Maurice de Saint Michael’s enraged roar rang from the rafters of his great hall. He pounded his fists upon the carved arms of his throne-like chair and glared at his portly steward, whose widened eyes looked as if they might pop from his head in fear.
“I-I don’t know, Lord, it’s a puzzlement, indeed?—”
“A puzzlement, Virgil? That’s all you have to say to me? Send a messenger to Dublin at once to inquire of other ship captains if they saw anything amiss over the past week. Any raiders plying the waters between England and the Irish coast? Any thick fog or storms to cause the ship to veer off course?”
“Well, we had rain nearly a week ago that might have been the remnants of a storm,” Virgil offered meekly, only for Maurice’s vehement curse to cause him to back up several steps and nearly stumble.
“Do not speculate, man—just get me some answers, and fast, damn you!”
“Y-yes, at once, Lord!” Virgil stammered before scurrying from the great hall with such haste that he broke wind every fourth step…Maurice’s coarse laughter echoed by several of his knights flanking his chair.
“Timid fool. He’s left a stink after him and probably fouled his trousers—ah, that feels better.”
Maurice had passed wind, too, that sounded like a burst from a trumpet and made him laugh again that his had been so much louder than his steward’s—and why wouldn’t it be? He was a more muscularly built man than Virgil, and he stretched out his legs to admire the new pair of leather boots he had acquired on his trip to England.
New boots, new clothes, and a new wife soon to warm his bed—God’s blood, he couldn’t wait to plow her on their wedding night and to hear her scream with pleasure or mayhap even pain at the thick length of his sex, but it made no difference to him.
His first wife had given him no children and he needed strong sons to carry on his name and inherit all that he had acquired in Kildare from King Henry and by the fierceness of his sword. The razor-sharp steel stained with the blood of many an Irishman who had challenged him…a cold grave their reward.
He would think by now that all of the native inhabitants would have bent a knee to the superiority of their Norman overlords, but two-thirds of Ireland had thus far fended off conquest—as well as those hated rebel clans that had taken refuge in the mountains to the east.
Yet in time, England would rule the entire island, Maurice was certain of it. Either by sword or by breeding so many Norman sons and daughters that the Irish would be overwhelmed and defeated by sheer numbers—but what in hell’s fire had become of Annalise’s ship?
She had been bought and paid for many times over by Maurice paying off her father’s debts, but he had lusted after her from the moment he’d seen her as a girl with her fair hair and budding breasts.
The Burgoynes and Saint Michaels had long been neighbors with vast estates in England granted to their forebears by William the Conqueror a century and a half ago—though Edward Burgoyne had nearly lost his lands out of grief for a dead wife.
Grief, of all things! Why mourn the loss of a wife when one could just acquire a new one?
A prettier one…no, not likely. Annalise so blond and beautiful that it made Maurice’s mouth water at the thought of tasting her nipples and driving himself into her virgin flesh.
His sex grown so swollen and hard that Maurice shifted uncomfortably in his chair and waved his men from the great hall so he could attend to the matter—and swiftly.
He waited only a few moments until he was alone, and then yanked down the middle of his trousers to work at himself until he climaxed with a fierce groan of satisfaction that seemed to echo as well from the rafters.
Titters of laughter emanating from the side kitchen where he knew the maidservants had heard him—thank God he had them to ease his need until his bride-to-be arrived at his castle.
A sumptuous wedding feast planned to welcome her.
Their bedchamber freshened with new linen sheets, goose down pillows, and a vivid tapestry depicting a knight and his lady rutting beneath a tree…all brought back from England in honor of his upcoming nuptials.
Just thinking about Annalise lying upon his massive four-poster bed with her golden hair fanned across the pillows and her pale thighs spread wide for him made Maurice work vigorously at his sex again.
His face flushed and sweating.
His mounting grunts making feminine laughter carry again from the kitchen—but Maurice didn’t care.
He didn’t care, either, that Annalise had recoiled from his kiss, her unhappiness about their arranged marriage plain to see. He didn’t want her love and affection, only the heirs he would sire with her.
His second outcry of release even louder than the last, his hot seed spurting against his callused palm as he thought of the strapping sons his lovely new bride would bear him, one after another…
Annalise awoke with a start to a low throbbing in her head, and she blinked in confusion at surroundings she didn’t immediately recognize.
A good-sized bedchamber and a hearth fire lending a bright orange glow, and a woman seated nearby with her graying head bent over her needlework.
Yet Annalise’s groan made the woman look up and then rush toward the bed, and it was then she recognized Orla, who pressed a cool hand to her cheek.
“Ease yourself, child, you’ve been sleeping for hours—and it’s no surprise. A nice hot bath and then a good meal to fill your belly, aye, and so little rest for three nights. I was glad when you agreed to lie down on the bed for a while and then you fell fast asleep. It’s midafternoon and Conor O’Byrne has come by several times to see if you were awake?—”
