For some reason, the hope in Ryland’s voice aggravated Temair. “Nay, that is not Temair,” she muttered.
Then she suddenly realized that Aife may have news about the imposter.
“Aife, ye must be exhausted,” Temair said. “Come inside and have a pint. Sorcha? Mor?” She beckoned the women to gather in the cave. “Gentlemen, if ye’ll give us a moment…” She didn’t wait for their approval, but she gave Cambeal a meaningful look to ensure his cooperation.
Though Temair was the leader of the woodkerns, decisions were usually made by the entire group. This situation, however, required a hasty plan. Cambeal would recognize that. He’d make sure the rest of the woodkerns stood by her decision, whatever it was.
Once the four women were inside the cave, the furious whispers began.
“What are ye goin’ to do, Gray?” Lady Mor asked Temair, wringing her hands.
“I know what I’d like to do,” Temair ground out. “I’d like to grab my bata and pay my father a visit.”
“Why did they think I was Temair?” Aife asked.
Temair started pacing in fury. “That land has been in O’Keeffe hands for hundreds of years. That tuath is my bloody legacy. How dare my father hand it off to strangers?”
Aife blinked in confusion. “What’s goin’ on?”
Lady Mor answered Aife. “That knight—the one who thought ye were Temair? Well, that’s Sir Ryland de Ware, the English knight who’s come to wed Temair. Only he doesn’t know that Gray is Temair, because he’s never laid eyes on her. And Cormac has told Ryland that Temair has run away when in fact—”
“Hush, Mor!” Sorcha said. “Ye’re only confoundin’ the matter. One thing at a time.” She poured ales all around.
Temair stopped pacing and took a bracing gulp. “Aife, what news from the tower house?”
Aife cleared her throat importantly and gave her report. “’Tis woeful tidin’s. This afternoon, a maid o’erheard the chieftain speakin’ to someone on the stairs. He was arguin’ with a lass, tellin’ her his plans had changed, that he was sendin’ her away.”
“A lass?” Temair asked. “What lass?”
Aife shrugged. “The maid said she was certain the lass must be his daughter Temair, finally released from her cell after all these years.”
“Go on.”
“The lass began weepin’ and wailin’, sayin’ the chieftain had promised she could stay at the keep. He told her to keep quiet or he’d give her a reason to weep. Then she said a curious thing. She said she’d tell everyone the truth—that the babe she was carryin’ belonged to the chieftain—if he didn’t keep his word.”
Lady Mor gasped.
Temair felt sick. No matter how diabolical she believed her father was, he always managed to exceed her expectations.
Aife went on. “After that, the maid heard the chieftain cloutin’ the lass and the lass whimperin’. There was a dreadful thud on the stairs and then silence. The maid was afraid she’d be discovered, so she fled. But she said when she returned later, there was a great deal o’ blood on the stairs. She feared the chieftain killed the lass.”
They all stared silently into their ales as they absorbed the horrible news.
Lady Mor sighed in sympathy. “The poor wench.”
Temair shuddered. She remembered what it was like to be beaten by Cormac. She’d been lucky to escape with her life. But to be burdened with child, then cast out like offal…
“Maybe she’s better off dead,” she breathed. Sometimes that was what she thought about her sister.
But the other revelation was even more insidious. Her father hadn’t intended to leave the land in the hands of strangers after all. By impregnating the lass he meant to pass off as his daughter, he planned to deceive the English, to make Sir Ryland de Ware believe the child and heir was his.
Lady Mor creased her brow. “I’m confused. After the chieftain went to such trouble to find a counterfeit bride and get her with child,” she mused aloud, “why would he get rid o’ her?”
Sorcha nodded. “And why would he send the English knights on a fool’s errand—searchin’ for the lass in the woods—when he knew very well she hadn’t run off?”
Temair could answer that. “The lass was threatenin’ to expose his secrets. She was becomin’ too difficult to control.”
