Chapter 6
Temair came to a skidding halt.
It was a man.
He was scowling.
A quick glance at his attire told her he was English, a noble knight by the looks of him. Ordinarily, she would have nocked an arrow into her bow before he could say “good day” and insist that he share some of his wealth with the local Irish folk.
But for a split second, his dark good looks alarmed her.
Silently cursing her own foolishness, she scowled back.
“Out o’ my way!” she barked through the scarf covering her face.
The man, clearly startled, wobbled a bit on the log. She glanced down. His outer tunic was filled with blackberries. The woodkerns’ blackberries.
She clenched her jaw. How dared he pilfer their blackberries?
“Back up,” she snarled.
Maybe she would train an arrow on him after all, once they were off the log. She’d had no luck with coin for the past three days. The least she could do was steal back the berries and bring home a tasty treat for the rest of the woodkerns.
But to her annoyance, the man didn’t budge an inch.
“You back up,” he said.
Her jaw dropped.
Was he jesting? She was halfway across the log already, and he’d only taken a few steps. Besides, this was her forest. And she could tell by his accent that he was definitely English. If anyone should retreat, it was him.
“Move.” She narrowed angry eyes at him.
Ryland drew his brows together. He wasn’t about to let a scrawny Irish whelp of an outlaw give him orders. He was a commander of knights.
“Don’t be a fool. Out of my way,” he growled, skewering the youth with a fierce glare that usually sent his men cowering away in fear.
But the masked and hooded lad only stared back, standing his ground.
Ryland felt the muscle ticking along his jaw. He didn’t have time for this.
Keeping his surcoat carefully aloft to contain the berries, he took a step forward. The youth was tall, but Ryland outweighed him by half at least. If the lad refused to move, Ryland would just shoulder him out of the way…provided he didn’t lose his own balance in the attempt.
But though Ryland strode forward, the lad never budged or backed away.
When there was but a yard between them, Ryland shook his head. “You know you’re going in the water, lad.”
The lad clucked his tongue. “Don’t be so bloody sure.”
The youth’s voice brought to mind the Irish whiskey Ryland had sipped at the inn—rough and smoky.
Before Ryland could take another step, the lad whipped a knobbed wooden stick from over his shoulder, holding it in both hands before him.
“Last chance, English,” the brash youth warned.
Half-incensed and half-amused by the lad’s self-assured boast, Ryland decided it was up to him to teach the Irish outlaw a lesson. After all, if he was to reign over these lands one day, he might as well start laying down the law now.
Determining that this lesson was more important than the blackberries he’d picked, he let go of his surcoat and let the fruit spill into the stream.
This seemed to vex the outlaw even more. Above the gray scarf, the lad’s steely eyes flashed with pure rage. He flipped the stick forward, and Ryland just had time to dodge back out of the way. He felt the breeze as the weapon missed his head by inches.
On instinct, he drew his sword.
The lad gasped once, but recovered quickly, holding the flimsy stick before him as if it were somehow a match for Ryland’s three feet of sharp Spanish steel.
Of course, Ryland hadn’t earned his illustrious reputation by being cruel. He would never slay a lad at such a disadvantage. But he didn’t mind teaching him a lesson.
“Never trifle with a noble swordsman,” he said. Perhaps the next time, the young churl would think twice before he attacked a seasoned warrior.
Just as Ryland was about to give the lad’s thigh a punishing whack with the flat of his sword, the lad’s infernal stick flipped forward through the air. This time the knob landed with a painful crack against Ryland’s ear.
The unexpected clout from someone so clearly his inferior goaded the normally even-tempered Ryland to fury. He raised his sword, biting back the urge to lop the cocky lad’s head from his shoulders.
The youth clucked his tongue again. “Noble, are ye? Usin’ a bloody blade against a bata hardly seems noble.”
Ryland colored in shame, but managed a biting retort. “So says the outlaw.” He’d never heard of a bata, but his ear still stung where the damned wooden stick had unexpectedly hit him.
“Now out o’ my way, churl,” the lad said, “ere I rob ye o’ your coin and your dignity.”
The lad’s brashness stunned him. At least that was Ryland’s excuse when, before he could lift his blade, the narrow end of the lad’s stick shot through his defenses to poke him hard in the chest.
Ryland staggered back a foot. He ground his teeth and tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword, determined not to let a paltry lad get the best of him.
