Desire’s Ransom

by Campbell, Glynnis

  But in war, there were no rules. Temair had to reclaim her legacy by any means possible.

  Anyway, his part in this would be over in a few days, she thought as she patted the slurping dogs’ heads. Once the knights returned, he’d be free to go.

  She imagined he’d return to England. Like most Englishmen, he probably thought Eire was savage and unruly. Especially now.

  As for his marriage, no doubt the king would arrange another suitable alliance for Ryland. His assets wouldn’t go to waste. Indeed, prospective brides probably vied fiercely for such a prize as Sir Ryland de Ware.

  A man in his prime.

  Strong.

  Handsome.

  Clever.

  Her gaze slipped over to where he sat on a stump. He was frowning at the ground between his knees, lost in thought.

  She had to admit, he really was a fine specimen of a man. If circumstances had been different…if he weren’t English…and if he weren’t betrothed to her by command of the king, but rather by virtue of affection…

  As if she’d spoken aloud, he suddenly glanced up at her.

  Rattled, she looked away.

  It was going to be a long couple of days—waiting for the ransom while dodging Ryland’s damning stares, battling her sense of guilt, and trying to forget that she’d once let him kiss her.

  “Gray,” Domnall called out.

  She looked up.

  “He’s your hostage,” Domnall said. “What do ye want to do with him?”

  The breath caught in her throat, especially when Ryland and the rest of the woodkerns leveled sharp questioning glares at her.

  What did Domnall mean? What was there to do with him? He was a hostage, that was all. Shouldn’t he just…sit…and wait?

  At her silence, Domnall prodded. “He won’t be worth a farthin’ if he runs off into the woods.”

  Young Fergus offered, “Do ye want me to tie him to a tree?”

  “Ye could chain him with the dogs,” Ronan said.

  “Or shackle his ankles so he can’t walk,” Domnall suggested.

  Temair creased her brows in indecision. Was that really necessary? Surely he wouldn’t leave the safety of the camp for the danger of an unfamiliar forest.

  “Or,” Ryland chimed in with dark humor, “I could just give you my solemn oath that I won’t leave.”

  Domnall scoffed at that.

  But noble Cambeal asked, “On your honor as a knight?”

  “Aye.”

  That was enough for Cambeal.

  Domnall thought otherwise. “Ye’d trust an Englishman?”

  “A noble knight?” Cambeal asked, drawing himself up to his full height. “Absolutely.”

  Lady Mor agreed. “There’s nothin’ more sacred than a knight’s vow.”

  Cambeal asked, “Is this agreeable to ye, Gray?”

  Temair felt her face growing hot. Did no one sense the awkward paradox of that? Ryland had trusted her, and she’d promptly betrayed his trust. Why would he feel any compunction whatsoever to keep a promise made to her?

  At her delay, Ryland spoke, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I could give you a blood oath if you prefer.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she decided. “Oath or no, if ye run off into the woods, my hounds will track ye down.”

  He gave a mock shudder, which infuriated her. He wasn’t afraid of her dogs. The rogue had tamed the disloyal beasts with little more than salted pork and a few scratches.

  Then he sobered. “I vow on my honor as a knight,” he said solemnly, “I won’t leave the camp without your consent.”

  She should have doubted him. But she didn’t. Even without Cambeal’s confirmation, she got the sense that Sir Ryland was a man of his word.

  So she acknowledged his promise with a nod. “Fine. I hope I don’t live to regret it. Ye can untie him, Cambeal.” Then, eager to get past the awkward situation, she called out, “What’s for supper tonight, Friar?”

  Brian hoisted up two rabbits someone had snared. “Rabbit pottage.”

  “And I’ve made oat bread,” Sorcha announced.

  There would have been blackberries as well, but in her hurry, Temair had left the basket behind.

  Ronan waggled his bushy black brows and pulled out a wineskin. “A bit o’ refreshment from a passin’ jurist. He insisted we have it.”

  Young Fergus chortled at that, and the tense atmosphere in the camp began to dissolve.

  Meanwhile, Sorcha laid out a cloth on the ground where the spoils of the day could be deposited.

