Chapter 7
“She’s so beautiful, Conor, look at her!”
Conor followed Eva’s gaze to the entrance of the feasting-hall where Annalise stood with Orla, who awaited a gesture from Triona before proceeding into the vast room lit by sputtering torches.
Yet his mother didn’t just wave to Orla, but rose from her chair beside Ronan’s and rushed in a flurry of green silk to take Annalise’s hand and draw her toward the head table.
Annalise’s eyes wide and her expression apprehensive as she appeared to take in everything around her…
the gathered O’Byrne clansmen with their wives and families seated at long trestle tables, the servants hastening to fill cups before the evening meal was served, and the bearded trio of harpers seated near one of two massive hearths and playing a lively tune that seemed to ring from the high rafters.
The animated buzz of conversation ceased altogether at Annalise’s approach as everyone stared back at her, Conor glancing with some unease himself at his father’s grim countenance and then once again at Annalise.
She looked so pale—by God, could he blame her? He had been harsh with her—too harsh!—to carry her like a sack of oats to his dwelling-house where he had tossed her onto the bed.
No wonder she had flown at him in fury when he should have shown some understanding over how upset she’d become, and then he had kissed her and made everything worse.
A kiss that haunted him still as the stirring memory of Annalise leaning against him and starting to kiss him back filled him with anything but regret.
He wanted to feel her lips pressed to his again.
He wanted to feel her slender body molded to his—ah, God, he was certain she had been as lost in their kiss as he had felt even though she had stiffened an instant later in his arms.
Annalise appeared tense now, too, as she reached the head table and averted her eyes so as not to look at him. That reaction made Conor swallow hard as fresh remorse struck him…but not for that kiss, never for that kiss.
“Lady Burgoyne…my husband and our chieftain, Ronan O’Byrne,” came his mother’s introduction as she steered Annalise to an empty chair next to her own—an honor, Conor knew, as befitted a guest to the stronghold.
Yet instead of a spoken greeting back, Ronan merely nodded and then waved for the meal to begin, which made Conor feel tense, too, as the servants hastened to obey his father’s command.
Triona didn’t appear pleased at all by the obvious slight, but she focused instead upon helping Annalise into her chair that was directly across the table from Conor’s.
Eva seated next to him with her young son Tomas sitting between her and Tiernan, while Liam and Deirdre flanked Conor on the other side, facing his parents.
Niall had offered only a nodded greeting as well from where he sat with his wife, Nora, at the left of Ronan, which struck Conor as so different from how he had acted earlier when introduced to Annalise.
The seriousness of Niall’s expression making Conor feel certain that his uncle and father must have come to some decision about Annalise’s fate, which clearly left little room for civility no matter his mother’s gracious welcome.
Conor’s fists clenched at that stark realization and he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, though he had no idea as yet as to their plan. He had gone for a hard ride that had done little to ease the longing overwhelming him just to look upon Annalise, who still refused to meet his eyes.
Instead she kept her lowered gaze upon her plate, which was soon filled with spit-roasted meat and root vegetables with a savory-smelling juice ladled over everything that oddly, did nothing to stir Conor’s appetite even as everyone else began to eat.
Any awkwardness dispelled at least for a time by more tunes from the harpers and the rising din of conversation and shouts from clansmen for more ale to fill their cups.
Children jostling each other and laughing as their mothers chided them to clean their plates, just as Eva urged Tomas, who seemed more interested in staring at Annalise…the stranger at their table.
“Who is she, Mama?” came his innocent query in the most complete sentence Conor had yet heard from his dark-haired nephew, who so resembled Tiernan.
“Our guest, son…now eat your supper.”
Conor wasn’t surprised when Tomas merely gripped his spoon and continued to stare at Annalise, ignoring his mother who had cut his meat into small pieces and mashed his roasted vegetables.
To Conor’s surprise, Annalise’s cheeks had grown pink as she glanced across the table and smiled at Tomas, who grinned back at her and waved his spoon.
