Desire’s Ransom

by Campbell, Glynnis

  The unexpected clout from someone so clearly his inferior goaded the normally even-tempered Ryland to fury. He raised his sword, biting back the urge to lop the cocky lad’s head from his shoulders.

  The youth clucked his tongue again. “Noble, are ye? Usin’ a bloody blade against a bata hardly seems noble.”

  Ryland colored in shame, but managed a biting retort. “So says the outlaw.” He’d never heard of a bata, but his ear still stung where the damned wooden stick had unexpectedly hit him.

  “Now out o’ my way, churl,” the lad said, “ere I rob ye o’ your coin and your dignity.”

  The lad’s brashness stunned him. At least that was Ryland’s excuse when, before he could lift his blade, the narrow end of the lad’s stick shot through his defenses to poke him hard in the chest.

  Ryland staggered back a foot. He ground his teeth and tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword, determined not to let a paltry lad get the best of him.

  But when he tried to cleave the offending weapon in two with his sword, the stick seemed to suddenly retract into the outlaw’s hand. Ryland’s blade whistled through empty air. A flick of the lad’s wrist, and the knobbed end of his stick flew round again, knocking Ryland in the ribs.

  Bloody hell!

  Ryland almost lost his balance. Only pride kept him upright. His side throbbed where the club had struck him. He could tell his ribs were badly bruised.

  He had to admit to a grudging respect for the lad’s fighting skills, as unorthodox as they were. For a scrawny lad, the outlaw held his own fairly well.

  Ryland had retreated. He was so close to his own bank, he could have easily stepped aside to let the youth pass. But now winning was a matter of pride. He’d cut that bloody stick in half if it was the last thing he did.

  He wasn’t about to let an outlaw win the day.

  Temair thought she’d never met a more stubborn fighter. She’d forced him to retreat until he was nearly all the way back across the log bridge now. It made no sense for the man to keep insisting on the right of way. It was obvious he was going to lose.

  Of course, he didn’t believe that. Not for an instant. She could see that in the resolute set of his jaw and the burning determination in his eyes. He still thought he could best her.

  Most men did. They saw her lack of size as a lack of power. And they always underestimated the advantage of speed. In particular, English swordsmen never anticipated the element of trickery that was second nature to Irish fighters.

  She should probably just club the poor fool senseless with a good clout to his head, steal his purse, and leave him at the water’s edge. She didn’t have time for such nonsense. The day was growing late, and she needed to learn what Aife had discovered at the tower house today.

  But something prevented her from making quick work of him.

  There was something about him—the smoldering intensity of his gaze, the wild sweep of his dark, unruly hair, the broad command of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his hands—that intrigued her.

  She’d prefer to play with him awhile.

  So she let him advance.

  When he lunged forward, she leaped back. When he pressed his advantage, she retreated. Gradually, she drew him back along the log to the middle of the stream.

  The man cut a fine figure. His tooled leather armor fit snugly over his wide chest and narrowed at his waist, emphasizing the breadth and muscle of his arms. Under his long tabard, his powerful legs strained at the confines of his thick woolen chausses. Lush waves of hickory brown hair fell carelessly over his high, broad forehead and caressed his angular, resolute jaw, which was softened by the dusky shadow of a beard. His eyes were as deep and dark as chestnuts, and at the moment, there was a furrow between them.

  To be honest, despite that furrow, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Indeed, he was so alluring that as he came closer and the sun bathed him in golden light, her heart staggered in breathless wonder.

  Only the swift pass of his blade startled her from her wayward daydreaming. At the last instant, she diverted the blow with her bata and took a giant step backward.

  He abruptly lowered his sword. “Had enough?”

  “Are ye jestin’?” she scoffed.

  “I’ve driven you halfway back already,” he reasoned. “You may as well surrender.”

  Was that what he thought? She arched a brow. “Never. Besides, I let ye drive me back.”

