Desire's Ransom

by Glynnis Campbell

  She stepped abruptly backwards, obviously embarrassed. “Nay, ’tis my—”

  “I can’t do this. ’Tisn’t—”

  “O’ course not,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “’Tisn’t that it wasn’t pleasant and—”

  “Nay, ye’re absolutely right.” She looked away and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I had no call to—”

  “If I didn’t have a bride…”

  She nodded rapidly, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “’Twill not happen again.”

  His heart sank at her words. But she was right. Nothing good could come of kissing Gray, no matter how pleasurable it was.

  He picked up their discarded batas and handed hers back to her. Neither of them wished to engage at the moment, not even in battle.

  As it happened, they’d been wise to stop when they did. In the next moment, old Sorcha arrived at the camp, carrying a great basket of peas. She would have been livid, he was sure, to find Gray dallying with the man who was supposed to be her hostage.

  Sorcha eyed the batas. “Are ye still fightin’?” She shook her head. “I’d have thought ye’d made peace by now.” She looked around the clearing. “Have ye seen Mor?”

  “She’s gone to bathe in the lough,” Ryland told her.

  Sorcha raised a suspicious brow but made no comment. She set down the basket and dusted off her hands. “Well, then, here. Perhaps ye can put away your weapons and see if ye can stop brawlin’ long enough to make yourselves useful by shellin’ these peas for supper.”

  Ryland was not in the habit of shelling peas. In the de Ware household, the servants did such things. But he supposed in an outlaw camp, everyone had to do their share in order to survive. Anyway, he could use the distraction.

  It wasn’t difficult work, especially once he watched Gray do it a half dozen times. The only challenge was keeping his fingers from tangling with hers as they reached for peas. And keeping his eyes from straying to her rosy lips.

  Their conversation was stilted and aloof. They chatted about the weather, the hounds, the fair, the forest. He learned that the weather was pleasant for summer. The hounds were good for hunting and protection, less good for jobs requiring stealth. The fair brought visitors from all the nearby towns. And the forest was full of birds, squirrels, rabbits, and an occasional wolf.

  Gone was the flirtatious, charming sprite he’d sparred with all morn. In her place was a serious and dutiful maid who answered with as few words as possible and didn’t spare him a glance.

  He couldn’t help but be disappointed. Even though it was his own fault. Even if he’d done the right thing.

  Hell. He hoped his bride-to-be was half as attractive to him as Gray.

  Part of him wished he’d never met the beautiful lady outlaw.

  And part of him hoped he’d never be ransomed.

  By the time they finished shelling the peas, the woodkerns began returning to camp. It looked like they were carrying enough treasure to live like lords for the next year.

  But that wasn’t what they intended. As before, they deposited their goods on the cloth that Sorcha spread on the ground. She catalogued every coin, every jewel, every weapon, assessing its value and assigning it to one of the family names scrawled in her ledger.

  Their generosity was inspiring. He’d never seen such charity before, not even from the priests where he lived. When it came to the accounting of alms, the church in England was lax. Ryland suspected the well-fed, well-read priests took a considerable portion for themselves. What they did donate, they gave with a great deal of that deadly sin of pride.

  But the woodkerns seemed genuinely concerned with fairness and anonymity.

  As Mor had explained earlier, what they stole from the rich was not the nobles’ hard-earned silver, but wages earned on the backs of the poor.

  Ryland would have to look into this more when he was lord. There were kings and paupers in any society, but when the kings feasted while the paupers starved, something was amiss.

  Gray delivered the bowl of shelled peas to the friar, who poured them into his cauldron of bubbling broth.

  Ryland nodded toward the day’s take, asking Gray, “Do the families know from whence these gifts come?”

  “You mean that they come from outlaws?” she asked. “Nay.”

  “They might turn down the gifts if they knew,” the friar said, adding a pinch of pepper to the pot. “Some o’ them think we’re angels.” He laughed about that.

  “We’re neither outlaws nor angels,” Gray said. “We’re tax collectors, keepin’ the accounts balanced.”

