Chapter 23
“Shite,” Temair said again. The possibility that Ryland’s men had crossed him had never occurred to her.
“And if they took the coin,” Ryland said woodenly, “then they may already be on their way back to England.”
“Shite!”
Enraged, Temair punched the cave wall with her free fist, wincing as she bruised her knuckles.
“My own men,” Ryland said, stunned. “How could they? I trusted them. Damn it, I trusted them.”
Bloody bastards! Most English knights she’d met seemed chivalrous to a fault—fond of their fealty oaths, their sworn honor, and their brotherhood. She expected they’d die before they’d stab a fellow in the back.
Apparently that wasn’t true. Apparently Ryland’s men were traitors.
It made perfect sense that they’d escaped with the ransom. That much coin would make a generous prize, split between the four of them. And they could be certain Ryland would never be able to exact revenge upon them, for without the ransom, he’d remain a captive of the woodkerns.
Abarta’s ballocks! Her dreams of reclaiming her land shattered like thin ice. She’d counted on that coin to finance the battle for her legacy. To have it stolen—and by foreigners, no less—was a travesty.
Now her only leverage was holding on to Ryland de Ware. Still, once Cormac learned both his bridegroom and his ransom had gone missing, he’d pursue their return with a vengeance. He held a grudge like no other, and his vindictive doggedness knew no bounds. Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise her if the chieftain set the whole bloody forest afire to flush out the prospective groom.
She ground her teeth, enraged and frustrated by the way her vicious father always seemed to be able to seize the upper hand.
Yet at the same time, she felt sorry for Sir Ryland. The forthright, noble knight hadn’t invited any of this. He’d done nothing to earn such disloyalty. His only failing seemed to be trusting in men he shouldn’t.
He’d believed King John when he’d said there was an heiress waiting to be his wife.
He’d believed Cormac O’Keeffe when he’d said Ryland’s bride was lost in the forest.
He’d believed his men when they said they would ransom him.
But, without mercy and without remorse, they’d all betrayed him.
Temair thought he deserved better than that. She’d met enough dishonorable nobles in her outlaw pursuits to tell that Sir Ryland was a rare gentleman with an honest heart.
She decided that she, at least, wouldn’t join the ranks of those willing to stab him in the back. She lowered her blade and stepped away.
In the dim light, she could see him lift a hand to check his throat. He’d find nothing. She’d been careful not to injure him. She might be unyielding, but she wasn’t cruel.
“I’m sorry I doubted ye,” she murmured, sheathing her dagger.
“’Tisn’t your fault,” he said, hanging his head. “I would have done the same.”
He sounded so despondent, so disappointed. He probably realized that she couldn’t let him go now. And that meant that he’d not only lost his men. He’d also lost his bride.
She tucked her lip under her teeth. Maybe she could ease at least part of his pain on that score.
“There’s somethin’ ye should know,” she said. There was a long silence as she mustered the courage to tell him.
Finally, he prompted her. “Aye?”
She swallowed and braced herself for his reply. “Ye never truly had a bride.”
He froze. “What do you mean?”
She furrowed her brow, unsure how much she should reveal. “I mean, Temair hasn’t been seen in the tuath since the night her sister died.”
“So I’ve heard.” He shook his head. “Are the rumors true then—that she’s been kept…in chains…locked in a cell?”
“Nay.”
“Nay?” He puzzled over that. “Then how…”
“She didn’t just disappear that night. She ran away. She ran away and never returned.”
He fell silent.
Indeed, it was so long before he spoke that she began to wonder if he’d heard her. When he finally found his voice, his manner had changed. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as if he were afraid of breaking them.
“I see,” he said. “So the chieftain—he lied about her disappearing just days ago?”
“Aye. I’m afraid Cormac O’Keeffe sent ye to chase a ghost.”
“But why? He signed an agreement with the king, promising his daughter in marriage.”
“A daughter he didn’t possess.”
“Surely he wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep. Violating an agreement with the king? He might as well sign his own death warrant.”
“Oh, he planned to uphold the agreement,” she said, “with an imposter.”
“An imposter?” he scoffed. “How would he manage that?”
“Ye forget. Temair hasn’t been seen there—by anyone—in six years. Her looks could have changed a great deal.” She lowered her voice to a bitter whisper. “And even if someone suspects the imposter is not his daughter, Cormac has ways o’ frightenin’ the clann into silence and submission.”
He nodded. He must have seen enough of Cormac to believe her. “How can you be so sure this woman is not the real Temair?”
Part of her wanted to end the farce and tell him, Because I’m the real Temair. But she would gain nothing by it, only a return to living under her father’s rule. So instead she said, “Aife has seen the woman claimin’ to be Temair with her own eyes. There are…differences.”
“Still,” he argued, “it makes no sense. Why would he use an imposter? ’Twould be surrendering his bloodline. He might as well simply hand over his holding to the crown.”
She hesitated. She was reluctant to share so much with the man who was meant to usurp her claim.
On the other hand, betrayed by his men, Ryland was stuck with the woodkerns now. Since he wasn’t going to reign over O’Keeffe, she might as well tell him.