  He narrowed quizzical eyes at her. Then his face blossomed into the most unexpected and brilliant smile she’d ever seen. His teeth gleamed white, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is that so?”

  “Aye,” she told him, though her thoughts were so scattered by his charming grin that she could hardly think straight. “I haven’t even begun to fight.”

  Suddenly, his chuckle filled the air, as rich and warm as sunshine after a spring shower. He shook his head. “I hope you know how to swim, lad.”

  Of course she knew how to swim. Like a fish. But she wouldn’t need to. She had no intention of letting him push her off the log.

  She braced her feet and raised her bata as the thrill of impending victory filled her veins.

  He flipped the haft of his sword once within his palm. Where he gripped the hilt, she could see his knuckles bore the scars of battle. He was clearly no stranger to warfare.

  But he’d also clearly never fought an Irish outlaw with a bata before. If he had, he would have realized he’d be better off discarding his heavy sword and using his quicker fists…or his dazzling smile.

  Ryland hadn’t been this entertained in a long time.

  He’d assumed conquering the lad would be easy, like swatting a pesky fly out of the way.

  But this fly was more crafty and clever than he’d anticipated.

  Though he hated to admit it, back in England, Ryland had grown weary of battling the same knights, day after day. He’d tired of the tournaments, where every opponent’s strengths and flaws were known to him. He might not be—as Warin claimed—“the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in all of England.” But he had yet to meet the man he couldn’t defeat.

  This, however—fighting against a foreigner wielding a strange weapon—added a whole new challenge. Despite his intention to reach the O’Keeffe lands and get on with his business, Ryland suddenly looked forward to waging war with this unpredictable opponent.

  He’d be cautious, of course. This land would soon belong to him. While it was wise to make his leadership felt, there was no need to be heavy-handed about it. Like the land, the lad had a lively, if somewhat swaggering, spirit. There was no point in crushing it.

  “Come on then,” Ryland urged with a smirk, bracing his feet on the log and holding his blade aloft. “See if you can cut my sword in two with your stick.”

  The lad wasted no time. But he didn’t aim for Ryland’s sword. Instead, he feinted forward with the narrower end of the stick, retracted it, and then flipped it suddenly backward, rapping Ryland’s sore ribs again with the knobbed end.

  Ryland grimaced and took a step back, forcing the lad to keep his distance by lashing the space between them with his blade.

  The second sweep of his sword came within inches of the stick. But before he could return with a third slash that would cleave the weapon in half, it slipped around to his unguarded side and smacked him in the neck.

  Peeved at his own error in judgment, Ryland shook off the clout with a curse and braced himself to attempt another charge.

  This time he stabbed straight forward. If the lad hadn’t quickly leaped back, the point might have scratched his belly. But with an inch to spare, the youth dodged the stroke. Before Ryland could return from his lunge, the lad used one arm to knock Ryland’s blade straight up and jabbed the stick forward with the other.

  The knobbed end punched Ryland’s stomach with breath-stealing force. If not for his leather armor, he would have been folded in half from the blow.

  “Had enough, English?” the
lad mocked, lowering his weapon as if he had no fear whatsoever of Ryland’s much bigger, heavier sword.

  But Ryland wasn’t about to surrender to a puny Irish outlaw, just because he carried a big stick.

  “Just warming up,” he retorted.

  He realized now the lad was capable of lightning-fast strikes. Ryland would have been better off with a cudgel, which would have afforded him a quicker, more responsive defense.

  But while he was busy realizing this, the lad, using his stick in one hand like a lance, thrust low with it, catching Ryland’s ankle and nearly tripping him.

  Ryland staggered a step, flapping his arms, and barely managed to keep from falling off the log.

  When he recovered, he gave the lad a grim grin of threat. “Oh, ho.”

  It was obvious now that the lad’s most powerful weapon wasn’t his stick. It was his trickery. He feinted in one direction and attacked from another. He alternated which end of the stick he used and which hand he used to wield it. He chose unconventional targets for his blows—ribs, ears, ankles. And he struck when Ryland least expected it.

