Page 15 of Desire's Ransom
Ronan gave him a smug smile. “I told him I’d be sure the silver got where ’twas headed then.”
Young Fergus burst out in giggles, which made the rest of the company join in. Even grouchy Maelan managed a chuckle.
As the others recounted their adventures for the day and the fire began to merrily crackle and burn, Temair’s gaze circled the ring of woodkerns with fondness. They were her friends now, the best companions a lass could hope for. She trusted them with her life. And now that they’d taught her how to defend herself with bow, dagger,bata, and fists, they could trust her with theirs.
Lawless and free, the woodkerns recognized no chieftain, though, by old Orlaith’s decree, they looked to Temair for leadership. And theirtuathwas the entire forest.
Their needs were few.
Their talents were many.
And they lived by an unwritten code of honor.
Lady Mor, Niall, and Cambeal had all come from noble houses. Long ago, Conall, Ronan, and Aife had been merchants. Friar Brian had been deposed by an English priest. In another life, Maelan and Domnall had been soldiers. The old alewife Sorcha had lost her entire family to sickness. And young Fergus had been a beggar.
But none of that mattered. Now they were brothers and sisters of the woodkernclann. What bonded them was their simple mission—to make the world as fair and just as possible by whatever means they had at their disposal.
Temair scratched the hounds beneath their collars. She thought she’d never been luckier than the day she’d stumbled onto the woodkerns’ encampment, the day they’d taken her in as their own. She smiled, remembering that it was actually Bran and Flann who had led her here in the first place, likely drawn by the smell of whatever the woodkerns had been cooking over their evening fire.
In the midst of her warm recollections and the woodkerns’ merriment, old Sorcha abruptly rose, sobering as she looked toward the road. Temair followed her gaze.
Aife had returned. Her face was grave and pale. For one terrible moment, Temair was reminded of her sister. Her heart spasmed at the horrifying possibility that Cormac O’Keeffe had ravaged Aife the way he had Aillenn.
But she knew she was being ridiculous. Aife might appear mild-mannered. But she would have cut Cormac’s fingers off before she’d let him touch her.
“What is it, Aife?” Temair asked.
The woodkerns silenced.
Aife sent one brief, revealing glance toward Temair before she spoke to the group. “I fear ’tis unwelcome tidin’s.”
Temair blurted out her dark wish. “Is he dead?”
Aife creased her brow. “Who?”
“My father,” Temair said.
The friar flashed Temair a glare of reprimand, wordlessly reminding her it was sinful to wish for a person’s death.
Aife shook her head.
Temair was ashamed to admit she felt a pang of disappointment.
Sorcha asked, “What are the bad tidin’s then?”
Aife glanced briefly again at Temair. “The O’Keeffe has agreed to ally with the English.”
The woodkerns looked to Temair for a response.
“’Tis no surprise,” Temair told them with a shrug. “Where do ye think he’s been spendin’ all the coin he collects from theclann? He’s been courtin’ Lackland’s favor for years. And now that Lackland’s king…”
“There’s more,” Aife ventured, setting down her basket of eggs. “A…a man has been sent to form the alliance.”
“A man,” Temair said. “What man?”
Aife’s brows creased. “His name is Ryland de Ware. He’s King John’s man. He’s on his way from England even now, and he’s come for a bride. He’s been sent to wed…the O’Keeffe heiress.”
No one said a word.
But Temair snorted at that. “The stupid fool. Did no one tell him Aillenn’s been dead for six years?”
She smirked. The Englishman was going to be very disappointed, having traveled all that way, showing up at the tower house to discover his bride was lying cold in her grave. She shook her head.
When Temair looked up, no one else was smiling.
