Desire’s Ransom

by Campbell, Glynnis

  Mor’s bubbling laughter rang out, and Temair stiffened. Obviously, he’d said something to amuse her. Temair wondered if he was revealing how Gray had caught him in the middle of pissing.

  But Mor never once looked her way, so maybe he was only telling her a jest.

  Temair tossed a pine cone for Flann.

  While he bounded after it, she looked sidelong at Ryland. He was leaning back against the rock with his arms across his chest, looking devastatingly masculine. There was a relaxed smile on his face as he watched Mor fluttering her graceful hands, making gestures to accompany whatever she was telling him.

  Flann nudged Temair’s palm with his wet nose. He’d already dropped the pine cone at her feet. Bran sat beside Flann and gave a single bark. He wanted to play too.

  Temair picked up two pine cones and threw them in different directions, sending the hounds racing off.

  Now Ryland was facing Mor, telling some story that required grand sweeps of his arms. Mor seemed spellbound. Her eyes were glowing, and she had one hand clasped to her breast as if his story was leaving her breathless.

  Temair bit the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t Mor gone with the others today? She almost always went out on fair days.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. As long as her hostage remained in camp, that was all that mattered. And if Mor’s giddy giggling and limpid gazes kept him from leaving, it was for the best.

  Flann and Bran nudged her thigh.

  She frowned at Mor, whose auburn hair was shining like copper in the morning sunlight.

  The dogs bumped her leg again.

  She clenched her jaw. For a man about to meet his bride, it seemed Ryland was becoming a bit too friendly with Mor.

  Flann barked. Bran barked.

  “Shh!” she hissed.

  Chapter 17

  When Temair glanced up again, Mor and Ryland were looking at her. She pretended not to notice, crouching down beside the dogs to give their chests a good scrubbing. When she peered out over Flann’s back, the two were prattling away again.

  She sighed in disgust. Bored with sticks and pine cones and the hounds in general, she decided she’d practice with her bata. After all, if war was coming, she’d best be prepared.

  Cambeal had made a practice dummy out of wood. It had a straw-stuffed cloth head and held aloft a wooden sword and shield. Ronan had stitched Xs into the head for eyes, along with a downturned mouth, and added twigs at the top to make a comical thatch of hair.

  She lugged the dummy from behind the mountain of rock into the clearing.

  Bran and Flann ambled away to nap under the trees. They’d learned about the perils of getting too close to a swinging bata early on.

  The most important thing about fighting with the bata was focus. Cambeal had drilled that into Temair, using every distraction possible to test her—from startling her with shouts to making young Fergus streak past naked. She’d learned to block out all outside influences and pay heed to her opponent alone.

  She warmed up with a few lunges and, gripping the bata, stretched her arms up over her head, loosening her shoulders. Then, tossing her hair back, she faced the dummy.

  Beyond the stuffed head, she could see Ryland was grinning over something Mor was telling him.

  With a dismissive grunt, she started with the bata held horizontally in front of her in both hands. She began alternating hands, releasing one and using the other to flick the stick forward, hitting the dummy on the sides, where its ribs would be.

  Lady Mor had never learned to use the bata. She always claimed it was not a weapon for a lady. She said she preferred to use her womanly wiles.

  It looked like she was using those wiles on Ryland. He seemed to be quite amused by whatever drivel she was feeding him.

  Temair frowned and moved on to two hits on one side, one on the other. Cambeal had taught her that switching up rhythms made a bata fighter unpredictable and hard to defend against.

  That had certainly been the case when she’d fought with Ryland, she thought smugly. Even armed with a sword, he’d been unable to anticipate her moves.

  Next she gripped the bata in both hands, swaying swiftly left and right with forward circles, hitting the dummy high and low, from shoulder to hip.

  She wondered if Mor was clucking her tongue at Ryland now, exclaiming over how unladylike Gray was.

  Temair shoved forward with full force against the dummy’s chest, and then let her hands slide together to deliver a hard wallop to the side of its neck.

