Instead, two gigantic wolfhounds, all churning limbs and snarling teeth, came boiling out of the woods.
“There!” she directed them, hurling an arm in the direction of the four knights coming down the road.
The hounds bounded toward the men at such speed that the knights had no time to draw their swords. They shrieked and scattered, leaping into the trees to escape the snapping jaws of the wolfhounds.
For a moment, the knight stood dumbfounded, staring at his treed and trembling men with his jaw agape.
Temair felt a surge of heady triumph. She’d bested him again.
Shaking his head, the man gave a sigh of surrender and reached into his pack where he kept his coins. He pulled out a small parcel tied with twine and set it on the ground. Then he gave a loud whistle, a perfect imitation of Temair’s whistle.
The hounds, fooled by the sound, perked up their ears.
“Nay,” Temair breathed in disbelief.
The man untied the twine and opened the parcel. Inside was something that looked suspiciously like salted pork.
“Nay,” Temair said more loudly as the hounds abandoned their prey and began trotting forward.
“Look what I have for you, pups,” the knight cooed fearlessly.
“Nay!” she shouted. “Nay, Bran! Nay, Flann!”
“Come on, lads,” the man called out. “That’s it. I’ve got something for you. Something that tastes much better than an English knight.”
Temair bit back a scream of frustration. She’d never felt so betrayed. Her hounds were completely ignoring her. Distracted by the scent of meat, they only had eyes for that damned knight.
He used a dagger to cut the meat in half while the dogs waited impatiently, drooling and licking their chops.
“There you go,” he said as the two disloyal hounds nosed forward, gobbling up the meat as if they hadn’t eaten for days.
Then, just to salt her wounds, the knight gave her hounds a good scratch behind the ears. They returned his gesture of affection, licking his face as if he were their new best friend.
“Ye bloody traitors,” Temair muttered at them in disgust. “Ye should be ashamed o’ yourselves.”
The knight laughed as the gangly wolfhounds slobbered all over him, nearly knocking him over in their enthusiasm.
Damn the unfaithful hounds. Their magnificent breed was used as war dogs in combat. They were fierce and powerful enough to drag a man in full armor off of his horse.
At the moment, however, Flann and Bran seemed more inclined to lick the man to death.
He caught their chins in his hands. “You’re not traitors, are you, lads?” he crooned. “Poor things, you’re just half-starved.”
“Ballocks!” she protested. Her hounds ate better than she did.
He clucked his tongue. “Your mistress probably feeds you nothing but nuts and berries.”
“Nuts and…” she echoed. “That’s ridiculous.”
He grinned. Obviously, he was teasing her.
Then he swiveled on his haunches toward his men. “Are you going to roost all day in the trees?” he asked them. “Or are any of you brave enough to meet these ferocious beasts?” He ruffled the hounds’ heads again, and they wagged their tails in delight.
His men climbed reluctantly out of the trees. As they cautiously approached, her gaze flitted uncertainly between them. She hated being unarmed against five hulking knights.
“I have no coin,” she warned them. “So if ye’re hopin’ to rob me, ye’re out o’ luck.”
“I’m not interested in your coin,” he told her. “As I said, I just need your help. And I’m willing to pay for it.”
“What do ye want?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
Her breath caught. But she didn’t dare let her alarm show. As casually as possible, she asked, “Who?”
“A young woman.”
She gulped. So it was true. Her father had hired foreign mercenaries to hunt for her. She cursed herself for not taking her own advice, for not staying hidden in the forest. If these knights dragged her back to the tower house…
“She ran into the woods three days ago,” he added, “and has been missing ever since.”
Temair blinked. She let out a shuddering breath of relief. “Three days ago?”
“Aye.”
The rest of his men had come up now. None of them were interested in tangling with her hounds again. But to her aggravation, the dogs seemed content to sit beside the knight anyway, nosing at his hands and enjoying his companionable scratches.
