Desire's Ransom

by Glynnis Campbell

  Temair’s brow creased. She hadn’t considered that. For days now, she’d been fretting over the possibility that her father might send his men to hunt her down. She hadn’t considered that outsiders might inform him that a young woman with peat-black hair and gray eyes was living in the woods.

  Cambeal, hoping to allay her fears, argued, “The knights could have been headed anywhere, Gray. There’s no reason to think they’ll cross paths with the chieftain.”

  “Besides,” Conall said, “I doubt they’ll be talkin’ much about the lass that tossed one o’ them on his arse.”

  The woodkerns chuckled at that.

  Conall was probably right. The cocky English knight wouldn’t be keen for anyone to know he’d been bested by a wisp of an Irish lass. The idea made Temair smile.

  Until she glanced at Sorcha, who wasn’t sharing in the laughter.

  “It might be best if ye lie low for a bit.”

  Temair wanted to argue. She’d brought in nothing for the woodkerns in days. It troubled her not to be sharing the burden of providing for the band.

  But she supposed Sorcha had a point. Until the English knights passed through the O’Keeffe lands, she couldn’t be sure of her safety.

  She cursed under her breath. She hated that her life had been turned upside down, and all because of her father and his wretched scheming.

  Chapter 9

  The moment Ryland laid eyes on Cormac O’Keeffe in the great hall of the tower house, a shudder went through him. As he’d feared, the clann chieftain had mottled white skin and a fiery red beard. No doubt his daughter had inherited that coloring and the hot temper to go with it.

  Still, Ryland would try to withhold judgment. He hadn’t met his bride yet. Despite the appearance of her father and the rumors of her violence, he intended to keep an open mind.

  Cormac was not easy to like. Despite wearing a heavy silver circle of a crown and a vivid green brat embroidered at the edges in Irish knots of red and yellow over a fine linen léine, he had the appearance of a peasant disguised in the garments of a king. He stank of sweat and ale. He was soft-bellied and shifty-eyed. His nose was ruddy with excessive drinking. And he somehow managed to be imperious and fawning at the same time.

  He blustered about like an angry drunkard, snapping at his clannsmen, berating his servants. Yet he ingratiated himself at every opportunity to Ryland and his knights. Like a poorly trained hound, he barked at his own pack, and then returned to lick his master’s hand, seeking approval.

  Ryland’s men disapproved of Cormac as well. He could see it in their stern gazes and the way their knuckles tightened on the hilts of their swords. The chieftain was loud and volatile, bellowing at a maid one moment and confiding in the knights the next. And nothing was more unsettling to a warrior than an unpredictable foe.

  Ryland tried not to concern himself too much with Cormac. After all, once he was married to the chieftain’s daughter, Ryland would eventually replace him as lord. So he concentrated instead on the clannsmen who would be under his care.

  On the whole, from what he’d seen, riding through the O’Keeffe lands on the way to the tower house, they seemed like good people, despite being downtrodden and naturally suspicious of Ryland and his men. But he was sure that once he showed them his fairness, his loyalty, and his even temper, they would learn to rely upon him. There was no need to flaunt one’s power when trust could be earned through mutual respect.

  “Ale!” Cormac yelled at a kitchen lad. “What’s takin’ ye so long, ye half-wit?”

  The cowed servant bobbed his head and scurried from the hall.

  Godwin’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

  “Stupid lad probably can’t count to six,” Cormac chortled, elbowing Ryland in the ribs. Ryland winced. He’d hit one of the spots where that lady outlaw had bruised him with her club.

  Laurence, who himself had been late to learn his numbers, took offense at the rude comment, growling under his breath.

  Warin, ever the diplomat, intervened to turn the conversation. “The tower house is magnificent, m’lord. When did you say ’twas built?”

  Cormac, easily distracted, started waxing poetic about the ancient keep, though Ryland was more interested in its sturdiness than its magnificence. He was relieved to see the plaster-covered timber walls were straight at least, though stone would make a more formidable defense. As for the pieces displayed in the hall—a silver aquamanile in the shape of a lion, a jewel-encrusted sword on the wall, an ornate wooden screen painted with hunting scenes accented in gold leaf—they seemed more pretentious and extravagant than tasteful.

