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…
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.
