Desire's Ransom

by Glynnis Campbell

  “Nay! Let go o’ my bloody—”

  “Such filth from such a sweet mouth,” he said, clucking his tongue.

  She would have cursed again, but his compliment startled her. Nobody had ever told her she had a sweet mouth.

  Gazing down at the beautiful, dripping-wet lass, Ryland couldn’t believe he’d thought she was a lad. Even with her uncommon height, her husky voice, and her expert fighting skills, standing next to her, there was no mistake she was every inch a woman.

  The wet hair clinging to her face looked like ink artfully scrawled across the fair parchment of her skin. Her eyes, flashing silver like a sword blade, were fringed with thick black lashes. In his grip, her hand was strong yet delicate. And her mouth…

  He wasn’t jesting when he called her mouth sweet. Despite spouting coarse words, her lips were soft and pink, as innocent as an angel’s and, at the moment, quivering with stifled laughter.

  He smiled back at her, deciding he must taste that sweet mouth.

  When her eyes lowered to his lips, he made his move. Releasing her wrist, he caught her head between his hands, tipping her chin up and closing his mouth on hers.

  She stiffened at first. But she didn’t struggle away. And he was right. She tasted as sweet as mead. Her lips were cool from the stream, but when she parted them, letting him delve inside, a lovely heat met his tongue. Desire coursed through his veins in spite of the cold water.

  He’d thought to steal a kiss from the outlaw and be on his merry way. After all, he had a bride waiting for him not far from here. But instead, he found himself drawn to the lass and held there like iron to a magnet.

  Her hands rose until her fingers rested upon his chest, and she deepened the kiss, tentatively at first. But then, with a soft moan of discovery, she pressed eagerly forward.

  Beneath his callused thumbs, her cheeks felt like damp velvet. Her breath was soft where it blew against his face, making him shiver with pleasure. He shut his eyes tight as a searing lightning bolt of lust streaked through his body.

  For a woman who’d been ready to beat him senseless a moment ago, she was surprisingly amenable to the kiss.

  He too was in no hurry to end it. The contrast of the cold stream rushing about him with the warm sunlight upon his head was invigorating. The combination of her wet tresses draping his fingers and the liquid passion of her kiss made him feel as if he’d caught a seductive water nymph bathing in the enchanting Irish stream.

  Her fingers crept higher, encircling his throat and threading through the locks at the nape of his neck. As their tongues waged a lusty battle and their kiss grew more intense, more desperate, he moved one of his hands down over her back, drawing her closer.

  She gasped and clung to him, arching forward until their armor ground together with a leathery squeak. Where her hips contacted his, he roused against her, groaning at the divine flood of desire.

  So distracted were they that neither of them noticed they were no longer alone. Until a man pointedly cleared his throat.

  “Hello!”

  At the sound of Conall’s familiar voice, Temair wrenched out of the Englishman’s embrace faster than dropping a hot coal.

  What had gotten into her, she didn’t know. Her head was in a daze. Her heart was pumping at an alarming rate. And she couldn’t catch her breath.

  The man in the stream was like a merrow—a dangerous water sprite drawing her to her doom.

  Thank god Conall had intervened. Without his interruption, she might have drowned in the deep waters of the strange knight’s power.

  Yet, when she lifted her mortified gaze, she saw no trickery or triumph in the Englishman’s eyes. He appeared to be just as astounded as she.

  She had no time to consider what that meant, for in the next instant, she saw Conall was not alone.

  Standing on the far bank were six of the woodkerns. And they had captives with them—four very angry men with their wrists bound behind them, all dressed in matching green tabards.

  After a short, awkward silence, Conall called out, “Hey there, Gray! I hope ye were tryin’ to steal more than just a kiss!”

  For an instant she was flummoxed. Then she held up her empty arms and yelled back, “I was! But the bastard isn’t carryin’ any coin!”

  One swift glance at the knight told her he knew she was lying. She hadn’t been trying to rob him at all. Her hands had been too busy caressing his neck.