That was the reason her da had never expended much effort in looking for Temair after she’d fled. Her sister Aillenn he’d always been able to manage. But Temair fought back. And if there was one thing a tyrant like her father could not abide, it was someone who wasn’t afraid to retaliate.
“So what do ye think the chieftain will do next?” Lady Mor asked.
“He’ll find a replacement for her,” Sorcha guessed.
“One he can bend to his will,” Temair agreed.
Sorcha added, “Meanwhile, he’s distractin’ the English knights, sendin’ them on a merry chase after a ghost.”
After a long, pensive silence, Aife meekly suggested, “What if ye tell them the truth, Gray? What if ye tell them who ye are?”
“Nay!” Temair blurted out vehemently. “So long as my brutish father is breathin’, I won’t go back to the tuath. I won’t live under his thumb again. Ever. I just won’t.”
Sorcha gently took her arm. “Nor will we ever make ye. Orlaith made ye a promise that first day, and we mean to keep it. Ye’ll always have a safe home with us here.”
Temair nodded and gave her a grateful half-smile. But she still wasn’t happy. “I won’t let my father hand o’er what rightfully belongs to the clann.” She began pacing again, rubbing the back of her neck. “I need to stop this sham of a marriage and come up with a way to take the tuath away from him, once and for all.”
“Take it away?” Aife’s brows shot up. “How?”
Sorcha sighed. “Ye’d need an army.”
Temair let out a sigh. Sorcha was right. It was a foolish idea.
“What if we…kept the bridegroom?” Lady Mor asked.
“Kept him?” Aife said. “Why?”
Lady Mor arched a brow. “He can’t very well be married if he can’t be found.”
“Wait.” Temair had another idea, one that made a shiver of excitement travel up her spine. “What if we held him for ransom?”
“Ransom?” Aife exclaimed.
“Aye,” Temair gushed. “The last thing Cormac wants is for the king to find out things have become…messy, right?”
“Right,” said Sorcha.
Temair continued. “So he’ll pay to see the king’s man returned safely.”
“And quietly,” Aife added.
“Right,” said Temair.
Sorcha knitted her brows. “If he pays the ransom, then what?”
Temair smiled in triumph. “We’ll use the money to hire an army o’ mercenaries to take back the tuath.”
“A real army?” Lady Mor said in surprise.
“Aye.”
Temair felt suddenly giddy. They could do this. Orlaith had told her that one day Temair would reclaim her legacy. That time was now. Between Cambeal’s warfare expertise and Domnall and Maelan’s experience as soldiers, they could assemble and lead an army to storm the tower and reclaim what was hers.
Lady Mor and Aife squealed in contagious joy.
But when Temair looked at Sorcha, the woman had gone quiet.
“What is it?” Temair asked.
Sorcha tapped her lip. “Do ye think ’tis necessary to take it by force?”
“Force is the only language my father understands.” Bitterness colored her words.
Sorcha studied her a long while then and finally nodded her head. “’Tis up to ye, Gray. Ye brought de Ware here. Ye should decide his fate. O’Keeffe is your birthright, after all.”
Temair thought of it as all of their birthright. As far as she was concerned, the woodkerns were her clann. Though she’d never openly stated it, she’d always known in her heart that when she regained her title, she’d bring her band of outlaws with her to
live in Tuath O’Keeffe.
“So what will we tell the English knights?” Aife asked.
“A lie,” Temair said. “We need them to deliver the ransom message.”
“And what will ye do with Sir Ryland?” Lady Mor asked.
Temair shrugged. That was the least of her worries. For the moment, all she had to decide was how much he was worth.
Ryland wasn’t born yesterday. By their exaggerated air of nonchalance, he could tell the women were up to something the instant they emerged from the strange vine-covered cave.
What it was, he couldn’t tell. But something was afoot.
At the moment, he couldn’t do much about it. The knights were at the mercy of the woodkerns. They’d never be able to find their way out of this knot of a forest alone. But it was a calculated risk he’d taken to get the outlaws’ assistance.
