives us plenty of time to decide the best course…ah, no.”
Ronan had begun to cough again, Triona waving Conor away as she grabbed a woolen blanket to cover her husband’s broad shoulders.
Her dismissal enough for Conor to know there would be no more discussion of the prisoners for now…and he quickly left them, his gut clenching at the wretched sound of Ronan trying to clear his lungs from the phlegm threatening to strangle him.
God help his father, Conor had never seen him so sick before—and it worried him deeply as he closed the door and strode across the yard toward where Niall, Liam, and Tiernan awaited him.
Their eyes filled with an unspoken question as to what Ronan had decreed with regard to their prisoners—for he was the much honored chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes after all.
His word the law.
His decisions to be obeyed…well, except when it came to his beloved wife, Triona, who was the only person alive to whom Ronan deferred.
“The prisoners will remain where they are…for now,” Conor said before any of the three men could speak, Liam’s raised eyebrow making him bristle. “What, O’Toole?”
“Nothing, brother, just wondering where you will sleep since a Norman wench occupies your bedchamber—”
“Outside the door, of course, to prevent her from escaping. Where else would I be?”
Liam uttered a short laugh, but he didn’t say anything more…though Conor knew his sister’s husband wasn’t intimidated at all by his display of temper.
The two of them were close friends above all, and a clap upon his shoulder was enough to ease any irritation Conor felt—for he would have asked the same thing if Liam wore his shoes.
Niall and Tiernan sharing a short laugh, too, but all of them sobered as Conor indicated the feasting-hall with a nod.
“Ale?”
“Oh, aye, slaughtering our enemies is always cause for celebration,” Liam said lightly, though his expression had grown grim. “Too bad there weren’t more of them—but a dozen is a good day’s work.”
“Aye, a very good day,” Conor agreed as his uncle Niall and Tiernan led the way while he and Liam walked side by side behind.
Another raised eyebrow from his powerfully built brother-in-law when Conor shot a glance toward his dwelling-house where Annalise Burgoyne must be weeping now, too, at the chilling realization she was a prisoner.
Annalise. He had never heard such a name before, and it wasn’t Norman. Danish, mayhap? Some of her people descended from the Vikings who had once ruled much of England? That would explain her golden hair—but the unusual color of her eyes was something else altogether.
Sea green with a hint of blue—God help him, what did he care? She was fortunate he hadn’t run his sword through the side of the tent instead of glancing inside first…another Norman dead, woman or no.
Better that than spawning more of their accursed kind with her husband-to-be, a hated baron whose forebears’ murderous treachery had stolen Kildare from the O’Byrne and O’Toole clans decades ago.
Maurice de Saint Michael. The name alone made Conor spit upon the ground, barely missing Liam’s boot.
Yet Liam spat, too, as if he knew exactly what Conor was thinking.
A dark look shared between them that they had been afforded another chance to thwart their enemies…the quest for vengeance against the Normans forever burning bright.