First he had regretted how roughly he had swept her into his arms at the camp and then how tightly he had held her as he rode back to the stronghold, so she wouldn’t squirm or fight him.
That petite slip of a woman? She had spirit, aye, he had seen the flash of indignation in her beautiful eyes and how she had railed at him that she didn’t intend to eat, bathe, or change her garb. Yet she couldn’t fight him any more than anything she’d said had moved him to pity…ah, God, he was lying and knew it.
He is not my beloved. I had no choice!
How could so few words have affected him so deeply? An intense rush of sympathy overwhelming him at the anguish in those sea green depths that had told him much…though he had thrust away the emotion and hardened himself at once to her plight.
Annalise was a Norman. What did he care if her marriage was arranged without her wish or consent? She would never wed Maurice de Saint Michael if he was slain, and then she would be free to marry another Norman…if it was Ronan’s intent to ever allow her to leave Glenmalure.
That thought elicited a strange twinge of emotion inside Conor, though he thrust it away and cursed under his breath when Annalise’s sobbing grew louder through the door.
Aye, his words had been too harsh, his fists clenching with fresh regret that he attempted to quash as well.
Whatever was the matter with him? Annalise was an enemy and deserved no more consideration while among the O’Byrnes than food to eat, a place to sleep, and fresh clothing on her back just as he had told her?—
“Conor, she weeps so desperately now that she may become ill,” came the serving woman’s low voice behind him, making Conor twist around to face her. “Allow me to return to her. Mayhap I can coax her to drink some water and eat…though the porridge has long since grown cold. Some warm stew and fresh-baked bread might tempt her.”
“Then go and fetch it—and have some hot water brought here as well. A bath might soothe her, and place the tub in front of the fire and see that fresh logs are stacked in the hearth. We cannot have her catch cold…”
Conor grew silent as Orla stared at him with a curious look on her face, the older woman long a devoted servant to his family and one who had looked after him and Eva as children. “What? She is a valuable captive?—”
“Aye, so she is, for you to show such concern for her. So lovely, too…”
Orla didn’t say anything more, but hustled away as Conor gestured for the two guards leaning against a nearby wall to resume their positions outside his bedchamber door.
Annalise’s weeping had not abated, but he didn’t wish to hear any more of such sorrow.
That same twinge plaguing him along with fresh regret as he strode from the dwelling-house without a backward look.
Chapter 4
Annalise rubbed her sore shoulder as she sat up from the pallet of blankets she had arranged in a corner of the room, another restless night behind her.
Yet she couldn’t expect otherwise after sleeping on the hard floor for three evenings now, her empty stomach growling loudly.
She had refused to eat more than a few morsels of bread and had sipped only water, though the kindly serving woman whose name she had learned was Orla had tried in vain to coax her with fragrant stews and spice-scented cider.
The mere thought of the nourishment she had turned away made Annalise’s stomach growl painfully now, and she felt faint from hunger and thirst.
She hadn’t bathed or changed out of her gown, either, refusing all of the comforts offered to her by Orla, who last night had clucked her tongue with disapproval before leaving Annalise alone in the candlelit bedchamber.
She didn’t need to speak the Irish language to read the mounting concern on the woman’s face, which had undeniably moved her…but Annalise refused to do anything more until she knew what these ruthless rebels had in store for her.
Conor hadn’t returned to taunt her further, which was a relief, for she didn’t have any more tears to shed. She’d heard him outside the bedchamber a number of times, though, when he had spoken to Orla, the deep timbre of his voice eliciting shivers in her as she recalled how intensely he had looked at her.
She was convinced now that she had imagined pity in his gaze when she had blurted out she had no choice as to the man she would marry, Annalise heaving a sigh as she lay back down upon the blankets to stare at the timbered ceiling.
Hard-hearted warriors such as Conor O’Byrne and his rebel clansmen possessed no pity or shred of mercy to have cut down her father’s men-at-arms so brutally when they could have taken them as prisoners instead. Just the thought of all that blood made Annalise feel sicker to her stomach than hungry, and she rolled over with her face to the wall as despair overwhelmed her.
She was an utter fool to hope for any sympathy or just treatment from these wild Irishmen?—
“By God, Annalise Burgoyne, get up from the floor, enough of this nonsense!”
She gasped at the feminine voice that held no small amount of exasperation, and rolled over to see a finely dressed woman with coppery-red hair moving closer, with Orla right behind her.
“Did you hear me? You must be sore to the bone to have slept in that corner for three nights—aye, Orla has told me all about it. Here, let me help you…”
Too startled to protest, Annalise was assisted to her feet by the woman who had remarkable strength for one so slender and petite, much like herself—and who spoke her language, too, as easily as if she was born to it.