“He planned to get her with child himself.”
After a shocked silence, he exploded with, “What?” Then he spat out a curse. “He meant to bed my bride and make me believe the babe was mine?”
She nodded.
“But surely the lass would never stand for that,” he argued. “Sooner or later, the truth would come out.”
“So ye would think, wouldn’t ye? But that’s not always the way o’ things. I’ve seen it before. Lasses who suffered in silence. Who wouldn’t speak up for themselves.” The hatred Temair harbored for her abusive father made her blood boil. As she spoke, she felt her tongue getting away from her. But she couldn’t seem to stop it. “Out o’ fear, they wouldn’t lift a finger in their own defense. Or confide in anyone who could help them. Or take the hand that was offered to her, even when I…”
She broke off. Unexpectedly, her words had conjured up the haunting image of her sister. Beautiful, innocent Ailleen. At the mercy of their vile father. Violated. Damaged. So broken and suffering that she was compelled to take her own life.
In her mind’s eye, Temair saw her sister falling. Over and over. And there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing but feel remorse for not somehow saving her.
She felt suddenly overwhelmed, sick with sorrow. She staggered, and a sob escaped her at the horrible memory.
“Are you all right?” Ryland clasped her shoulder in concern.
All at once, she couldn’t breathe. Her throat ached with unspent tears.
What was wrong with her? She’d thought she was past everything. She’d thought her feelings were shut away, locked safely deep inside, behind that wall of stone.
But now the horror lurking in her soul surged like a river threatening to burst through the wall.
Ryland, with a few gentle words, removed a single rock.
The wall shuddered.
He drew her into his arms.
She felt the foundation dissolving into dust.
She buried a sob against his shoulder, appalled at her lack of control.
“That’s all right,” he murmured. “’Tis all right, m’lady.” One reassuring hand went around her waist. One cradled her head. “I’m here.”
His tender gestures of compassion were too great to withstand. The wall collapsed all at once, releasing an enormous river of raw grief.
Temair keened softly against his chest for her sister. For her lost innocence. For her helplessness. At last, she surrendered to heartfelt sobs of pure anguish.
Through it all, Ryland held her tenderly, rocking her, stroking her hair, murmuring reassurances.
“’Tis all right, m’lady. I’m here for you. Cry all you wish.”
She clenched her fists in his shirt, drenching it with her tears. She mourned her mother, her sister, her clann, and the precious years of her youth. She mourned for all she had lost and all she would never recover. She mourned the unfairness of life and the way evil men could triumph while good ones languished.
All the while, Ryland never wavered in his sympathy, holding her until her weeping finally subsided to an occasional hitching breath.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Hush,” he said. “There’s no need to be sorry.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I’ve ruined your tunic.”
He chuckled softly. “Tossing me in the stream ruined my tunic. This is nothing.”
She gave him a weak smile.
He was such a good man. So kind. So good-humored. So understanding. It was a bittersweet reality that if things had been different, she might have enjoyed being his bride.
She lowered her eyes to his mouth. His lips were still curved in a smile, and she couldn’t help but recall the compelling pressure and release of his kiss. She longed to feel that heavenly sensation again, to taste the desire on his tongue, to feast upon his delicious flesh, to rain kisses over every inch of him…and more.
She gulped. She could do it now. She could tryst with Ryland.
No bride awaited him. So he was no longer bound by fidelity. He could make love to her without guilt. They were free to…
Before she could finish the thought, he cupped her chin in his hands and swept down to claim her with a forceful and lingering kiss.
Ryland could no longer resist her—the fresh scent of her hair…the soft silk of her skin…her sweet, sad smile…the way her trusting hand curled upon his chest…how perfectly she fit into the crook of his shoulder…the way she warmed him where their bodies met—nor did he feel compelled to.
The temptation to kiss her was beyond his endurance.
And there was something else.
Something he’d never expected.
He was in love with her.
How it had happened, he didn’t know. But seeing her lead the woodkerns, listening to her passion for the poor, watching her play with her wolfhounds, sharing laughter and tears with her, he had fallen in love. Deeply. Desperately. Hopelessly.
Which made falling into an embrace with her as easy as tumbling into the stream.
And once in the currents of their shared yearning, he found that love growing stronger and stronger, pulling him down in pleasure, threatening to drown him in joy.
Their lips collided again and again as they feasted on earthly delights. Holding her face between his hands, he teased her mouth open with his. He tasted her fully, reveling in her awe as their tongues met and mingled.
He moved his palms out then to bury his fingers in her hair. She moaned and leaned into his kiss.
Her hands, once placed innocently on his chest, now roved over his shoulders and slipped around his neck, pulling him even closer.
Desire poured like warm honey over his body. And like a bee to a flower, he fed upon her sweet nectar again and again.
Soon he felt the familiar ache of lust between his thighs. Caught up in the seductive moment, he nudged that part of him against her, hoping to ease his pain.
She gasped against his lips, and he backed off, afraid he had hurt her.
But she ground her hips against his again with a reassuring groan of need, pressing him back until he was pinned against the cave wall.
There was no mistake. She wanted him.