Chapter 21
Ryland felt the blood drain from his face. There was no way to explain this situation.
But as he continued to stare back at her, he realized Sorcha wasn’t angry. She was amused. She found his predicament entertaining.
He didn’t think that was right either. Shouldn’t she be protecting one of her own?
But before he could scowl at her in disapproval, she came to his rescue.
“Wake up, ye pagan sluggards!” she cried, clapping her hands loudly. “’Tis the Sabbath.”
In the chaos of her shouting and clapping, Ryland was able to extricate himself from Gray without her notice.
She groaned as she slowly rolled onto her back.
Ryland sat up on his elbow. His palm was still warm where it had caressed her flesh. His heart was still pounding. And his loins still ached.
His voice came out as a ragged croak. “Good morn.”
Temair recoiled in pain. Why was he talking so loudly? And why was her mouth so dry?
She’d just been having the most lovely dream. But Sorcha’s shrill announcement had shredded it. Now her head was throbbing, and she couldn’t even remember what she’d been dreaming.
“Morn,” she whispered back. Even that hurt.
“Too much ale?” he murmured.
She nodded. She didn’t dare open her eyes. Even through her lids, the brightness of the sun was blinding.
Bloody hell. Why had she drunk so much? She knew better.
One of the hounds licked her face, and she pulled away with a disgusted sneer.
“Nay,” Ryland hissed. With a snap of his fingers, the dog retreated.
She rose up on her elbows and tried to clear the fog from her brain. What had happened last night?
She remembered two English knights had come to supper. Then she remembered why she’d refilled her cup so many times. The knights had been talking about Temair being a murderer.
Had she said anything? Had she revealed any secrets? It had been a long time since she’d gotten that drunk.
Ryland asked her softly, “Would you like water?”
She nodded. Her mouth felt as dry as dust. And something was poking at the back of her brain, trying to remind her of something she’d said or done that she shouldn’t have.
What was it?
She could hear the other woodkerns coming slowly to life with yawns and muttering. The fire started to crackle. The sparrows chirped in the yews—little piercing chirps that drilled into her aching temples.
“Here.” Ryland returned, placing the cup into her hands.
She sipped at it until she felt restored enough to pry open her eyes. “Thank ye.”
He was watching her expectantly.
“What?” she asked.
He shook his head and lowered his gaze. “Nothing.”
She had done something. He was acting strangely. What the hell had happened?
She racked her brain. She remembered stating her frank opinion of Cormac O’Keeffe. But so had the rest of the outlaws. And he hadn’t seemed to be offended by it.
“Did I…” she began.
“What?”
“If I did…or said anythin’…untoward…”
He rubbed at his chin in consideration. “Well, you did promise that when I’m ransomed, I can take Flann with me.”
That coaxed a smile from her. “Ye’re full o’ shite. That I’d never promise…no matter how much ale I drank.”
He laughed. “What about Bran?”
She shook her head, then pressed fingers to her temple. Even that small movement hurt.
“How did you get these fine lads anyway?” he asked, bristling Bran’s fur with his fingers.
She told him the truth. “I don’t know where they came from. After my ma died, the two pups just trotted up to me and ne’er left.”
He scratched Flann under the chin so he wouldn’t get jealous. “You’re good lads to look after a lost little maid.”
His touching words caught her off-guard and choked her up. Quickly, before he could notice, she gulped down the rest of the water and returned the cup to him.
“Six years ago?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“So your mother died when you were…” he prompted.
Temair narrowed her eyes. Ryland had asked one too many questions. What was he trying to find out? He was a kind man, an honorable man. But he was also a very clever man. She had to be careful what she revealed.
“Just a young lass,” she said, being as vague as possible.
“Well, I’m glad these lads were there for you.”
She nodded. Maybe she was being overly cautious. Whatever she’d said or done last night, it didn’t seem to have changed anything between the two of them.
“I should get up,” she decided. But when she sat forward, the blood pounded in her head. She grimaced.
“Raw eel,” he said.
“What?” she moaned, burying her face in her hands.
“Raw eel. ’Tis the English cure for too much ale. Would you like me to pull one out o’ the stream for you?”
