“Ah, no, you’re so pale, I should have come sooner, but my husband has been gravely ill. I’m Triona, wife to Ronan, the chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes. Now come over to the hearth where I can look at you better.”
Annalise again obliged her, surprised that a rebel chieftain’s wife would take any interest in her at all—and wholly dumbstruck, too, by Triona’s beauty, though she must be more than twice Annalise’s age.
The woman’s face smooth and fair with nary a wrinkle, her long unbound hair glowing like flame in the firelight, and her rose-hued lips pursed with concern as she scrutinized Annalise from head to foot.
“You’re a stubborn one, but we can’t have you starving yourself to death. Your hair tangled, your gown dirty and rumpled—ah, good, here’s the hot water for your bath.”
Annalise stiffened at the sight of Orla holding the door open to admit a half dozen serving women carrying steaming buckets. Her sudden impulse not to oblige her captors any further until she knew what they intended to do with her.
Yet Triona, as if reading her mind, clasped Annalise’s arm to prevent her from fleeing to the opposite side of the room—though her vivid emerald green eyes shone with understanding.
“Enough, Annalise, you must accept the fate that has brought you here and not persist with your needless suffering. Your face is pale with hunger and you’re in dire need of a bath. It will do you no good to refuse any longer the comforts we’ve offered you. Now come.”
Sighing brokenly, Annalise could see from the determined set of Triona’s chin that any resistance would be fruitless—and the steaming tub set near the hearth fire did look inviting, she couldn’t deny it.
Annalise had only to murmur her assent and within a few moments, she was assisted out of her clothing and seated in soothing warm water that made her smile in spite of herself. At once Orla and another maidservant—the sleeves of their plain woolen tunics rolled up above their elbows—began to gently scrub her with rosemary-scented soap from her hair to her toes, which made her blush with some embarrassment at their thoroughness.
Orla appearing quite pleased with herself as if relieved that Annalise had finally relented, while Triona stood off to one side directing another maidservant to lay out several gowns upon the bed.
Squinting against the sting of soap in her eyes, Annalise could see a rose-colored gown, a lovely blue one, and a pale yellow one shot through with threads of gold…her amazement profound that her captors would be so generous with her.
“We will wash your gown so you still have something familiar of your own,” Triona said as she approached the tub, clearly having discerned Annalise’s thoughts. “My daughter Eva is near your size and was more than happy to give them to you. She’s a kind and gentle soul…much like my sister-in-law Maire, who married a Norman lord.”
“She did?” Annalise blurted, stunned to hear about this union between such fierce enemies. Triona nodded and then sighed, her expression grown somber.
“Maire and her husband, Duncan FitzWilliam, and their three daughters were banished to the Scottish Highlands because of his kinship with our family…five years ago now. We miss them terribly, but at least King Henry spared Duncan from execution for what your people deemed treason. Where was your home?”
“Sussex,” Annalise murmured, astonished even more that Triona would share something so personal and painful with her, which prompted her to open up about her own sadness as well. “My mother died three years ago, which nearly felled my father. His grief so deep that he lost all interest in the affairs of his estate…and he might have lost everything to the Crown if Maurice de Saint Michael hadn’t paid his debts in exchange for my hand in marriage—ah, God.”
A terrible lump in Annalise’s throat prevented her from saying more, Triona studying her face that suddenly felt flushed and over-warm just at the mention of her husband-to-be’s name.
Annalise must have grimaced, too, her skin puckering with goosebumps at the awful memory of Maurice’s kiss—but Triona seemed to take it that the bathwater was growing cool and gestured to Orla to help Annalise out of the tub.
She rose shakily, unsure if the unpleasant topic that had been broached or her empty stomach had made her feel lightheaded even as she began to shiver uncontrollably in spite of the warming hearth fire.
“Get her out of the water, quickly!” Triona demanded as she grabbed a towel from the other maidservant to drape it across Annalise’s shoulders.
She nearly slipped on the wet floor in spite of Orla’s assistance, Triona reaching out to steady her, too, as the door flew open and Conor rushed into the bedchamber—only to stop short at Annalise’s shriek.
Frantically, she covered her barely concealed breasts with her hands as Triona cried out, too, in anger.
“By God, Conor, leave us at once and close the door!”
His gaze lingering upon Annalise, he nonetheless obliged Triona while she muttered something in Irish and wrapped another towel around Annalise.
“Forgive my son. He did not know I’ve taken matters into my own hands to ensure your comfort. If Orla hadn’t gone against his wishes and come to me this morning, you might still be lying in that corner and fading away for lack of food. I will speak to him, you can be sure—now let’s get you dressed and fed.”
Annalise could only nod, she was so shocked by Conor’s sudden appearance and how his eyes had swept over her…dear God, she felt embarrassed and even more lightheaded by turns.
If she didn’t eat something soon, she knew she would faint. By some miracle, she was swiftly dried off and dressed in a soft linen shift, followed by the blue gown, and seated in front of the hearth fire.
A savory-smelling bowl of warm venison stew placed in one of her hands and a spoon in the other. Annalise felt like a child to be tended to with such care as both Triona and Orla nodded with approval when she began to eat.
Only then did Annalise realize how ravenous she had become as the stew disappeared along with a thick slice of fresh-baked bread slathered in golden butter…all of it swallowed down with the sweetest, most delicious apple cider she had ever tasted.
Her satisfied belch moments later made her gasp in surprise at herself, and for Orla and Triona to glance at each other and share a look that appeared just as pleased.
“M-my thanks,” was all that Annalise could summon for a tightness in her throat that threatened tears of gratitude for their kindness—though she would not allow herself to weep again. Somehow she blinked away the moisture in her eyes as Triona laid her hand gently upon Annalise’s shoulder.
