Chapter 6
Conor’s blustered demand did little good as Liam and Tiernan caught up with him and Annalise, the two going so far as to rush past and then stop right in front of them—forcing Conor, with an irritated grunt, to come to an abrupt halt.
Annalise gasping when he instinctively drew her closer, which astonished him as much as his brothers-in-law, who shot a sideways glance at each other and then at Niall coming up alongside all of them.
“Will you introduce us, Conor?” his uncle said with a curious look upon his face…almost a knowing look as he glanced from Annalise’s flushed cheeks back to Conor.
He bristled at what they must be thinking to see him holding her so closely against him, his tone brusque as he muttered, “Annalise Burgoyne…Niall O’Byrne, my father’s brother…and those two are Liam O’Toole and Tiernan O’Byrne, the husbands of my sisters, Deirdre and Eva.”
“Oh, it was Eva who so kindly gave me some of her gowns to wear…and this cloak,” Annalise murmured as she glanced at Tiernan. “You must thank your wife for me.”
“I will, my lady…but you will meet her tonight at supper. Annalise will be joining us, aye, Conor?”
He didn’t readily reply, dumbfounded by Tiernan calling Annalise “my lady” in so gracious a manner, as well as all three men staring at her as if she wasn’t a Norman at all…no hint of enmity on their faces.
Clearly, Triona had spoken to them as well, and mayhap spread the word throughout the stronghold that Annalise was to be treated as a guest, and not a bitter enemy.
“Aye, she will attend supper with us,” Niall answered for him, the slight censure in his voice making Conor’s jaw grow tight. “We look forward to seeing you again, Lady Burgoyne. Enjoy your walk with my nephew.”
With a nod, Niall signaled for Liam and Tiernan to accompany him. All three giving Annalise a kindly look before hastening away, Conor bristling again to see his brothers-in-law nudging each other like boys rather than grown men.
Annalise had stiffened, too, and he realized just how tightly his arm was wrapped around her slender waist from the nervous way she glanced up at him.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled, which astonished him as well that he had offered her several apologies already that day—by God, what was happening to him? He eased his hold upon her at once, though he laced his fingers again with hers to keep her from possibly fleeing from him.
Her hand feeling so small within his and slightly trembling as if his closeness frightened her, which strangely cut him, he couldn’t deny it.
Now he was feeling strange and unsettled unlike he had ever felt around any young woman before…and why did this one have to be so incredibly beautiful?
He had seen her only in the dawning light of day and then the firelight of his bedchamber, but in the afternoon sunshine, tendrils of blond hair that had escaped the confines of her hood gleamed like gold, her skin creamy and her features angelic.
Yet it was the unusual blue-green color of her eyes that made his heartbeat quicken, her lovely brow knit in an unspoken query that made him guess she wondered why they were simply standing there.
Conor feeling suddenly like a slack-mouthed dolt as he clenched her hand tightly and drew her along with him, his strides so long that she had to half run to keep up with him.
Tersely, he pointed out dwelling-houses and the stable and other buildings where ale was made and provisions were stored—then wondered angrily why he bothered to explain anything about how his clan lived and worked.
Annalise would remain with them only so long as to achieve whatever plan Ronan had in mind for her, so what was the point of it all?
She must have wondered the same thing for she had remained silent as she scurried alongside him, which only made Conor continue his brisk pace in order to be done with this charade as quickly as possible.
Yet when he indicated the prison house with a brusque few words, she suddenly came to such an abrupt halt that her hand broke free of his—but she didn’t try to escape from him.
Instead, her face seemed to grow pale as she stared at the shuttered building, the only words from her mouth a plaintive, “How is Joffrey faring?”
“My mother has seen to it that he enjoys some comforts, too—plenty of food, a pallet to sleep upon and warm blankets. We are not barbarians here, no matter what you must think of us.”
“Yet you slew my father’s men with no mercy at all.”
“Aye, because they ventured into our mountains. Would your people not do the same to protect what was theirs if Irishmen landed upon English soil lusting for conquest?”