“This woman,” Temair asked. “What does she look like?”
The knight furrowed his brows. “Small. Dark. Wild.”
“That’s all?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She need not have worried. That description fit about half of Eire. And small? These men were obviously searching for someone else.
On the other hand, all five men had seen Temair’s face clearly now. They could easily take her description back to her father. If her correct age and her raven-black hair didn’t convince Cormac his daughter was alive and well in the woods, her gray eyes would.
She had to find a way to keep these men away from the clann chieftain.
She perused the other knights. Despite being spooked by her hounds, they were a formidable group. Tall. Strong. Tough. With broad shoulders and heavy swords.
She was unarmed and alone. She couldn’t very well overpower them and force them to stay in the forest.
Maybe there was another way.
Chapter 12
Ryland had to admit the description he’d been given of his runaway bride was of little help. But surely there weren’t that many wenches loose in the woods.
“I’ve seen no one like that,” Gray told him. “But perhaps ye’d like to come to my camp and question the others. It may be they’ve crossed paths with the lass.”
Her suggestion stirred up instant conflict among his men, who scowled and grumbled at the idea of venturing into what Laurence referred to as “a den of thieves,” what Godwin called “a trap,” and what Warin claimed might be full of “feckin’ faerie folk.”
But he lifted his hand to silence them. “We’d be grateful.”
There was a risk it was a trap. Her people probably knew the woods well. They could easily waylay the knights.
But Ryland didn’t have much choice in the matter. He had to find his bride before something happened to her. Not only did her life hang in the balance. But the king was depending on this alliance.
Besides, he knew how to mitigate the risk.
“I’ll just hold onto your hounds while we travel through the forest.” His eyes twinkled with a knowing half-smile as he took a firm grip on their collars.
“O’ course,” she said, answering with a knowing half-smirk of her own. “Follow me.”
The journey through the woods was breathtaking.
Gray led them along winding trails just wide enough for deer and past tiny streams that glistened between the pebbles like silver chain. Mounds of moss dressed the trees in skirts of emerald velvet. Luxuriant ferns brushed their legs with feathery caresses. More ribbons of water trickled down shelves of rock, disappearing into the soft earth. Mushrooms lay like tiny discarded caps on the forest floor. The smell of damp soil and fertile life filled the air. And there was a curious stillness over everything, a silence that absorbed all sound as they passed.
It was enchanting and unsettling all at once.
Indeed, he found it remarkable how the lady forged ahead with confidence through the virgin woodland, even without the help of the hounds. He was certain, without her guidance, he and his knights would have lost their way.
He hoped he could trust her to lead them out of the woods as well.
He thought he could.
Still, he’d been surprised at first when she’d shown no interest in helping him. Most women leaped at the opportunity to lend assistance to a noble knight.
This
wench was not like the other women he knew. Maybe it was because she was Irish. Or maybe it was because she was an outlaw. But she was definitely unpredictable.
They’d hiked a few miles when they entered a shadowy downward dip in the trail. Gray gave a low whistle. His men clapped their hands to their hilts as they heard someone unseen whistle in response.
“M’lord?” Warin nervously whispered.
Gray replied to his unasked question. “I’m lettin’ ’em know we’re approachin’ the camp.” She cheekily added, “If I meant ye harm, ye’d be caught by now. They’ve been watchin’ ye for the last quarter-mile.”
Ryland wondered if that was true. If so, he was impressed by the outlaws’ stealth. It was little wonder the Irish thought their forests were populated by faerie folk and spirits.
As they traveled onward, the path gradually widened. Then it opened out onto a flat, roughly circular expanse bordered on one side by a natural wall of vine-covered stone. Dense greenery surrounded the clearing. Towering yews made a leafy canopy overhead. In the center was a ring of blackened rocks where ashen coals slumbered, surrounded by several small boulders and tree stumps that were probably makeshift stools.