  Ryland arched a brow. Cormac O’Keeffe was definitely neglecting things if outlaws were keeping the accounts balanced. It seemed he was going to have his hands full, once he was in charge.

  Gazing out the tower window, Cormac figured it was just as well the simpering harlot he’d hired was dead. Like his real daughter, she’d been too mouthy for her own good. He wasn’t about to let her extort silver from him to ensure her silence about carrying his bastard. Not when there were easier ways to shut her up.

  Now that she was at the bottom of the bog, she’d give him no grief.

  And now that Sir Ryland de Ware and his knights were chasing after his ghost of a daughter, he had time to change his plans.

  He looked below to the busy road which passed by the tower house.

  The fair would bring fresh faces. Perhaps, among the traveling merchants and entertainers, he’d find a more malleable lass, one amenable to taking on the role of the chieftain’s daughter. Then he could begin again.

  As before, he’d have to keep the lass secreted away at the castle. Soon, Sir Ryland and his knights would return empty-handed. They’d be forced to go back to England in shame, where the ungovernable Sir Ryland would likely be wed to someone else.

  Then Cormac would execute the second part of his scheme. He’d announce that, by some miracle, his long-lost daughter had wandered out of the wood and returned home.

  King John would naturally send a new bridegroom. This time, Cormac would insist upon a gentle knight worthy of his daughter, rather than one like the last, who’d frightened her into running away.

  Meanwhile, of course, he’d get the imposter pregnant.

  He tapped on the stone sill, studying the prospects winding their way along the road toward the fair. Some lugged wheelbarrows. Some walked beside carts. Some rode on hobbies. Surely there was a small, dark lass among them who could pass for his daughter. And bear his child.

  Chapter 19

  Temair filled her cup with ale for the second time, slugging down half of it at once.

  The woodkerns, arriving full of treasure and tales, had had a profitable day. Gathering around the fire, they boasted of their adventures and the fruits of their labor.

  But Temair’s day had left her as prickly as a cat in a thunderstorm.

  Not only had she felt frustrated by being restricted to the camp while the others were out looting, but her head was still spinning over her situation with Ryland.

  First of all, she should never have kissed him again. No matter how tempting and inevitable and right it had felt at the time, she shouldn’t have done it.

  It wasn’t right. Not at all. As far as Ryland was aware, he was promised to another. He was practically a married man.

  And yet, the bride he was promised to was her. So it wasn’t as if that indiscretion could legitimately be considered cheating.

  The fact that Ryland had put a stop to the kiss said much about his honor. She respected him for that.

  On the other hand, perhaps he’d only stopped her because he’d found he wasn’t attracted to her, not in the way she was attracted to him. And that hurt her pride.

  And now, unsure whether she admired or begrudged him for his actions, she ended up vexed at herself for even caring what he thought.

  She wasn’t going to marry him.

  She’d already decided that.

  So what did it matter wheth
er he was a cheat?

  Why should she care if he did or didn’t like her?

  What difference did it make if freshly bathed Lady Mor was sitting on the other side of him, fluttering her lashes?

  Temair pounded down the rest of her ale.

  At the sound of Mor’s giggles, she winced and got up to refill her cup…again.

  Friar Brian had just begun to serve up the pea pottage when Conall and young Fergus strode into the camp with two strangers.

  Sorcha exchanged a quick glance with Temair. Any other day, entertaining the nobles they’d robbed was commonplace. But with a hostage on the line and Temair’s identity at stake, it was a bold and risky proposition—one that Conall and Fergus probably shouldn’t have undertaken.

  She trusted Ryland would say nothing to divulge his identity that might threaten the safe transfer of his ransom. Meanwhile, the woodkerns would have to do nothing to arouse suspicion.

  “Welcome to our lovely camp!” Conall announced.

  Although the noble visitors looked irritated at being inconvenienced, they were civil enough.

  Fergus introduced them. “These are Sir William and Sir Robert.”

