Chapter 19
Temair filled her cup with ale for the second time, slugging down half of it at once.
The woodkerns, arriving full of treasure and tales, had had a profitable day. Gathering around the fire, they boasted of their adventures and the fruits of their labor.
But Temair’s day had left her as prickly as a cat in a thunderstorm.
Not only had she felt frustrated by being restricted to the camp while the others were out looting, but her head was still spinning over her situation with Ryland.
First of all, she should never have kissed him again. No matter how tempting and inevitable and right it had felt at the time, she shouldn’t have done it.
It wasn’t right. Not at all. As far as Ryland was aware, he was promised to another. He was practically a married man.
And yet, the bride he was promised to was her. So it wasn’t as if that indiscretion could legitimately be considered cheating.
The fact that Ryland had put a stop to the kiss said much about his honor. She respected him for that.
On the other hand, perhaps he’d only stopped her because he’d found he wasn’t attracted to her, not in the way she was attracted to him. And that hurt her pride.
And now, unsure whether she admired or begrudged him for his actions, she ended up vexed at herself for even caring what he thought.
She wasn’t going to marry him.
She’d already decided that.
So what did it matter whether he was a cheat?
Why should she care if he did or didn’t like her?
What difference did it make if freshly bathed Lady Mor was sitting on the other side of him, fluttering her lashes?
Temair pounded down the rest of her ale.
At the sound of Mor’s giggles, she winced and got up to refill her cup…again.
Friar Brian had just begun to serve up the pea pottage when Conall and young Fergus strode into the camp with two strangers.
Sorcha exchanged a quick glance with Temair. Any other day, entertaining the nobles they’d robbed was commonplace. But with a hostage on the line and Temair’s identity at stake, it was a bold and risky proposition—one that Conall and Fergus probably shouldn’t have undertaken.
She trusted Ryland would say nothing to divulge his identity that might threaten the safe transfer of his ransom. Meanwhile, the woodkerns would have to do nothing to arouse suspicion.
“Welcome to our lovely camp!” Conall announced.
Although the noble visitors looked irritated at being inconvenienced, they were civil enough.
Fergus introduced them. “These are Sir William and Sir Robert.”
Cambeal and Niall introduced themselves and invited the two gentlemen to sit by the fire. The friar prepared to fill bread crusts with pottage for the guests.
As was customary, Sorcha explained. “Sir William, Sir Robert, we may be outlaws, but we never take more than we need. And if ye’re willin’ enough to hand it over without a fuss, we’re glad to give ye sustenance for your journey home.”
Sir William laughed. “Generous outlaws—ha!” He elbowed his companion, who wasn’t quite as jolly.
Sir Robert made a sour face. “The last thing we need is more sustenance.”
“True enough,” William agreed. “We’ve just come from Chieftain O’Keeffe’s table.” With one hand, he patted his broad belly. With the other, he fended off Brian’s offer of pottage. “I doubt I’ll need sustenance for another week.”
Temair dug her fingernail into her wooden cup. They’d just eaten at her father’s table? Had Cormac mentioned her? Had he talked about the ransom?
As casually as she could, she asked them, “Did ye happen to see any other English knights there?” She ignored Sorcha’s sharp look of warning.
“Maybe we did,” Robert said evasively. “Maybe we didn’t.”
William gave his companion a chiding cuff. “There were a few Irish nobles at supper,” he volunteered, “but no English knights.”
“Why are you telling them?” Robert bit out.
“Because they asked,” William replied.
“But they’re outlaws!”
“What’s the harm?” William shrugged. “They’re going to rob us either way.”
“Precisely,” Robert said. “I would think you’d know better than to barter with their kind.”
“And I would think you’d know better than to goad them into doing us further harm.”
Robert frowned suspiciously at the woodkerns around him, as if wondering if they might chop off his fingers or poke out his eyes.
“At any rate,” William continued, “we may as well enjoy the evening and be sent safely on our way, aye?”
Cambeal, ever the diplomat, intervened smoothly. “Sir William is right. We have no wish to do ye harm, as long as ye give us no reason to do so. We only hunger for news o’ the outside world.”
“Aye,” Temair chimed in, eager to find out what the hostage situation was. “Can ye give us the latest blather from O’Keeffe?”
“What Gray means,” Sorcha said with a tight, forced smile, “is we’d all love to hear news about our dear clann chieftain.”
Temair bristled at that. She didn’t give a piss what happened to Cormac O’Keeffe. She did, however, want to know what was going on at the tower, so she remained silent.
William hesitated. “You know, on second thought, I wouldn’t mind a cup of your ale to wet my tongue after such a long journey.”
Temair pressed at the ache growing between her eyes. Couldn’t he just spit out his news and be gone?
Aife brought ales for both of them. William raised his ale and took a healthy swig. Robert peered down at his cup as if he feared it might be poisoned.
Temair grew impatient, waiting for them to quench their thirst and begin their story. Beside her, Ryland seemed uneasy as well. Then she realized why. He probably wanted to know what had become of his knights as much as she did. If William and Robert hadn’t seen them, where had they gone?
Finally, William, his tongue loosened by two cups of ale, started recounting the details of the banquet they’d been served.
Temair wasn’t much interested in that. It was a cruel reminder that her father had a habit of snatching the suckling pigs from his starving tenants’ sties and roasting them for the pleasure of a few foreign guests.
Her head was buzzing from her third ale when she rose to get a fourth. William, already nursing his fourth cup, sat forward and motioned the outlaws closer with a drunken gesture of conspiracy.
