She decided it meant even more that he didn’t know she was the chieftain’s daughter. It meant he was giving his blind trust. It meant he believed a person was innocent until they were proven guilty.
What an amazing man he was, she thought. So honorable. And chivalrous. Charitable. And forthright. He was everything a knight should be. Everything a man should be.
She knew she was a bit tipsy from the ale, which always bared her heart and loosened her tongue. But Temair knew she was right about Ryland. Her vision blurred with tears as she resisted the urge to sob out how she felt about him.
Instead, lowering her voice, she leaned toward him in confidence…and almost tipped over. Indeed, she might have landed on her nose if he hadn’t caught her. She supposed she shouldn’t have drunk that fifth ale. Or was it sixth?
“Careful,” he warned.
“Do ye truly believe that, Ryland?” she gushed.
“Believe what?” he said. “Hold on. Are you drunk?”
“Maybe.”
His lips twitched. “Believe what?”
“That she’s innocent?” she whispered.
“Who, my bride?”
She nodded.
“Aye, I do.”
A lump clogged her throat. “Ye don’t think she’s a murderer?”
He shook his head.
“Or…or a monstrous she-devil?”
Chapter 20
Ryland couldn’t be sure about that.
No one had seen the woman in six years.
She might not have had a bath in all that time. Hell, if she had been kept in a cellar in the dark as some claimed, she could be as gray and pasty as a toadstool. And if the only person she had contact with was her wretched father, she might even be mentally damaged—suffering from anxiety, loneliness, trauma.
He answered honestly. “I hope not.”
Lady Mor had apparently overheard their conversation. “And what if she is a monstrous she-devil?” she asked with a wicked glint in her eye. “Will ye wed her anyway?”
“Of course.” There was no question. It was his responsibility and obligation. “But…you’ve seen her before, haven’t you? In fact…” He turned to the remaining woodkerns as a whole. “You all knew my bride from before, did you not? What was she like? Do you remember?”
Everyone spoke at once.
“Short,” blurted Domnall. “Fair-haired.”
“Small and dark,” corrected Aife, “just as the chieftain described her.”
“She was always a good lass,” the friar said.
“Ye’d like her,” Ronan said with a wink.
“A bit too tall, if ye ask me,” said Lady Mor.
“Difficult to say,” Cambeal said with smooth nobility, “though a well-loved woman is always beautiful.”
“She doesn’t look like any of us,” young Fergus said, licking his lips. “That’s for certain.”
Wise Sorcha held up her hand to silence them all. “Temair is lovely. I don’t think ye’ll be disappointed.”
Ryland smiled and thanked them for their opinions, though he was thinking it was a good thing his bride had returned to the keep when she had. Considering the wide variations in her description—tall, short, fair-haired, dark-haired—Temair would have been nearly impossible to find.
Once the woodkerns returned to their own conversations, he whispered to Gray, “What do you think? Honestly. Do you remember her?” If anyone would tell him the unflattering truth about his bride, it was Gray. She seemed to prefer to speak plainly.
But when he turned to her, she was staring at him with a besotted smile on her face. He couldn’t help but grin back. She’d been staring at him for some time now. Clearly, she’d overindulged this evening.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were half-closed with sleepy languor. Though she sat on an anchored log, she swayed unsteadily.
Even drunk, she looked adorable. Her eyes softly glistened. Her hair shone like black silk in the firelight. Her rosy lips looked vulnerable and inviting.
It was difficult thinking about his prospective bride without instinctively comparing her to the breathtaking beauty beside him.
But at his question, Gray’s expression grew troubled.
“What do I think?” Emotions battled back and forth on her face until he almost wished he hadn’t asked the question. At last she gave him a careful answer. “I think she’s no better or worse than ye’d expect…considerin’.”
“Considering?”
“Considerin’ her…history.”
That was something Ryland had been wanting to know. “Do you think ’tis possible the chieftain…mistreated Temair?” he asked.
Lady Mor volunteered her opinion, loudly enough for the rest of the camp to hear. “Cormac O’Keeffe mistreats everyone.”
The woodkerns’ silence was damning. Not that he expected anything else. They were understandably wary of speaking ill of Ryland’s future father-in-law. But apparently they weren’t in a rush to defend him either.
“He’s not known for his kindness,” Gray finally admitted.
Once she’d uncorked that keg, the rest of the woodkerns’ opinions began to flow freely.
“He’s got a temper.”
“Not many o’ the crofters have a good word to say about him.”
“He’s a spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child kind o’ man.”
“Folk at the tower house did say he kept her locked in a cell.”
“’Tis a well-known fact he beats his servants. There’s no tellin’ what he did to his daughters.”
“There’s some who know,” Gray interjected, her voice bitter. “Is it any surprise Temair left? Bloody hell, if she hadn’t run away all those years ago, there’s no tellin’ what might have—”
“All those years?” Ryland asked.
The camp went suddenly still.
“Days,” Gray corrected. “All those days ago.”
Ronan forced a laugh. “Maybe ye’d better lighten up on that ale, Gray. I fear your mind’s a bit muddled.”
