Page 17 of Desire's Ransom
Indeed, Ryland was grateful for all of his knights. When they’d learned he was being banished to Ireland, all three dozen of them had fought for the dubious privilege of accompanying him on his initial visit. Ultimately, he’d chosen these four.
They were stouthearted men and fierce warriors. It was good to know he wasn’t heading into the unknown alone. Whether he’d be greeted by the O’Keeffeclannas friend or foe, Ryland was well equipped for either an alliance or a battle.
At least the Irish countryside was welcoming. The day was sunny, and the oaks and elms made a leafy canopy overhead. Moss and ferns softened the forest floor, though the loam was already so yielding that their horses’ hooves on the sod were nearly silent.
Now and then a stream wandered toward the road and then diverged into the wood, like a silvery snake slithering into the shadows. Sparrow and wrens, robins and dunnocks chirped from the trees, and an occasional lizard wriggled through the stems of bluebells.
As they continued to ride lazily along in idle conversation, Ryland began to feel a tingling along the back of his neck. A vague sense that they were not alone. But when he glanced into the wood, he saw only flitting finches and blackbirds.
Still, his hand was never far from the hilt of his sword.
Laurence must have sensed it too. He cast a wary gaze along the edges of the path, as if he expected a wolf to spring out at them.
According to the foul-mouthed lass at the inn, the forest was “full o’ feckin’ faerie folk—the sort to lure a man deep into the wood to steal his bloody soul.”
Ryland had naturally dismissed her claims. He was a man of reason. He didn’t believe in faerie folk.
But as they rode past round rocks completely covered in plush moss, strange rings of tiny red mushrooms, glistening threads of water that seemed to weep from the earth, and branches overhead so dense they formed tunnels, it was easy to imagine the forest was populated by otherworldly creatures.
It was far more likely, however, that there were moreworldlycreatures in the wood. He’d been warned that the forests of Ireland were rife with outlaws.
Thathe believed. Outlaws were the bane ofeveryforest.
He wasn’t much worried about thieves. They were five strong, fully armed knights on horseback. They were more than a match for any miscreants roaming the woods.
But the queer sensation wasn’t going away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he and his knights were being watched. And if anything made him restless, it was a threat he couldn’t see.
Without turning his head, he let his gaze slide to the side. For an instant, he thought he saw an odd flicker of movement through the trees. But on second glance, he saw it was only a red squirrel hopping from branch to branch.
The path began to narrow so that the knights had to ride in a single line behind Ryland. If therewereoutlaws in the woods, this was the kind of spot they’d most likely use to intercept their victims. His men must have thought so as well, for they grew quiet and watchful.
But though he still felt eyes following him, no thief with a dagger slipped from behind the tree trunks. No archer leaped out into the road ahead to take aim at his heart.
Once the path widened again, they all breathed easier. They reached a place where, to one side of the road, the ground sloped gradually down, opening into a sunlit glade where a deep stream rushed past. Here they could rest a while and water their horses.
He motioned his men to follow and eased his horse off the road and down the shallow embankment.
The clearing was drenched with light and dotted with daisies, hardly the kind of spot where an outlaw could hide. So they dismounted, stretching their legs.
While the others began unpacking food from their satchels—scones, sheep’s milk cheese, salted pork, and ale they’d brought from the inn, Warin led the horses to the water.
Ryland needed to stretch his legs and relieve himself, so he set off downstream. As he trudged farther and farther along the wet bank, the burbling stream took a turn. He followed it around the bend, where the water deepened and the current smoothed into a swift, rippling sheet.
Trout probably swam in the green depths, far below the reach of the sunlight dancing atop the waves. Ryland half wished he had a fishing pole. He’d much prefer to spend the afternoon dabbling a line in the stream than face his new and possibly murderous bride.
Sighing, he continued on.
Farther along, on the opposite side of the stream, he spotted a patch of brambles. Blackberries. And they appeared to be juicy and ripe. His mouth watered at the sight.
The stream was too wide to leap across and too deep to ford.
But just beyond the berry patch was a giant fallen pine log that created a makeshift bridge between the two banks.
Clambering over the mossy rocks, he climbed atop the log. It felt sturdy enough to support him, and it looked well-used. The branches had long since broken off, and the bark had worn away on the top in places, exposing the blond wood beneath. It was manageably wide along its entire twenty-foot length, where it found anchor on the opposite bank. If he took his time, he could make a safe crossing.
Foot over foot, he made his way above the lazy current, faltering only once when his heel slipped on a slick spot on the log. Finally, he traversed the last few inches and landed on the far bank. Deciding to take care of necessities first, he relieved himself on a willow sapling, then washed his hands and face in the cold stream.
Gathering the blackberries was quick work. The plump purple fruit grew thick on the vines. When he was done, his fingers and the bottom of his dark green surcoat, which he’d used to collect the berries, were stained with juice, and he’d pricked his knuckles a few times on the thorns. But the couple of berries he popped into his mouth burst with sweetness, proving his efforts were not in vain. He’d take the rest of the blackberries back to his men.