“Welcome,” their guide announced with a somewhat insincere lift of her brow.
One by one, like bark peeling off the trees, woodkerns seemed to appear out of nowhere. Then, as if emerging out of the mountain itself, two women brushed aside the vines and stepped into the clearing. Ryland thought if he stayed in the forest much longer, he might start believing in faerie folk himself.
His men braced to face the oncoming threat.
But the outlaws showed no aggression. They didn’t need to. The knights were in their domain now.
The same jolly woodkern who’d interrupted them at the stream greeted them now. “Well, well, if ’tisn’t the ‘noble’ fellows we met yesterday.”
A pretty red-haired woman stepped out from behind an elm, frowning. “Why have ye brought them here, Gray?”
“They need information. They’re searchin’ for someone. And they’re willin’ to pay.”
A tall, slender man of noble bearing chuckled at that. “Willin’ or no, they will pay.”
Warin whispered furiously in Ryland’s ear. “I told ye this was a mistake, m’lord.”
Ryland hushed him with a hiss and faced the tall gentleman. If he was as noble as he appeared, perhaps Ryland could appeal to the man’s sense of honor. “Sir, the information I seek will cost you nothing, and yet I offer payment for it. Surely you’ll honor such a humble and courteous request.”
The man straightened, moved by Ryland’s chivalrous words. “Well said.” Then he called out, “What say ye, all? Shall we give aid to these foreigners?”
After a few nods and grunts, the camp seemed to reach a consensus.
“Who do you seek?” one of the women asked.
Ryland politely inclined his head. “My lady, I’m searching for a woman lost in the woods.”
Gray added, “He said she went missin’ three days ago.”
A man dressed as a friar spoke. “Three days? Is that so?” He studied the knights, one by one, sizing them up as if he were choosing a horse. “Ye’re English.”
“Aye.” That was fairly obvious.
“And of high rank,” another said.
He nodded.
“Have ye just arrived in Eire?” the red-haired beauty asked.
“We’ve been here a sennight.”
Ryland felt like a wandering thief being interrogated by the local lawmen. But what else could he do? For all he knew, these might be the Shire-Reeves of the Woodkerns.
“Why do ye seek this lass?” another asked.
Ryland would have preferred to keep his reasons to himself. After all, there were some who might think preventing a foreigner from finding his Irish bride was a good idea.
But he had little choice. He was fairly sure if he didn’t answer their questions, they’d just send the knights on their way…after they robbed them of their silver just for spite.
So he answered. “The lady is to be my bride.”
A few of the outlaws stiffened.
Before Ryland could wonder why, the black-bearded outlaw spoke. His voice was laced with amusement. “So your bride ran away, did she? And what reason did ye give her for that?”
Ryland straightened with pride. He’d had about enough of prying questions. Besides, he’d never given a woman reason to flee in his entire life. “I wasn’t even given the courtesy of meeting her.”
It was Gray’s turn to interrogate him. “Why would ye wish to wed a lass ye’ve never met?”
He gave her a rueful chuckle. She obviously didn’t understand the responsibilities of nobility. Women like her probably married for love. “’Tisn’t my wish. ’Tis my duty.”
“Your duty?”
“I was commanded by the king to do so.”
“The king?” the noble outlaw remarked with raised brows. “John Lackland?”
Behind him, Ryland’s men stirred at the insult. He could almost feel the anger boiling off of them in silent waves.
“King John,” he said pointedly, “wishes to forge an alliance between our people—”
“Pah!” a sour-faced outlaw snarled. “He wishes to seize our land is what ye mean.”
“Just like the English always have,” grumbled a bald-pated brute.
“Aye,” some of the other woodkerns chimed in.
Ryland heard the menacing growl of his men behind him, which triggered menacing growls from the two wolfhounds.
Before a fight could break out, Gray held up her hand for silence. “Bran! Flann! Hush.”
The hounds calmed at once.