She peered at him between her fingers. He had to be jesting. Indeed, his sober expression couldn’t hide the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Two could play that game.
“Aye,” she told him, “and while ye’re doin’ that, I’ll be buryin’ myself neck-deep in river sand.” At his quizzical look, she said, “’Tis the Irish cure for too much ale.”
His laughter should have grated on her ears, but it didn’t. Instead, it felt like a warm, comforting cloak wrapped around her.
“Since ’tis the Sabbath,” he murmured, “perhaps I’ll just pray for your recovery.”
Temair wondered who he’d be praying to. The woodkerns worshipped an assortment of gods, from the Tuatha De Danann to Odin to the Holy Spirit. The friar had never tried to convert any of them. They practiced good will, and that was all that mattered. But at the behest of the friar, though they couldn’t afford to be completely idle on the Sabbath, they did abstain from thieving.
Ryland hopped up to his feet and held out a hand to assist her. Temair didn’t much feel like getting up, but his outstretched hand and his bright smile were impossible to resist.
She glanced around the camp. The Sabbath was often the busiest day of the week for the woodkerns. Friar Brian and young Fergus were packing up satchels full of goods to distribute to the various households. Lady Mor served up bread to break everyone’s fast and began grinding grain for the supper loaves. Six of the men took off for the lough with fishing poles. Sorcha started brewing a new batch of ale. And Aife slung a basket of dried herbs over her arm, preparing to spy upon the tuath, which had now become a daily task.
Ryland noticed the activity as well. “What can I do?” At Temair’s astonished blink, he shrugged and explained. “I may as well be of some use.”
“’Tis my turn for laundry. You could come along and help.” She was hesitant to leave him behind in the camp, not because she didn’t trust him, but because she didn’t trust Lady Mor with him.
“Laundry?” She could see he was surprised by that.
“Livin’ in the wood doesn’t make us savages.” She arched a brow. “Besides, ’tis a skill everyone should learn, noblemen and paupers.”
She loaded him up with bedding and bundled all the spare clothing and odd rags that needed washing. Then she grabbed her laundry bat and led him to the stream and the spot where they’d first met.
The basket she’d forgotten was still there, though some opportunistic animal had tipped it over and eaten all the blackberries.
She untied the bundle and dumped the clothing by the streamside. “The most important thing is not to lose the laundry in the current.”
She showed him how to separate the smaller items like stockings and rags and to wash them first, scrubbing them by hand on a stone and setting them to dry on bushes. To her amusement, he was an apt student, hanging on her every word as if she were teaching him the finer points of swordplay.
When they got to the léines, she demonstrated the laundry bat. Soon he was beating the dust from the garments, stirring them in the current, and draping them over hazel branches to dry as if he’d done it all his life.
“Ye keep this up and ye’ll make someone a good wife,” she teased.
He grinned back. “I’m fairly sure my bride-to-be has a staff of laundresses to wash her clothing.”
That had been true at one time. Temair had even had a maid to help dress her. But living with the woodkerns, she’d quickly learned to be self-sufficient.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you ever going to make someone a good wife?”
He’d said it casually, but it startled her enough to make her lose her grip on the léine she’d been washing. The linen garment dropped into the water and started to float away. She made a successful grab for it, but she had to step into the stream, soaking her brogs.
“Shite.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” She didn’t believe him. His eyes were dancing, and he sounded very insincere.
She was upset. She wasn’t sure how to answer that question. Until the events of the last few days, marriage had seemed like a distant possibility. But with a bridegroom appointed to the O’Keeffe heiress, her father setting up an imposter, and Temair mustering funds for an army to battle for her legacy, a wedding seemed imminent.
Of course, he knew none of that. His question was perfectly innocent.
“I’m not upset,” she lied, giving the last stocking a final swish in the water and hanging it over the long branch of a hazel. “I’m just in no hurry to get married.”
That part was true.
Ryland considered her answer. If Gray was Temair, he could see why she would say that. Cormac O’Keeffe wasn’t exactly a shining example of a good husband and wedded bliss.
But if she was Temair, she would also know that Ryland was her betrothed. Did she really find the prospect of being married to him so revolting?
