Conor swallowed hard and had all he could do to release her hand—by God, he would not give up hope, he could not! Somehow he forced himself to take the reins of her mare and watch grimly as one of Saint Michael’s knights set out across the field, an oblong chest held under his arm.
That accursed ransom…
“My lord, we outnumber them by four to one. Mayhap there is no need for an exchange of ransom at all?—”
“Didn’t you hear that scrawny steward?” Maurice cut off his knight through gritted teeth as he and his men faced nearly two score Irish rebels just outside Athy, in truth his fingers itching to unsheathe his sword. “If we attack now, my bride might be killed in the fray. We will proceed with the agreed upon plan at least until the exchange is done, and then…”
Maurice couldn’t finish for the rage tightening his throat as another of his knights rode into the middle of the field holding a brass-bound chest in the crook of his arm.
A ransom in gold to secure Annalise’s release, Maurice deciding then and there he would make her pay for this indignity every day of their married life—since he blamed her for not insisting that her entourage wait upon repairs to their ship instead of venturing into the Wicklow mountains.
His fury only intensified as she was escorted on horseback onto the field by the rebel leader Joffrey had informed him was the very son of Ronan O’Byrne, a whelp named Conor. Their mounts too close together to suit Maurice, who ground his teeth now at the lingering glance Annalise gave her black-haired captor, her fair cheeks flushed pink and her expression stricken.
What devilry was afoot here? Maurice didn’t miss, either, the similar glance Conor gave Annalise, though his jaw was tight and his expression somber. By God, if that bastard had so much as touched her…
“The Irishman is inspecting the ransom?—”
“I can see that, man!” Maurice bit off to his knight as he caught a glimmer of gold coin in the late afternoon sunlight.
His gold, damn it all, now in rebel hands as his knight took the reins of Annalise’s horse to lead her toward Maurice, the exchange done.
Conor O’Byrne rode back to his clansmen with the chest while Maurice waited impatiently for Annalise to reach him, her face ashen and her eyes welled with tears.
Another long glance over her shoulder telling him everything as his gut clenched in white-hot rage. When she drew alongside him, he reached out to slap her so violently that she nearly toppled from her horse, until he caught her roughly by the arm to right her.
“Do you come to me pure and virginal, woman? Or mayhap that Irish bastard plowed you before me?”
Maurice got his answer by the defiant tilt of Annalise’s chin as she stared at him with tears running down her cheeks—and he waited no longer to sound the attack.
“Kill them! Kill them all!”
A great roar went up from his men even as piercing war cries unexpectedly came from within the town behind them.
The acrid stench of smoke now tinging the air as Maurice twisted around in his saddle to see towering flames from the direction of the castle.
Stunned, he grabbed Annalise from her horse to pull her onto his lap and then dug his heels into his mount’s sides, shouting out for his men to follow him.
A great thundering of hooves and more war cries filling his ears while townspeople on every side—mostly women and children—shook their fists and spat at him and his knights as they galloped through the winding streets.
Yet no sooner had they reached the iron-reinforced gate yawning open—his men-at-arms’ quarters outside the castle walls fully engulfed in flames—than Maurice incredulously realized they were under attack by the townsmen of Athy.
Deadly arrows suddenly whizzing all around them and striking his knights one by one behind him while Maurice rode across the drawbridge and into the bailey filled with men engaged in mortal combat.
The ground already soaked with blood, but he didn’t stop until he had reached the entrance to the great hall, where he dismounted and pulled Annalise with him.
She struggled wildly, but another blow made her go limp against him and he threw her over his shoulder before lunging through the entranceway.
His only thought to climb the tower where he would barricade himself inside his bedchamber on the uppermost floor until his knights and men-at-arms regained control of the castle.
Shopkeepers and tradesmen were no match for his seasoned fighters, Maurice grunting with disgust as he charged up the tower steps.
God’s blood, he would slit the throats himself of any townsmen left standing and hang their severed heads on pikes for all to see!
Breathing hard, he rushed into his bedchamber, but before he could shut and bolt the door, he heard someone laugh from off to the side.
A harsh masculine laugh that sounded triumphant as Maurice turned to face a hulking figure of a man dressed in a blacksmith’s garb.
“How do you like our welcome for you and your bride-to-be, Baron Saint Michael? While you were on the outskirts of town with most of your men, we attacked your castle—ah, but we’re only ignorant folk, aye? Too stupid and spineless to fight back when you plunder our homes and rape our daughters—my daughter, you Norman bastard!”