A smile so kind and gentle that Conor felt his breath catch as he found himself wishing that she would gift him with such attention—until the sweet moment vanished when Ronan began to cough.
Not as harshly as before, but loud enough that everyone stopped eating to glance at him with concern, Triona rising from her chair to rub his shoulders.
“Enough, my love…I’m fine,” he insisted as he drew a deep rasping breath that didn’t sound fine at all to Conor.
His father didn’t appear nearly as robust, either, and his face was pale as he turned his head to kiss Triona’s hand and then bade her to sit so they could focus upon their meal…though a few moments later, he shoved away his plate.
Much of his food untouched, just like Annalise’s plate. She still hadn’t looked at Conor even though they sat directly across from each other, which had staunched his appetite as well.
It appeared none of his family was hungry from the food remaining on plates, as if Ronan’s sudden fit of coughing had worried them all—but it was Annalise’s refusal to meet his eyes that most gripped Conor.
He wanted her to look at him, aye, to smile at him.
Yet how would that ever happen when she clearly despised him just as she had shouted in his bedchamber?
He was so focused upon staring at her that he didn’t notice his father had started to rise, the scraping of the chair upon the floor jarring him.
“Let us not delay any longer what must be addressed…the presence of this Norman woman among us.”
Ronan’s voice had strengthened and his expression become harsh as he fixed his gaze upon Annalise, who Conor saw had frozen in her seat.
“My Tanist, Niall, whom one day will take my place as chieftain, and I have decided to send the prisoner Joffrey under guard to Athy with our demand of Baron Maurice de Saint Michael. A ransom of gold is to be paid for the release of his bride-to-be—aye, they will leave for Kildare at dawn.”
A hush had fallen over the feasting-hall while Conor felt like he had been struck in the chest, his heart pounding.
Not because of his father’s pronouncement but for the stunned look on Annalise’s face, which had gone stark white.
Tears welling in her eyes that tightened Conor’s throat even as he wondered what other outcome she had imagined for herself.
That Ronan would send her back to her father in England instead?
That she would remain in Glenmalure with the O’Byrnes even though she had claimed to despise them all?
Only now did she meet Conor’s gaze with such pleading in her tear-glistening eyes that he momentarily felt at a loss, unsure of what to do—until another solution struck him like a lightning bolt.
He rose now, too, so abruptly that his chair crashed to the floor and everyone around him stared in surprise, Tomas whimpering and wide-eyed. Yet Conor ignored them all to face Ronan, whose jaw had tightened as if anticipating Conor’s objection.
“We cannot send her to that brute, Father—aye, there’s no reason at all to let Saint Michael know Annalise is among us. Let him believe her dead and she can remain in Glenmalure as my wife…if she will have me.”
Now a great gasp went up from all assembled, even as Ronan’s expression darkened further, Triona rising from her chair to grip his arm.
“Do not speak in haste, husband, please hear out our son, I beg you.”
Ronan didn’t speak, but Conor sensed it was less because of his mother’s urging than fury had overwhelmed his father, whose stormy gaze bore into Conor.
Only then did he glance at Annalise, who stared at him, too, in wide-eyed disbelief as she gripped the arms of her chair. Emboldened that she hadn’t outright denied him, Conor glanced back at his father and raised his voice so all could hear.
“Annalise told me herself that she had no choice in this match arranged by her father and Saint Michael—and she doesn’t love him. I know she doesn’t love me, either, but I realized this very day that I want her for my bride—”
“Your bride?” Ronan echoed ominously even as Triona still gripped his arm and stared with concern from Conor back to her husband, whose face looked mottled now as he tried to suppress a cough…unsuccessfully.
Another fit gripped him for what seemed an interminable moment to Conor, though Ronan had drawn himself up to his full height that surpassed Conor’s own. Yet he didn’t back down, and faced his father squarely as he nodded.
“Aye, Norman or no, I care deeply for her, I know that now. She may not believe me for how roughly I treated her today, but I swear on my life it will never happen again—”
“And I swear on my life that this young woman will return to her own kind and you will find another for a bride—an Irish bride! Do you think for a moment I want Norman gold to enrich myself, Conor O’Byrne?