  She sniffed with satisfaction. Though Ryland didn’t realize it, she’d held back with him. A good bata fighter could maim and even kill a man with a well-placed blow.

  The sound of Mor’s high-pitched titters made Temair grind her teeth.

  She poked forward with the end of the bata, jabbing the dummy hard in the stomach, finishing with a violent, two-fisted overhead hack that knocked the stuffed head right off of its wooden body.

  It rolled across the ground, landing at Ryland’s feet.

  Lady Mor gave a feminine gasp and clasped both hands to her bosom.

  Temair felt her face go hot with embarrassment.

  The expression on Ryland’s face, however, wasn’t one of ridicule, but of amusement and interest.

  “Mind if I give it a try?” he asked with enthusiasm.

  Temair blinked in surprise.

  Mor made a choking sound. “Silly Gray. Why would Sir Ryland want to learn to fight with a stick when he’s got a big, long sword made o’ steel?”

  There was no mistaking her insinuation. But Ryland either didn’t seem to notice or ignored it if he did.

  “Do you have a spare weapon?” he asked.

  “Aye.” There were several more in the cave.

  Lady Mor could see Ryland wasn’t going to be distracted, so she tossed off one last tempting line. “Well, I can’t bear to watch such violence, m’lord. I think I’ll take advantage o’ the good weather and go down to the lough for a bath.”

  Temair wondered if coy Mor would linger there all day, waiting for Ryland to appear. Why it bothered her, she didn’t know. After all, Ryland was promised to another—to her actually. And since that wedding wasn’t going to take place, it didn’t matter what romantic entanglements he pursued.

  That’s what she told herself. It wasn’t how she felt. Mor’s open flirtation nagged at her, almost as much as Ryland’s apparent enjoyment of it.

  Temair was glad Mor had left. Fighting with the bata required concentration, and Ryland clearly couldn’t concentrate with a beautiful redhead nearby.

  Once she moved the dummy out of the way and gave Ryland a bata, she showed him how to warm up. He picked it up very quickly. She supposed that made sense. He was a trained swordsman. The techniques couldn’t be too different.

  Soon they were lunging in unison, moving the batas slowly forward and back.

  “Like this?” he asked, swinging the bata around to his side.

  “Aye, only more…”

  She showed him. He copied her movements. He actually was a very adept student.

  When she tried to show him how to close the distance rapidly between his hands in order to flip the bata’s end around, he kept letting go of the stick. She moved closer in to show him. Putting her hands atop his, she slid them closely together so he could see how it felt.

  It felt seductive. His hands dwarfed hers. His knuckles were warm. She could feel his battle scars under her palms. And the motion they made together, sliding slowly along the bata, made her face burn.

  “Do ye have it now?” she asked breathlessly, stepping away.

  “I think so. ’Tis a twist of the body at the same time, right?” He slid his hands together, twisted, and whipped the bata forward.

  She nodded. She’d never realized how alluring a man could look, expertly wielding a bata.

  After several repetitions, he asked, “What else?”

  She showed him how to feint back with one arm and jab forward with the other. He
showed particular enthusiasm for that.

  “’Tis almost like using a sword and shield,” he realized.

  “But instead o’ defense, the shield arm is meant to distract,” she told him.

  “Exactly!”

  He repeated the motion, changing arms, until he was proficient. She was truly impressed by his progress.

  “Ye’re the fastest learner I’ve seen,” she remarked. “It took me a month to learn all o’ that.”

  “Well, to be fair,” he said as he continued to feint and jab, feint and jab, “I’ve had a whole lifetime of learning to fight. I doubt you, Lady Gray, were born with a blade in your hands.”

  She joined him in feinting and jabbing. “True.”

  “How long have you trained?” he asked.

  “Since I came here six years ago.”

  He nodded. “You’re very accomplished.”

  His words made her glow inside. She wasn’t sure how to respond.

