Page 19 of Desire's Ransom
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. Thewoodkerns’blackberries.
She clenched her jaw. How dared he pilfer their blackberries?
“Back up,” she snarled.
Maybe shewouldtrain 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.
“Youback 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 washerforest. 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.