  Conall continued. “Carryin’ his coin on his horse, most likely. Their mounts are in the clearin’. I’m guessin’ their saddlebags are probably full o’ silver.”

  Beside her, the knight said a foul word under his breath.

  Young Fergus rubbed his hands together. “We’ll have a right proper feast tonight,” he said gleefully. “And ye’re all invited.”

  It couldn’t be said that the woodkerns weren’t hospitable. It was probably owing to the chivalrous example set by the noble outlaws in the band. If their victims were good-natured and cooperative, they were always offered a hearty meal and often a night’s lodging after their purses were emptied.

  The knight apparently wasn’t interested in their hospitality. “Impossible.”

  His face was grim now. His brow was furrowed. His mouth was hard. Temair couldn’t believe those were the same lips that had been pressed so sweetly against hers only moments ago.

  “Ah, come now, we insist,” Conall said with a cheeky smile.

  “Aye,” Fergus cheerfully explained, “’tis how we treat all our guests.”

  “Guests?” the knight scoffed, crossing his arms. “Prithee don’t trouble yourself.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Maelan sneered and replied in the same sardonic tone. “’Tis no trouble at all.”

  “Look, outlaw,” the knight said firmly to Conall, “we have business elsewhere. I’ll make you a bargain. Untie my men…and you have my word we won’t kill you.”

  Temair’s brows shot up in surprise. That had escalated quickly.

  The woodkerns naturally laughed at his offer. The Englishmen were bound and at their mercy. They had nothing to bargain with.

  Until the knight snagged her by the arm and dragged her back against him.

  Temair gasped.

  God only knew where he’d been hiding it, but he drew a dagger and pressed the cold edge against her neck.

  “Let my men go at once,” he commanded, “or I’ll slit her throat.”

  The woodkerns reacted with vehement outbursts.

  Some of them condemned the knight for his ignoble threat.

  Some of them began pleading for her life.

  But oddly, despite the sharp steel at her throat, Temair’s first emotion wasn’t fear.

  It was betrayal.

  She’d just let the man kiss her, for god’s sake. She’d never let any man kiss her before.

  And he’d enjoyed it.

  At least she thought he’d enjoyed it.

  She certainly had.

  How dared he kiss her one moment and threaten to kill her the next?

  She wanted to ask him what the hell he was doing.

  But she could tell he was serious. She didn’t doubt he meant to use the dagger. The woodkerns, at least, were taking him at his word. The knight’s left arm secured her waist like a band of iron. While the blade hadn’t pierced her flesh, she could feel its keen edge. One quick slash, and her lifeblood would gush out into the stream.

  Chapter 8

  Ryland furrowed his brow. He’d sooner cut off his own hand than slit a woman’s throat.

  But the woodkerns didn’t know that.

  So he planned to take advantage of their ignorance, as well as the fact that, by some miracle, he still had enough wits about him after that kiss to leverage the situation.

  How he hadn’t heard the outlaws arrive, he didn’t know. His fighting instincts usually served him better than that.

  But his head was still reeling from the touch of her lips. And regardless of the icy water, his blood felt like
molten iron pouring through his veins.

  That the honey-mouthed woman gasped in his embrace, fearing for her life, shamed him to the core. He’d never hurt a woman in his life.

  But desperate situations required desperate measures. The woodkerns would believe his bluff. And he and his men could go their merry way, horses and purses intact.

  He wasn’t disappointed. At the sight of their woman held at dagger’s point, the outlaws quickly released his men from their bonds.

  Despite the fact the knights had been disarmed, one word from Ryland, and they could have finished off the outlaws then and there with their bare fists.

  But a vow was a vow. And Ryland didn’t want blood on his hands on the first day they were in Ireland. The woodkerns had done no lasting harm. They’d even invited him to supper. Besides, his heart was still racing from that exquisite kiss. The last thing he wanted was to taint that memory with violence.

  “Throw down your weapons,” he said to the outlaws.

