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.
For some reason, the hope in Ryland’s voice aggravated Temair. “Nay, that is not Temair,” she muttered.
Then she suddenly realized that Aife may have news about the imposter.
“Aife, ye must be exhausted,” Temair said. “Come inside and have a pint. Sorcha? Mor?” She beckoned the women to gather in the cave. “Gentlemen, if ye’ll give us a moment…” She didn’t wait for their approval, but she gave Cambeal a meaningful look to ensure his cooperation.
Though Temair was the leader of the woodkerns, decisions were usually made by the entire group. This situation, however, required a hasty plan. Cambeal would recognize that. He’d make sure the rest of the woodkerns stood by her decision, whatever it was.
Once the four women were inside the cave, the furious whispers began.
“What are ye goin’ to do, Gray?” Lady Mor asked Temair, wringing her hands.
“I know what I’d like to do,” Temair ground out. “I’d like to grab my bata and pay my father a visit.”
“Why did they think I was Temair?” Aife asked.
Temair started pacing in fury. “That land has been in O’Keeffe hands for hundreds of years. That tuath is my bloody legacy. How dare my father hand it off to strangers?”
Aife blinked in confusion. “What’s goin’ on?”
Lady Mor answered Aife. “That knight—the one who thought ye were Temair? Well, that’s Sir Ryland de Ware, the English knight who’s come to wed Temair. Only he doesn’t know that Gray is Temair, because he’s never laid eyes on her. And Cormac has told Ryland that Temair has run away when in fact—”
“Hush, Mor!” Sorcha said. “Ye’re only confoundin’ the matter. One thing at a time.” She poured ales all around.
Temair stopped pacing and took a bracing gulp. “Aife, what news from the tower house?”
Aife cleared her throat importantly and gave her report. “’Tis woeful tidin’s. This afternoon, a maid o’erheard the chieftain speakin’ to someone on the stairs. He was arguin’ with a lass, tellin’ her his plans had changed, that he was sendin’ her away.”
“A lass?” Temair asked. “What lass?”
Aife shrugged. “The maid said she was certain the lass must be his daughter Temair, finally released from her cell after all these years.”
“Go on.”
“The lass began weepin’ and wailin’, sayin’ the chieftain had promised she could stay at the keep. He told her to keep quiet or he’d give her a reason to weep. Then she said a curious thing. She said she’d tell everyone the truth—that the babe she was carryin’ belonged to the chieftain—if he didn’t keep his word.”
Lady Mor gasped.
Temair felt sick. No matter how diabolical she believed her father was, he always managed to exceed her expectations.
Aife went on. “After that, the maid heard the chieftain cloutin’ the lass and the lass whimperin’. There was a dreadful thud on the stairs and then silence. The maid was afraid she’d be discovered, so she fled. But she said when she returned later, there was a great deal o’ blood on the stairs. She feared the chieftain killed the lass.”
They all stared silently into their ales as they absorbed the horrible news.
Lady Mor sighed in sympathy. “The poor wench.”
Temair shuddered. She remembered what it was like to be beaten by Cormac. She’d been lucky to escape with her life. But to be burdened with child, then cast out like offal…
“Maybe she’s better off dead,” she breathed. Sometimes that was what she thought about her sister.
But the other revelation was even more insidious. Her father hadn’t intended to leave the land in the hands of strangers after all. By impregnating the lass he meant to pass off as his daughter, he planned to deceive the English, to make Sir Ryland de Ware believe the child and heir was his.
Lady Mor creased her brow. “I’m confused. After the chieftain went to such trouble to find a counterfeit bride and get her with child,” she mused aloud, “why would he get rid o’ her?”
Sorcha nodded. “And why would he send the English knights on a fool’s errand—searchin’ for the lass in the woods—when he knew very well she hadn’t run off?”
Temair could answer that. “The lass was threatenin’ to expose his secrets. She was becomin’ too difficult to control.”
That was the reason her da had never expended much effort in looking for Temair after she’d fled. Her sister Aillenn he’d always been able to manage. But Temair fought back. And if there was one thing a tyrant like her father could not abide, it was someone who wasn’t afraid to retaliate.
“So what do ye think the chieftain will do next?” Lady Mor asked.
“He’ll find a replacement for her,” Sorcha guessed.
“One he can bend to his will,” Temair agreed.
Sorcha added, “Meanwhile, he’s distractin’ the English knights, sendin’ them on a merry chase after a ghost.”
After a long, pensive silence, Aife meekly suggested, “What if ye tell them the truth, Gray? What if ye tell them who ye are?”
“Nay!” Temair blurted out vehemently. “So long as my brutish father is breathin’, I won’t go back to the tuath. I won’t live under his thumb again. Ever. I just won’t.”
Sorcha gently took her arm. “Nor will we ever make ye. Orlaith made ye a promise that first day, and we mean to keep it. Ye’ll always have a safe home with us here.”
Temair nodded and gave her a grateful half-smile. But she still wasn’t happy. “I won’t let my father hand o’er what rightfully belongs to the clann.” She began pacing again, rubbing the back of her neck. “I need to stop this sham of a marriage and come up with a way to take the tuath away from him, once and for all.”