  He wondered if his betrothed shared her father’s preferences for decoration.

  Quickly losing interest in the discussion about the tapestries, Ryland began studying the denizens traveling through the hall.

  Where was his bride anyway?

  Every time a woman entered the hall, his breath caught.

  A lass with curly blonde hair gave him a flirting glance. But she couldn’t be his intended. The filthy hem of her ragged skirt and the basket of hen’s eggs she was carrying marked her as a servant.

  A dark-haired beauty shyly lowered her eyes. But her lover was quick to claim her, taking her arm and leading her outside.

  An impossibly old woman hobbled by, and Ryland gulped. It wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter, but only now was he beginning to realize that he knew nothing about his bride-to-be…other than the rumors about her murdering her own sister.

  She could be half-lame…

  Or half-mad…

  Or fourteen years old, as far as he knew.

  He hadn’t been uneasy before. But now that he was here, about to meet the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life, he felt as nervous as a squire at his first tournament.

  As the chieftain blathered on and on about his priceless treasures, Ryland grew more and more anxious.

  Where was his damned bride?

  He was about to blurt out the question—in more polite language, of course—when the chieftain made a grand gesture with his arm at the very moment the servant arrived with the six ales, knocking the entire tray out of his hands.

  The earthen cups shattered on the floor. Shards of clay and splashes of foaming ale burst outward.

  The horrified kitchen lad seemed to shrink in his skin. The chieftain’s face purpled with rage as he raised one meaty fist.

  Ryland acted on instinct. He wouldn’t stand idly by while the chieftain hurt an innocent servant. Before Cormac could bring down his fist, Ryland seized the man’s thick forearm, halting him.

  For one agonizing, uncomfortable moment, there was silence in the hall. Ryland could feel the shuddering fury in Cormac’s arm as everyone looked on in horror.

  Ryland knew he had no right to interfere in what happened between the chieftain and his servant. This was not Ryland’s keep—at least not yet. And his action undermined the authority of the chieftain in the eyes of all who witnessed it.

  But he couldn’t help himself. Above all, Ryland believed in justice, in fairness. And the kitchen lad didn’t deserve punishment.

  Fortunately, brilliant Warin came to the rescue. He stepped between Ryland and Cormac, grabbing the sleeve of the chieftain’s garments with a gasp.

  “Oh, nay, m’lord,” he said to Cormac in concern, “you don’t want to be getting servant’s blood on that fine linen.”

  Startled by the comment, Cormac was distracted long enough for Ryland to give the servant a sharp, dismissive glare. The kitchen lad didn’t need a second warning. He made a hasty escape.

  Laurence motioned to a maidservant to clean up the mess while Warin continued fussing over the chieftain’s sleeve.

  “Servants are easily replaced,” Warin said. “But quality linen such as this…” He clucked his tongue.

  Whether the chieftain believed Warin’s nonsense, Ryland didn’t know. But the chieftain’s rage subsided quickly. Ryland owed Warin for that favor.

  “
You there, lad,” Godwin called out to a less skittish servant. “Fetch us ales, will you?”

  The servant left to do Godwin’s bidding.

  Ryland decided to use the chaotic moment to casually toss out the question that had been nagging at him. “So, m’lord, when do I get to meet my beautiful bride?”

  Cormac looked stunned for a moment, as if it had totally slipped his mind. Then he eyed Ryland with a calculating squint. “Ye seem in a hurry.” His lip curled up in what he probably thought passed for a smile. “Are ye so eager to toss me on my arse and take my tuath?”

  “Not at all,” Ryland said. “I only—”

  “Because I don’t plan to die for a long while yet.”

  Though Ryland thought the man’s temperament and health indicated otherwise, he nodded. “Of course not.”

  Cormac grunted.

  Ryland opened his hands in friendship. “I only wish to meet the woman who is to be my wife.”