“Aye, lass,” Cambeal said. “’Twould seem your tongue has a will of its own.”
Sorcha stood up suddenly. “Perhaps ’twould be best if we all retired. We don’t want to say things we may regret. And we’ll have clearer heads in the morn.”
Everyone was quick to agree. But Ryland couldn’t shake the notion that something strange had just happened. The outlaws were hiding something. They had a secret. And he didn’t like secrets.
Ryland de Ware had one rule of battle. Never go in unprepared. Secrets were counter to that philosophy. And the sooner he uncovered them, the better.
The twilight moon was just cresting the treetops as the woodkerns banked the fire and sought their beds.
Fortunately, the woodkerns hadn’t questioned their “guests,” William and Robert, too closely about the four English knights who were supposed to be at the castle, negotiating a ransom payment. Otherwise, they would have discovered that Ryland’s men hadn’t returned to the keep at all. As far as Cormac O’Keeffe knew, Ryland was still hunting for Temair. He was unaware that his daughter’s bridegroom was a hostage.
God willing, he’d never find out.
In the meantime, Ryland would have to learn everything he could about the O’Keeffe clan, their allies, their enemies.
He’d been able to classify Cormac O’Keeffe within an hour of meeting him. The chieftain was a bold, boastful, selfish bully, disliked and feared by his own people. If the chieftain had any allies, they were made by bribery or at the point of a sword. Cormac had no doubt expected the king to send a peaceable bridegroom who’d inherit the title upon his death. That had been the king’s intent and Ryland’s plan as well.
But now that he’d seen the extent of Cormac’s villainy, he knew that plan would have to change. Ryland needed to claim the title as soon as he was wedded to the chieftain’s daughter. He was confident there would be little resistance from the clann, who would doubtless welcome the fall of their corrupt chieftain.
Temair O’Keeffe, however, was a mystery. Even those who purported to know her seemed to disagree about who she was, what she looked like, and what her intentions might be.
Then there were the woodkerns. At the moment, since they believed they were holding Ryland hostage, awaiting his ransom, they thought they had leverage. But Ryland would soon turn the tables on them. When he did, would they then view him as a foe who’d betrayed them? Or would they embrace him as their champion?
Beside him, Gray struggled up from her seat, staggering to her feet. He rose and reached out to steady her, taking her by the elbow.
She looked up at him with grateful eyes and blurted out, “I wish ye didn’t have to go. Ever.”
He grinned. On the morrow, poor Gray would no doubt regret much of what she was confessing tonight. But as befuddled as she was, he still found her irresistible.
And he knew what she meant. Part of him didn’t want to go either. Taking Temair O’Keeffe for a wife, he was heading into uncharted waters. But he knew a woman like Gray could make him happy for the rest of his life.
Of course, he couldn’t say that.
“If I don’t go, you’ll never get your ransom,” he pointed out.
“I don’t care. ’Tisn’t about the coin anyway. Not really,” she confided.
He furrowed his brows and checked to make sure no one else had heard. “What do you mean?”
She stood on her toes and pulled him down by his shirt so she could whisper in his ear. “’Tis about…gettin’ back what’s mine.”
Her breath tickled.
“What do you mean? What’s yours?”
Gray blinked a few times, as if she’d forgotten. She was obviously still under the influence of the ale. “Oh.” She shook her head. “I’m not s’posed to tell ye that.”
Now she had his interest. “You can tell me.”
“Nay,” she said, “I can’t.”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
She hesitated then, weaving on her feet in indecision as she gazed up at him with eyes full of worship. “Ye’re the most beautiful man I’ve e’er seen. I swear it.”
It was hard not to chuckle at her infatuated proclamation. “A warty frog is beautiful when you’ve drunk as much ale as you have, Lady Gray.”
She giggled, and the sound poured over him like water over a fall, clear and bubbly and refreshing.
But as soon as it trickled to a stop, her eyes grew sad again.
“Can’t ye just stay here?” She clutched his tabard in both hands now, like a desperate beggar. “Ye could join our band of outlaws.”
He snickered at the idea.
“Nay, truly,” she insisted. “I can teach ye how to use the bata, and we can stay here in the forest. Ye wouldn’t like that drafty old tower anyway. Stay with me here.”
A tiny part of him actually found that appealing. To dwell out here among the trees, beneath the stars, with very few possessions and very few ties was adventurous and romantic. To spend his days in the company of friendly folk and his nights in the arms of a woman as beautiful as Gray…
“Stay with me,” she purred.
But he’d made a vow—to his king, to the chieftain, to his bride. Above all else, he was a man of his word.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll talk about it on the morrow.”
Giving a short, low whistle to summon the hounds, he walked with her to their sleeping spot in front of the cave, letting her lean on him when her knees wobbled. He spread both of their cloaks on the ground and helped her to lie down.
He couldn’t help but smile as she sprawled across both cloaks with graceless abandon. Her eyes were closed before he could even snap his fingers to make the hounds lie at her feet.
He nudged her over to make room for himself. Then he stretched out beside her, gazing up at the heavens. The stars were beginning to appear, like bright raindrops against the violet sky.
He thought she was asleep.
She wasn’t.