Look around you! We have many mouths to feed and a long winter ahead of us.
Our raids against the Normans have grown fewer since they learned not to stray into our mountains—and so many have invaded éire that we would be fools indeed to venture out to attack surrounding lands for provisions.
That gold will buy us what we need without risk to your clansmen’s lives.
Do you want their widows’ and children’s wails of grief ringing in your ears? ”
Ronan’s voice had grown so loud and strident that Conor felt his ears were already ringing, a terrible sinking feeling telling him with cold certainty that his father would not be swayed.
He almost didn’t have the heart to glance at Annalise, but he did so to see that she still stared at him as if thunderstruck, her cheeks flushed bright pink.
Her sea green eyes still glimmering with tears that cut him to the marrow for he had clearly failed to convince his father to change his plan.
One glance at Niall’s stern expression told Conor that his uncle wasn’t convinced, either, though it seemed the women of his family had tears in their eyes as well—even Deirdre, his formidable older sister who usually was loath to show such emotion…except for her beloved Liam.
Her husband and Tiernan, too, stared at Conor as if he bore two heads to so challenge Ronan, whose decrees as chieftain were inviolable and followed without question.
Conor didn’t have to glance around him at his clansmen to know none would support him without Ronan’s approval. His plan to marry Annalise was dead…at least for now. Yet mayhap there was another way to free her from her arranged marriage…
“Sit down, son…please.”
Triona’s softly spoken request was all the more proof that Conor’s exchange with his father was done. Heavily, he sank into his chair, but Ronan appeared to be done now, too, and gestured with a brusque wave of his hand that supper was over.
Leaning upon Triona, he left the head table as another fit of coughing gripped him, Deirdre lunging from her chair to help support him as they assisted him from the feasting-hall, followed closely by Niall and Nora.
No one saying a word.
The harpers silent, even children silent without their parents having to shush them. It wasn’t a comforting sight at all to see their chieftain still so ill, though he must have felt well enough today to join them for a meal.
Either that, or Ronan had forced himself to appear to make his announcement about Annalise after three days had already passed since she had been brought to the stronghold.
A move Conor now bitterly regretted, though what else could he have done with her? Left her and Joffrey alone in the forest for hungry wolves drawn by the bloody carnage to tear them apart?
By now, there would be nothing left of the slain men-at-arms but their gnawed and scattered bones, though if any Normans dared to look for the missing entourage, they would find remnants of a camp.
Yet that only added credence to Conor’s certainty that her people would then think Annalise dead and they would look for her no further—God help him, his plan could work!
He would hunt night and day to provide food for his clansmen if only his father would hear him out. They didn’t need that bastard’s gold—
“Come, child, let’s return to the dwelling-house so you can rest.”
Conor watched with a hard lump in his throat as Orla helped Annalise to rise shakily from her chair…which left him wondering when she kept her eyes downcast now what her decision might have been if Ronan had asked her what she wished to do.
Accept an Irish rebel for her husband…or proceed with the demand for ransom from Maurice de Saint Michael?
Mayhap Conor was the biggest fool of all to think she would ever want to marry him—
“Here, man. Drink.”
With Annalise exiting the feasting-hall, Eva holding Tomas and hastening after them, Conor grunted as Liam shoved a brimming ale cup in his hand, the perfect cure for what he was feeling right now.
Desolate.
Frustrated.
Annalise’s kiss burning in his mind as he wondered darkly, too, if he would ever feel again the softness of her lips.
With a vehement curse, he raised the cup and drained it in one long swallow, only to slam it down upon the table and for Liam to signal a serving woman to refill it—and quickly.
Both Liam and Tiernan joining him, which soothed Conor some that his brothers-in-law hadn’t abandoned him like everyone else.
The feasting-hall nearly empty now of the rest of his clansmen as servants rushed to clean up after supper.
Conor staring at Annalise’s chair as he downed another cupful…though he knew damned well no amount of ale would cure what ailed him.