Desire's Ransom

by Glynnis Campbell

  “All right,” Gray told them, soothing them with a pat. “Ye can hush now.”

  Ryland clapped. “Brilliant. I fear you’re right, Ronan. I’ve been soundly defeated.”

  “Ha!” Ronan exclaimed, appreciating the jest.

  Inspired by the lively atmosphere, some of the others volunteered their talents.

  Young Fergus juggled three pine cones with great dexterity, tossing them into the fire at the end, where the pitch snapped and crackled as they went up in flames.

  Maelan played a quick tune on a wooden flute while Aife spun around in a gleeful dance that left her in giggles.

  Cambeal and Lady Mor followed with a more stately dance.

  Domnall was coerced into dragging out his bagpipes and playing a battle song, though the sound made the hounds howl in complaint. When he stopped, Bran laid his head down in relief, and Flann yawned as if bored.

  When Conall and Niall returned from delivering the Englishmen to the main road, Gray rose. “We have an early morn and a busy day. We should all get a good night’s rest.”

  Ryland watched while the others banked the fire and staggered off to their beds under the stars. To his amusement, most of them slept in the trees.

  Just about the time he was going to ask where he should retire, Gray said, “Ye’ll sleep out here, with the hounds and me.”

  Clearly, despite his vow, she meant to keep a close watch on him to prevent his escape. But Ryland couldn’t say the idea upset him.

  He liked the gangly, howling wolfhounds.

  He liked their mistress even better.

  Temair knew the wolfhounds were excellent guard dogs. They’d chuff and nudge her awake if Sir Ryland tried to steal away.

  But the idea of spending the night so close to the handsome knight was unnerving.

  It shouldn’t have been. For the last six years, she’d been living with men. She’d seen them in every stage of dress and undress. Certainly, Sir Ryland was no different from any of the woodkerns.

  But she felt strangely vulnerable as she spread her woolen cloak on the ground before the mouth of the cave. Even when she purposely lay down on her side, facing away from him, she felt as edgy as a fly at the perimeter of a spider’s web.

  He flapped out his own great cloak on the ground with an annoying whoosh, ruffling her hair—and her calm. Then, with audible grunting and groaning, he stretched out his long frame, far too close for her comfort, and let out a heavy sigh.

  She stiffened.

  Bloody hell, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He was so close, she could sense the warmth of his body beside her. So close she could smell him.

  At least his scent—a masculine combination of spice, smoke, and leather—was not unpleasant.

  Still, she wished she’d thought to make a barricade between them out of her hounds. Instead, Bran and Flann were curled up at their usual post at her feet.

  Then, as if she weren’t already too aware of his indecent proximity, he spoke.

  “I hope you don’t snore,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  Incensed, she flipped over to confront him. How dared he suggest such an ignoble thing?

  But by the light of the dying coals, she saw that he was grinning. She sighed.

  “Good night, my lady,” he said with a wink.

  She frowned, mumbling, “G’night, English.”

  Then she turned back over. It was not going to be a good night. It was going to be a sleepless night. She could tell already.

  She’d only glanced at him for a moment. But she couldn’t get the image of his devilishly handsome face—inches away from hers—out of her mind…

  The lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead with a rakish flair.

  His heavy brows that descended together like storm clouds when he was angry and arched over his bright, merry eyes when he laughed.

  The angles of his face—his square jaw, his strong chin, his broad cheekbones—accented by a manly dusting of stubble.

  The saucy wink that made her heart flutter.

  It wasn’t right. She should despise him. He represented everything undesirable to her. The loss of her freedom. The wishes of her father. The will of the foreign king.

  She’d spent six years as an independent woman, making her own decisions, fending for herself, living the way she chose. To go back to living under the control of a man was unthinkable.

  No matter how handsome he was.

  She flounced onto her back, disturbing the hounds, who grunted in annoyance.

  She had to stop thinking about the English knight and start focusing on her plans to reclaim her tuath.

  Taking back the holding wouldn’t be easy.

  Once she got the ransom money, she’d have to act fast, before her father found another imposter for Sir Ryland to marry. She’d need to assemble an army great enough to launch an attack on the tower house.

  To be honest, she didn’t even know exactly how to do it. She’d never witnessed a siege before. She hoped Cambeal and the soldiers could help her come up with a strategy.

  She chewed at her lip.

  Something old Sorcha had said was troubling her. Was it possible to take command of the tuath without bloodshed?

  She knew force was the only way to control her father. But the last thing she wanted was to hurt her clannsmen. Cormac would no doubt send every man, woman, and child into battle against her to save Tuath O’Keeffe. Even Sir Ryland and his knights would be obligated to fight on Cormac’s side.

  She had trouble imagining firing an arrow into Sir Ryland’s heart.

  Then there was the English king to consider. Traditionally, coming from a long line of chieftains, Temair commanded the highest honor price in her clann and was most likely to be elected. Though women could not hold the chieftain position, she might choose her own husband and confer chieftain status upon him.

  But times were changing. Rules were changing. The arrival of the English meant that chieftains were just as often appointed as elected. If she refused to wed the man of the king’s choosing, he could conceivably send an army to take the holding by force.