  For Ryland, who was accustomed to the rules of chivalry, that kind of reckless fighting went against all his instincts.

  But he could learn.

  And if he was going to live in Ireland with packs of unschooled savages like this one, he supposed he’d have to learn fast.

  “Ye know,” the lad taunted, casually resting the stick across both shoulders, “’twould be a bloody shame to lose such a fine blade in the stream. I’ll give ye one last chance to throw it back on the bank ere I toss ye in.”

  Ryland grinned and shook his head. He’d never heard such ludicrous boasting, especially from one so unseasoned.

  It was apparent he wasn’t going to win this battle using regular tactics of sword fighting. He’d have to improvise. And he’d have to catch his opponent off-guard.

  The lad had quite a reach with that stick of his. The knobbed end packed a wallop when given sufficient momentum. But if Ryland could get in close, he could minimize the lad’s ability to strike. Of course, he’d also be unable to use his sword effectively at that proximity. But he had another idea.

  The lad swung the stick off his shoulders and whipped it through the air so swiftly it whistled. Ryland let him approach, using his blade defensively, encouraging the lad to draw nearer.

  When the lad cocked his arm back with the stick, Ryland lowered his blade and rushed in suddenly to stand toe-to-toe with the outlaw.

  The move startled the lad. Ryland heard his sharp intake of breath. At this proximity, though the lad’s forearm struck Ryland’s shoulder, his stick swished ineffectually at the empty air behind him.

  Ryland could have ended the battle then and there by giving the outlaw a good shove. The lad was nearly as tall as he, but he seemed to be mostly skin and bones. A light push would have sent the foolish wretch sprawling in the water.

  But Ryland wanted to see the look on the cocky outlaw’s face when he realized he’d been bested.

  So before the lad could recover, Ryland reached up and snagged the hem of the gray scarf covering his face, wrenching it down in triumph.

  But the outlaw had one last weapon in reserve. A weapon that stunned Ryland just long enough to make him hesitate. And that hesitation cost him the battle.

  As Ryland gaped in shock, one swift kick dislodged his foot. He wheeled his arms wildly and careened sideways into the stream with a great splash.

  His final thought before the water closed over his astonished head was that it wasn’t possible. How could Sir Ryland de Ware have been bested by a wench?

  Chapter 7

  Temair was unhappy that she’d let the knight unmask her. She’d been careless, allowing him to steal under her defenses and take her by surprise.

  Abarta’s ballocks! It was the kind of mistake a beginner would make. If her feminine face hadn’t made the man hesitate when he did, she might have been the one tumbling into the stream. Or, she thought with a shudder, being run through with a sword.

  Fortunately, she was able to react quickly and take advantage of his astonishment.

  But now she was exposed. He’d seen her face.

  That was never a good thing. It was even worse now, considering her father’s men might be hunting for a woman fitting her description.

  Nonetheless, watching the pompous knight plunge beneath the waves amused her. And when he rose to the surface with his dark hair plastered to his head and his mouth agape in wonder, she couldn’t help but crow a little.

  “I warned ye to throw your sword on the bank.”

  She stood sideways on the log, gripping the bata in both hands, gloating down at him.

  He tossed the hair from his eyes and stood up in the chest-deep water, lifting his dripping sword. “’Twill dry.” He gave it a toss. It slid onto the grass by the water’s edge.

  Then he squinted up at her. A half-smile graced his mouth.

  Her heart skipped. She was used to being the target of furious glares, sputters of outrage, and vile curses whenever a man discovered he’d been bested by a lass.

  This man wasn’t angry. There was something else in his sparkling eyes.

  Amusement.

  Delight.

  Perhaps even admiration.

  “I suppose you think you’re rather clever,” he said.

  She shrugged, but a smug smile tugged at her lips.

