Chapter 8
Ryland furrowed his brow. He’d sooner cut off his own hand than slit a woman’s throat.
But the woodkerns didn’t know that.
So he planned to take advantage of their ignorance, as well as the fact that, by some miracle, he still had enough wits about him after that kiss to leverage the situation.
How he hadn’t heard the outlaws arrive, he didn’t know. His fighting instincts usually served him better than that.
But his head was still reeling from the touch of her lips. And regardless of the icy water, his blood felt like molten iron pouring through his veins.
That the honey-mouthed woman gasped in his embrace, fearing for her life, shamed him to the core. He’d never hurt a woman in his life.
But desperate situations required desperate measures. The woodkerns would believe his bluff. And he and his men could go their merry way, horses and purses intact.
He wasn’t disappointed. At the sight of their woman held at dagger’s point, the outlaws quickly released his men from their bonds.
Despite the fact the knights had been disarmed, one word from Ryland, and they could have finished off the outlaws then and there with their bare fists.
But a vow was a vow. And Ryland didn’t want blood on his hands on the first day they were in Ireland. The woodkerns had done no lasting harm. They’d even invited him to supper. Besides, his heart was still racing from that exquisite kiss. The last thing he wanted was to taint that memory with violence.
“Throw down your weapons,” he said to the outlaws.
Once they complied, he lowered his blade and let her go.
He was unprepared for the glare of hurt, anger, and betrayal in her liquid gray eyes. Her lips, at first parted in dismay, curved down in disappointment. She immediately raised her fingers to her throat, seeking blood, finding none.
He shouldn’t have felt one drop of guilt. She was an outlaw, after all. He owed nothing to an outlaw. Given the chance, she would have gladly stolen his silver from him. Instead, he’d stolen a kiss from her.
Yet he couldn’t bear the condemnation in her gaze. He wasn’t the sort of man to slay a person in cold blood. Not a fellow knight. Not even an outlaw. And especially not a woman. It was a matter of honor.
But before he could tell her so, her eyes went flat, turning the color of hard steel. All emotion vanished, as if she’d closed a visor over her face. Nothing remained of the soft-lipped woman who had melted in his arms.
Without another word, she turned stiffly to wade out of the stream.
The woodkerns crossed the log to join her on the far bank.
Ryland felt a twinge of regret. But he supposed there was no point in dwelling on it. What did it matter what she thought of him? He’d never see her again anyway.
So he slogged out of the water toward his men.
They were in a foul mood. Being captured by a motley pack of outlaws had been a crushing blow to their pride. The fact that they’d needed Ryland to come to their rescue probably chafed at them as well.
So to salvage their dignity, as he emerged from the stream, he issued a stern warning to the woodkerns.
“I intend to count the silver in our saddlebags. If even one farthing is missing, we’ll be coming back for it.” He shoved his dagger forcefully into its sheath. “And next time we won’t be so merciful.”
It was best to put the fear of god into these ruffians before they began to believe that the English were easy targets.
That was his intention.
But he couldn’t leave things alone.
After the woodkerns had safely crossed the log to the far bank, he caught a last glimpse of the sweet-mouthed outlaw. Her wet garments clung to her like a second skin, revealing her long, shapely limbs. Her hair, darkened to the color of midnight, draped over her shoulders in seductive invitation.
He must have been mad to have believed she was a lad.
And even though he knew he’d never see her again, even though he shouldn’t care what an outlaw thought, he couldn’t bear to let her believe he was a monster.
What had her fellow called her? Gray?
“Gray!” he called out.
She glanced up.
“I wouldn’t have done it, you know,” he told her. “No English knight worth his spurs would hurt a helpless woman.”
She made no reply. Nonetheless, he was glad he’d made the confession.
With a final nod, he picked up and sheathed his sword. Then he turned to follow his men back to their horses.
He’d gone two paces when something whizzed past his nose and landed with a thunk in the tree beside him. An arrow. The shaft was still quivering when he whipped his head around and saw the woman on the far bank. Her bow was aloft, and her guilty hand was raised beside her cheek.
“Then ye’re a bigger fool than I took ye for,” she called back.
His men came to his defense at once, growling like riled hounds. Warin wrenched the arrow out of the trunk, angry enough that he would have fired it back at her with his bare hand.
But Ryland pried the arrow from him and broke it in half between his fists, dropping the shaft to the ground. Then he calmed his men with a motion of his hand.
“If you’re going to be so brazen,” he warned the woman, “you’d better shoot to kill.”
She slung her bow back over her shoulder. “If I’d wanted ye dead, ye’d be dead.” Then she gave him a sly smirk. “But no Irish outlaw worth her bow would hurt a helpless man.”
Ryland couldn’t help but chuckle. Leave it to the clever sweet-and-sharp-tongued woman to throw his own words back at him.
His men, however, did not find her so amusing.
“Helpless!” Laurence spat in disgust. “I’ll show her helpless.”
Warin bit out an oath, barely able to suppress his rage.
“Are you going to let her get away with that?” Godwin asked in outrage.