“They were only escorting me to Kildare, that wasn’t their intent—”
“Enough, woman! Were we to ask questions of them as they drew weapons against us? Their deaths were swift, if that eases your na?ve view of such matters. Enemies are enemies—”
“Ah, then I was right earlier, I am no guest! I would rather you lock me in the prison house than continue this absurd ruse. Take me there now, I demand it!”
Annalise stared at him so defiantly, her chin lifted and her eyes flashing, that Conor found himself staring again at her beauty heightened by the flushed color of her cheeks.
So transfixed in truth, he didn’t dodge the swift and painful kick to his shin that dropped him to one knee as she took off toward the prison house with her hood fallen from her head and her long hair flying.
A roar of alarm rising up around him as guards came running from all directions to chase after her while several stopped to help him to his feet.
He shook off his clansmen with a roar of his own and set out with a limping run after her, only to see her stop at the door to the prison house and begin to pound upon it with her balled fists.
“Joffrey, say something to me! Are you well? Tell me they haven’t beaten you, tortured you—”
“Lady Burgoyne, is that you?” came the steward’s high-pitched voice that became an earsplitting wail of distress as Annalise pounded all the harder.
She didn’t stop her assault even when Conor grabbed her and swung her into the air, her clenched fists wildly striking him in the face and upon the shoulders.
Her face streaked with tears now and her desperate cries echoing Joffrey’s when she screamed, too, right into Conor’s ear.
Grimacing, he didn’t tarry but threw her over his shoulder with his hand splayed upon her backside and carried her back to his dwelling-house, a stricken-faced Orla meeting them at the door.
“Heavens, Conor, have you forgotten your mother’s command? What have you done to upset the poor girl so?”
“Nothing more than to take her outside for some fresh air—ah, God!”
Conor grimaced again at the fierce kick to his abdomen that stopped his breath, his curse more a pained wheeze as he brushed past Orla to carry his struggling captive back inside to his bedchamber.
Aye, a captive, that’s what Annalise was—and he wasn’t going to pretend any longer that she was a guest, no matter his mother’s wish.
The ungrateful wildcat! She could have emasculated him if she’d kicked him any lower, Conor furious now as he kicked open the door and strode across the room to dump Annalise onto the bed.
Her cheeks reddened, her hair tear-dampened and stuck to the side of her face as she stared at him with a withering look that told Conor she clearly thought him an enemy, too.
“I’ll be glad when we’re done with you!” he began, only for Annalise to jump from the bed and try to pummel him again.
Somehow, he grabbed her flailing arms to dodge her blows and drew her against him to try and quiet her, but she fought him even harder and began to kick, too.
Her cries of “I despise you! I despise all of you!” so shrill and piercing that he could think of no other way to silence her than to cover her mouth with his own, her body suddenly stiffening.
Her arms no longer flailing, her foot no longer kicking him as if she’d become frozen in his embrace…Conor kissing her until she seemed to go limp, her lips parting against his and making him groan in surprise.
A groan that made her stiffen again so abruptly that he raised his head to find her staring at him in horror.
The wide-eyed look on her face cutting him to the bone as she clearly thought he intended to ravish her, which made him curse under his breath and push her away from him.
He was gone from the room before she could utter a word, but Annalise began to weep instead.
The piteous sound carrying to him as he stormed past Orla, who rushed into the bedchamber and shut the door behind her.
Not gently at all, but a jarring slam so unlike the kindhearted serving woman that seemed to heighten the disgust Conor felt with himself for treating Annalise so harshly.
Yet what else could he have done to stop her from thrashing him? Shake her? Toss her bodily onto the bed? How would she have looked at him any differently? God help him, he was no ravisher of women!
Now Conor slammed the outer door, too, and set out again at a determined stride toward the stable. Why not another ride this day to free him from the emotion churning inside of him?
Anger, guilt, frustration, and regret all rolled into one even as he knew no hard gallop into the hills would make him forget the sweet softness of Annalise’s lips…his heart pounding and his fists clenched as if he could fight off the realization surging through him.
