Annalise Burgoyne left in Conor’s bedchamber for he didn’t know where else to deposit her, the prison house no fit place for such a valuable prisoner.
She had regained consciousness during the ride back to the stronghold, but hadn’t uttered a word and kept her eyes downcast as if she couldn’t bear to look upon him as her slender form trembled from head to foot in his arms.
Could he blame her after how harshly he had treated her? Conor was not one to feel pity for any Norman, he so hated them all, but her quaking vulnerability had moved him, he couldn’t deny it.
Enough to leave her within the comfort of his dwelling-house, attended by a trusted serving woman, though he could see from Ronan’s darkening expression that his formidable father—illness or no—didn’t approve.
“Are you mad, Conor? What if she takes a knife to the servant’s throat to try and effect an escape?”
“I…I don’t think she will, Father. She’s very slight of figure and fainted at the sight of her dead guards. Her only words begging me to spare her and her steward, Joffrey, just before she went limp in my arms?—”
“By God, did you hear that nonsense, Triona? The wench must be fair indeed to have our son treat her so solicitously! Take her to the prison house at once to join her steward until I decide what is to be done with her.”
“I don’t know, husband,” Triona began softly, her hand still rubbing Ronan’s back as if she expected another fit of coughing. “So highborn a young woman is valuable, indeed, and should be treated as such, I do not fault Conor’s judgment. As the bride-to-be of a hated enemy, surely she is worth more to us in sound health than to become sickly languishing in a drafty cell, aye?”
Ronan’s low curse made Conor certain that he didn’t favor Triona’s assessment, either, though his shoulders seemed to slump and he settled with a heaving sigh into his chair.
“God help me, I can’t argue with the both of you, this illness has made a weak man out of me.”
“No, no, never weak,” insisted Triona, who bent over him to kiss his cheek and then run her palm across his forehead. “Your fever has eased, husband, a good sign. You will be fit and well again soon—and no decisions need to be made quickly about our Norman prisoners. It will be days before that bastard Saint Michael discovers his bride is missing, which gives us plenty of time to decide the best course…ah, no.”
Ronan had begun to cough again, Triona waving Conor away as she grabbed a woolen blanket to cover her husband’s broad shoulders.
Her dismissal enough for Conor to know there would be no more discussion of the prisoners for now…and he quickly left them, his gut clenching at the wretched sound of Ronan trying to clear his lungs from the phlegm threatening to strangle him.
God help his father, Conor had never seen him so sick before—and it worried him deeply as he closed the door and strode across the yard toward where Niall, Liam, and Tiernan awaited him.
Their eyes filled with an unspoken question as to what Ronan had decreed with regard to their prisoners—for he was the much honored chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes after all.
His word the law.
His decisions to be obeyed…well, except when it came to his beloved wife, Triona, who was the only person alive to whom Ronan deferred.
“The prisoners will remain where they are…for now,” Conor said before any of the three men could speak, Liam’s raised eyebrow making him bristle. “What, O’Toole?”
“Nothing, brother, just wondering where you will sleep since a Norman wench occupies your bedchamber?—”
“Outside the door, of course, to prevent her from escaping. Where else would I be?”
Liam uttered a short laugh, but he didn’t say anything more…though Conor knew his sister’s husband wasn’t intimidated at all by his display of temper.
The two of them were close friends above all, and a clap upon his shoulder was enough to ease any irritation Conor felt—for he would have asked the same thing if Liam wore his shoes.
Niall and Tiernan sharing a short laugh, too, but all of them sobered as Conor indicated the feasting-hall with a nod.
“Ale?”
“Oh, aye, slaughtering our enemies is always cause for celebration,” Liam said lightly, though his expression had grown grim. “Too bad there weren’t more of them—but a dozen is a good day’s work.”
“Aye, a very good day,” Conor agreed as his uncle Niall and Tiernan led the way while he and Liam walked side by side behind.
Another raised eyebrow from his powerfully built brother-in-law when Conor shot a glance toward his dwelling-house where Annalise Burgoyne must be weeping now, too, at the chilling realization she was a prisoner.
Annalise. He had never heard such a name before, and it wasn’t Norman. Danish, mayhap? Some of her people descended from the Vikings who had once ruled much of England? That would explain her golden hair—but the unusual color of her eyes was something else altogether.
Sea green with a hint of blue—God help him, what did he care? She was fortunate he hadn’t run his sword through the side of the tent instead of glancing inside first…another Norman dead, woman or no.
Better that than spawning more of their accursed kind with her husband-to-be, a hated baron whose forebears’ murderous treachery had stolen Kildare from the O’Byrne and O’Toole clans decades ago.