  After a long silence, broken only by their sharp exhales as they thrust forward, she finally worked up the courage to murmur, “I’d like to apologize for last night.”

  He nodded. “For the snoring, you mean?”

  “What?” She stopped, turning on him. “Snorin’? I don’t snore.”

  He stopped too. “The hell you don’t.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Like to wake the dead.”

  She stared at him with her mouth agape. Then she muttered, “I’m certain ’twas one o’ the hounds.”

  “That’s what I thought at first too.” He shook his head. “But nay. Your hounds were just as surprised as I was.” While her mouth was still open, he added, “Don’t let it trouble you. I’m sure you couldn’t help it. There’s really no need to apologize.”

  She finally closed her jaw, compressed her lips, and gave him a scolding poke with her bata. “That’s not what I meant, and ye know it. I meant I apologize for doubtin’ ye.”

  His slow, heart-melting smile told her he’d been teasing her. “I know. And I accept your apology.”

  She nodded, still bristling from his accusation.

  Then she returned to the subject at hand, raising her bata vertically and showing him how to slide his hands together for overhead and underhand strikes.

  Once he could do that smoothly, she said, “I’m just glad Ronan didn’t share it with all the woodkerns.”

  “Oh, I threatened to throttle him if he breathed a word,” Ryland confessed.

  She stopped. “Ye did?”

  He stopped as well and shrugged. “Of course.”

  She thought that was terribly chivalrous of him.

  Until he returned to practicing with the bata and said, “I couldn’t have him crowing all over the camp about how well-endowed English knights are.”

  That made her laugh. She swatted his backside with her bata.

  He yelped in protest. “Why are you laughing? Do you doubt it?”

  “That ye’re well-endowed? I don’t know. I didn’t look,” she lied.

  “The hell you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t,” she insisted, although her giggles gave her away.

  “That’s a lovely sound,” he told her.

  “Stop it.”

  “’Tis a lovely sound. You should laugh more.”

  She shook her head. He was only flattering her.

  “Enough o’ your nonsense. Try this,” she said, eager to change the subject. She demonstrated a two-handed swinging blow.

  “Now that’s like swordplay,” he said, instantly mastering the technique. After a dozen downward swings that whistled forcefully through the air, he smiled. “Is this how yonder friend lost his head?” He nodded toward the practice dummy.

  “Aye,” she said sheepishly.

  His grin widened. “Maybe I should count my blessings you didn’t lop off my head when you had the chance.”

  “Indeed,” she replied.

  “Would you like another chance?” He turned to face her and gave her a wink.

  The light in her eyes was answer enough.

  Now that she’d mastered the bata, Cambeal didn’t train much with her anymore, which was why he’d made the dummy. Since she didn’t often tangle with victims skilled at arms, she was seldom required to engage in physical confrontations.

  Sparring with a real live opponent, as she had when they’d first met across the stream, was a rare pleasure.

  With a nod of her head, she swept the bata diagonally before her in a salute.

  He returned the greeting.

  Then she began the battle.

  Of course, he withheld his strength to make it a fair fight. Likewise, she withheld her speed to keep him engaged. They battled back and forth, scrabbling across the clearing and kicking up dust, whacking the occasional tree, both as gleeful as the hounds chasing after sticks.

  Then he began to taunt her. “Is that the best you can do?” He grinned as he blocked her overhand blow. “Shall I tie one hand behind my back to make it a more fair fight?” He dodged a jab aimed at his side. “Or if you’re too worn out,” he said, forcing her back with a few annoying pokes, “I can always wander down to the lough to see what Lady Mor’s up to.”

  The mention of Mor pricked Temair’s temper. And the fact that it bothered her made her even more furious. She replied with a ferocious attack that backed him up against the wall of the mountain. “Ha!”

  But then he surprised her with a return assault that sent her scrabbling back to the middle of the clearing. “Oho!” he retorted.

  It was time to summon up her most devious tricks, the ones she hadn’t shown him.