Ryland wished he could calm his men so quickly. But he understood their anger. He was beginning to regret engaging the outlaws’ help. All this delay was troubling his spirit and trying his patience.
“Look,” he told them. “This quarreling is pointless. Either you’ve seen the woman or you haven’t. Either you’ll help me or you won’t. Every moment we waste, hurling insults and arguing politics, brings her closer to danger. She’s out there somewhere in the woods—frightened, lost, hungry. Whether you agree with this marriage or not, I would think you’d at least want to keep your countrywoman safe.”
Gray’s eyes actually softened at his words. A hint of a smile graced her lips.
The gentleman outlaw let out a sigh of shame. “He’s right. A good Irish lass’s welfare is at stake.”
“True.” The tall, jolly fellow sheepishly hooked his thumbs into his woven belt. “I suppose we ought to help him, for her sake.”
The others shrugged and nodded.
“Wait.” Gray stepped in front of Ryland. Her beautiful silver eyes locked with his. It took all his willpower not to let his gaze slip down to her soft, kissable mouth. “This bride o’ yours, does she have a name?”
For one inexplicable instant, captivated by her gaze, he couldn’t remember. For one mad moment, he imagined being married to a brash and beautiful outlaw instead of a frightened bride who’d fled into the forest.
But his strong sense of duty turned the lock on that idea.
“Her name is Temair O’Keeffe.”
Chapter 13
Temair didn’t dare flinch. Or blink. Or move a muscle.
She kept her gaze trained with forced nonchalance on the bold English knight, as if she had no idea he was here for her.
But she could barely breathe. Her heart was pounding. And her brain whirled with chaotic emotions.
The rest of the woodkerns had fallen silent. If someone didn’t say something soon, he’d suspect they had something to hide.
Old Sorcha found her voice first. “Ye mean the clann chieftain’s daughter?”
“Aye.”
“So ye must be Sir Ryland de Ware,” Sorcha said.
“I am.”
Wild thoughts careened around in Temair’s head.
This was her betrothed?
She�
�d been intrigued by the English knight since they’d met at the stream. Charmed by his laughter, his dancing eyes, his brawny figure, and his delicious mouth, she had to acknowledge he was just the sort of man a lass might wish to marry.
But he was English, the choice of her tyrant father and of the bloody English king. He’d been sent, not to court her, but to claim her. And while he might be the sort of man to wed out of duty, she’d be damned if she’d be a political pawn, forced into a marriage of convenience. No matter how handsome he was.
She narrowed her eyes. “Ye say she ran away three days ago?”
“Aye, according to her father.”
“And ye never laid eyes on the lass?” she pressed.
“Nay.”
“The chieftain only said she was small and dark-haired,” Ryland volunteered.
“And wildish,” one of his men added.
Temair frowned. Wildish? Maybe. But nobody would ever call her small. And certainly no one could overlook Temair’s most defining characteristic, the one that had given her her nickname—her unique gray eyes.
But the fact that her father said this small, dark-haired, wildish Temair had run away just three days ago could mean only one thing. He’d hired an imposter.
No one in the clann would be fooled. Surely they remembered Temair’s gray eyes. But the English knight would never suspect he was wedding a counterfeit bride. And her clannsmen would be too afraid to tell him.
Temair was glad the lass had run off. But how long would it be before they found her? Or if they didn’t, how long would it be before her father found another imposter? There were plenty of small, dark-haired, wildish lasses to choose from.
Rage filled her so quickly she could hardly speak.
Fortunately, she was saved from having to say anything. With a soft rustle of the bushes, Aife suddenly appeared at the edge of the camp, returning from her day of spying in Tuath O’Keeffe.
The knights turned toward the sound.
“Temair?” Ryland asked hopefully.
Aife gave a start, both from being addressed by that name and the fact that there were five strange strapping knights occupying the clearing, all staring at her.
Desire’s Ransom Page 9