“Take it away?” Aife’s brows shot up. “How?”
Sorcha sighed. “Ye’d need an army.”
Temair let out a sigh. Sorcha was right. It was a foolish idea.
“What if we…kept the bridegroom?” Lady Mor asked.
“Kept him?” Aife said. “Why?”
Lady Mor arched a brow. “He can’t very well be married if he can’t be found.”
“Wait.” Temair had another idea, one that made a shiver of excitement travel up her spine. “What if we held him for ransom?”
“Ransom?” Aife exclaimed.
“Aye,” Temair gushed. “The last thing Cormac wants is for the king to find out things have become…messy, right?”
“Right,” said Sorcha.
Temair continued. “So he’ll pay to see the king’s man returned safely.”
“And quietly,” Aife added.
“Right,” said Temair.
Sorcha knitted her brows. “If he pays the ransom, then what?”
Temair smiled in triumph. “We’ll use the money to hire an army o’ mercenaries to take back the tuath.”
“A real army?” Lady Mor said in surprise.
“Aye.”
Temair felt suddenly giddy. They could do this. Orlaith had told her that one day Temair would reclaim her legacy. That time was now. Between Cambeal’s warfare expertise and Domnall and Maelan’s experience as soldiers, they could assemble and lead an army to storm the tower and reclaim what was hers.
Lady Mor and Aife squealed in contagious joy.
But when Temair looked at Sorcha, the woman had gone quiet.
“What is it?” Temair asked.
Sorcha tapped her lip. “Do ye think ’tis necessary to take it by force?”
“Force is the only language my father understands.” Bitterness colored her words.
Sorcha studied her a long while then and finally nodded her head. “’Tis up to ye, Gray. Ye brought de Ware here. Ye should decide his fate. O’Keeffe is your birthright, after all.”
Temair thought of it as all of their birthright. As far as she was concerned, the woodkerns were her clann. Though she’d never openly stated it, she’d always known in her heart that when she regained her title, she’d bring her band of outlaws with her to live in Tuath O’Keeffe.
“So what will we tell the English knights?” Aife asked.
“A lie,” Temair said. “We need them to deliver the ransom message.”
“And what will ye do with Sir Ryland?” Lady Mor asked.
Temair shrugged. That was the least of her worries. For the moment, all she had to decide was how much he was worth.
Ryland wasn’t born yesterday. By their exaggerated air of nonchalance, he could tell the women were up to something the instant they emerged from the strange vine-covered cave.
What it was, he couldn’t tell. But something was afoot.
At the moment, he couldn’t do much about it. The knights were at the mercy of the woodkerns. They’d never be able to find their way out of this knot of a forest alone. But it was a calculated risk he’d taken to get the outlaws’ assistance.
Indeed, while the women had been chatting about…whatever it was they were chatting about…the woodkerns had discussed a number of possible ideas about where his missing bride could be. They clearly knew the lay of the land. And to his relief, not once did they try to suggest she might have been stolen by faerie folk.
Gray gave him an elusive smile. “Aife has indeed brought news about your bride.”
“News? What news?” Ryland eagerly demanded.
“Do ye mind?” she asked, sidling past him and breaking his concentration, indicating her hounds. “They haven’t been watered yet.”
He released the dogs, and they trotted off to her. She ushered them away, chaining them to a tree.
“Good news, I hope?” he called out. He hoped to locate the missing lady and return to the keep before it got dark.
“Aye,” she said. “It seems your bride didn’t leave the keep after all.”
“What?”
His knights grumbled in discontent, and he held his hand up for quiet.
The older woman, Sorcha, shook her head. “Curious how often a man searches far afield for what’s right under his nose.”
There was an odd glimmer in her eyes, as if she were speaking about something else. But he was too aggravated over the time he’d already wasted to try to decipher her meaning.
“So all this has been for nothing?” Warin complained, giving Ryland a smug look.
Ryland didn’t completely agree. He’d gotten to see the lovely lady outlaw with the shimmering gray eyes again.
But aye, it was for nothing. His destiny and his bride—the woman with whom he was about to spend all the rest of his life—was waiting for him miles away at the castle.
“Thank you for the news.” He dug in his satchel. The woodkerns may not have led him to his betrothed. But they had assisted him and saved him countless more hours of searching.
“That won’t be necessary,” Gray said. “I’ll have two of the men lead you back.” She gave a nod of confirmation to the woodkerns. “Nock? Mark?”
If he’d been listening closer, he might have taken notice of the strange names. He might have realized they weren’t names, but commands. But he was too busy being a gentleman.
“I’m a man of honor,” he insisted. “I told you I’d pay you for your help. You’ve given it to me.” He gave her a lopsided grin and a wink as he held out a small velvet bag of silver. “You can buy your hounds a proper meal.”
But Gray didn’t smile at the jest. In fact, she looked tense. And guilty as hell. A sudden foreboding settled over him like a shadow.
Then she changed everything with a single command. “Draw.”
Before any of his knights could unsheathe, the outlaws turned on them with loaded and drawn bows.