  “Aye, o’ course.”

  But Cormac made no move to remedy the situation. Instead, he glanced around the ring of knights, stroking his beard as if grinding some plan through the gears of his brain.

  “About that,” he finally said. “I’m afraid there may be a small…difficulty.”

  “Difficulty?” Ryland didn’t like the sound of that.

  Just then, the servant returned with their ale, thankfully without spilling a drop.

  Cormac seemed grateful for the distraction. “Perhaps it should wait until after we’ve finished our ales.”

  The last thing Ryland wanted to do was stretch out the anticipation. What “small difficulty” could the chieftain possibly mean? Had the woman refused his hand? Had she run away with a lover? Was she dead? Maybe they’d finally executed her for the murder of her sister.

  “As you wish,” he said between his teeth.

  Hiding his impatience as best he could, Ryland followed their host to the trestle table in the midst of the hall.

  As they drank, his knights engaged in polite and harmless conversation with the chieftain.

  They asked how the fishing was in the lakes.

  They commented on the pleasant climate.

  They listened to the chieftain’s boasts about the plentiful game in the forest.

  Through it all, Ryland sat silent. How could they speak of such trivialities when his entire future was hanging in the balance? What was Cormac’s damned “small difficulty”? Where the devil was his bride?

  Ryland’s fingers tightened around his cup of ale. He swore if he heard one more word about the weather, he would crush the cup in his fist.

  Finally, unable to stand the suspense, he steeled his nerves and asked, “Forgive my impatience, m’lord, but regarding my bride…”

  The chieftain’s bleary blue eyes slipped sideways, and he licked his lips, as if thinking up a good lie.

  Cormac was uneasy. He’d been uneasy ever since these Englishmen had arrived. And he didn’t like being uneasy. Not in his own keep.

  He’d always been able to appease the English noblemen who visited, impressing them with his wealth and power. Even without an actual daughter to offer, he’d been confident that when the de Ware retinue arrived, he’d be able to come up with a substitute and an arrangement that would benefit them all, with the king none the wiser.

  As far as his clannsmen knew, his daughter was imprisoned in a cell in the tower. But in all that time, no one had seen her. And so a few months ago, when King John had taken the throne, Cormac had put a daring plan into action.

  He’d sought out a willing harlot of the right age and a reasonable resemblance to Temair to pass off as his heir, promising her untold riches and power.

  Keeping her in the tower cell, he’d proceeded to fornicate with her at every opportunity, hoping to get her with child.

  It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Through her, he’d retain control of his tuath. And through him, she’d live a life of privilege.

  His seed had finally taken hold in the lass. Wishing to see her wed in a timely fashion, he’d contacted the king and offered up his daughter and heiress to the man of John’s choosing. It was the perfect deception. When the lass gave birth, no one but she and he would know whose offspring it truly was.

  Now, however, he was having second thoughts.

  These knights were not as manageable as he’d expected. Unlike the velvet-clad popinjays of the king’s court, these men were hardened warriors. And except for the one called Warin, who showed the proper interest and respect for Cormac’s acquisitions, they seemed undaunted by his power and unimpressed by his riches.

  As for the man King John had sent as a bridegroom, Sir Ryland de Ware, Cormac liked him least of all. Though Sir Warin had covered for the man, he was convinced that Ryland’s intervention on behalf of the servant had been a direct challenge to Cormac’s authority. He couldn’t risk having such a man in control of his lands.

  He had to think of a different option.

  He could say his daughter was dead. That would rid him of Sir Ryland. But it would also leave him with no political pawn for the future.

  He could allow Sir Ryland to wed the imposter and look for a chance to murder the man later. But that was a messy business. Besides, the knight was not a man easily gulled. If he discovered his bride was a counterfeit, he would no doubt immediately report the unsavory news to King John.

  A third idea suddenly came to Cormac.

  It was a diabolically simple deception. He’d utterly destroy Sir Ryland by using his own untarnished chivalry against him. Even better, Cormac didn’t have to lie. He only had to distort the truth.

