“Those Irish bastards demand a ransom for my bride’s release? Are they mad? We will storm those accursed mountains and get her back for no coin at all!”
Maurice’s enraged roars rang from the rafters, though one of his most trusted advisors, an aged knight with shuffling steps, drew close to his chair to whisper to him.
“My lord, the Wicklow mountains are filled with wild-haired rebels who would love nothing more than a fight—but a ransom will prevent the loss of Norman lives from such a battle. The rebels know every rock and crevice while we will find ourselves at a distinct disadvantage over unknown terrain?—”
“Enough of your murmuring, I’m not afraid of those curs! I must have her, especially now that my messenger brought news this morning that her father is dead—jumped from a tower only hours after she sailed for Ireland, the miserable weakling. The Crown will seize the Burgoyne lands unless we wed at once and they become mine—God’s blood, man, gather the ransom while you, Joffrey, explain to me again why you led my bride into rebel territory!”
“T-to bring her more quickly to you, L-Lord—ah, God, I think I’m going to be sick.”
Maurice swore under his breath as the sallow-faced steward sank to his knees and vomited on the floor, his trousers already soiled from pissing himself within moments of entering the great hall with unwelcome news.
His bride-to-be, Annalise, held prisoner by the rebel chieftain Ronan Black O’Byrne, the name not unfamiliar to Maurice after years spent in this unruly land. The Normans might control a third of Ireland, but so much of the north and west was yet untamed—including the mountains where rebel clans like the O’Byrnes and O’Tooles held sway.
As Joffrey retched again, his dry heaves proving that nothing was left in the rail-thin fool’s stomach, Maurice looked away in disgust.
Why hadn’t the captain of the ship he had hired to bring Annalise to Ireland not warned the steward against venturing into the mountains, and to wait instead for repairs to be made before sailing on to Dublin? If Maurice ever found that traitorous bastard, he would cut him from collarbone to belly and slay all of his sailors, too, for having allowed Annalise and her entourage to disappear into rebel-held territory.
Not only had he paid her wretched father’s taxes to secure her hand in marriage, but now he had to gather gold to trade for her release. Joffrey had assured him that Annalise had been treated well and was unsullied, but how could he trust anything that skinny whelp had to say? If he discovered his bride-to-be was no longer a virgin, he would march into those mountains, no matter the cost in men and horses, and slaughter every rebel he found, including their wives and children!
“F-forgive me, Lord Saint Michael,” Joffrey began as he rose shakily to his feet and wiped the slobber from his mouth. “It’s been a terrible ordeal…my lord’s men-at-arms murdered, my poor mistress taken prisoner, and now to discover that Lord Burgoyne is dead when we only left Sussex twelve days ago?—”
“You’re fortunate not to join him in death for the gold you’re costing me!” Maurice roared as he leaned forward in his ornately carved chair to glare at Joffrey, who began to piss himself all over again, his trousers wet from crotch to ankle. “You will accompany the rebel delegation back to Wicklow and tell them I agree to the ransom, but only if the exchange takes place within three days’ time on the outskirts of Athy.”
“But…but the O’Byrne decreed at the western foothills of their land?—”
“Their land? One day Norman land if I have anything to say about it and I demand the concession—unless this all-powerful chieftain wishes to run the risk of a bloody invasion. By God, I swear I would relish it!”
Now Maurice waved away his advisor who had approached again his chair, silencing any more of his unwanted caution.
“Leave at once, get out of my sight,” he grated instead to Joffrey, who turned and fled from the great hall without a backward glance.
At once servants rushed to clean up the mess the steward had left on the floor while Maurice took a long draft from his wine chalice encrusted with precious stones.
The sea green emeralds reminded him of the color of Annalise’s eyes, which made him clutch himself and squeeze his loins at the thought of plowing her thoroughly on their wedding night.
He wanted sons—and she was young enough and rounded enough in the hips to give him a dozen. What was more gold after what he had already spent to claim her? Maurice swallowed another draft as one of his knights approached the dais—a heavily muscled man who always managed to procure him exactly what he wanted and when he wanted it.
“Lord, an Irish wench awaits you in your bedchamber. Fair-haired, buxom…fresh from the town. Her blacksmith father hid her well for me not to notice her until now. He fought me, but a sound whack on the head finally silenced him. Not so the wench, though. She screams and bites and scratches, so be warned. I had to tie her to the bedposts?—”
“Good, just how I like them. Don’t go far, you’re welcome to her when I’m done.”
Maurice barely acknowledged the knight’s leering nod and lunged from the chair, his chalice clattering to the floor.
His loins already hard as a rock for the night’s upcoming amusement that he had no intention of foregoing when Annalise became his wife.
One could never have too much wine or too many women, the lusty joys of life, yes?
“Conor, I came to tell you the delegation has returned and the ransom agreed to by Saint Michael because I thought you’d want to know, and all you’ve done is shout at me. Why will you not see reason?”
Conor stubbornly ignored Deirdre as he paced his bedchamber where they had retreated to speak in private—by God, he still could not believe he had been held prisoner within his own dwelling-house for nearly three days!
Sleep eluding him.
Food tasteless to him.
His outcries of outrage when Annalise had been wrested from him become simmering fury instead that made his hands clench and his throat tight even now, as if he had last seen her only moments ago.
Her lovely face ashen.
