Chapter 3
Annalise paced across the well-appointed bedchamber while the older serving woman sitting near the hearth fire busied herself with needlework and scarcely glanced in her direction.
Yet Annalise could tell by the stiffness in the woman’s plump shoulders that she was aware of whatever Annalise was doing and remained wary.
Annalise had been brought to this room by the grim-faced warrior who had ridden with her to the most unusual stronghold she had ever seen…not constructed of rock and mortar like Norman castles but of stout timber atop earthen embankments.
She had regained consciousness somewhere along the way, such fear gripping her that she hadn’t been able to cease her trembling.
The warrior holding so tightly that she couldn’t move, and she hadn’t dared to look up at him. Instead, she had kept her eyes lowered as she had tried to discern their direction—ah, God, an impossible task for the densely forested hills that rose above them on both sides.
She’d had no idea where they were bound until they reached the immense stronghold, Annalise counting three massive gates that were hauled open for her captors who whooped and shouted in triumph.
The man who held her roaring out so loudly that she had winced and wished she could cover her ears, but her arms were held close to her sides until at last he dismounted and pulled her down with him.
Her feet never touching the ground as he had carried her to this building and thrust open the door to stride inside, not stopping until he had reached the bedchamber where he deposited her beside the imposing bed.
Sheer terror making her knees wobble that mayhap he intended to ravish her, and she had met his eyes then to find him staring at her—but thank God, not with lust.
She had thought his gaze as black as his hair from what she’d seen of him at the camp, but she could see in the firelight from the hearth that his eyes were a dark slate gray with a piercing intensity that made her shiver.
His handsome features grimly set as if in stone as he’d told her in a harsh voice that a serving woman would attend to her needs, and that she should not try to escape for the guards posted just outside the bedchamber door as well as at the entrance to the dwelling-house.
Then he had left her, Annalise’s head spinning from everything that had happened…the horrible memory of her father’s slaughtered men-at-arms making her sink to the planked floor and cover her face with her hands.
She had only stirred when the servant entered the bedchamber a short while later bearing a covered tray, a gesture indicating that the woman had brought food for it was clear she didn’t speak Annalise’s Norman language.
Annalise nonetheless hadn’t touched a bite of the oat porridge, her stomach sickened by what had happened at the camp and that she had no idea what was to become of her.
Clearly she had been captured by rebel Irishmen…for no native allies of the Normans would have attacked her entourage. Had they cut down Joffrey, too, as he had pleaded for his life? Was she the only one left alive?
Annalise sighed heavily as she ceased her pacing and sank down on the edge of the bed—but then she sprang up as if burned.
Did this dwelling-house, as her midnight-haired captor had called it, belong to him? If so, she wanted nothing to do with the bed or anything else in this room and she rushed toward the door, only for the serving woman to look up from her needlework and cluck her tongue as if in warning.
“Where am I?” Annalise spun around to demand in vain, as it was clear the servant didn’t understand a word she said. Yet she couldn’t stop herself and continued to shout as fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “What are they planning to do with me? Who is the man who brought me here?”
“Conor O’Byrne,” came a familiar masculine voice from behind her, Annalise whirling back around to see her strapping captor enter the room.
Oddly enough, he didn’t appear as grim as before, nor his voice as harsh, and he had a relaxed look about him that made her back up several steps when she caught a strong whiff of ale.
God help her, the man had been drinking while she was left here distressed and fearful about her fate! His chain mail removed but his knee-length gray tunic and leather boots still spattered with blood, making her raise her hand to her mouth in horror.
As if reading her mind, her captor followed her gaze to glance down at himself and then shrugged, though his expression had hardened as he again met her eyes.
“Your Norman escort trespassed into our mountains—and few have ever lived to tell about it. A fair recompense for lands stolen from us by your accursed lot, including Kildare that once belonged to the O’Byrnes and O’Tooles.
Where you were bound, aye? The town of Athy to present yourself to your husband-to-be? ”
Annalise didn’t answer, only stared as she realized Joffrey had revealed much to this Conor O’Byrne…no doubt to save his own life.
“M-my father’s steward is alive?” she finally managed after Conor had cursed with impatience and waved the serving woman from the room, which made Annalise back up even further. “Joffrey—”
“Aye, the mewling scarecrow. If more Normans were as pitiful as that one, they would never have ventured beyond the coast where their ships first landed years ago, let alone conquer a third of éire, the bastards! Your steward still weeps like a wee babe at the prison house, but I thought you would find more comfort here.”
“Comfort?” Annalise echoed, her heart pounding in her throat at how the goodly-sized room seemed so much smaller given Conor’s dominating presence. She backed away further still until she came up hard against the carved footboard of the bed, gasping.
Her startled reaction making him actually smile as if her discomfiture amused him, his teeth a flash of white and his face appearing almost boyish—making her heart seem to skip a beat.
Yet at once she stiffened and drew herself up to all of her petite stature, which only made him smile all the wider, his laughter low and husky.
Was it the ale that had made him lower his guard around her? How many mugsful? Four? A half dozen? He didn’t appear drunk, and as quickly as he had smiled, he grew serious again and advanced slowly toward her.
“Aye, woman, your comfort. Mayhap you haven’t realized it, but you’re of great value to the O’Byrnes.
We intend to keep you safe and protected until a plan is devised as to what to do with you.
My father, Ronan O’Byrne, is chieftain of our clan and he will decide your fate and that of your steward, not me.
