Of course, it was completely possible. He hadn’t seen his wayward daughter in—what was it—five, six, seven years? But it was unthinkable that she could be alive. He’d been so certain she’d been killed by the elements, ravaged by outlaws, or eaten by wolves.
“Ye’re sure?” He seized the quivering youth by the front of his brat. “Ye’re not even old enough to have known her.”
The lad’s throat bobbed up and down. Finally he replied, “The…the other clannfolk…they said ’twas her. They knew her by her…her wolfhounds…and…and her gray eyes.”
Cormac felt fury rising in him, felt it burning its way up his throat, his ears, his eyes. With a fierce growl, he shook the youth like a rat and tossed him away. The lad squeaked like a rat too as he hit the floor, then scrambled away as if the devil were after him.
Cormac pulled at his beard as he paced the hall, ignoring the maidservants cowering in the corners. This was unfortunate news.
That Temair was still alive was bad enough.
That she’d found her way here was worse.
That she was in the company of the Knights of de Ware was a disaster.
The wily wench knew things about him, things that would rob him of his honor price and maybe even his life.
Now the entire clann would know that the lass he was keeping in the tower was not his real daughter.
But how much else had the vixen revealed? What had she told de Ware? And what would the swaggering knight pass on to the king?
He hawked up the bitter taste of dread, rolled the spittle around in his mouth, and spat into the fire as he passed. It sizzled like a brand.
How could he salvage the situation?
Temair had to die.
She was too dangerous to leave alive.
Once she was dead, his secret would be safe. And he could figure out the rest later.
“Goffraid!” he barked to his best bowman, posted at the door of the hall.
“Aye, m’lord?” The man snapped to attention.
“Grab your quiver and follow me.”
They mounted the steps to the top of the tower, where he could spy upon the visitors. Though he blamed it on the difficult five-floor climb, what Cormac saw when he peered down from the tower left him struggling for breath.
De Ware had brought a veritable army, complete with horses, swordsmen, and archers. If this wasn’t a siege, it was a damned good imitation of one.
Then, as Cormac squinted against the sunlight flashing off of their helms, he saw her.
Temair.
He almost didn’t recognize her. She was no longer the ugly, wild, flat-chested urchin he remembered. She’d grown into a woman. She was almost beautiful. Like her mother. Yet nothing like her mother.
She was dressed like a soldier, covered in leather armor and trius. She had a bow slung over her shoulder. And she was holding on to those two infernal wolfhounds that had always snapped at him.
Then she turned her face toward him, and he remembered the insolent mouth that was always begging for a clout, the sly eyes that needed blacking, the stubborn jaw that made him long to crack it.
“Shoot her,” he bit out to his archer.
“What?” Goffraid asked.
“Shoot her. Now.”
“A woman?”
“Shoot her, or I’ll shoot ye.”
Goffraid’s eyes widened. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and nocked it into his bowstring.
Cormac’s nostrils flared as he waited impatiently for the archer. “Through the heart,” he growled. “No need to make her suffer.” In truth, he wanted her to die fast to be sure she couldn’t blurt out some unfortunate confession with her last breath.
Goffraid’s arm wavered as he drew back the bow and took aim.
“Hurry up!” Cormac hissed.
Goffraid licked his lips and blinked as if trying to clear his vision. The longer he waited, the more his arm shook.
“Do it!” Cormac snapped.
Goffraid, startled, let go of the string, and the arrow flew wildly off its mark, arcing over the treetops and disappearing into the woods.
“Fool!” Cormac barked, backhanding the bowman, who staggered back and fell on his hip. “Must I do everythin’ myself?”
Cormac snatched the bow from him and set an arrow into it. Closing his eyes down to vengeful slits, he aimed at Temair’s wicked, conniving heart, drew back, and let the bolt fly.