Ryland didn’t. Not at all. Though it surprised him to admit he was attracted to an outlaw, it was true. He was quite fond of the wayward lass.
He wished there was some way to discover for certain whether Gray was in fact Temair.
As soon as he’d realized where she was leading him, it occurred to him that he was in a position to escape. For a wild moment, he’d considered it. He wouldn’t even have had to break his oath, for she’d given him permission to leave the camp. Since she’d taken him to the log bridge where they’d first met, he was close enough to the road to find his way back to O’Keeffe.
But the niggling doubt about Gray’s identity and his certainty that his men would save the day made Ryland decide to leave things as they were. If she didn’t want to reveal who she was, she must have a reason. The last thing he wanted to do was to spook her into doing something unpredictable that would endanger the whole plan.
He leaned against the hazel trunk and crossed his arms. “Surely you’ll want to marry eventually.”
“Why should I?” She dunked the last léine in the stream, stirring it with the laundry bat.
He frowned. Why indeed? He supposed, living with several men, she could satisfy her carnal appetites any time she wished, a thought that left a sour taste in his mouth. But didn’t she long for more?
“Don’t you dream of sharing your life with one special man? Having his children?” he asked. “Doing his laundry?”
Laughing, she tossed the laundered léine at him, smacking him in the face.
With a grin, he peeled the wet linen away and dutifully draped the thing over the hazel branch, next to four stockings and a couple of rags. Unfortunately, it proved too heavy for the thin limb, and the branch snapped. The léine dropped into the mud, and the end of the branch landed in the water. He watched in horror as the stockings and rags floated off the end of the branch in the current.
“Oh, nay!” she cried, slogging forward in the stream.
He charged in after them as well, snagging two stockings. Then he slipped on the algae-slick rocks, stumbling into the water.
Swimming after the rest of the escaped laundry, Gray managed to catch the two remaining stockings. But the rags had already floated too far downstream to recover.
From midstream, Ryland threw his pair of wet stockings onto a flat rock beside the stream, where they thankfully stuck. He raked back his hair with both hands and prepared to apologize to Gray for his carelessness.
But when he turned toward her, he saw she’d drifted downstream. She was up to her neck in the cold water, clutching one stocking in each fist above her head, and fighting the current.
“Let go of the stockings!” he cried.
But she still held them aloft.
“Let them go! You’ll—”
Her head dipped under.
His heart pounding with fear, he immediately dove into the water and swam toward her. She was nearly submerged, barely gurgling above the waves with her arms still over her head, when he intercepted her. He swiftly wrapped his arms around her body and lifted her face clear of the water.
She blinked and sputtered as he swam with her, making his way toward the shallows. When she started shaking and gasping, he peered at her in concern, afraid she might be choking.
But to his amazement, the minx was laughing.
“Your face!” she cried with glee, as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever seen.
“My face?” he asked, incredulous. “You almost drowned.”
“Drowned?” She burst out in giggles. “Is that what ye thought?”
“What else was I to think?”
“Sorry.” She sounded anything but sorry.
She might think it was amusing. He did not. Still, it was hard to be angry when her gray eyes were sparkling like that.
She tried again. “Truly, Sir Ryland. I’m sorry.”
This time her eyes softened. He half believed her.
They were close enough to the shore to stand up now. Still disgruntled, he asked, “Why didn’t you just let go of the damned stockings?”
“Because they’re Lady Mor’s,” Gray said, “and she would snatch me bald if I lost them.”
Now that Gray was safe, he began to see the humor of the situation. But seeing her in peril had affected him more than he cared to admit. He took Lady Mor’s stockings from her, slogged toward the shore, and laid them out over a rowan bush.
When he turned back, Gray was wading out of the water. But unlike the first time they’d met at this stream, she wasn’t wearing her leather armor. Instead, she was dressed in only her linen léine. And she was soaked to the skin.
Her long, loose black hair flowed over her shoulders, falling away where her breasts emerged. Beneath the cold, clinging cloth, the tips were outlined in sharp relief. Lower, he could see the hollow of her navel. Lower still, he could make out the curves and recesses of her hips and the defined angle where her legs intersected.
He felt the air desert his lungs.
She might as well have been naked.