  Carefully furrowing his brows, he feigned regret. “I was hopin’ I’d not have to tell ye this. But I can see there’s no way around it.” He paused to shake his head. “Ye see, to my great shame, my daughter, your bride, has…” He sighed. “The lass has run off.”

  The other knights gasped. But Sir Ryland said nothing. His eyes were stern and unwavering, and his frown was inscrutable.

  Cormac continued. “When I told her she was to be wedded to an English knight, well…she sobbed and carried on.” He tugged at his beard. He still couldn’t read Sir Ryland’s expression, so he looked for assurance from the other knights. “But I was firm with the lass. ‘Aillenn,’ I said, ‘ye don’t have a choice in the matter.’”

  “You mean Temair?” one of the knights asked.

  “What?”

  “Your daughter,” Sir Warin clarified. “You meant Temair.”

  “Oh, aye, o’ course, Temair.” Cormac cursed himself for the slip. It had been years since he’d seen either of his daughters. Their names were rusty in his mind. “I told Temair ’tis her duty to marry as the king sees fit.” He shook his head again. “But the lass was havin’ none of it.”

  When Sir Ryland finally spoke, his voice was cool and even. “Did you try beating her into submission?”

  “Oh aye,” Cormac replied automatically, instantly realizing his mistake as the knight’s brows lowered in disapproval. “That is, nay, nay.” He rubbed anxious fingers through his beard. “I should have,” he said defensively. “After all, I couldn’t have my own daughter refusin’ the King of England.” Ryland’s face had gone grave again. “But ere I could lay a hand on the lass, she was out o’ the keep and off into the woods.”

  “She fled?” Warin asked.

  “Aye.” Cormac’s gaze veered from man to man as he tried to determine if they believed his story.

  “How long ago?” another knight demanded.

  “Three days,” Cormac invented. That sounded reasonable to him.

  A second knight asked, “Did you send men to hunt for her?”

  Cormac hated to complicate his lies, so he shrugged and shook his head. “I was so sure she’d return.”

  Ryland frowned. “The woods are dangerous. She might be in peril.” He sighed and set down his cup.

  Cormac resisted crowing with glee. As he’d hoped, the knight was falling neatly into his t
rap. He could see Sir Ryland was considering taking matters into his own hands. He’d search for the lass himself.

  Of course he’d never find her. Cormac expected Temair was dead. And when the knight came back empty-handed, he would have only himself to blame. Cormac would be innocent. And Ryland would be too ashamed of his failure to remain in Eire.

  Once the knight was gone and safely wed to someone else, Cormac’s daughter could be miraculously “found.” Then Cormac would once again have an heir with which to bargain. And with any luck, the next bridegroom the king sent would be more governable.

  As for the pregnant imposter, Cormac would pay her for her trouble and send her on her way. Hers probably wasn’t the first bastard he’d sired.

  Cormac wrung his hands and tried to look distraught. “Do ye think ill may have befallen my daughter?”

  Their silence was answer enough.

  “We’ll look for her,” one of the knights decided.

  “Aye,” another agreed.

  “Of course,” Ryland said.

  The first knight asked, “Can you describe her?”

  Cormac opened his mouth and froze. How could he describe the daughter he’d last seen years ago? She hadn’t even had breasts then. Even if she were somehow alive, she’d have grown into a woman by now.

  At his hesitation, Warin guessed, “Does she have your coloring, m’lord?”

  He shook his head, trying to remember. “Nay, she’s a small, wildish lass with dark hair.”

  “Never fear,” Warin said, as much to Ryland as to Cormac. “We’ll find her.”

  One of them added, “We can start first thing in the morning.”

  Perfect, Cormac thought. That would give him time to send the imposter away. After a few days, at most a week, he figured, they’d give up the search and return to England.

  On the other hand, the forest was full of thieves and wolves. Maybe misfortune would befall the knights. Maybe Sir Ryland would never be heard from again. It was an attractive alternative.

  Chapter 10