Not from the chill dawn air, but from a creeping sense of desolation that she would be facing the journey to Athy without him.
Yet wouldn’t it be better this way for the man she loved more than life? At least then he wouldn’t be in danger from Maurice and his forces, for what could Conor hope to do against so many heavily armed Normans?
It would be as if David faced the giant Goliath—ah, God, she couldn’t bear to think Conor might be slain because of her. No, she would bear her upcoming marriage to know that he was safe and well in the Wicklow mountains?—
“Look, it’s Conor,” Orla said with no small amount of astonishment, the serving woman indicating with a wave the stable behind them.
Her heart in her throat, Annalise did look, her face flushing with heat at the sight of Conor astride his massive stallion and appearing every inch the fearsome Irish rebel who had yanked her from her tent just over a week ago.
The wind whipping his black woolen cloak behind him and rustling his midnight hair as if he was oblivious to the wind and cold—Annalise swallowing hard at his piercing gaze upon her that told her she was the full focus of his attention.
Flashes from only short hours ago overwhelming her of impassioned kisses and the warmth of his powerful body covering hers—dear God, so much had changed in so short a time!
Sheer elation masked much of her fear for him as he rode up beside her, and he reached out to clasp her hand briefly before he steered his stallion to the head of their entourage.
Three dozen mail-clad clansmen were mounted on horses along with Joffrey, who stared with wide-eyed trepidation at Conor as once again, his gaze found Annalise’s.
“I accompany all of you at the behest of my father to oversee the exchange of Lady Burgoyne for our demanded ransom. When we reach Athy, her steward will warn Maurice de Saint Michael against any deviation from our agreed-upon plan if he does not wish to engage in a battle that might risk the life of his bride-to-be. Now onward!”
Conor veered his horse around toward the opening gates even as Annalise swore she had seen anguish in his eyes.
God help her, might she come to harm if Maurice failed to honor the dictates of the ransom exchange?
Now Orla could only look upon Annalise with pity as she was flanked by O’Byrne clansmen, one of the men leaning over to take the reins from her to lead the mare from the stronghold.
Annalise once again feeling a wretched prisoner in the same velvet gown she was wearing when she first saw Conor.
Her passionate memories of only hours ago faded into sheer dread of what lay ahead…while she was certain her heart was breaking.
Chapter 12
Conor sat atop his snorting stallion and stared across the open field at Maurice de Saint Michael and his forces assembled in formation three-deep.
He hadn’t needed to send a messenger to announce their presence, for the baron’s watchmen atop the castle walls had clearly raised the alarm that Conor and his clansmen had arrived at the outskirts of Athy.
The late afternoon sun sinking toward the horizon after the arduous hours-long ride from Glenmalure during which they had stopped only to water the horses and partake of oatcakes and strips of dried venison—although Conor hadn’t eaten much and neither had Annalise.
They had spoken little to each other, as if the terrible gravity of their journey had rendered them both mute, but Conor had decided it was best that way.
Annalise looked as distressed as he felt…especially now when the ransom exchange was only moments away. Joffrey and his two O’Byrne guards had already ridden ahead to give Ronan’s warning to Maurice and then returned to the opposite side of the field, and now the steward appeared to tremble from head to foot as he glanced nervously at Conor.
“Lord, I am done here, yes? I am no fighter—ah, God, allow me to leave for Dublin, where I may board a ship to take me home to my wife and family?—”
“Go on with you, man.”
At first Joffrey appeared wholly startled, but after a nod at Annalise, he veered his horse around to the east and rode off at a hard gallop…never once looking back.
Halfway into their journey, the steward had told Conor of the death of Annalise’s father that he had kept to himself since returning from Athy the day before—not wishing to bring more grief to his mistress.
For that kindness alone, Conor had already decided to allow Joffrey to return to England. Now it would be Maurice to give Annalise the sad news since Conor hadn’t wanted to cause her further distress, either—God grant him strength!
How was he to get through these next moments with his clansmen watching him to see if he faltered? Conor had never felt more torn in his life between his duty to obey his father’s decree for the sake of his clan and his overwhelming desire to ride straight back to Glenmalure with Annalise.
She met his eyes as Maurice gestured across the field for the exchange to begin, Conor unable to resist reaching out his hand to clasp Annalise’s.
“Remember…no matter what occurs,” he murmured for her ears alone as he squeezed her trembling fingers, as if to reassure her as much as himself.
Her eyes welling though he could see that she fought to maintain her composure, and gave him a small nod as she whispered, “Remember…I love you, Conor O’Byrne…always.”