“Did you know,” he confided, “that King John himself has sent an Englishman to wed the daughter of the O’Keeffe?”
She sensed Ryland stiffen beside her. But Temair was accustomed to hiding secrets, so she continued to sip blithely at her ale. Meanwhile, she was hanging on the nobleman’s every word.
Robert, trying to keep up with William’s consumption of ale, was now drunk enough to blurt out a few important details.
Though the two hadn’t seen Ryland’s knights, they’d heard a lot of gossip from the servants, who were eager to share what they knew.
“Some say they can hear her in the middle of the night,” William said.
“Who?” Ronan asked.
“The chieftain’s daughter,” he said.
Robert added, “’Tis said he keeps her in a cell at the tower.”
“And no one’s laid eyes on her in six years,” said William.
“Not since that fateful night she murdered her sister,” said Robert.
Temair squeezed the wooden cup in her fingers until her knuckles were white.
The whole camp had gone quiet. William and Robert probably presumed it was due to their suspenseful storytelling. But nobody dared breathe a word, lest they reveal Temair’s identity.
The last person she expected to speak on her behalf was Ryland.
“Ballocks!” he spat. “’Tis an unfounded rumor. There’s no evidence Temair O’Keeffe had anything to do with her sister’s death.”
Temair was stunned. That Ryland was aware of the local rumors surprised her. But even more surprising was the way he was standing up for her. Nobody had ever sounded so sure of her innocence.
Not even the woodkerns defended her with such trust. Indeed, not all of them believed that Temair was completely blameless in her sister’s demise. They might not think Temair intentionally pushed her sister off the tower. But some of them assumed it was an unfortunate accident caused by Temair’s temper or carelessness or neglect. Even Temair felt she might be partly responsible.
Ryland’s touching words—combined with the fact that she was on her fourth ale—made tears well in her eyes.
William held up his palms in protest. “I’m not saying she did it. I’m just passing along what the servants said.”
“I pity the bridegroom,” Robert snickered. “The poor fool is walking into a trap. He’ll be lucky to survive a fortnight if O’Keeffe is marrying off his murderous daughter to the king’s man.”
Ryland’s face was grim. “I’m sure the king’s man is not one to give much credit to the prattling of maidservants.”
Temair’s heart swelled. Ryland was defending her.
Then she furrowed her brows. She supposed he wasn’t actually defending her. He didn’t even know she was the chieftain’s daughter. It was more about him defending his own reputation as a man who knew the difference between fact and fiction.
But Robert wasn’t listening. “I wonder how long he’ll last before the monstrous she-devil does him in.”
“God’s wounds!” Ryland exclaimed. “How dare you disparage a woman you’ve never met?”
Temair could feel the heat of righteous indignation rising off of him. It was thrilling. And flattering. And seductive.
William nervously licked his lips as he gripped Robert’s arm, keeping his companion under control. “Oh, I’m certain that’s not what he meant. You didn’t mean that, did you, Robert? Of course he didn’t. What would we know of the wench, after all? We only just arrived at the keep.”
“You should guard your tongue,” Ryland warned.
“Oh, absolutely,” William agreed.
Robert yanked his arm out of William’s grip with a snort.
Before a brawl could ensue, Temair changed the subject. “It grows late, gentlemen. Have ye finished your ales? ’Tis best ye were on your way before the wolves start prowlin’.”
Robert gulped down the last of his ale. “Aye, fine.”
William looked mildly disappointed. He probably would have enjoyed spending the night with the woodkerns. “Ah. Right. Thank you for the ale.”
“Thank ye for the silver,” Temair said pointedly.
“Oh, aye,” William said with a sigh, untying his leather purse and handing it to her.
“And yours?” Temair urged, nodding at Robert.
He scowled, but did likewise.
Temair counted out half of the coins from each purse and handed them back.
“You don’t want all of it?” Robert asked.
William swatted him for asking such a stupid question.
Temair smiled. “We take what we need and what ye can afford, no more. Niall and Maelan, see them to the road, will ye, and turn them in the right direction?”
Obviously, Temair didn’t want them returning to the keep with information about the woodkerns.
The visitors left then, and the outlaws breathed a sigh of relief.
But Temair couldn’t stop staring at Ryland.
He’d stood up for her. Despite the nasty rumors, despite what everyone else maintained was the truth, he wasn’t convinced. And he was giving the bride he’d never met the benefit of the doubt.
She decided it meant even more that he didn’t know she was the chieftain’s daughter. It meant he was giving his blind trust. It meant he believed a person was innocent until they were proven guilty.
What an amazing man he was, she thought. So honorable. And chivalrous. Charitable. And forthright. He was everything a knight should be. Everything a man should be.
She knew she was a bit tipsy from the ale, which always bared her heart and loosened her tongue. But Temair knew she was right about Ryland. Her vision blurred with tears as she resisted the urge to sob out how she felt about him.
Instead, lowering her voice, she leaned toward him in confidence…and almost tipped over. Indeed, she might have landed on her nose if he hadn’t caught her. She supposed she shouldn’t have drunk that fifth ale. Or was it sixth?
“Careful,” he warned.
“Do ye truly believe that, Ryland?” she gushed.
“Believe what?” he said. “Hold on. Are you drunk?”
“Maybe.”
His lips twitched. “Believe what?”
“That she’s innocent?” she whispered.
“Who, my bride?”
She nodded.
“Aye, I do.”
A lump clogged her throat. “Ye don’t think she’s a murderer?”
He shook his head.
“Or…or a monstrous she-devil?”