Page 31 of Desire's Ransom
The horrified kitchen lad seemed to shrink in his skin. The chieftain’s face purpled with rage as he raised one meaty fist.
Ryland acted on instinct. He wouldn’t stand idly by while the chieftain hurt an innocent servant. Before Cormac could bring down his fist, Ryland seized the man’s thick forearm, halting him.
For one agonizing, uncomfortable moment, there was silence in the hall. Ryland could feel the shuddering fury in Cormac’s arm as everyone looked on in horror.
Ryland knew he had no right to interfere in what happened between the chieftain and his servant. This was not Ryland’s keep—at least not yet. And his action undermined the authority of the chieftain in the eyes of all who witnessed it.
But he couldn’t help himself. Above all, Ryland believed in justice, in fairness. And the kitchen lad didn’t deserve punishment.
Fortunately, brilliant Warin came to the rescue. He stepped between Ryland and Cormac, grabbing the sleeve of the chieftain’s garments with a gasp.
“Oh, nay, m’lord,” he said to Cormac in concern, “you don’t want to be getting servant’s blood on that fine linen.”
Startled by the comment, Cormac was distracted long enough for Ryland to give the servant a sharp, dismissive glare. The kitchen lad didn’t need a second warning. He made a hasty escape.
Laurence motioned to a maidservant to clean up the mess while Warin continued fussing over the chieftain’s sleeve.
“Servants are easily replaced,” Warin said. “But quality linen such as this…” He clucked his tongue.
Whether the chieftain believed Warin’s nonsense, Ryland didn’t know. But the chieftain’s rage subsided quickly. Ryland owed Warin for that favor.
“You there, lad,” Godwin called out to a less skittish servant. “Fetch us ales, will you?”
The servant left to do Godwin’s bidding.
Ryland decided to use the chaotic moment to casually toss out the question that had been nagging at him. “So, m’lord, when do I get to meet my beautiful bride?”
Cormac looked stunned for a moment, as if it had totally slipped his mind. Then he eyed Ryland with a calculating squint. “Ye seem in a hurry.” His lip curled up in what he probably thought passed for a smile. “Are ye so eager to toss me on my arse and take mytuath?”
“Not at all,” Ryland said. “I only—”
“Because I don’t plan to die for a long while yet.”
Though Ryland thought the man’s temperament and health indicated otherwise, he nodded. “Of course not.”
Cormac grunted.
Ryland opened his hands in friendship. “I only wish to meet the woman who is to be my wife.”
“Aye, o’ course.”
But Cormac made no move to remedy the situation. Instead, he glanced around the ring of knights, stroking his beard as if grinding some plan through the gears of his brain.
“About that,” he finally said. “I’m afraid there may be a small…difficulty.”
“Difficulty?” Ryland didn’t like the sound of that.
Just then, the servant returned with their ale, thankfully without spilling a drop.
Cormac seemed grateful for the distraction. “Perhaps it should wait until after we’ve finished our ales.”
The last thing Ryland wanted to do was stretch out the anticipation. What “small difficulty” could the chieftain possibly mean? Had the woman refused his hand? Had she run away with a lover? Was she dead? Maybe they’d finally executed her for the murder of her sister.
“As you wish,” he said between his teeth.
Hiding his impatience as best he could, Ryland followed their host to the trestle table in the midst of the hall.
As they drank, his knights engaged in polite and harmless conversation with the chieftain.
