Maurice de Saint Michael. The name alone made Conor spit upon the ground, barely missing Liam’s boot.
Yet Liam spat, too, as if he knew exactly what Conor was thinking.
A dark look shared between them that they had been afforded another chance to thwart their enemies…the quest for vengeance against the Normans forever burning bright.
Chapter 3
Annalise paced across the well-appointed bedchamber while the older serving woman sitting near the hearth fire busied herself with needlework and scarcely glanced in her direction.
Yet Annalise could tell by the stiffness in the woman’s plump shoulders that she was aware of whatever Annalise was doing and remained wary.
Annalise had been brought to this room by the grim-faced warrior who had ridden with her to the most unusual stronghold she had ever seen…not constructed of rock and mortar like Norman castles but of stout timber atop earthen embankments.
She had regained consciousness somewhere along the way, such fear gripping her that she hadn’t been able to cease her trembling.
The warrior holding so tightly that she couldn’t move, and she hadn’t dared to look up at him. Instead, she had kept her eyes lowered as she had tried to discern their direction—ah, God, an impossible task for the densely forested hills that rose above them on both sides.
She’d had no idea where they were bound until they reached the immense stronghold, Annalise counting three massive gates that were hauled open for her captors who whooped and shouted in triumph.
The man who held her roaring out so loudly that she had winced and wished she could cover her ears, but her arms were held close to her sides until at last he dismounted and pulled her down with him.
Her feet never touching the ground as he had carried her to this building and thrust open the door to stride inside, not stopping until he had reached the bedchamber where he deposited her beside the imposing bed.
Sheer terror making her knees wobble that mayhap he intended to ravish her, and she had met his eyes then to find him staring at her—but thank God, not with lust.
She had thought his gaze as black as his hair from what she’d seen of him at the camp, but she could see in the firelight from the hearth that his eyes were a dark slate gray with a piercing intensity that made her shiver.
His handsome features grimly set as if in stone as he’d told her in a harsh voice that a serving woman would attend to her needs, and that she should not try to escape for the guards posted just outside the bedchamber door as well as at the entrance to the dwelling-house.
Then he had left her, Annalise’s head spinning from everything that had happened…the horrible memory of her father’s slaughtered men-at-arms making her sink to the planked floor and cover her face with her hands.
She had only stirred when the servant entered the bedchamber a short while later bearing a covered tray, a gesture indicating that the woman had brought food for it was clear she didn’t speak Annalise’s Norman language.
Annalise nonetheless hadn’t touched a bite of the oat porridge, her stomach sickened by what had happened at the camp and that she had no idea what was to become of her.
Clearly she had been captured by rebel Irishmen…for no native allies of the Normans would have attacked her entourage. Had they cut down Joffrey, too, as he had pleaded for his life? Was she the only one left alive?
Annalise sighed heavily as she ceased her pacing and sank down on the edge of the bed—but then she sprang up as if burned.
Did this dwelling-house, as her midnight-haired captor had called it, belong to him? If so, she wanted nothing to do with the bed or anything else in this room and she rushed toward the door, only for the serving woman to look up from her needlework and cluck her tongue as if in warning.
“Where am I?” Annalise spun around to demand in vain, as it was clear the servant didn’t understand a word she said. Yet she couldn’t stop herself and continued to shout as fresh tears tumbled down her cheeks. “What are they planning to do with me? Who is the man who brought me here?”
“Conor O’Byrne,” came a familiar masculine voice from behind her, Annalise whirling back around to see her strapping captor enter the room.
Oddly enough, he didn’t appear as grim as before, nor his voice as harsh, and he had a relaxed look about him that made her back up several steps when she caught a strong whiff of ale.
God help her, the man had been drinking while she was left here distressed and fearful about her fate! His chain mail removed but his knee-length gray tunic and leather boots still spattered with blood, making her raise her hand to her mouth in horror.
As if reading her mind, her captor followed her gaze to glance down at himself and then shrugged, though his expression had hardened as he again met her eyes.
“Your Norman escort trespassed into our mountains—and few have ever lived to tell about it. A fair recompense for lands stolen from us by your accursed lot, including Kildare that once belonged to the O’Byrnes and O’Tooles. Where you were bound, aye? The town of Athy to present yourself to your husband-to-be?”
Annalise didn’t answer, only stared as she realized Joffrey had revealed much to this Conor O’Byrne…no doubt to save his own life.
“M-my father’s steward is alive?” she finally managed after Conor had cursed with impatience and waved the serving woman from the room, which made Annalise back up even further. “Joffrey?—”
“Aye, the mewling scarecrow. If more Normans were as pitiful as that one, they would never have ventured beyond the coast where their ships first landed years ago, let alone conquer a third of Éire, the bastards! Your steward still weeps like a wee babe at the prison house, but I thought you would find more comfort here.”