But when he tried to cleave the offending weapon in two with his sword, the stick seemed to suddenly retract into the outlaw’s hand. Ryland’s blade whistled through empty air. A flick of the lad’s wrist, and the knobbed end of his stick flew round again, knocking Ryland in the ribs.
Bloody hell!
Ryland almost lost his balance. Only pride kept him upright. His side throbbed where the club had struck him. He could tell his ribs were badly bruised.
He had to admit to a grudging respect for the lad’s fighting skills, as unorthodox as they were. For a scrawny lad, the outlaw held his own fairly well.
Ryland had retreated. He was so close to his own bank, he could have easily stepped aside to let the youth pass. But now winning was a matter of pride. He’d cut that bloody stick in half if it was the last thing he did.
He wasn’t about to let an outlaw win the day.
Temair thought she’d never met a more stubborn fighter. She’d forced him to retreat until he was nearly all the way back across the log bridge now. It made no sense for the man to keep insisting on the right of way. It was obvious he was going to lose.
Of course, he didn’t believe that. Not for an instant. She could see that in the resolute set of his jaw and the burning determination in his eyes. He still thought he could best her.
Most men did. They saw her lack of size as a lack of power. And they always underestimated the advantage of speed. In particular, English swordsmen never anticipated the element of trickery that was second nature to Irish fighters.
She should probably just club the poor fool senseless with a good clout to his head, steal his purse, and leave him at the water’s edge. She didn’t have time for such nonsense. The day was growing late, and she needed to learn what Aife had discovered at the tower house today.
But something prevented her from making quick work of him.
There was something about him—the smoldering intensity of his gaze, the wild sweep of his dark, unruly hair, the broad command of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his hands—that intrigued her.
She’d prefer to play with him awhile.
So she let him advance.
When he lunged forward, she leaped back. When he pressed his advantage, she retreated. Gradually, she drew him back along the log to the middle of the stream.
The man cut a fine figure. His tooled leather armor fit snugly over his wide chest and narrowed at his waist, emphasizing the breadth and muscle of his arms. Under his long tabard, his powerful legs strained at the confines of his thick woolen chausses. Lush waves of hickory brown hair fell carelessly over his high, broad forehead and caressed his angular, resolute jaw, which was softened by the dusky shadow of a beard. His eyes were as deep and dark as chestnuts, and at the moment, there was a furrow between them.
To be honest, despite that furrow, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Indeed, he was so alluring that as he came closer and the sun bathed him in golden light, her heart staggered in breathless wonder.
Only the swift pass of his blade startled her from her wayward daydreaming. At the last instant, she diverted the blow with her bata and took a giant step backward.
He abruptly lowered his sword. “Had enough?”
“Are ye jestin’?” she scoffed.
“I’ve driven you halfway back already,” he reasoned. “You may as well surrender.”
Was that what he thought? She arched a brow. “Never. Besides, I let ye drive me back.”
He narrowed quizzical eyes at her. Then his face blossomed into the most unexpected and brilliant smile she’d ever seen. His teeth gleamed white, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is that so?”
“Aye,” she told him, though her thoughts were so scattered by his charming grin that she could hardly think straight. “I haven’t even begun to fight.”
Suddenly, his chuckle filled the air, as rich and warm as sunshine after a spring shower. He shook his head. “I hope you know how to swim, lad.”
Of course she knew how to swim. Like a fish. But she wouldn’t need to. She had no intention of letting him push her off the log.
She braced her feet and raised her bata as the thrill of impending victory filled her veins.
He flipped the haft of his sword once within his palm. Where he gripped the hilt, she could see his knuckles bore the scars of battle. He was clearly no stranger to warfare.
But he’d also clearly never fought an Irish outlaw with a bata before. If he had, he would have realized he’d be better off discarding his heavy sword and using his quicker fists…or his dazzling smile.
Ryland hadn’t been this entertained in a long time.
He’d assumed conquering the lad would be easy, like swatting a pesky fly out of the way.
But this fly was more crafty and clever than he’d anticipated.
Though he hated to admit it, back in England, Ryland had grown weary of battling the same knights, day after day. He’d tired of the tournaments, where every opponent’s strengths and flaws were known to him. He might not be—as Warin claimed—“the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in all of England.” But he had yet to meet the man he couldn’t defeat.
This, however—fighting against a foreigner wielding a strange weapon—added a whole new challenge. Despite his intention to reach the O’Keeffe lands and get on with his business, Ryland suddenly looked forward to waging war with this unpredictable opponent.
