Page 30 of Desire's Ransom
Chapter 9
The moment Ryland laid eyes on Cormac O’Keeffe in the great hall of the tower house, a shudder went through him. As he’d feared, theclannchieftain had mottled white skin and a fiery red beard. No doubt his daughter had inherited that coloring and the hot temper to go with it.
Still, Ryland would try to withhold judgment. He hadn’t met his bride yet. Despite the appearance of her father and the rumors of her violence, he intended to keep an open mind.
Cormac was not easy to like. Despite wearing a heavy silver circle of a crown and a vivid greenbratembroidered at the edges in Irish knots of red and yellow over a fine linenléine, he had the appearance of a peasant disguised in the garments of a king. He stank of sweat and ale. He was soft-bellied and shifty-eyed. His nose was ruddy with excessive drinking. And he somehow managed to be imperious and fawning at the same time.
He blustered about like an angry drunkard, snapping at hisclannsmen, berating his servants. Yet he ingratiated himself at every opportunity to Ryland and his knights. Like a poorly trained hound, he barked at his own pack, and then returned to lick his master’s hand, seeking approval.
Ryland’s men disapproved of Cormac as well. He could see it in their stern gazes and the way their knuckles tightened on the hilts of their swords. The chieftain was loud and volatile, bellowing at a maid one moment and confiding in the knights the next. And nothing was more unsettling to a warrior than an unpredictable foe.
Ryland tried not to concern himself too much with Cormac. After all, once he was married to the chieftain’s daughter, Ryland would eventually replace him as lord. So he concentrated instead on theclannsmenwho would be under his care.
On the whole, from what he’d seen, riding through the O’Keeffe lands on the way to the tower house, they seemed like good people, despite being downtrodden and naturally suspicious of Ryland and his men. But he was sure that once he showed them his fairness, his loyalty, and his even temper, they would learn to rely upon him. There was no need to flaunt one’s power when trust could be earned through mutual respect.
“Ale!” Cormac yelled at a kitchen lad. “What’s takin’ ye so long, ye half-wit?”
The cowed servant bobbed his head and scurried from the hall.
Godwin’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.
“Stupid lad probably can’t count to six,” Cormac chortled, elbowing Ryland in the ribs. Ryland winced. He’d hit one of the spots where that lady outlaw had bruised him with her club.
Laurence, who himself had been late to learn his numbers, took offense at the rude comment, growling under his breath.
Warin, ever the diplomat, intervened to turn the conversation. “The tower house is magnificent, m’lord. When did you say ’twas built?”
Cormac, easily distracted, started waxing poetic about the ancient keep, though Ryland was more interested in its sturdiness than its magnificence. He was relieved to see the plaster-covered timber walls were straight at least, though stone would make a more formidable defense. As for the pieces displayed in the hall—a silver aquamanile in the shape of a lion, a jewel-encrusted sword on the wall, an ornate wooden screen painted with hunting scenes accented in gold leaf—they seemed more pretentious and extravagant than tasteful.
He wondered if his betrothed shared her father’s preferences for decoration.
Quickly losing interest in the discussion about the tapestries, Ryland began studying the denizens traveling through the hall.
Where was his bride anyway?
Every time a woman entered the hall, his breath caught.
A lass with curly blonde hair gave him a flirting glance. But she couldn’t be his intended. The filthy hem of her ragged skirt and the basket of hen’s eggs she was carrying marked her as a servant.
A dark-haired beauty shyly lowered her eyes. But her lover was quick to claim her, taking her arm and leading her outside.
An impossibly old woman hobbled by, and Ryland gulped. It wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter, but only now was he beginning to realize that he knew nothing about his bride-to-be…other than the rumors about her murdering her own sister.
She could be half-lame…
Or half-mad…
Or fourteen years old, as far as he knew.
He hadn’t been uneasy before. But now that he was here, about to meet the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his life, he felt as nervous as a squire at his first tournament.
As the chieftain blathered on and on about his priceless treasures, Ryland grew more and more anxious.
Where was his damned bride?
He was about to blurt out the question—in more polite language, of course—when the chieftain made a grand gesture with his arm at the very moment the servant arrived with the six ales, knocking the entire tray out of his hands.
The earthen cups shattered on the floor. Shards of clay and splashes of foaming ale burst outward.