  Once they complied, he lowered his blade and let her go.

  He was unprepared for the glare of hurt, anger, and betrayal in her liquid gray eyes. Her lips, at first parted in dismay, curved down in disappointment. She immediately raised her fingers to her throat, seeking blood, finding none.

  He shouldn’t have felt one drop of guilt. She was an outlaw, after all. He owed nothing to an outlaw. Given the chance, she would have gladly stolen his silver from him. Instead, he’d stolen a kiss from her.

  Yet he couldn’t bear the condemnation in her gaze. He wasn’t the sort of man to slay a person in cold blood. Not a fellow knight. Not even an outlaw. And especially not a woman. It was a matter of honor.

  But before he could tell her so, her eyes went flat, turning the color of hard steel. All emotion vanished, as if she’d closed a visor over her face. Nothing remained of the soft-lipped woman who had melted in his arms.

  Without another word, she turned stiffly to wade out of the stream.

  The woodkerns crossed the log to join her on the far bank.

  Ryland felt a twinge of regret. But he supposed there was no point in dwelling on it. What did it matter what she thought of him? He’d never see her again anyway.

  So he slogged out of the water toward his men.

  They were in a foul mood. Being captured by a motley pack of outlaws had been a crushing blow to their pride. The fact that they’d needed Ryland to come to their rescue probably chafed at them as well.

  So to salvage their dignity, as he emerged from the stream, he issued a stern warning to the woodkerns.

  “I intend to count the silver in our saddlebags. If even one farthing is missing, we’ll be coming back for it.” He shoved his dagger forcefully into its sheath. “And next time we won’t be so merciful.”

  It was best to put the fear of god into these ruffians before they began to believe that the English were easy targets.

  That was his intention.

  But he couldn’t leave things alone.

  After the woodkerns had safely crossed the log to the far bank, he caught a last glimpse of the sweet-mouthed outlaw. Her wet garments clung to her like a second skin, revealing her long, shapely limbs. Her hair, darkened to the color of midnight, draped over her shoulders in seductive invitation.

  He must have been mad to have believed she was a lad.

  And even though he knew he’d never see her again, even though he shouldn’t care what an outlaw thought, he couldn’t bear to let her believe he was a monster.

  What had her fellow called her? Gray?

  “Gray!” he called out.

  She glanced up.

  “I wouldn’t have done it, you know,” he told her. “No English knight worth his spurs would hurt a helpless woman.”

  She made no reply. Nonetheless, he was glad he’d made the confession.

  With a final nod, he picked up and sheathed his sword. Then he turned to follow his men back to their horses.

  He’d gone two paces when something whizzed past his nose and landed with a thunk in the tree beside him. An arrow. The shaft was still quivering when he whipped his head around and saw the woman on the far bank. Her bow was aloft, and her guilty hand was raised beside her cheek.

  “Then ye’re a bigger fool than I took ye for,” she called back.

  His men came to his defense at once, growling like riled hounds. Warin wrenched the arrow out of the trunk, angry enough that he would have fired it back at her with his bare hand.

  But Ryland pried the arrow from him and broke it in half between his fists, dropping the shaft to the ground. Then he calmed his men with a motion of his hand.

  “If you’re going to be so brazen,” he warned the woman, “you’d better shoot to kill.”

  She slung her bow back over her shoulder. “If I’d wanted ye dead, ye’d be dead.” Then she gave him a sly smirk. “But no Irish outlaw worth her bow would hurt a helpless man.”

  Ryland couldn’t help but chuckle. Leave it to the clever sweet-and-sharp-tongued woman to throw his own words back at him.

  His men, however, did not find her so amusing.

  “Helpless!” Laurence spat in disgust. “I’ll show her helpless.”

  Warin bit out an oath, barely able to suppress his rage.

  “Are you going to let her get away with that?” Godwin asked in outrage.