Indeed, while the women had been chatting about…whatever it was they were chatting about…the woodkerns had discussed a number of possible ideas about where his missing bride could be. They clearly knew the lay of the land. And to his relief, not once did they try to suggest she might have been stolen by faerie folk.
Gray gave him an elusive smile. “Aife has indeed brought news about your bride.”
“News? What news?” Ryland eagerly demanded.
“Do ye mind?” she asked, sidling past him and breaking his concentration, indicating her hounds. “They haven’t been watered yet.”
He released the dogs, and they trotted off to her. She ushered them away, chaining them to a tree.
“Good news, I hope?” he called out. He hoped to locate the missing lady and return to the keep before it got dark.
“Aye,” she said. “It seems your bride didn’t leave the keep after all.”
“What?”
His knights grumbled in discontent, and he held his hand up for quiet.
The older woman, Sorcha, shook her head. “Curious how often a man searches far afield for what’s right under his nose.”
There was an odd glimmer in her eyes, as if she were speaking about something else. But he was too aggravated over the time he’d already wasted to try to decipher her meaning.
“So all this has been for nothing?” Warin complained, giving Ryland a smug look.
Ryland didn’t completely agree. He’d gotten to see the lovely lady outlaw with the shimmering gray eyes again.
But aye, it was for nothing. His destiny and his bride—the woman with whom he was about to spend all the rest of his life—was waiting for him miles away at the castle.
“Thank you for the news.” He dug in his satchel. The woodkerns may not have led him to his betrothed. But they had assisted him and saved him countless more hours of searching.
“That won’t be necessary,” Gray said. “I’ll have two of the men lead you back.” She gave a nod of confirmation to the woodkerns. “Nock? Mark?”
If he’d been listening closer, he might have taken notice of the strange names. He might have realized they weren’t names, but commands. But he was too busy being a gentleman.
“I’m a man of honor,” he insisted. “I told you I’d pay you for your help. You’ve given it to me.” He gave her a lopsided grin and a wink as he held out a small velvet bag of silver. “You can buy your hounds a proper meal.”
But Gray didn’t smile at the jest. In fact, she looked tense. And guilty as hell. A sudden foreboding settled over him like a shadow.
Then she changed everything with a single command. “Draw.”
Before any of his knights could unsheathe, the outlaws turned on them with loaded and drawn bows.
Chapter 14
“Shite!” Warin spat.
Laurence bit out a much worse oath.
Ryland ground his teeth. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Lay down your weapons,” Gray said.
“The hell we will!” Ryland raged.
The gentleman outlaw reasoned with him. “Ye’re outnumbered. We could fire a bolt through all your hearts ere ye could lift your blades. Ye know that.”
Aye, he did know that. But Ryland felt he’d completely failed his men today. And the last thing he wanted to do was to make them surrender their arms.
“We mean ye no harm,” Gray assured him.
The treacherous woman’s words were unconvincing, considering there were almost a dozen deadly arrows trained on them.
“Surrender your blades,” she said, “and I’ll explain.”
For a long moment, he only glared at her, venting his fury on her with a piercing, smoldering gaze. How he’d ever imagined she was a desirable, tempting sweetmeat of a woman he didn’t know.
At last, he stared her down. She averted her eyes, as if she recognized hers was a betrayal of the worst kind.
With an angry growl, he commanded his men, “Lay down your blades.”
With palpable fury, they did as they were ordered.
“Your daggers as well,” Gray said, “and any other weapons ye’re carryin’.”
They tossed their remaining weapons to the ground.
“Your men are free to go…” she said.
“My men?”
“But ye’ll be stayin’ with us.”
“What?” Warin exploded.
Laurence barked, “Impossible.”
“We don’t go anywhere without Sir Ryland,” said Osgood.
Godwin agreed. “That’s right. If he’s staying, we’re staying as well.”
They crossed their arms over their chests, stubborn to a man.
“Your loyalty is admirable,” Gray told them. “But if ye want to keep your lord safe, ye must take a message to the clann chieftain.”
“A message?” Ryland asked. “What message?”
