Chapter 10
Dawn painted the topmost stones of the tower house, the spot where the older O’Keeffe daughter had apparently fallen to her death.
Ryland drew his brows together. He wondered if the rumors were true, that his bride-to-be had murdered her sister.
As he and his men shouldered their packs and set out on foot toward the trees, he took a bracing breath. If ever there was an inauspicious beginning to a marriage, this was it.
He couldn’t blame the lass for running off. As a ruler, Cormac was abusive. As a father, he was likely even more vicious and demanding. The idea of submitting to a foreign bridegroom who might well be a harsher master than her father was probably horrifying. It was reason enough for Temair to flee and take her chances in the wilds.
The fact that Cormac practically admitted he beat his own daughter set Ryland’s teeth on edge. Nothing was more abhorrent to him and contrary to his knightly vows than a man who preyed on those less powerful than himself.
When they found the lass, Ryland would have to convince her that he was nothing like her father, that he meant her no harm. To his relief, it sounded like Temair was nothing like her father either. She shared neither his pasty flesh nor orange hair. Hopefully, she didn’t share his volatile temper.
“Where do we start?” Godwin asked.
“She can’t have gone far,” Ryland said. At least, he hoped not. The Irish forest was like a maze. It would be easy to get lost. He’d already decided it would be best if they didn’t split up to search for her.
“’Tis a shame O’Keeffe keeps no hounds,” Osgood said.
Ryland agreed. A keen-nosed hound would have been useful.
Warin nodded toward the trees. “A traveler would normally stay close to the main road.”
“Not if the traveler didn’t want to be found,” Laurence said.
Ryland furrowed his brows. Who knew this forest? Who knew the places a fugitive might hide? Who might have stumbled across a lass lost in the woods in the last three days?
The woodkerns.
They probably noticed every time a new sparrow flitted through the boughs. They would know if a stranger had entered the wood. He’d find the outlaws and offer them a reward for information about a chieftain’s daughter wandering among the fern.
Though he was loath to admit it, the possibility of encountering one particular outlaw—the beautiful, gray-eyed lass—stirred Ryland’s blood in disturbing ways. As wrong as it was, his pulse quickened at the thought of matching wits with her again.
They searched for hours along the main road. They looked for footprints, scraps of cloth, ashes of a fire. There was no evidence whatsoever of a runaway bride.
At mid-day, they stopped for cheese, oatcakes, smoked trout, and ale, adding a few wild strawberries that grew along a roadside spring.
By late afternoon, they drew near to the narrows before the clearing where they’d been waylaid by the woodkerns. There was no assurance the outlaws would be there today, but it was likely they preferred to work in familiar surroundings.
“We’ll question the woodkerns,” he announced.
There was an outcry over that.
“Are you mad, m’lord?” Warin blinked in disbelief.
Ryland shook his head. “We’ve been searching all day, and we’re no closer to finding her.”
“The longer she’s lost, the more likely…” Osgood didn’t want to finish the sentence, but they all knew a woman alone in the woods was at terrible risk. Every hour counted.
Warin grimaced. “There has to be another way.”
“This is really our best chance,” Ryland said.
“Our best chance to be beggared,” Warin muttered.
“Sir Ryland has a point,” Godwin volunteered. “No one knows the forest better.”
“That may be.” Warin arched an indignant brow. “But why would a pack of common thieves help us?”
“Because I’ll pay them to help us,” Ryland said.
Laurence crossed his arms over his chest and clucked his tongue. “I don’t trust them.”
“Right,” Warin agreed.
“Nor do I,” Ryland said, “which is why I won’t pay them until they lead me to my bride.”
Warin still grumbled, “I don’t see what’s to keep them from simply robbing us blind and stealing off into the woods.”
Laurence could answer that. “A band of motley outlaws is no match for five Knights of de Ware.”
“Is that so?” Warin argued. “They seemed to have had little trouble yesterday.”
“They had leverage then,” Godwin pointed out. “Today, we won’t be taken by surprise.”
“Right,” Ryland said, unbuckling his sword belt and handing his sword to Osgood. “This time we’ll be ready for them.”
Warin glared at him. “What the devil are you doing, m’lord?”
Ryland adjusted the pack on his shoulders. “Offering myself up as bait.”
Warin choked.
“What?” Laurence demanded. “Unarmed?”
Ryland clapped Laurence on the shoulder and winked. “They’re thieves, not murderers. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, bloody hell, if anyone is going to be bait, ’twill be me,” Warin decided, fumbling with the buckle of his sword belt.
“Nay.” Ryland seized his arm to stop him. “This is my quest. She’s my bride.”
Warin bit back another oath. “If anything happens to you…”
Laurence frowned. “Take a dagger at least, my lord.”