Chapter 29
Beside Temair, Bran gave a sudden yelp of pain and limped onto his side. Temair gaped in horror at the arrow protruding from the hound’s haunch. But before she could go to him, Ryland dove toward her, shielding her with his body and rolling on the ground with her in his arms.
He looked up at the tower. She followed his gaze.
Her heart gave a hitch.
Cormac, vexed and red-faced, stood glaring down at her, his beard quivering.
To her amazement, after being at his mercy for so long and suffering at his hands, his countenance didn’t inspire fear in her, only hate. And if he’d remained there any longer, she would have burned a hole in him with her gaze.
Friar Brian was already tending to Bran. The poor hound was whimpering while Flann sniffed at him. “He’ll be fine. ’Tis just a shallow wound.”
She nodded in relief.
Ryland’s men needed no orders. Once they witnessed his hostile act, they sprang into action. They charged the door of the keep, battering it with their shoulders until, by brute force, they broke the bolt and the door swung open.
Ryland murmured, “Stay here.”
Then he leaped up, drew his blade, and headed into the keep.
“Not on your life,” she muttered to herself, jumping to her feet.
The fall had cracked her bow, so she cast it aside. But clever old Sorcha had brought Temair’s bata, and she pressed it into her hands with a grim look.
“Ye make him pay, lass. He owes ye for your sister.”
With a determined nod, Temair whipped the bata through the air with a violent sweep of her arm and stormed through the door.
For a moment when she entered the great hall, she was overwhelmed by memories. There were more trinkets around the room than she recalled and more tapestries on the wall, but the same oppressive stink of stale ale and peat smoke lingered in the air.
The Knights of de Ware stood in the center of the hall, their weapons out. But they faced no adversaries. A half-dozen maidservants clung together in a tearful knot. Three kitchen lads sat with their hands between their knees and their eyes wide with awe. Five men in leather armor had already tossed their weapons to the ground and had their hands up in surrender.
Ryland spotted her. “Temair, I asked you to wait outside.”
She would have told him exactly what she thought of his orders, but just then, an oblivious young lady came trotting down the stairs. “I’m comin’.”
She froze with a gasp when she saw all the soldiers in the great hall. “Who are ye?”
Temair narrowed her gaze at the dark-haired lass. She was dressed in a fine white léine and a brat embroidered in blue and saffron that Temair recognized as Aillenn’s. The silver and pearl pendant around her neck had once belonged to Temair’s mother.
“Who are ye?” Temair demanded, though she already knew what the lass would say.
The lass pulled herself up to her full height, which was a head shorter than Temair. “I’ll have ye know I’m the chieftain’s daughter, Tem—”
Before she could finish, Temair charged toward her, bata raised.
The lass gave a terrified shriek and tried to flee upstairs.
But Temair hooked her ankles with her bata, tripping her. The lass fell hard at the bottom of the steps. Temair hauled her upright by the back of her brat and planted the lass on her feet before her.
The lass glowered at her as she licked her bloodied lip. “Ye’ll be sorry for this,” she threatened. “Cormac will—”
Temair reached out and snagged her mother’s pendant. She gave it a hard
jerk, and the chain broke.
“How dare ye!” the lass shouted. Her eyes closed to angry green slits.
Temair dropped the pendant down the front of her leather armor.
“That’s mine!” the lass sneered.
“Not anymore.” With rage born of despair for all she’d lost, Temair used one hand to wrench her sister’s brat off of the lass’s shoulders.
The lass gasped, clutching her léine, which had slipped low over her bosom. “Unhand me!”
One more tug freed the brat.
The lass drew in a shocked breath, holding her léine tightly for fear Temair would rip that from her as well. “Cormac! Cormac! Help!”
The mention of her father’s name stirred Ryland’s knights, who, Temair saw, had been watching the exchange with great amusement. Now they sobered and stood with their swords at the ready.
“Where is he?” Temair asked the lass, brandishing her bata.
“Cormac!” she screamed.
When Temair let her go, the lass ran back up the stairs. Temair followed her. The lass would lead her to Cormac.