Gray’s eyes narrowed to smoky slits. “Tell him he can have the king’s man back for five hundred pounds.”
Everyone gasped. Five hundred pounds was an absurd amount.
“Five hun-…” Warin said, gaping. “What the bloody hell do you…” He shot a quick glance at Ryland, who glowered back at him. “Not that you’re not absolutely worth that much, m’lord, but…”
Warin was right to be astounded. Five hundred pounds could feed his entire household for ten years. What were the woodkerns thinking? There was no way Cormac O’Keeffe could raise that kind of coin.
Osgood tried diplomacy. “’Tis a rather large sum, my lady. Are you sure you won’t reconsider? You know, the Bible says silver is the root of all evil.”
Godwin mumbled, “I’m not sure this lot have read the Bible, Os.”
Ryland skewered Gray with a dark stare. “What happens if O’Keeffe doesn’t have it?”
“He does,” she assured him with a grim sneer. “His coffers are overflowin’ with the fines he’s collected.”
“What makes you so sure he’ll pay?”
“He’s been kissin’ the feet o’ your king for years now,” Gray said, the bitterness in her words at odds with her sweet face. “The last thing he wants is for word to get back that Irish outlaws have abducted the king’s man. He promised his daughter to an English knight. I very much doubt the king will send a second knight if the chieftain can’t keep track o’ the first one.”
Ryland had to admit that made sense. It had never occurred to him that he might be a valuable commodity to the woodkerns. He cursed his shortsightedness. He should have foreseen the outlaws could hold him for ransom.
“What will you do with five hundred pounds?” There were a dozen woodkerns. That was enough silver to keep them all in comfort for the rest of their lives.
“’Tisn’t your concern,” Gray said. Then she turned to her men. “I think we’ve prattled on long enough. Bind their arms, lads. Conall and Niall, ye should leave before it grows dark.”
“I’m not leaving,” Warin insisted.
“Warin.” Ryland shook his head. He knew Warin was troubled about leaving him alone with the outlaws. It was true that Ryland seldom went anywhere without his trusty friend. But if he wa
s going to come out of this situation with any hope of victory, he needed Warin to do something for him on the outside.
As the friar bound his arms behind him, Ryland realized he was powerless here. He’d be sitting like a stabled ox, not knowing whether he was to be bred or slaughtered…
There was only one thing to do.
While his men reluctantly set off with two of the outlaws, he called out to Warin. “If you’re unable to raise the ransom,” he said carefully, “my brother’s jeweled sword might be of value. Bring it on your return.”
Warin’s brow furrowed in puzzlement for a moment, and then recognition lit up his eyes. “Aye, that we will, m’lord.”
And then his valiant knights vanished into the woods.
Temair busied herself with watering the hounds. She couldn’t bear to look at Ryland right now, bound and helpless, with bitter accusation in his eyes.
She deserved every bit of his condemnation. She’d lured him here on the pretense of helping him, all the while intending to foil his plans.
As she bent down to put the basin of water before them, even Bran and Flann eyed her with suspicion. They sniffed at the water, as if they feared their traitorous mistress might have put hemlock in it.
“What?” she hissed at them. “Ye too?”
Maelan and Domnall collected up the weapons and took them inside the cave. She supposed they’d give them back to the knights when they returned with the ransom. After all, the woodkerns only took what poor folk could use. Farmers and cowherds had no use for swords.
Friar Brian, with his usual overabundance of courtesy, apologized to Ryland for the inconvenience of his bonds and assured him his ordeal would be over shortly.
Meanwhile, Sorcha, Lady Mor, and Aife secretly explained the plan to the remaining woodkerns.
Temair sighed. She regretted having to use the unwitting English knight as a pawn in the game of draughts with her father.
He didn’t seem like a bad person.
He’d been kind to her hounds.
He’d shown true concern for his missing bride.
He’d even offered to pay the woodkerns for their help.
It wasn’t his fault his stupid king had sent him to wed an imposter heiress.
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