  There wasn’t much.

  Aife had nipped a few cloak pins from a jeweler. She’d exchanged one of them for information from the maidservant.

  Cambeal had lifted a heavy silver pendant from the same jurist who’d donated the wine.

  Young Fergus and Lady Mor dropped handfuls of coins they’d taken from a trio of passing nobles.

  The woodkerns then went about their work as usual. Domnall gathered wood for the fire. Aife skinned the rabbits. Young Fergus took out a whetstone and sharpened blades. Old Sorcha, who knew how to read and write, recorded the take for the day. Friar Brian would distribute the gifts to needy families on the Sabbath.

  Temair had watered the hounds, and they’d fed well already. There was nothing for her to do.

  Sir Ryland was idle as well. He sat, staring morosely at the fire ring.

  Even though holding him hostage had been her plan, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His king had used him to make an alliance, forcing him to move to a foreign country, to wed a woman he’d never met. Now Temair was using him to pay for an army to get her tuath back.

  None of it was his fault. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a heavy sigh.

  Domnall tossed a log onto the fire and grunted, “Were ye in the Crusades then, fightin’ under Richard?”

  “Aye,” Ryland said. “I fought in the Battle of Arsuf.”

  Domnall’s heavy brows went up. Then he nodded. “Was it as savage as they say?”

  “’Twas a waste of good warriors,” Ryland replied, surprising Temair with his insight. “Religious wars always are.”

  Their conversation caught the attention of Maelan, the other old soldier. “I fought at Acre. And ye’re right. What a bloody massacre ’twas. And for what? Because one man didn’t like what the other was thinkin’.” He shook his head.

  Cambeal approached with a frown. “Ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant. They make a wasteland and call it peace.”

  All four nodded sagely, staring into the flames that Fergus had stirred to life, sharing the sad brotherhood of warfare.

  Temair watched them, half amazed and half irritated. The same way he’d tamed her hounds, Ryland was befriending the seasoned warriors of the woodkerns. There was something about him that drew both men and beasts to him.

  That might be a problem.

  “What about ye?” Ryland asked Cambeal. “Ye’re from a noble family, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then why are ye…” He glanced around the clearing.

  Cambeal smiled. “Livin’ in the woods with a band of outlaws?”

  Ryland shrugged. “Aye.”

  “I was cursed with a whole host o’ brothers,” Cambeal explained, “and I’m the youngest.”

  Ronan quipped, “His father has an heir and four spares.”

  “The eldest got our father’s land,” Cambeal said. “One fought for the High King and was rewarded with a holdin’. The other two made political marriages. All that was left for me was the church.”

  From behind the great black cauldron he was filling with leeks and barley, Brian said, “Ye’d have made a good monk.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Cambeal replied. “I’d rather wear a cuirass than a cassock. Besides, the church hasn’t been so good to ye, Friar.”

  “The church, perhaps not,” Brian agreed, “but the Lord ha
s been good to me.”

  Ryland turned to the friar. “How did a man of the church come to live among thieves?”

  Friar Brian scolded the knight with the point of his knife. “We prefer ‘outlaws’ or ‘woodkerns.’ We’re not strictly thieves.”

  “I see,” Ryland said, obviously not seeing at all.

  Temair explained. “We don’t keep what we take.”

  Ronan raised the wineskin. “Well, except for this. This we’re keepin’.”

  Ryland furrowed his brows. “If ye don’t keep it, what do ye do with it?”

  “We distribute it to those in need,” she said.

  “Aye. See that?” Brian said, gesturing with his knife to the goods piled on the cloth. “Sorcha will divide it up and decide who needs it most. Then on the Sabbath, I’ll make my rounds, handin’ it out to the crofters.”

  Ryland chuckled at that. “You must have the wealthiest crofters in all Ireland.”

  Nobody laughed with him.

  Brian said, “Half o’ them are starvin’.”

  “Starving? But they’re crofters. They can grow their own food.”

