Page 27 of Desire's Ransom
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.
