Page 12 of Desire's Ransom
Chapter 4
SUMMER 1199 – SIX YEARS LATER
“If ye want to keep your bloody hand,” Temair warned, taking careful aim with her bow, “ye’d best drop your purse.”
The red-faced nobleman grimaced in frustration. He probably assumed she’d miss at this distance. But he was wise enough not to wager the precious appendage at the end of his arm on that. He dropped the bag of coins onto the forest floor.
She could have easily made the shot.
Lefthanded.
With her eyes closed.
For six years she’d been practicing with the longbow, trained by Cambeal, the finest archer among the woodkerns. Now the weapon felt like an extension of her arm. And she rarely missed.
In fact, she probably could have pinned his hand to the tree with one arrow and—while he hopped about, screaming in pain—fired a second into his heart.
But she wouldn’t.
Temair didn’t like spilling blood. Fortunately, she rarely had to.
Her uncommon height, combined with her speed and the gray hood and scarf she wore to mask her feminine features, were usually enough to make all but the most foolish of men back down.
“You won’t get away with this,” the man bit out.
Aye, she would. She always did.
She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. “Off with ye now.”
He suddenly narrowed his eyes at her. “Wait,” he growled in consternation. “Are you a wench? You’re a damned wench, aren’t you?”
She barked out a laugh. “Does it matter?”
He hesitated a moment. Finally, he must have realized that when an arrow was aimed at his heart, it made no difference who stood at the shooting end of the bow.
“You’re the mistress of the devil,” he snarled as he turned to go.
“Ye’re not the first to say so,” she called after him, arching an unimpressed brow.
The men she robbed were ridiculously predictable. She’d heard that insult so often, it rolled off of her like rain off her waxed leather armor.
After he’d scurried away, she opened the brown velvet bag and peered in at the coins. It was a decent cache of silver. There was enough here to see the mac Aida family through the winter. She closed the bag again in satisfaction.
Six years ago, if anyone had told her the daughter of theclannchieftain would grow up to be the leader of a band of outlaws, she would have called them mad.
Now she took pride in her profession.
It wasn’t only because she was good with a bow and thebata. Fast on her feet. Clever at entangling greedy men in their own vices.
It was also because, as Orlaith had foretold from the beginning, from the first day she’d met Temair, it was she who was destined to take Orlaith’s place as leader of the woodkerns and balance the accounts her father had set awry.
Temair never took a farthing for herself. None of the outlaws did. They hunted their own food and bartered for whatever else they required. The silver they stole came from those who had much more than they needed. And the woodkerns gave it to those who had much less than they deserved.
For Temair, it was revenge of sorts. Gratifying revenge.
Her father, no longer in possession of daughters to use for political gain, had resorted to bribing the English nobles with coin seized from theclannfolk.
In return, Temair had resorted to meeting those bribed English nobles in the woods, confiscating their ill-gotten wealth, and giving the coin back to those from whom it had been stolen.