  “So ye would think, wouldn’t ye?” Temair said, biting back the rage that always burned in her when she thought about it. “But the chieftain doesn’t see it that way. He takes most o’ their crops. The bastard would rather feast with fine English lords than—”

  “Gray!” Sorcha chided, “’Tis the man’s father-to-be ye’re speakin’ of.”

  Temair froze. She’d forgotten. She’d also forgotten that Sir Ryland was probably one of the fine English lords her father had fed.

  Ryland was scowling now. She’d hoped to make him understand that the woodkerns did what they did for good reason. Instead, it appeared she’d only made him angry.

  Chapter 15

  Ryland was appalled. He could well believe Cormac O’Keeffe was not well-liked. He’d seen how the man treated his servants.

  But it had never occurred to him that a chieftain would allow his clann to starve for the sake of enriching his own coffers.

  To think that good folk like these—a ragtag group that included a pair of battle-weary warriors, a noble knight, a matron who could read and write, an impressionable young lad, a goodhearted friar—had banded together, not out of greed, but to help their suffering neighbors…

  He felt humbled.

  And he silently swore that when he was lord here, he would make things right.

  The jolly, black-bearded fellow, Ronan, cracked the uncomfortable silence by exclaiming, “Who’s for a thimble o’ wine, compliments o’ the jurist?”

  Considering there was one wineskin and over a dozen of them, a thimble-full was likely about all they’d get.

  “I’ll have a taste,” the red-headed lad called Fergus said.

  “One for me.” Friar Briar stirred the pot. “The cook always gets a sip.”

  “Ryland?” Ronan asked, lifting a brow. “As our guest, ye should have the first taste. Ye can tell us if the wine of a jurist is lawful…or awful.”

  Ryland couldn’t help but smile. The rhyme was almost as amusing as the fact that Ronan had called him a guest.

  The woodkerns were unique. Noble knights and friars exiled to the woods. Thieves who gave their take to the poor. Abductors who treated hostages like honored visitors. They were unlike any outlaws he’d ever encountered.

  He still didn’t know what to make of Gray. She was both fierce and fun-loving. She possessed the earthiness of a crofter, but the regal bearing of a queen. She spoke of justice in strong terms. Yet she seemed to have no qualms about violating his trust.

  What was a woman like her doing in a band of woodkerns?

  He peered sidelong at the breathtaking maid. A lady so attractive should be wed by now. She shouldn’t have to sleep outdoors. Or fret over starving crofters. Or wage war for her right of way on a fallen log. She should have a husband to protect her. She should have dozens of beautiful children with gray eyes.

  Before he could ask her for her story, Ronan handed him the wineskin.

  The wine was sweet and strong. After they’d all taken a swig, Ronan slipped into the cave and rolled out a wooden barrel.

  “On to the good brew,” Ronan announced, rubbing his palms together.

  The ale, which they said was brewed every week by Sorcha, flowed freely as the woodkerns settled down to supper. The rabbit pottage was tasty, considering it had been made from whatever was at hand. And the auburn-haired woman’s oat bread soaked up every last delicious drop of the broth.

  As they supped by the fire, the woodkerns regaled Ryland with stories. Most were humorous accounts of their thievery. Some were sad tales of clann folk who’d died in years past. And some gave glimpses of the outlaws’ lives before they were outlaws.

  It didn’t take long before Ryland began to feel as if he were not a hostage, but indeed a welcome guest. There was no animosity or ill will toward him, even though he was English and one of the wealthy nobles they were supposed to despise. In this setting, they were all equals. It was curious.

  Through all the storytelling, Gray was silent. She absently stroked the fur of the wolfhounds, who sat on either side of her now, like two tall pillars shielding her from harm.

  “What about you, Gray?” he finally asked. “How did you come to live in the forest?”

  Her fists tightened in the dogs’ fur. He could almost see her mind flitting through possible answers.

  In the end, she shrugged. “There isn’t much to it. I lost my ma when I was young. My da had no use for me. So I ran away.”

  It was as vague an answer as she could have given him. But he didn’t want to press her.

  What was the point, after all? In another few days, he’d leave the outlaws, return to the keep, and wed his betrothed. He’d forget all about the woman named Gray. Her shimmering silver eyes would fade from his thoughts. Her soft pink lips would seem like a dream he’d once had. The incredible kiss they’d shared would be only a hazy memory.