  Cambeal and Niall introduced themselves and invited the two gentlemen to sit by the fire. The friar prepared to fill bread crusts with pottage for the guests.

  As was customary, Sorcha explained. “Sir William, Sir Robert, we may be outlaws, but we never take more than we need. And if ye’re willin’ enough to hand it over without a fuss, we’re glad to give ye sustenance for your journey home.”

  Sir William laughed. “Generous outlaws—ha!” He elbowed his companion, who wasn’t quite as jolly.

  Sir Robert made a sour face. “The last thing we need is more sustenance.”

  “True enough,” William agreed. “We’ve just come from Chieftain O’Keeffe’s table.” With one hand, he patted his broad belly. With the other, he fended off Brian’s offer of pottage. “I doubt I’ll need sustenance for another week.”

  Temair dug her fingernail into her wooden cup. They’d just eaten at her father’s table? Had Cormac mentioned her? Had he talked about the ransom?

  As casually as she could, she asked them, “Did ye happen to see any other English knights there?” She ignored Sorcha’s sharp look of warning.

  “Maybe we did,” Robert said evasively. “Maybe we didn’t.”

  William gave his companion a chiding cuff. “There were a few Irish nobles at supper,” he volunteered, “but no English knights.”

  “Why are you telling them?” Robert bit out.

  “Because they asked,” William replied.

  “But they’re outlaws!”

  “What’s the harm?” William shrugged. “They’re going to rob us either way.”

  “Precisely,” Robert said. “I would think you’d know better than to barter with their kind.”

  “And I would think you’d know better than to goad them into doing us further harm.”

  Robert frowned suspiciously at the woodkerns around him, as if wondering if they might chop off his fingers or poke out his eyes.

  “At any rate,” William continued, “we may as well enjoy the evening and be sent safely on our way, aye?”

  Cambeal, ever the diplomat, intervened smoothly. “Sir William is right. We have no wish to do ye harm, as long as ye give us no reason to do so. We only hunger for news o’ the outside world.”

  “Aye,” Temair chimed in, eager to find out what the hostage situation was. “Can ye give us the latest blather from O’Keeffe?”

  “What Gray means,” Sorcha said with a tight, forced smile, “is we’d all love to hear news about our dear clann chieftain.”

  Temair bristled at that. She didn’t give a piss what happened to Cormac O’Keeffe. She did, however, want to know what was going on at the tower, so she remained silent.

  William hesitated. “You know, on second thought, I wouldn’t mind a cup of your ale to wet my tongue after such a long journey.”

  Temair pressed at the ache growing between her eyes. Couldn’t he just spit out his news and be gone?

  Aife brought ales for both of them. William raised his ale and took a healthy swig. Robert peered down at his cup as if he feared it might be poisoned.

  Temair grew impatient, waiting for them to quench their thirst and begin their story. Beside her, Ryland seemed uneasy as well. Then she realized why. He probably wanted to know what had become of his knights as much as she did. If William and Robert hadn’t seen them, where had they gone?

  Finally, William, his tongue loosened by two cups of ale, started recounting the details of the banquet they’d been served.

  Temair wasn’t much interested in that. It was a cruel reminder that her father had a habit of snatching the suckling pigs from his starving tenants’ sties and roasting them for the pleasure of a few foreign guests.

  Her head was buzzing from her third ale when she rose to get a fourth. William, already nursing his fourth cup, sat forward and motioned the outlaws closer with a drunken gesture of conspiracy.

  “Did you know,” he confided, “that King John himself has sent an Englishman to wed the daughter of the O’Keeffe?”

  She sensed Ryland stiffen beside her. But Temair was accustomed to hiding secrets, so she continued to sip blithely at her ale. Meanwhile, she was hanging on the nobleman’s every word.

  Robert, trying to keep up with William’s consumption of ale, was now drunk enough to blurt out a few important details.

  Though the two hadn’t seen Ryland’s knights, they’d heard a lot of gossip from the servants, who were eager to share what they knew.