  He slicked the wet hair back from his forehead and then shook the water from his fingers. “Where did a lass learn to fight like that?”

  It was admiration. She stifled a flattered smile. It had been a long time since anyone had admired her.

  She tossed it off with an arch of her brow. “Ye mean with brain and not brawn?”

  “Ha!” he barked. Then he clapped a humble hand to his chest and gave her a nod of respect. “’Tis a worthy warrior who knows his…or her…strengths and weaknesses.”

  Gazing down into his twinkling eyes, she began to feel one of those weaknesses now. It was hard not to be charmed by the man. Not only was he pretty to look at. He had a pretty way with words.

  Still, she wouldn’t be gulled by wiles. Instead, she offered him a compliment in return. “’Tis a worthy warrior who’s unafraid to admit defeat.”

  He chuckled.

  The sound sent a warm shiver through her.

  “Of course,” he chided, “we both know you cheated.”

  Her brows shot up.

  “Cheated?” she scoffed. “And just how did I cheat?”

  One side of his mouth curved up in a knowing smile. “You know very well that if I hadn’t been startled by your sudden…revelation…I’d be the one standing on the log, and you’d be soaked to the skin.” He punctuated his words with an armload of water.

  She gasped as the cold water splashed her legs. “My revelation? Ha!” She dipped the knobbed end of her bata in the stream, flicking vengeful splashes back at him. “I don’t recall havin’ a choice in the matter, ye bloody oaf.”

  “Oaf?” Deflecting her splashes with his forearm, he waded forward until he stood below the log at her feet. Then he grinned up at her, flashing teeth so bright it made her heart flutter. “So a cheat and a name-caller.”

  “’Tisn’t name-callin’ if ’tis true,” she said breathlessly.

  He clucked his tongue. But as he gazed up at her, his dark eyes danced with devilry. “I believe you’ve insulted my honor. And you should know, as a noble knight, I can’t let such an insult go unanswered.”

  She smirked. His threat could not have been more empty. After all, he’d tossed away his sword. And he was practically groveling at her feet.

  She leaned forward to whisper. “I believe ye’ve already answered an insult with an insult. After all, ye called me a cheat.”

  “But you did cheat.”

  “And ye are an oaf.”

  “Hmm.” He gave her a thoughtful frown. “So you reckon we’re even then?”

  Not quite. She still intende
d to relieve him of his coin. But she couldn’t do that while he was chest-deep in the stream.

  So she gave him a conciliatory smile, tossed her bata onto the bank, and offered her hand to help him up out of the water. “Aye, I reckon we’re even.”

  The instant she felt his hand close around hers and saw the glimmer of mischief in his eyes, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

  “Well, I don’t,” he said. “You see, you’re still dry.”

  “Ye wouldn’t.” Reading his intentions, she tried to pull her hand back, to no avail. “Ogma’s arse, don’t ye dare.”

  “You know,” he confided, tugging her inexorably toward the water, “I think ’tis for the best.” He frowned in false concern. “It seems to me a dirty mouth like yours could use a good washing.”

  She scrabbled backward, looking for purchase. “Ye bloody bastard! Let go o’—”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Nay!” she cried, though she was beginning to see the humor of the situation.

  “Oh, aye,” he assured her with a grin.

  His grip was iron-hard as he pulled her farther and farther forward, until she was teetering on the edge of the log. By then, her squeals of protest were infected by nervous giggles.

  “Nay!” she tried one last time, but the word was swallowed up when she sprawled face-first into the water.

  He never let go of her hand. Indeed, he pulled her up out of the waves an instant after she went under. Apparently he didn’t mean for her to drown.

  She sputtered and, with her free hand, peeled the soggy hood back from her face. “Ye devil’s spawn!” she cursed, though the effect was ruined by the laughter that kept bubbling up out of her.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Still swearing? Do you need another dunking then?” He placed his hand on top of her head.

  “Nay!” she shrieked. “Get the hell—”

  “I think you do need another dip.”