  Only that memory wasn’t so hazy at the moment. He remembered every intimate detail.

  Her mouth opening in pleased surprise.

  The fresh scent of water on her hair.

  The welcome pressure of her body against his.

  He hadn’t realized he was staring at her until Ronan cleared his throat. “How about a bit of entertainment? Lady Mor can bring out her harp.” He winked at Ryland. “Gray tells us ye’re quite the minstrel.”

  “Nay, you don’t want to hear me sing,” he scoffed.

  “We do,” Ronan argued, waving his arms to get all the others to egg him on.

  “Sing! Sing! Sing!” they chanted, ignoring his protests, until his resistance was worn down.

  “All right, fine. But I’ll warn you, I don’t know many songs.”

  “What do ye know?” Lady Mor asked.

  “Le Lai du Chaitivel?”

  “One o’ my favorites,” she said, leaving to fetch her harp from the cave.

  The song was a tragic one, about a vain lady who couldn’t choose between four suitors and so encouraged them to compete for her affections. Three of the knights died, and the fourth was left impotent from his wounds. In the end, even though he won the lady, the surviving knight considered himself the unluckiest of all, for the other three had met quick deaths, while he endured prolonged suffering the rest of his life.

  Ryland had forgotten how long the piece was. Halfway through, he thought perhaps he should cut it short. He didn’t want to bore his audience.

  But then he glanced over at Gray.

  She seemed captivated by the music. Her eyes were closed, and she was swaying gently back and forth.

  So he continued through the rest of the lines, finally finishing to the cheers of the camp.

  “By Tuan’s beard,” Maelan declared, “I reckon ’tis the finest singin’ I’ve e’er heard.”

  “Aye, me as well,” Fergus gushed.

  “Well done,” Sorcha said.

  The rest
of the woodkerns agreed.

  All but mischievous Ronan.

  “Hold on now! Wait a moment,” Ronan protested, holding up his hands to halt the praise. “I beg to differ.” When the other woodkerns protested, he shook his head. “Nay, nay. ’Twas a pretty enough tune, and ye served it up fairly, Sir Ryland, to be sure. But I’ve heard better…indeed, among our own members.” At the perplexed pause from the outlaws, Ronan gave a nod. “Gray?”

  Gray stared back at Ronan, puzzled. Then her face blossomed into a smile, and her eyes danced merrily in the firelight.

  “Is this true?” Ryland asked her. “Do you sing?”

  “Well…”

  Ronan answered for her. “Oh, sir, ye’ve never heard anythin’ quite like it.”

  “I’d love to hear,” Ryland said.

  She gave him a sly look. “Are ye sure?”

  “I insist.”

  “He insists,” Ronan echoed.

  Gray grinned and shook her head. Then she got up and trotted her hounds out with her to the middle of the clearing. The rest of the woodkerns started snickering.

  “Sit,” she told the hounds.

  They did.

  With exaggerated ceremony, she cleared her throat and said primly, “Lord Bran, how nice to see ye. How are ye this fine evenin’?”

  She extended her right hand. Bran placed his paw atop it, then licked the back of her hand.

  Ryland chuckled in approval.

  “And Lord Flann, ye’re lookin’ quite handsome.”

  She repeated the trick with Flann, who sat back down with a bark.

  “What’s that?” she asked. “Ye’d like to perform a song? Well, by all means. Sing. Go on. Sing.”

  Ryland shook his head. He’d been gulled. The hounds raised their noses and made soft and miserable howls.

  “Oh, isn’t that beautiful?” Gray cooed. “But can ye sing a bit louder? Come on, sing.”

  They howled again, this time in an atrocious interval that grated on the ears and the nerves. Ryland simultaneously laughed and winced in pain.

  “Exquisite!” Gray praised them. “But can ye put more heart into it this time? Sing, lads, sing.”

  Once more the hounds bayed at the sky, as if in horrible mourning. This time, the entire camp roared with laughter, which changed the dogs’ howls into confused barks.