  It was a difficult situation. But unless she wanted her birthright handed over to an English knight and his counterfeit bride, she had no choice but to take action. Now. Even if it wasn’t the most convenient time. Even if she wasn’t fully prepared.

  She flopped back onto her side with a sigh.

  “You may not snore,” Ryland murmured in the darkness, startling her, “but you certainly toss and turn like a tempest.”

  “I’m not accustomed to sleepin’ in close quarters with strange men,” she hissed pointedly.

  “I can see why. They wouldn’t get a moment’s rest.”

  Her temper flared, and her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Well, I’m sorry if I’m keepin’ ye awake.”

  “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me.” She could hear the humor in his voice. “’Tis the hounds I’m worried about.”

  She snorted. “At least my hounds have the good sense to sleep at my feet instead o’ breathin’ down my neck.”

  “Bloody hell, will ye two keep it down?” Conall suddenly called out from a nearby tree. “Some of us are tryin’ to get a good night’s rest.”

  Temair’s face went hot.

  “See what I mean?” Ryland whispered.

  She shoved him.

  He snickered.

  She managed to fume in silence then. But that didn’t stop the noisy workings of her brain. How Ryland could be so infuriating and amusing at the same time, she couldn’t fathom. But one thing was clear. She couldn’t be less inclined to fall asleep.

  Chapter 16

  The moon was high overhead when Ryland awoke to the sound of heavy snoring. It took him a moment to recall where he was. Another moment to realize that the furry head smashed up next to his belonged to a wolfhound.

  He grimaced. He loved dogs as much as anyone. But he didn’t particularly like their wet noses in his face. Especially
when they were snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

  He gave the hound’s body a jiggle to stir him from sleep, intending to prod him back down to his mistress’ feet, where he belonged. But when the dog lifted his head, the snoring continued.

  It must be the other hound.

  Ryland sat up on an elbow.

  But the second dog was awake, staring at him.

  Then Ryland peered down at the woman beside him.

  The woman with lovely moonlit skin.

  The woman with lashes that kissed her cheeks like black snowflakes.

  The woman whose lips looked like the soft petals of a rose.

  That beastly snoring was coming from her.

  He grinned. Somehow that was incredibly endearing.

  He swept the hair back from her face and gave her shoulder a gentle shake, stirring her just enough to stop her sawing. She sighed and snuggled deeper into her cloak.

  When he pulled back his arm, his smile faded. He realized he probably shouldn’t have done that.

  Ryland was as good as married. He shouldn’t be finding anything about Gray endearing. He should be faithful to his bride. Succumbing to the temptations of other women was a sign of moral weakness.

  The hounds were both staring at him now, as if asking him what he intended to do about it.

  He didn’t have the answer.

  What he needed to do most right now was relieve himself of the ale he’d drunk earlier.

  For safety, he’d take one of the hounds with him. The dog would warn him of any danger. And if the woodkerns suspected their hostage meant to escape, they’d see he was well-guarded.

  Careful not to disturb Gray, Ryland eased up from the ground and gestured to Flann to come with him.

  Bran wanted to come as well, but Ryland didn’t want to leave Gray unguarded. He held out his palm and whispered, “Stay.”

  Bran dutifully lay back down, lowering his head onto his paws.

  Taking Flann by the collar, Ryland stole across the clearing and into the trees. He hoped he wasn’t choosing a tree that was occupied by one of the outlaws. It was hard to tell in the milky moonlight.

  Selecting a tree he hoped was sufficiently remote from the camp, he untied his braies. Flann obediently stood guard.

  He was just finishing when he heard a twig snap behind him.

  “Just where do ye think ye’re goin’?”

  It was Gray. He didn’t dare turn around. His braies were still undone.

  He started to tie them up, but she barked, “Raise your hands where I can see them. I’ve got an arrow trained at your back.”

  He raised his hands cautiously and cast a disappointed glance toward Flann. The damned hound had given him no warning whatsoever.

  “Flann,” she called. “Here.”

  The hound hesitated.

  “Here!” she demanded.

  Flann guiltily lowered his head and trotted back to her.

  “Now,” she said, “where were ye goin’?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Ye were tryin’ to escape, weren’t ye?”

  “What? Nay.”

  “Then why did ye steal my dog?”

  “I didn’t steal him. I only…borrowed him.”

  “So ye could flee.”

  “If I’d wanted to flee,” he reasoned, “I’d have taken both dogs.”

  “Then why did ye take him?”

  He couldn’t keep the sardonic edge from his voice. “I was hoping the beast would warn me of approaching danger. Apparently, I was wrong.”

  “Turn around.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t think you want me to do that.”

  “And I don’t think ye’re in a position to be disobeyin’ my commands,” she bit out, “since I’ve got my arrow aimed at…”

  He turned around slowly. She did have an arrow aimed at him. Or she had, until her gaze lowered to his braies. Then her mouth fell open, and her bowstring went flaccid.

  “May I?” he asked, indicating his ties.

  Her discomfiture was quite entertaining. She nodded and averted her eyes, clearing her throat and fumbling with the bow.

