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?