Cormac cursed under his breath as the arrow missed its mark. The devil child was completely unharmed. He shook with rage.
Then her rescuing knight glared up at him with vengeance burning in his eyes, and Cormac knew he was doomed.
They were coming for him. He could hear the knights bashing in his door. Turning swiftly away, he threw the useless bow at Goffraid and hurtled down the stairs.
It was too late to save his keep. He knew that now. That cursed Sir Ryland de Ware had seen him with the bow. Cormac would never be able to explain that away.
But he could still save himself. There was another way out of the tower house. He could escape while his guards were battling the knights in the great hall.
First, however, he had to collect his treasure. He couldn’t leave it behind. He might have to abandon his jeweled sword, his platters of gold, and his embroidered finery. But he could save his coffer of gems and coins. He’d worked for years to amass it, planning to one day purchase an honor price that would make him equal to an overlord in the English king’s eyes.
He scrabbled beneath his bed, digging out the wooden chest concealed there. As big as his belly and filled to the brim with precious metal, it was heavier than he remembered and hard to carry. But desperation gave him strength.
Sweat beaded his brow as he struggled with the coffer. As he emerged in the passageway, he could hear a skirmish downstairs. He quickly shuffled to the far side of the tower to descend there.
The secondary escape was just two floors down from his chamber, one floor above the great hall. He stole down the steps, huffing and straining with the extra weight of the chest.
Just before he pushed open the door, he heard the voice of the lass—the one he’d hired to be his daughter—screaming his name.
Cursing her and all her sex, Cormac shoved his way outside. Momentarily blinded by the brightness and the sweat dripping into his eyes, he closed the door behind him and started down the rickety wooden stairs.
The way was clear when he reached the ground. All he had to do was disappear. He could follow the river to the sea. He had enough wealth on him to pay for food, lodging, whatever he needed to make his way to Cork or Waterford, somewhere he could gather his thoughts and come up with a new plan.
Staying in the shadow of the tower, he scuttled through the coarse grass, wheezing from the effort, heading for the river.
It was then he heard the dog.
As she’d guessed, when Temair burst into her father’s chamber on the fourth floor, dogged by Ryland and two of his knights, the imposter was there. Her father, however, was not.
“Where is he?” Temair demanded. “Where is Cormac?”
Shrinking away from the knights, the lass retreated into a frightened huddle in the corner and mewled, “I don’t know.”
Where could he have gone? Was he still at the top of the tower?
“I’ll check the chambers on this floor,” Ryland said, nodding to his knights. “You two check the floors below.”
“I’m goin’ up,” Temair said, swallowing back dread. There were too many bad memories at the top of the tower.
She closed her eyes, willing away the image of her sister falling. Over and over.
“Are you sure?” Ryland asked. Then, before she could answer, he decided, “I don’t want you going up there alone.”
“I have to.” She had to confront Cormac—and her fears. She flashed him a cocky grin to cover her apprehension. “Don’t worry. He’s old. And slow. And unwieldy. Hell, he can’t even shoot straight.”
Ryland conceded. Nonetheless, he didn’t look pleased when he left to search the rooms.
Still trembling in the corner, the imposter lass murmured, “Ye’re her, aren’t ye? Ye’re the real Temair.”
“I am.”
“He told me ye were dead.” She wrinkled her brow. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he wishes I were,” she said with a grim smile. “Now more than ever.”
With her heart pounding in her breast, Temair left the room and mounted the steps of the tower.
Her legs shook like custard as she emerged at the top and ventured toward the edge of the wall where Aillenn had fallen all those years ago. She held her bata aloft in one tightly clenched fist, ready to confront the villain who had caused her sister’s death.
Then a movement caught her eye from the field behind the tower. Cormac. He was there, fleeing the keep, thrashing awkwardly through the weeds like a hound through snow.
“Nay,” she bit out. She wasn’t going to let him escape. He had a debt to pay. “Nay!” she cried.