“Ryland?” she murmured.
“Aye?”
“What were ye like as a lad?”
“A lad?” He crossed his arms over his chest and thought about it. “I don’t know. I suppose I was like any lad. My father taught me how to fight when I was young. My mother taught me how to be courteous.” He chuckled. “My older brothers taught me how to run very fast.”
She giggled.
“Ah, you’re laughing,” he said. “Did you have older brothers as well?”
“Nay, just an older sister. She never chased me.”
“Where is she now—your sister?”
There was a hesitation in Gray’s voice. “She’s…she’s gone. I don’t know where. The last time I saw her was the night…the night I joined the woodkerns.”
“Six years ago?”
“Aye.”
Ryland wondered if she realized what a strange coincidence that was. It was six years ago that Temair O’Keeffe’s older sister had fallen from the tower.
As he stared up at the night sky, the stars began to shift as his eyes rearranged them into different patterns, altering his perceptions. A curious tingling began at the back of his neck as his thoughts likewise coalesced into a shifted reality.
Questions crept in to tease at the edges of his mind.
Questions that made his breath catch.
Questions that created new patterns like the stars in the sky.
They were wildly improbable questions. And yet…
He tried to keep the tension from his voice as he asked her, “Is Gray your real name?”
“What do ye mean?” Was that panic he heard?
“Is it the name you were born with?”
“’Tis…the only name I go by.” It was an evasive answer. “Because o’ my gray eyes,” she explained.
“What about your last name?”
“I…don’t have one.”
“You don’t have one?”
“Not that I can remember.” She yawned.
He didn’t believe that for an instant. If she’d only left home six years ago, she could certainly remember her last name.
On the other hand, maybe it was common among outlaws to discard their last names. Cambeal had done so with his, saying he didn’t wish to bring shame to his family.
“What about your sister?” he asked. “What’s her name?”
Gray was silent.
When he glanced over at her, she was asleep.
He was half-tempted to shake her awake and interrogate her further. But he supposed the outlaws wouldn’t look kindly on that. Her wolfhounds would look even less kindly.
Hope and the unimaginable battled in his brain.
Was it possible Gray was actually Temair?
Part of him was sure it couldn’t be true. Cormac claimed his daughter had run away only a few days before. Certainly the chieftain wouldn’t lie about that. What possible reason could he have for deceiving Ryland?
Still, it was curious that no one else had seen Temair in all that time, that, according to rumor, she’d been locked away for six years.
It was difficult to argue with the evidence staring him in the face, even if it was only guesses and fragments.
And the part of him that believed it might just be true that Gray was Temair couldn’t begin to fathom why she would keep that secret.
All night long, between bouts of sleep, he wrestled with doubt.
Were the woodkerns protecting Temair from Ryland?
Were they trying to foil the king’s plans?
Had they kidnapped Temair to use her as leverage against her father, the same way they were demanding ransom for Ryland?
Had Cormac hidden the disappearance of his daughter six years ago? And if so, what game was he playing now?
Was Gray part of some twisted plot to deceive the English invaders?
Or could she be telling the truth—that she didn’t remember anything?
Sometime, long past midnight, Ryland finally got to sleep. He began to dream.
He was with his beautiful gray-eyed bride, and they were standing on a bed, laughing and fighting with batas. Every time he thought he was getting close to winning the battle, she’d block his advance and dance out of his way.
Eventually, he gave up trying. They tossed their weapons—and their clothing—aside. Then they collapsed together onto the pallet.
Lying with her was like visiting heaven. He reveled in her naked body, closing his eyes. He caressed every inch of her, savoring her velvety flesh. He pressed his mouth to hers, drinking the passion from her lips. Tenderly, he slipped his fingers over her silken shoulder and across her bosom until her gently rounded breast filled his hand. Aroused and enchanted, he sighed with pleasure…
Suddenly, he was awakened by Bran’s wet nose nudging his arm. Yanked from the dream, Ryland cracked open his eyes to a sharp sliver of morning sunlight. The dog was staring sheepishly at him.
Then he realized the position he was in and froze.
It had only been half a dream. His body was wrapped around Gray like a cloak. A slip of parchment wouldn’t have fit between her lovely back and his chest. Their legs were tangled together like fronds of seaweed. Her warm buttocks pressed against him intimately, making his blood surge, and he grew instantly hard.
His arm was draped over her shoulder. Somehow, his hand had managed to find its way inside her garments to her soft, supple breast.
He didn’t dare move. He hardly dared breathe.
To be fair, her hand was clasped over the top of his. It appeared she’d guided him there in her sleep. But that didn’t make him feel any less guilty. And it didn’t make him feel any less aroused.
He couldn’t stay like this. She’d wake up. The rest of the camp would wake up.
Moving as little as possible, he lifted his eyes to take inventory of the camp. At first, he thought everyone was sleeping.
Then he saw her. Sorcha. Leaning against a yew tree with her arms crossed over her bosom, watching him.
Chapter 21
Ryland felt the blood drain from his face. There was no way to explain this situation.
But as he continued to stare back at her, he realized Sorcha wasn’t angry. She was amused. She found his predicament entertaining.
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