He’d be cautious, of course. This land would soon belong to him. While it was wise to make his leadership felt, there was no need to be heavy-handed about it. Like the land, the lad had a lively, if somewhat swaggering, spirit. There was no point in crushing it.
“Come on then,” Ryland urged with a smirk, bracing his feet on the log and holding his blade aloft. “See if you can cut my sword in two with your stick.”
The lad wasted no time. But he didn’t aim for Ryland’s sword. Instead, he feinted forward with the narrower end of the stick, retracted it, and then flipped it suddenly backward, rapping Ryland’s sore ribs again with the knobbed end.
Ryland grimaced and took a step back, forcing the lad to keep his distance by lashing the space between them with his blade.
The second sweep of his sword came within inches of the stick. But before he could return with a third slash that would cleave the weapon in half, it slipped around to his unguarded side and smacked him in the neck.
Peeved at his own error in judgment, Ryland shook off the clout with a curse and braced himself to attempt another charge.
This time he stabbed straight forward. If the lad hadn’t quickly leaped back, the point might have scratched his belly. But with an inch to spare, the youth dodged the stroke. Before Ryland could return from his lunge, the lad used one arm to knock Ryland’s blade straight up and jabbed the stick forward with the other.
The knobbed end punched Ryland’s stomach with breath-stealing force. If not for his leather armor, he would have been folded in half from the blow.
“Had enough, English?” the lad mocked, lowering his weapon as if he had no fear whatsoever of Ryland’s much bigger, heavier sword.
But Ryland wasn’t about to surrender to a puny Irish outlaw, just because he carried a big stick.
“Just warming up,” he retorted.
He realized now the lad was capable of lightning-fast strikes. Ryland would have been better off with a cudgel, which would have afforded him a quicker, more responsive defense.
But while he was busy realizing this, the lad, using his stick in one hand like a lance, thrust low with it, catching Ryland’s ankle and nearly tripping him.
Ryland staggered a step, flapping his arms, and barely managed to keep from falling off the log.
When he recovered, he gave the lad a grim grin of threat. “Oh, ho.”
It was obvious now that the lad’s most powerful weapon wasn’t his stick. It was his trickery. He feinted in one direction and attacked from another. He alternated which end of the stick he used and which hand he used to wield it. He chose unconventional targets for his blows—ribs, ears, ankles. And he struck when Ryland least expected it.
For Ryland, who was accustomed to the rules of chivalry, that kind of reckless fighting went against all his instincts.
But he could learn.
And if he was going to live in Ireland with packs of unschooled savages like this one, he supposed he’d have to learn fast.
“Ye know,” the lad taunted, casually resting the stick across both shoulders, “’twould be a bloody shame to lose such a fine blade in the stream. I’ll give ye one last chance to throw it back on the bank ere I toss ye in.”
Ryland grinned and shook his head. He’d never heard such ludicrous boasting, especially from one so unseasoned.
It was apparent he wasn’t going to win this battle using regular tactics of sword fighting. He’d have to improvise. And he’d have to catch his opponent off-guard.
The lad had quite a reach with that stick of his. The knobbed end packed a wallop when given sufficient momentum. But if Ryland could get in close, he could minimize the lad’s ability to strike. Of course, he’d also be unable to use his sword effectively at that proximity. But he had another idea.
The lad swung the stick off his shoulders and whipped it through the air so swiftly it whistled. Ryland let him approach, using his blade defensively, encouraging the lad to draw nearer.
When the lad cocked his arm back with the stick, Ryland lowered his blade and rushed in suddenly to stand toe-to-toe with the outlaw.
The move startled the lad. Ryland heard his sharp intake of breath. At this proximity, though the lad’s forearm struck Ryland’s shoulder, his stick swished ineffectually at the empty air behind him.
Ryland could have ended the battle then and there by giving the outlaw a good shove. The lad was nearly as tall as he, but he seemed to be mostly skin and bones. A light push would have sent the foolish wretch sprawling in the water.
But Ryland wanted to see the look on the cocky outlaw’s face when he realized he’d been bested.
So before the lad could recover, Ryland reached up and snagged the hem of the gray scarf covering his face, wrenching it down in triumph.
But the outlaw had one last weapon in reserve. A weapon that stunned Ryland just long enough to make him hesitate. And that hesitation cost him the battle.
As Ryland gaped in shock, one swift kick dislodged his foot. He wheeled his arms wildly and careened sideways into the stream with a great splash.
His final thought before the water closed over his astonished head was that it wasn’t possible. How could Sir Ryland de Ware have been bested by a wench?