  “Some say they can hear her in the middle of the night,” William said.

  “Who?” Ronan asked.

  “The chieftain’s daughter,” he said.

  Robert added, “’Tis said he keeps her in a cell at the tower.”

  “And no one’s laid eyes on her in six years,” said William.

  “Not since that fateful night she murdered her sister,” said Robert.

  Temair squeezed the wooden cup in her fingers until her knuckles were white.

  The whole camp had gone quiet. William and Robert probably presumed it was due to their suspenseful storytelling. But nobody dared breathe a word, lest they reveal Temair’s identity.

  The last person she expected to speak on her behalf was Ryland.

  “Ballocks!” he spat. “’Tis an unfounded rumor. There’s no evidence Temair O’Keeffe had anything to do with her sister’s death.”

  Temair was stunned. That Ryland was aware of the local rumors surprised her. But even more surprising was the way he was standing up for her. Nobody had ever sounded so sure of her innocence.

  Not even the woodkerns defended her with such trust. Indeed, not all of them believed that Temair was completely blameless in her sister’s demise. They might not think Temair intentionally pushed her sister off the tower. But some of them assumed it was an unfortunate accident caused by Temair’s temper or carelessness or neglect. Even Temair felt she might be partly responsible.

  Ryland’s touching words—combined with the fact that she was on her fourth ale—made tears well in her eyes.

  William held up his palms in protest. “I’m not saying she did it. I’m just passing along what the servants said.”

  “I pity the bridegroom,” Robert snickered. “The poor fool is walking into a trap. He’ll be lucky to survive a fortnight if O’Keeffe is marrying off his murderous daughter to the king’s man.”

  Ryland’s face was grim. “I’m sure the king’s man is not one to give much credit to the prattling of maidservants.”

  Temair’s heart swelled. Ryland was defending her.

  Then she furrowed her brows. She supposed he wasn’t actually defending her. He didn’t even know she was the chieftain’s daughter. It was more about him defending his own reputation as a man who knew the difference between fact and fiction.

  But Robert wasn’t listening. “I wonder how
long he’ll last before the monstrous she-devil does him in.”

  “God’s wounds!” Ryland exclaimed. “How dare you disparage a woman you’ve never met?”

  Temair could feel the heat of righteous indignation rising off of him. It was thrilling. And flattering. And seductive.

  William nervously licked his lips as he gripped Robert’s arm, keeping his companion under control. “Oh, I’m certain that’s not what he meant. You didn’t mean that, did you, Robert? Of course he didn’t. What would we know of the wench, after all? We only just arrived at the keep.”

  “You should guard your tongue,” Ryland warned.

  “Oh, absolutely,” William agreed.

  Robert yanked his arm out of William’s grip with a snort.

  Before a brawl could ensue, Temair changed the subject. “It grows late, gentlemen. Have ye finished your ales? ’Tis best ye were on your way before the wolves start prowlin’.”

  Robert gulped down the last of his ale. “Aye, fine.”

  William looked mildly disappointed. He probably would have enjoyed spending the night with the woodkerns. “Ah. Right. Thank you for the ale.”

  “Thank ye for the silver,” Temair said pointedly.

  “Oh, aye,” William said with a sigh, untying his leather purse and handing it to her.

  “And yours?” Temair urged, nodding at Robert.

  He scowled, but did likewise.

  Temair counted out half of the coins from each purse and handed them back.

  “You don’t want all of it?” Robert asked.

  William swatted him for asking such a stupid question.

  Temair smiled. “We take what we need and what ye can afford, no more. Niall and Maelan, see them to the road, will ye, and turn them in the right direction?”

  Obviously, Temair didn’t want them returning to the keep with information about the woodkerns.

  The visitors left then, and the outlaws breathed a sigh of relief.

  But Temair couldn’t stop staring at Ryland.

  He’d stood up for her. Despite the nasty rumors, despite what everyone else maintained was the truth, he wasn’t convinced. And he was giving the bride he’d never met the benefit of the doubt.