She knew that many of the Irish hated the Normans that had overtaken much of their country, but the ship had been arranged for by Maurice. Surely her uneasiness was ill-founded and the captain and his crew simply didn’t want to speak out against what Joffrey had decreed, as if it wasn’t their place…
Annalise shut her eyes with the vain hope she might get some more sleep, but once again the beetle defied her by buzzing right past her nose.
With a groan, she sat up and threw aside the blanket, only to hear the cracking of a branch from somewhere behind her tent.
She heard a low exchange, too, in a language she didn’t recognize that made the hair prickle at the back of her neck…and then a guttural noise that sounded almost like choking, followed by silence.
She didn’t see the shadows of guards any longer pacing outside her tent and the entire camp had gone strangely quiet—until a piercing scream that she swore came from Joffrey made her jump up in alarm.
“No, no, please don’t kill me, I beg you—ah, God!”
Her breath caught, her heart pounding, Annalise stood frozen as she heard heavy footfalls approaching her tent and then the canvas was thrust aside with a sword pointed directly at her.
“Come out, wench.”
A harsh command in her own language that made Annalise want to throw herself instead upon the pallet and cover herself with a blanket until a strong hand reached inside to grab her by the arm and yank her outside.
Annalise cried out and nearly stumbled on the hem of her plum-colored velvet gown, a horrified scream strangling in her throat to see the bloody bodies of her father’s men-at-arms littered about the camp.
Eight…ten…twelve, not a one left alive while dangerous-looking men stood over them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joffrey on his knees with a sword blade pressed to his throat, his panicked gaze meeting hers.
“I-I told them we mean no harm, we’re trying to find our way to Kildare?—”
“Silence, man!”
Struck dumb with terror, Annalise glanced up at the strapping warrior who still gripped her arm.
His expression grim and his eyes appearing pitch-black in the dawning light, matching the color of his hair.
Tears blinding her, she was certain in that moment her captor intended to kill her and Joffrey…until she felt him release her elbow and then sweep her into his arms.
Her breath knocked from her body, he drew her so roughly against him, Annalise choking now for air as everything seemed to whirl around her.
She heard Joffrey whimpering and a vehement curse from her captor…and then nothing as merciful blackness enveloped her and she went limp.
A soft plea dying on her lips, “No…please spare us…”
Chapter 2
Conor stared down at the unconscious young woman in his arms, a hard lump in his throat at the glistening wetness on her face.
She had looked up at him so tearfully, so fearfully, as if convinced that she was soon to breathe her last, but Conor and his men had never slaughtered women and children—unlike the accursed Normans who had ravaged their land.
Aye, he had been rough with her in wresting her out of the tent, but what else was he to do when she had hesitated? Mayhap she had been thinking to grab a knife with which to slash at him…although his gut instinct told him, now, that cold terror had kept her from readily obeying his command.
Now she lay limply against him, her long blond hair streaming over his arm and her cheeks so pale, which made Conor swallow hard again that he had swept her up so forcefully.
He judged her age at eighteen or nineteen—but by God, why was a young Norman woman as beautiful as this one traversing O’Byrne lands with only a dozen men to escort her?
A dozen dead men, Conor corrected himself grimly as he glanced at the bloody carnage wrought by his clansmen…and so swiftly, too.
The fire that had led them like a beacon to the camp now doused with dirt, only a thin tendril of smoke still wafting up into the thick canopy of brightly colored leaves.
Red and gold like the blood staining the ground and the gleaming color of his captive’s silken hair, for indeed, she was an O’Byrne prisoner now…Conor throwing a look of disgust at the only Norman left alive who still wept and sniveled like a girl.
“Cease your whimpering, fool! Are you a man or a child?”
At once the clearing grew quiet except for the low laughter of Conor’s clansmen as the cowering Norman was yanked to his feet to face him.