“I am,” Ryland said. His pride might be wounded, but it would heal. “They’re only words, after all. I don’t think we need to be starting a war when we’ve only just arrived.” He continued along the stream. “Never fear. Once I’m chieftain over these lands, I’ll put the outlaws in their place.” Including, he thought, rather relishing the idea, that spirited wench with the wide gray eyes and the delicious mouth.
All the way back to the woodkern camp, Temair felt as out of sorts as a wind-bristled cat. Why, she didn’t know.
After all, she’d gotten the last word. She’d even driven home her point…literally…just missing the English knight with her arrow.
But she was unsatisfied. She felt as if there was unfinished business between them.
For one magical moment, standing in the stream, in the arms of the charming knight with the wide smile and sparkling eyes, she’d experienced a curious sort of joy. Her heart had raced. Her head had spun. Every nerve in her body had come to life.
Then bumbling Conall had ruined everything.
If only the woodkerns hadn’t arrived when they did…
If only they hadn’t chosen those particular knights as targets…
If only they hadn’t interrupted the two of them…
What? she asked herself. What would have happened?
She scuffed at the leafy path.
It was foolish to imagine things might have ended differently. The man was obviously on some knightly quest. She was going to return home with the woodkerns. They wouldn’t be crossing paths again.
So why did that irritate her?
She tried to tell herself it was because she was once again returning empty-handed. After days of watching and waiting and stalking travelers, she’d reaped no reward for her efforts.
But she knew it was more than that.
She’d been strangely drawn to the man. Cocksure and clever, amusing and delightful, he was as playful as her hounds and deliciously wicked.
He was also dangerous. He was a foreigner, an invader. As swiftly as he’d stolen the kiss from her, men like him were swooping down upon her land and claiming it for their own.
If she’d forgotten that fact for a moment, the reality had come crashing down when he whipped out his dagger and held it at her throat.
His treachery had been all the more cruel because she’d trusted him. For one brief moment, she’d left herself vulnerable, believing he was a kindred spirit. The fact that he was not—that he was capable of tasting her passion one moment and ending her life in the next—crushed her.
And then he’d yelled across the stream at her, admitting he wouldn’t have done it.
That had simultaneously relieved and infuriated her. She wished now she had called his bluff. Maybe then she wouldn’t be walking away with empty hands and a hollow heart.
Maybe then he would have been forced to dine with the woodkerns…
And stay the night…
And possibly steal away with her in the moonlight to…
“Who do ye suppose they were?” young Fergus asked, interrupting her thoughts. Maelan growled. “More bloody foreigners come to steal our fair isle.”
The others grumbled in agreement. They were as upset as Temair. But their annoyance had everything to do with the fact they hadn’t managed to rob the knights. The small English retinue had probably been carrying a considerable amount of silver.
She wondered where they were headed.
Were they only knights-errant seeking their fortune in the land that would eventually belong to their new king? Or did they have a specific destination in mind? The knight had mentioned that he had business elsewhere. He’d also threatened to return if any of his silver was missing.
She cursed herself now for not taking a coin or two to ensure his return.
And then she cursed herself for having such treasonous thoughts.
These were enemies of Eire. The sooner she forgot about the knight’s warm, sweet, inviting mouth, the better.
It wasn’t until the woodkerns returned to the glade for supper and were settled around the fire, relaying what had happened, that Aife brought up something no one had considered.
“So ye’re sayin’ these men saw your face, Gray?” she asked.
Temair shrugged and ran her fingers through Bran’s fur. “Aye.” She didn’t add that one of the knights had not only seen her face, but kissed her lips. Thankfully, nobody divulged that detail, not even impulsive Fergus. Remembering how she’d humiliated them, she added proudly, “But I doubt they want to see it again.”
“Still, if they got a good look at ye,” old Sorcha said gravely, eyeing Temair through the flames, “they’ll be able to describe ye.”
Lady Mor gave a little gasp, drawing the attention of Cambeal and Conall. “What if they tell the chieftain they saw ye?”
Temair’s brow creased. She hadn’t considered that. For days now, she’d been fretting over the possibility that her father might send his men to hunt her down. She hadn’t considered that outsiders might inform him that a young woman with peat-black hair and gray eyes was living in the woods.
Cambeal, hoping to allay her fears, argued, “The knights could have been headed anywhere, Gray. There’s no reason to think they’ll cross paths with the chieftain.”
“Besides,” Conall said, “I doubt they’ll be talkin’ much about the lass that tossed one o’ them on his arse.”
The woodkerns chuckled at that.
Conall was probably right. The cocky English knight wouldn’t be keen for anyone to know he’d been bested by a wisp of an Irish lass. The idea made Temair smile.
Until she glanced at Sorcha, who wasn’t sharing in the laughter.
“It might be best if ye lie low for a bit.”
Temair wanted to argue. She’d brought in nothing for the woodkerns in days. It troubled her not to be sharing the burden of providing for the band.
But she supposed Sorcha had a point. Until the English knights passed through the O’Keeffe lands, she couldn’t be sure of her safety.
She cursed under her breath. She hated that her life had been turned upside down, and all because of her father and his wretched scheming.