  He shook his head and tied up his braies. “You know, I swore on my honor I wouldn’t try to escape. Didn’t you trust me?”

  She muttered something that sounded like an outlaw’s creed. “Trust is for fools.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Only those without honor themselves are afraid to trust.”

  That got her hackles up. “What are ye sayin’? That I have no honor?”

  From the branches overhead, someone suddenly spoke, startling the bloody hell out of them both. “Ye know, this is all very fascinatin’, but some of us are tryin’ to sleep.” It was Ronan. He added, “And I’ll thank ye not to piss on the tree where I slumber next time.”

  Gray marched off in a huff with her hounds, forcing Ryland to try to keep up as he tossed a “sorry” over his shoulder at the outlaw he’d offended.

  Gray was already feigning sleep by the time he returned. Her hounds were now strategically positioned to form a curtain wall between him and their mistress. Their heads resting atop their paws, they looked up at him with doleful eyes, as if they knew he didn’t deserve such punishment.

  But perhaps it was for the best. Lovely Gray—with her fascinating fury and her becoming blushes—was doing strange things to his heart, making it beat faster and filling it with laughter. He needed to tame his passions before they got him into trouble.

  Unfortunately, waking at dawn several hours later to a woman’s alluring buttocks pressed against his groin didn’t help.

  Ryland winced. The sun was rising. So was something else.

  Sometime in the night, the hounds had migrated back down to the foot of their cloaks. And Gray, seeking warmth or something more carnal, had nestled close to him until she now lay cradled in his arms.

  Of course, she was completely oblivious to this fact. And he’d just as soon she didn’t find out. But if he tried to extricate himself from their position, she’d no doubt accuse him of making advances. And if he didn’t…

  He grimaced. At the rate he was swelling against her, it would only be a matter of time before she awakened in horror.

  Closing his eyes, he carefully inhaled. Her hair smelled like summer. It wasn’t difficult to imagine waking like this every morn. With the touch of sunlight on his skin. The sound of birdsong on the air. The comfort of a woman in his arms.

  He smiled. She really did feel heavenly against him. The warm pressure of her body against his was driving him mad with longing.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the rest of the camp was stirring.

  Fortunately, Domnall the soldier suddenly growled out, “Up, everyone! The sun’s high! The day’s a-wastin’!”

  In the noisy confusion as Gray struggled to wake up, Ryland was able to pull away inconspicuously. He yawned as if he’d only just wakened as well. She’d never know how close they’d been a moment ago.

  Of course, his body was cursing him for leaving such a pleasurable situation, and it would be a while before it calmed enough to be presentable. But such were the harsh realities of being a loyal husband. He had to learn to curb his desires, even when temptation in the form of an irresistible outlaw lass pursued him with a vengeance.

  Temair was still shaken from her encounter in the middle of the night.

  It was silly, she supposed. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man naked. It wouldn’t be the last.

  But somehow seeing Sir Ryland had been different.

  Maybe it was different because his vulnerable state was so unexpected. She’d truly believed he’d been trying to escape. Not once did it occur to her that he might be innocent. The fact that she’d forced him to turn around under threat of death, only to discover that not only was he blameless, but she’d caught him with his trius down, made her feel like a brutish fool.

  Maybe it was different because Sir Ryland was more than just another man. They’d shared a kiss. They’d fo
rged an undeniable connection. Something had happened between the two of them, some manifest spark that she felt lingering inside her like a coal, banked and waiting to burst into flame.

  Maybe it was different because Ryland was dangerous, more menacing in a way than her father. He threatened her independence, her claim to the O’Keeffe land, her future. And seeing him standing there, unabashed, in all his manly glory, had made that threat all the more real.

  To make matters worse, she didn’t dare leave the camp—not with the roads crowded with fair-goers and the ransom demand delivered to her father. Cormac had a formidable temper. When it was roused, he was capable of seeking revenge with a single-minded drive that was terrifying to behold. Now, more than ever, Temair had to be cautious, for her father would definitely have placed a target on her back.

  But remaining behind, Temair wasn’t sure she could bear to look Ryland in the eyes. She was ashamed of what she’d done to him, embarrassed by her lack of trust, and humiliated that she’d been caught by Ronan, who was bound to spread the news around the camp faster than wildfire.

  Temair pulled her hood over her head, wishing she could hide.

  As she turned aside, she almost smacked into Ronan. Prepared for the worst sort of teasing after last night’s mishap, she was surprised when he only nodded his head in greeting and continued on. She stared after him in wonder.

  One by one, the woodkerns left on their missions. Fair days were always lucrative for outlaws. From far afield, the rich came with full purses, intent on spoiling their sweethearts with trinkets.

  As a matter of tradition, the woodkerns stole only half of what they found on fair days. After all, they didn’t wish to deprive anyone of an enjoyable day at the fair. But they figured most could afford to part with a sizable share of what they carried and still impress their mistresses.

  The fewer outlaws that remained behind in the camp, the more tense Temair grew. So far she’d managed to avoid confronting Ryland. But soon it would be unavoidable.

  It was Lady Mor who managed to keep Ryland busy, chatting with him beside the cave while Temair threw sticks for Flann and Bran to fetch.