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?