  “I am,” Ryland said. His pride might be wounded, but it would heal. “They’re only words, after all. I don’t think we need to be starting a war when we’ve only just arrived.” He continued along the stream. “Never fear. Once I’m chieftain over these lands, I’ll put the outlaws in their place.” Including, he thought, rather relishing the idea, that spirited wench with the wide gray eyes and the delicious mouth.

  All the way back to the woodkern camp, Temair felt as out of sorts as a wind-bristled cat. Why, she didn’t know.

  After all, she’d gotten the last word. She’d even driven home her point…literally…just missing the English knight with her arrow.

  But she was unsatisfied. She felt as if there was unfinished business between them.

  For one magical moment, standing in the stream, in the arms of the charming knight with the wide smile and sparkling eyes, she’d experienced a curious sort of joy. Her heart had raced. Her head had spun. Every nerve in her body had come to life.

  Then bumbling Conall had ruined everything.

  If only the woodkerns hadn’t arrived when they did…

  If only they hadn’t chosen those particular knights as targets…

  If only they hadn’t interrupted the two of them…

  What? she asked herself. What would have happened?

  She scuffed at the leafy path.

  It was foolish to imagine things might have ended differently. The man was obviously on some knightly quest. She was going to return home with the woodkerns. They wouldn’t be crossing paths again.

  So why did that irritate her?

  She tried to tell herself it was because she was once again returning empty-handed. After days of watching and waiting and stalking travelers, she’d reaped no reward for her efforts.

  But she knew it was more than that.

  She’d been strangely drawn to the man. Cocksure and clever, amusing and delightful, he was as playful as her hounds and deliciously wicked.

  He was also dangerous. He was a foreigner, an invader. As swiftly as he’d stolen the kiss from her, men like him were swooping down upon her land and claiming it for their own.

  If she’d forgotten that fact for a moment, the reality had come crashing down when he whipped out his dagger and held it at her throat.

  His treachery had been all the more cruel because she’d trusted him. For one brief moment, she’d left herself vulnerable, believing he was a kindred spirit. The fact that he was not—that he was capable of tasting her passion one moment and ending her life in the next—crushed her.

  And then he’d yelled across the stream at her, admitting he wouldn’t have done it.
<
br />   That had simultaneously relieved and infuriated her. She wished now she had called his bluff. Maybe then she wouldn’t be walking away with empty hands and a hollow heart.

  Maybe then he would have been forced to dine with the woodkerns…

  And stay the night…

  And possibly steal away with her in the moonlight to…

  “Who do ye suppose they were?” young Fergus asked, interrupting her thoughts. Maelan growled. “More bloody foreigners come to steal our fair isle.”

  The others grumbled in agreement. They were as upset as Temair. But their annoyance had everything to do with the fact they hadn’t managed to rob the knights. The small English retinue had probably been carrying a considerable amount of silver.

  She wondered where they were headed.

  Were they only knights-errant seeking their fortune in the land that would eventually belong to their new king? Or did they have a specific destination in mind? The knight had mentioned that he had business elsewhere. He’d also threatened to return if any of his silver was missing.

  She cursed herself now for not taking a coin or two to ensure his return.

  And then she cursed herself for having such treasonous thoughts.

  These were enemies of Eire. The sooner she forgot about the knight’s warm, sweet, inviting mouth, the better.

  It wasn’t until the woodkerns returned to the glade for supper and were settled around the fire, relaying what had happened, that Aife brought up something no one had considered.

  “So ye’re sayin’ these men saw your face, Gray?” she asked.

  Temair shrugged and ran her fingers through Bran’s fur. “Aye.” She didn’t add that one of the knights had not only seen her face, but kissed her lips. Thankfully, nobody divulged that detail, not even impulsive Fergus. Remembering how she’d humiliated them, she added proudly, “But I doubt they want to see it again.”

  “Still, if they got a good look at ye,” old Sorcha said gravely, eyeing Temair through the flames, “they’ll be able to describe ye.”

  Lady Mor gave a little gasp, drawing the attention of Cambeal and Conall. “What if they tell the chieftain they saw ye?”