“You said you were on your way to Kildare, aye?”
“Y-yes, Lord, to Athy—ah, no, forgive me, I’m going to be sick!”
Conor watched with fresh disgust as the man, scrawny as a pole and pale as death, bent over and vomited upon the ground, the two clansmen who held him by the arms cursing and sidestepping the mess.
That made the others laugh again, but Conor waved them to silence, his patience growing thin. If not for the woman still unconscious in his arms, he would have pressed his own knife to the man’s throat to get him to speak, and quickly.
“Speak up, man, or I swear these moments will be your last. Damn you, how did you come to be in these woods? Who is this young woman? Are you mad to have strayed upon O’Byrne lands?”
For a brief moment, the Norman could only stare at Conor as if not comprehending him, but then his Adam’s apple bobbed and words began to rush from him in a high-pitched torrent.
“I am Joffrey, steward to Lord Edward Burgoyne of Sussex—and charged with delivering his daughter to her future husband. Our ship was bound for Dublin, but we were blown off course during a storm and-and we decided—I decided—not to wait upon repairs. It seemed the quickest route was due west through the mountains?—”
“Are you serious, man?” Conor cut him off, incredulous. “Did no one apprise you of the danger? That these mountains belong to the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles, sworn enemies of the Normans? Look around you at your dead companions if you don’t believe me?—”
“I believe you, Lord!”
“I’m no lord!” Conor shouted so vehemently that the young woman stirred in his arms, though still her head hung limply. “My father, Ronan Black O’Byrne, is chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes and you will soon answer to him?—”
“Then…then you’re not going to kill me?”
The Norman’s query so plaintive, his red-rimmed eyes filling again with tears, that Conor swore under his breath and shook his head. This weepy scarecrow of a steward was no warrior and thus of no danger to them, which was evidenced when the man slumped with obvious relief between his two captors.
“Ah, God, thank you…thank you!”
“Enough, I don’t want your thanks. I want the name of this woman and to whom she is pledged?—”
“Annalise Burgoyne to Baron Maurice de Saint Michael of Kildare. You know of him, Lord?”
Know of him? At the mention of so hated a name, Conor felt every muscle grow tense and he swore more vehemently, which made Joffrey gulp and stare at him wide-eyed.
Mayhap the steward once again fearing for his life when Conor spun hard on his heel, his harsh commands silencing the birdsong as morning sunlight began to filter through the trees.
“Leave the dead to rot where they lie as a warning to any other Norman bastards who dare to enter our mountains! Mount up!”
His clansmen at once obliging him, Conor heard fresh whimpering as Joffrey was flung across a saddle like a felled deer—while he hoisted himself up onto his stallion and settled his limp captive across his lap with her head lolling against his shoulder.
A quick glance at her ashen pallor, her slightly parted lips the color of the palest rose, all he allowed himself before riding from the clearing, the pounding of hooves following after him.
“The bride-to-be of Maurice de Saint Michael is among us? Where?”
“At my dwelling-house, Father,” Conor said as Ronan stared at him as if he didn’t quite believe the astonishing news he had just uttered, his mother, Triona, appearing just as startled. Conor always felt he saw himself in Ronan, the two of them were so alike from their shared height and powerful build, slate gray eyes, and midnight hair, though his father’s was tinged with gray…while his twin sister, Eva, favored Triona with her coppery hair and stunning beauty, their parents still so striking a couple.
“You left her there alone?” his mother now queried, glancing with concern at Ronan.
“No, not alone. I’ve posted guards at the entrance to prevent any escape, but I doubt she will try anything?—”
“You doubt?” Ronan echoed so forcefully that he began to cough, Triona rushing to his side to rub his back.
Her efforts did little to help his father, who continued to cough while Conor swallowed uncomfortably to see him so ill, Ronan’s forehead beaded with sweat.
Already he regretted sharing news that could have waited until midday, his parents seated in front of a hearth fire and eating their morning meal when he had burst into their dwelling-house.
Now they both stood and still stared at him as Ronan’s coughing thankfully subsided, Conor seizing the moment to hastily apprise them of everything that had happened up until moments ago.
The attack at the Norman camp, the slain guards, their two prisoners.
The steward, Joffrey, locked up inside the prison house where his wretched weeping could be heard through a shuttered window.