She tore back down the stairs as fast as she could, knocking knights aside on her way through the great hall.
By the time she burst out the front of the tower house, Friar Brian had taken the arrow out of Bran’s haunch and stanched the blood. The poor beast was licking his wound, and when he tried to rise to greet her, he limped.
“Good lad, Bran,” she said, giving him a quick pat. “Go lie down now.” To the friar she said, “Will ye keep him here? I need Flann.”
Brian held Bran’s collar.
“Stay, Bran, stay,” she said. Then she patted her thigh for Flann to come. Flann whined, reluctant to leave his brother. “Come on, lad. Let’s get the brute who did this.”
As if he understood, Flann trotted up and made a single impatient spin, eager to go.
Temair raced with him along the perimeter of the tower to the back side, where Cormac was visible in the distance. Then she knelt by Flann and pointed to the small figure.
“Ye see that? Ye see him? That’s the man who killed my sister. That’s the man who shot Bran. Bring him to me.”
Then she rose and flung out her arm. “Get him!”
Flann obeyed at once, running at breakneck speed, barking and baying at his target. Temair followed him, loping across the field.
She saw Cormac turn. One glimpse of the beast that pursued him made him stumble forward in panic. He tripped and fell to the ground, disappearing in the tall grass.
Scrambling up, he lifted something heavy in his hands and lumbered forward again. What the devil was he carrying?
When Flann got close, Cormac dropped his burden, picked up a stone, and threw it at the hound. He missed.
He tried another. It came closer this time. Temair ground her teeth and picked up her pace. If that bloody bastard hit Flann…
Cormac didn’t try a third stone. He bent to retrieve what he was carrying. She recognized it now. It was the chest he used to keep his coin.
She suddenly noticed how close he was to the river. If he jumped in before Flann reached him, there would be no way to catch him. He’d float away as easily as the laundry in the stream.
She bolted forward, closing the distance. Flann had almost reached the riverbank, where the fertile earth turned to silt. But Cormac was already dragging the chest across the sandy
soil.
“Nay,” she murmured as he lifted the chest up and waded into the water.
“Nay,” she said as the water reached his knees.
“Nay!” she cried as he staggered forward into waist-high water.
Flann didn’t hesitate. He loved to swim. He bounded into the river and began paddling toward Cormac.
Then Temair remembered. Cormac hated the water. He didn’t know how to swim.
Even as she had that thought, she reached the riverbank and saw him go under. And despite how much she loathed him, despite how many times he had wronged her, despite how often she’d wished he were dead, she couldn’t let him drown.
Near to where Flann was swimming, Cormac popped up once, flailing at the water with one hand while his other gripped the chest.
“Let it go!” she yelled. “’Tisn’t worth it!”
But he wouldn’t. He clung stubbornly to the chest, and he went under again.
Now she knew how Ryland had felt, watching her with Lady Mor’s stockings. Temair, however, would have dropped them in an instant if she were drowning.
Tearing off her armor and kicking off her brogs, she dove in. The current was strong, but so was she.
She swam up just as Cormac surfaced again with a gasp. Flann barked, and she reached out for Cormac’s arm. “Let it go!”
But he tore out of her grasp, as if he feared she would steal the chest from him.
He sank with an ominous gurgle. She dove down, tugging at his arm, trying to pry the chest from his hands, struggling to haul him back up again. But his grip was determined, and the weight of the chest proved too great. Temair had no choice but to let go, and he was dragged to the bottom of the river.
Hours later, they retrieved the chieftain’s body. He was still clinging to the chest with a death grip. The clann agreed it was proof that Cormac treasured riches more than anything—even more than his own life.
Chapter 30
SEVEN WEEKS LATER
Temair advanced, studying her adversary carefully, scrutinizing him from head to toe. She could spot no shortcomings, no vulnerabilities. He seemed unflappable, unshakeable, unconquerable.
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