He was lost, he knew it now—and probably had been from the first moment he’d seen her.
An enemy, a Norman stealing his heart though he knew as well with chilling certainty that she hated him. How could she not after what had just happened between them?
Annalise lay on the bed and clutched her tear-stained pillow, her shoulders still quaking with sobs that would not stop—no matter Orla’s attempts to soothe her.
Conor had no sooner left the room than Annalise had thrown herself upon the mattress in abject despair, her lips still burning from Conor’s kiss.
A kiss that had filled her with terror at what might come next…though she had felt something else, too, and she despised herself for it.
Her heart slamming in her throat as at first, she had stiffened in his arms, so stunned she couldn’t move while his mouth claimed hers.
His lips so insistent and warm she had begun to feel as if she were melting and had gone limp within his embrace.
The bedchamber spinning around her in a dizzying whirl until she heard his husky groan against her mouth that brought her crashing back to reality—and overwhelmed her with fright.
Surely he hadn’t intended to—no, no, she couldn’t bear to think of it, fresh sobs making her feel as if she were choking, she wept so inconsolably.
Not because she had loathed Conor’s kiss, but because she had never known such a tumult of emotion and had even begun to kiss him back—ah, God, kiss him back!
“Shh, child, surely what happened between you and Conor couldn’t be so bad as to cause this fit of weeping,” came Orla’s voice through the haze of Annalise’s torment, making her lift her head.
“He…he kissed me!” she hiccoughed, tears streaming down her face. “I…I thought he was going to…to—”
“No, no, never Conor O’Byrne,” Orla cut her off before Annalise could utter the words. “He’s as honorable as any I’ve seen—and our men are not ones to force themselves upon women, you can be sure. Now cease this crying and sit up before the blankets are a sodden mess, aye, that’s much better.”
Annalise had obliged her, Orla’s usual gentle tone having become one not brooking any argument, though Annalise still sniffled and hiccoughed while she wiped her wet face with the palm of her hand.
Orla’s expression wasn’t so mild, either, but almost stern as she took Annalise’s tear-dampened fingers in her own.
“What came before such a transgression by Conor?”
Annalise blinked, so stunned by Orla’s probing question that she grew still altogether, and glanced down at her lap as a wave of contrition struck her.
“I…I was so upset that I struck him and kicked him…and told him I despise him as I tried to break free—”
“Ah, so he held you fast so you would stop beating upon him and then kissed you to still your shrieking, aye? At least that’s how I see it…and heard it, too, from the other room. What do you say?”
Annalise swallowed hard as fresh remorse swept her and she met Orla’s eyes, which were filled now with pity.
“Y-yes, that’s probably what happened. We were walking and came upon the prison house where they’re keeping my father’s steward…and it all became too much. I’m no guest here, but a prisoner, just like Joffrey…”
Annalise grew quiet even as Orla sighed heavily, squeezed Annalise’s fingers, and then drew her up from the bed.
“Let’s clean your face and get you ready for supper at the feasting-hall—”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t go there now!” Annalise blurted, but Orla firmly nodded.
“You will go and present yourself to Ronan O’Byrne, our chieftain and Conor’s father.
He’s been ill, but he’s better now, thank God—and mayhap he’s decided what’s to be done with you.
None of us wish you harm, child, and neither does Conor, no matter his rough treatment of you.
I’m sure he feels as remorseful as you, aye, even more so.
I’m not blind to what I’ve seen when he looks at you… ”
Now it was Orla who fell silent as if reluctant to say more, and her expression seemed to have grown sad as she removed Annalise’s cloak and then led her to a wash basin.
The cool cloth that the serving woman used on her face doing little to quell the warmth sluicing through her at the prospect of seeing Conor again…especially after what had transpired between them.
A kiss she couldn’t force from her mind that made her heart race, too, Orla clucking her tongue and then sighing again as if she had discerned Annalise’s thoughts.
A subdued sigh that made Annalise feel more than anxious now as she wondered what the chieftain of the O’Byrnes had in store for her—God protect her! Mayhap all too soon she would know…