Everything you need will be brought to you, food—”
“I will not eat it!”
“Hot water to bathe—”
“I will not use it!”
“Fresh clothing—”
“I will not wear it!”
Annalise had tilted up her chin to stare defiantly at him, but Conor merely smiled again—although this time not with any humor.
“Then starve and stink and wear your Norman gown to tatters, for all I care. It could be days, weeks, even months before you’re once again among your own people—”
“So mayhap you intend to release me?” Annalise felt such a lump in her throat that it had been difficult to speak, tears welling in her eyes. Yet instead of any sympathy reflected in Conor’s steely gaze, she saw only contempt that made her swallow, hard.
“Are you so eager to see your beloved bridegroom, Annalise Burgoyne? Maurice de Saint Michael? There are few men more despised in éire—and God willing, he will be slain before you ever call him husband, we have only to first lure him and his forces into our mountains—”
“He is not my beloved. I had no choice!”
Her outburst seeming to echo around her, Annalise clapped her hand over her mouth and stared aghast at Conor, who appeared as stunned at what she had so rashly revealed.
For a fleeting moment even, she thought she saw a hint of pity in his eyes before his jaw grew tight and his expression inscrutable.
“No matter. He must want you badly to bring you so far to wed him, your beauty enough to make any man crave you for his own…and which will bring about his downfall. Get some rest now, sleep on the floor if you deem my bed not good enough for you. Your comfort—or lack of it—is up to you.”
He turned then and left her as abruptly as he had entered the room, Annalise staring after him as the door was slammed shut.
The serving woman not returning, either, as if Conor had ordered Annalise to be left alone for a while to think upon what he’d said to her about days, weeks, even months that these Irish rebels might hold her captive—
“Before I’m once again among my own people,” she hoarsely repeated his words, tears welling again as she sank down onto the floor with the back of her head resting against the footboard.
Yet strangely, a flicker of something else stirred within her…an undeniable sense of relief.
If Maurice was slain, then she wouldn’t become his bride, Annalise feeling some guilt as she began to pray that it would be so.
Such a wish was wrong, she knew it, but she didn’t want to marry a man who had seized upon her family’s misfortune to procure such a loathsome arrangement.
“Forgive me, daughter,” had been her father’s last words to her before she had boarded the ship bound for Ireland, tears streaking his cheeks that had grown sunken and lined with unrelenting grief.
Annalise had the strangest intuition at that moment that she would never see him again…his wife gone and now his only child—ah God, she couldn’t think upon it anymore!
Instead she began to weep, her fist to her mouth to stifle the sound, her shoulders shaking.
What was to become of her in this place? Conor had said she would be safe and protected, but how could she believe such a man?
A ruthless Irish rebel and an enemy of England. If Maurice was slain, would she still be turned over to her own people or had Conor said that merely to taunt her?
That thought made her sob all the harder, her fist no longer muffling her distress. She had never felt so lost or more hopeless, and so…so alone.
“Damn it all.” Conor stood outside the door to his bedchamber, not sure why he had lingered or why the weeping emanating from the room made him angry at himself all over again.
First he had regretted how roughly he had swept her into his arms at the camp and then how tightly he had held her as he rode back to the stronghold, so she wouldn’t squirm or fight him.
That petite slip of a woman? She had spirit, aye, he had seen the flash of indignation in her beautiful eyes and how she had railed at him that she didn’t intend to eat, bathe, or change her garb.
Yet she couldn’t fight him any more than anything she’d said had moved him to pity… ah, God, he was lying and knew it.
He is not my beloved. I had no choice!
How could so few words have affected him so deeply? An intense rush of sympathy overwhelming him at the anguish in those sea green depths that had told him much…though he had thrust away the emotion and hardened himself at once to her plight.
Annalise was a Norman. What did he care if her marriage was arranged without her wish or consent? She would never wed Maurice de Saint Michael if he was slain, and then she would be free to marry another Norman…if it was Ronan’s intent to ever allow her to leave Glenmalure.
That thought elicited a strange twinge of emotion inside Conor, though he thrust it away and cursed under his breath when Annalise’s sobbing grew louder through the door.
Aye, his words had been too harsh, his fists clenching with fresh regret that he attempted to quash as well.
Whatever was the matter with him? Annalise was an enemy and deserved no more consideration while among the O’Byrnes than food to eat, a place to sleep, and fresh clothing on her back just as he had told her—
“Conor, she weeps so desperately now that she may become ill,” came the serving woman’s low voice behind him, making Conor twist around to face her.
“Allow me to return to her. Mayhap I can coax her to drink some water and eat…though the porridge has long since grown cold. Some warm stew and fresh-baked bread might tempt her.”
“Then go and fetch it—and have some hot water brought here as well. A bath might soothe her, and place the tub in front of the fire and see that fresh logs are stacked in the hearth. We cannot have her catch cold…”
Conor grew silent as Orla stared at him with a curious look on her face, the older woman long a devoted servant to his family and one who had looked after him and Eva as children. “What? She is a valuable captive—”
“Aye, so she is, for you to show such concern for her. So lovely, too…”
Orla didn’t say anything more, but hustled away as Conor gestured for the two guards leaning against a nearby wall to resume their positions outside his bedchamber door.
Annalise’s weeping had not abated, but he didn’t wish to hear any more of such sorrow.
That same twinge plaguing him along with fresh regret as he strode from the dwelling-house without a backward look.