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.
“All right,” Gray told them, soothing them with a pat. “Ye can hush now.”
Ryland clapped. “Brilliant. I fear you’re right, Ronan. I’ve been soundly defeated.”
“Ha!” Ronan exclaimed, appreciating the jest.
Inspired by the lively atmosphere, some of the others volunteered their talents.
Young Fergus juggled three pine cones with great dexterity, tossing them into the fire at the end, where the pitch snapped and crackled as they went up in flames.
Maelan played a quick tune on a wooden flute while Aife spun around in a gleeful dance that left her in giggles.
Cambeal and Lady Mor followed with a more stately dance.
Domnall was coerced into dragging out his bagpipes and playing a battle song, though the sound made the hounds howl in complaint. When he stopped, Bran laid his head down in relief, and Flann yawned as if bored.
When Conall and Niall returned from delivering the Englishmen to the main road, Gray rose. “We have an early morn and a busy day. We should all get a good night’s rest.”
Ryland watched while the others banked the fire and staggered off to their beds under the stars. To his amusement, most of them slept in the trees.
Just about the time he was going to ask where he should retire, Gray said, “Ye’ll sleep out here, with the hounds and me.”
Clearly, despite his vow, she meant to keep a close watch on him to prevent his escape. But Ryland couldn’t say the idea upset him.
He liked the gangly, howling wolfhounds.
He liked their mistress even better.
Temair knew the wolfhounds were excellent guard dogs. They’d chuff and nudge her awake if Sir Ryland tried to steal away.
But the idea of spending the night so close to the handsome knight was unnerving.
It shouldn’t have been. For the last six years, she’d been living with men. She’d seen them in every stage of dress and undress. Certainly, Sir Ryland was no different from any of the woodkerns.
But she felt strangely vulnerable as she spread her woolen cloak on the ground before the mouth of the cave. Even when she purposely lay down on her side, facing away from him, she felt as edgy as a fly at the perimeter of a spider’s web.
He flapped out his own great cloak on the ground with an annoying whoosh, ruffling her hair—and her calm. Then, with audible grunting and groaning, he stretched out his long frame, far too close for her comfort, and let out a heavy sigh.
She stiffened.
Bloody hell, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. He was so close, she could sense the warmth of his body beside her. So close she could smell him.
At least his scent—a masculine combination of spice, smoke, and leather—was not unpleasant.
Still, she wished she’d thought to make a barricade between them out of her hounds. Instead, Bran and Flann were curled up at their usual post at her feet.
Then, as if she weren’t already too aware of his indecent proximity, he spoke.
“I hope you don’t snore,” he murmured.
“What?”
Incensed, she flipped over to confront him. How dared he suggest such an ignoble thing?
But by the light of the dying coals, she saw that he was grinning. She sighed.
“Good night, my lady,” he said with a wink.
She frowned, mumbling, “G’night, English.”
Then she turned back over. It was not going to be a good night. It was going to be a sleepless night. She could tell already.
She’d only glanced at him for a moment. But she couldn’t get the image of his devilishly handsome face—inches away from hers—out of her mind…
The lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead with a rakish flair.
His heavy brows that descended together like storm clouds when he was angry and arched over his bright, merry eyes when he laughed.
The angles of his face—his square jaw, his strong chin, his broad cheekbones—accented by a manly dusting of stubble.
The saucy wink that made her heart flutter.
It wasn’t right. She should despise him. He represented everything undesirable to her. The loss of her freedom. The wishes of her father. The will of the foreign king.
She’d spent six years as an independent woman, making her own decisions, fending for herself, living the way she chose. To go back to living under the control of a man was unthinkable.
No matter how handsome he was.
She flounced onto her back, disturbing the hounds, who grunted in annoyance.
She had to stop thinking about the English knight and start focusing on her plans to reclaim her tuath.
Taking back the holding wouldn’t be easy.
Once she got the ransom money, she’d have to act fast, before her father found another imposter for Sir Ryland to marry. She’d need to assemble an army great enough to launch an attack on the tower house.
To be honest, she didn’t even know exactly how to do it. She’d never witnessed a siege before. She hoped Cambeal and the soldiers could help her come up with a strategy.
She chewed at her lip.
Something old Sorcha had said was troubling her. Was it possible to take command of the tuath without bloodshed?
She knew force was the only way to control her father. But the last thing she wanted was to hurt her clannsmen. Cormac would no doubt send every man, woman, and child into battle against her to save Tuath O’Keeffe. Even Sir Ryland and his knights would be obligated to fight on Cormac’s side.
She had trouble imagining firing an arrow into Sir Ryland’s heart.
Then there was the English king to consider. Traditionally, coming from a long line of chieftains, Temair commanded the highest honor price in her clann and was most likely to be elected. Though women could not hold the chieftain position, she might choose her own husband and confer chieftain status upon him.
But times were changing. Rules were changing. The arrival of the English meant that chieftains were just as often appointed as elected. If she refused to wed the man of the king’s choosing, he could conceivably send an army to take the holding by force.
It was a difficult situation. But unless she wanted her birthright handed over to an English knight and his counterfeit bride, she had no choice but to take action. Now. Even if it wasn’t the most convenient time. Even if she wasn’t fully prepared.
She flopped back onto her side with a sigh.
“You may not snore,” Ryland murmured in the darkness, startling her, “but you certainly toss and turn like a tempest.”
“I’m not accustomed to sleepin’ in close quarters with strange men,” she hissed pointedly.
“I can see why. They wouldn’t get a moment’s rest.”
Her temper flared, and her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Well, I’m sorry if I’m keepin’ ye awake.”
“Oh, don’t feel sorry for me.” She could hear the humor in his voice. “’Tis the hounds I’m worried about.”
She snorted. “At least my hounds have the good sense to sleep at my feet instead o’ breathin’ down my neck.”
“Bloody hell, will ye two keep it down?” Conall suddenly called out from a nearby tree. “Some of us are tryin’ to get a good night’s rest.”
Temair’s face went hot.
“See what I mean?” Ryland whispered.
She shoved him.
He snickered.
She managed to fume in silence then. But that didn’t stop the noisy workings of her brain. How Ryland could be so infuriating and amusing at the same time, she couldn’t fathom. But one thing was clear. She couldn’t be less inclined to fall asleep.