“I’ll be perfectly safe,” Ryland assured them. “And I promise, if I get into any trouble, I’ll give a whistle, and you can all come running to my rescue.”
This seemed to mollify Godwin and Osgood. Laurence still looked displeased. And Warin looked inconsolable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ryland said, thumping Warin on the chest. “You’ll make me think that perhaps I’m not the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in England after all.”
With that, he ventured down the road alone. He followed the path around the bend until he lost sight of his men. Then he began to tromp loudly along toward the narrows, bellowing a tune sure to attract the attention of anyone in earshot. If his heartfelt rendition of Le Lai du Chaitivel didn’t roust the woodkerns from the woods, nothing could.
Temair sighed as she picked the blackberries off the streamside vines and dropped them into her basket. She supposed, if she was forced to stay concealed in the woods for her own safety, at least she had the company of her wolfhounds, Bran and Flann. She tossed a berry to Flann, who snapped it up in his teeth, pretending to enjoy it. She laughed, throwing one to Bran as well, who gingerly peeled his lips back and let it drop to the ground.
Now and then her gaze strayed to the fallen log that made a bridge across the stream and the spot where she’d knocked the handsome knight into the water. Her heart skipped as she remembered his bright grin and dancing brown eyes.
She’d returned to this place today, telling herself she was going back for the blackberries. But she knew the truth. As childish as it was, she hoped by some ridiculous miracle to run into that dashing swordsman again.
Of course he wasn’t coming back. Why would he? The woodkerns hadn’t stolen so much as a single coin from the knights. There was no need for them to return to collect their losses. The man was likely halfway across Eire by now.
Not that it mattered if he did come back.
Temair had to stay out of sight. Her black hair and telltale gray eyes would instantly mark her as the chieftain’s daughter. Now that she was in danger of being hunted, her mask wasn’t enough of a disguise.
She’d never really minded wearing a mask, to be truthful. She’d always rather enjoyed the air of mystery it lent her. And disguising her gender usually gave her an advantage when it came to foiling foes.
She smiled as she remembered the English knight’s astonished face when he’d unmasked her and realized he’d been defeated by a lass. She wished she could see his perplexed expression again.
But she couldn’t.
Because she had to hide.
Damn it all. She hated hiding.
She let out another long sigh, consoling herself with a blackberry.
She was mid-bite when a sudden, loud howl from the road startled her, nearly making her upend the whole basket.
The hounds snapped to attention, but they made no sound. Temair had trained them well. They stood silent, at the ready, waiting for her signal.
She cocked her head to listen. The distant baying sounded suspiciously like a song. She gulped down the blackberry. What fool would travel through an outlaw-infested forest, singing at the top of his lungs?
A gullible fool, she thought. Probably one with more coin than sense. Easy prey for an outlaw like Temair.
She caught her lip under her teeth. She was supposed to lie low. She could not be seen. She knew that. Anyone she encountered might send her description back to the chieftain.
But how could she resist the temptation of easy coin?
It wouldn’t take long, she reasoned. She could slip out onto the road, relieve the bellowing bard of his riches, and then vanish into the woods again in the blink of an eye. She’d be there and back in a matter of moments, with none the wiser.
She could trust Flann and Bran to stay obediently behind. And she’d return immediately to camp with her spoils.
While she pondered the risks, the singing grew louder. She couldn’t make out the words, though they sounded French. His voice was powerful and not unpleasant. Maybe he was a troubadour with a heavy purse.
If she didn’t decide quickly whether to take the risk, he’d pass by. And the chance would be lost.
“To hell with it,” she muttered, setting down the basket of berries.
She pulled her scarf up over her face and her hood down over her head. Then she turned to the hounds with a stern finger.
“Flann. Bran. Sit.”
They did.
“Stay.”
She placed the basket in front of them, as if it was their duty to guard it.
“Stay,” she repeated.
The hounds slid down until their front paws touched the basket.
Then she slung her bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulder and tripped lightly across the log to the far bank. Following the source of the sound, she made her way soundlessly through the fern and willows. Near the narrows of the road, she hid behind the thick trunk of an oak. Silently nocking an arrow into her bow, she waited for the singer to draw close.
His truly was an outstanding voice. The melody was strong and confident. The tone was rich and rolling with just a touch of melancholy. In fact, Temair had to be careful not to get so distracted by the performance that she misjudged her timing.
She’d made the leap from behind this particular oak so many times she could do it with her eyes closed. The tree was perfectly situated to conceal an outlaw from anyone traveling along the road until the very last instant. All Temair had to do was listen for the footsteps—or in this case, the loud singing—for the ideal moment to pop out.
Just before the man grew even with the oak, Temair sprang out onto the road with her bow drawn.
“Hold, sir, and—!”
The air went out of her lungs. It was him. Somehow—impossibly—it was the English knight.