  Taking a deep breath of preparation, she began her onslaught. Twirling her bata, she caught him unawares with a sharp rap on his shoulder. Then she spun halfway around, jabbing unexpectedly backwards to catch him in the belly. While he was recovering, she whipped the bata around by its end, where it smacked him on the hip, knocking him off-balance. Using the tip of the stick, she tangled his legs and made him stumble back. Before he could regain his balance, she stepped toward him, placed the bata flat against his chest, and shoved him against the trunk of a tree. Finally, she brought the bata up swiftly to press against the vulnerable spot between his legs.

  The effect was instantaneous.

  With a ragged gasp, Ryland stiffened. Effectively at her mercy, he dropped his weapon.

  Temair gave him a smug, smoldering smirk. That move never failed to take all the fight out of a man.

  She expected to see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes now.

  She expected his lips to stretch in a good-natured grin.

  She expected to hear his warm chuckles of surrender any moment.

  But he wasn’t smiling.

  Chapter 18

  As Temair gazed into Ryland’s hooded eyes, her smile faded.

  He wasn’t afraid she’d actually do him harm, was he?

  Nay.

  It wasn’t fear veiling his eyes.

  Nor danger flaring his nostrils.

  Nor apprehension leaving him breathless.

  The gaze he lowered to her mouth was full of raw need.

  Suddenly aware of the pressure of her bata against his groin, Temair couldn’t help but remember what she’d glimpsed last night. Flashing through her mind’s eye was the compelling image of his naked flesh nestled in dark curls. The memory alone triggered a brilliant shock and a lusty tension between her own legs. The intense sensation made her knees weak.

  Her breath caught. She lowered her gaze, trying to conceal her sudden powerlessness, fixing her eyes instead on Ryland’s mouth. His delicious, tantalizing, irresistible mouth.

  Damning the consequences, she followed her instincts. Leaning closer, she slowly let the bata slide down. She watched as he sucked a breath of anticipation and pleasure between his teeth.

  But when the backs of her knuckles chanced to brush his hard and eager swelling, it was all Temair could do not to gasp in wonder.

  His eyes were shut tight now. But
she still saw longing in the furrow between his brows and in the way the corner of his lip was caught under his teeth.

  She let go of the bata and let it fall to the ground. Closing her eyes, she angled her wrist to capture him in her palm. Even through his clothing, she could feel the heat of him, full and firm and demanding.

  It took her breath away.

  She managed to lift her lust-heavy lids just enough to see his thirsty tongue trace the rim of his bottom lip.

  And she was undone.

  Bunching the front of his tabard in her free fist, she surged forward with a soft cry and claimed his mouth.

  His kiss was even sweeter than she remembered. Hot and searching, his lips drank from hers as if she harbored the most amazing ambrosia. His tongue made soft trespasses to bathe her in liquid passion. And when he groaned against her, her blood shot through her veins with the force of a winter flood.

  The longer they kissed, the more she desired to kiss him. Time and place vanished. Reason deserted her. The world melted away until there were only the two of them.

  Lost in a haze of seductive pleasure, Temair vaguely wished it would last forever.

  Ryland was drowning in a sea of lust, as helpless as a storm-wrecked ship. And yet he had no desire to claw his way back up to the surface.

  He’d never been kissed with such fervor. He’d never been so quickly aroused. Nor so completely enchanted.

  It came as no surprise then that he was in no hurry for it to end.

  But chivalry was at the very core of his being. And guilt was a cruel master to a man of honor. What they were doing wasn’t right. He was promised to another. He must be faithful to his bride.

  Besides, he was doing Gray no favors, leading her on in this way when nothing would come of it. Even if she was as sultry and tempting as a Saracen concubine.

  So it was with great regret and a good deal of physical torment that he slowly pulled away from the kiss, taking Gray gently but firmly by the shoulders and setting her at arm’s length.

  She blinked as if waking up and raised trembling fingers to her blushing lips.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just…”