Page 32 of Desire's Ransom
They asked how the fishing was in the lakes.
They commented on the pleasant climate.
They listened to the chieftain’s boasts about the plentiful game in the forest.
Through it all, Ryland sat silent. How could they speak of such trivialities when his entire future was hanging in the balance? What was Cormac’s damned “small difficulty”? Where the devil was his bride?
Ryland’s fingers tightened around his cup of ale. He swore if he heard one more word about the weather, he would crush the cup in his fist.
Finally, unable to stand the suspense, he steeled his nerves and asked, “Forgive my impatience, m’lord, but regarding my bride…”
The chieftain’s bleary blue eyes slipped sideways, and he licked his lips, as if thinking up a good lie.
Cormac was uneasy. He’d been uneasy ever since these Englishmen had arrived. And he didn’t like being uneasy. Not in his own keep.
He’d always been able to appease the English noblemen who visited, impressing them with his wealth and power. Even without an actual daughter to offer, he’d been confident that when the de Ware retinue arrived, he’d be able to come up with a substitute and an arrangement that would benefit them all, with the king none the wiser.
As far as hisclannsmenknew, his daughter was imprisoned in a cell in the tower. But in all that time, no one had seen her. And so a few months ago, when King John had taken the throne, Cormac had put a daring plan into action.
He’d sought out a willing harlot of the right age and a reasonable resemblance to Temair to pass off as his heir, promising her untold riches and power.
Keeping her in the tower cell, he’d proceeded to fornicate with her at every opportunity, hoping to get her with child.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Through her, he’d retain control of histuath. And through him, she’d live a life of privilege.
His seed had finally taken hold in the lass. Wishing to see her wed in a timely fashion, he’d contacted the king and offered up his daughter and heiress to the man of John’s choosing. It was the perfect deception. When the lass gave birth, no one but she and he would know whose offspring it truly was.
Now, however, he was having second thoughts.
These knights were not as manageable as he’d expected. Unlike the velvet-clad popinjays of the king’s court, these men were hardened warriors. And except for the one called Warin, who showed the proper interest and respect for Cormac’s acquisitions, they seemed undaunted by his power and unimpressed by his riches.
As for the man King John had sent as a bridegroom, Sir Ryland de Ware, Cormac liked him least of all. Though Sir Warin had covered for the man, he was convinced that Ryland’s intervention on behalf of the servant had been a direct challenge to Cormac’s authority. He couldn’t risk having such a man in control of his lands.
He had to think of a different option.
He could say his daughter was dead. That would rid him of Sir Ryland. But it would also leave him with no political pawn for the future.
He could allow Sir Ryland to wed the imposter and look for a chance to murder the man later. But that was a messy business. Besides, the knight was not a man easily gulled. If he discovered his bride was a counterfeit, he would no doubt immediately report the unsavory news to King John.
A third idea suddenly came to Cormac.
It was a diabolically simple deception. He’d utterly destroy Sir Ryland by using his own untarnished chivalry against him. Even better, Cormac didn’t have to lie. He only had to distort the truth.
Carefully furrowing his brows, he feigned regret. “I was hopin’ I’d not have to tell ye this. But I can see there’s no way around it.” He paused to shake his head. “Ye see, to my great shame, my daughter, your bride, has…” He sighed. “The lass has run off.”
The other knights gasped. But Sir Ryland said nothing. His eyes were stern and unwavering, and his frown was inscrutable.
Cormac continued. “When I told her she was to be wedded to an English knight, well…she sobbed and carried on.” He tugged at his beard. He still couldn’t read Sir Ryland’s expression, so he looked for assurance from the other knights. “But I was firm with the lass. ‘Aillenn,’ I said, ‘ye don’t have a choice in the matter.’”
“You mean Temair?” one of the knights asked.
“What?”
“Your daughter,” Sir Warin clarified. “You meant Temair.”
“Oh, aye, o’ course, Temair.” Cormac cursed himself for the slip. It had been years since he’d seen either of his daughters. Their names were rusty in his mind. “I told Temair ’tis her duty to marry as the king sees fit.” He shook his head again. “But the lass was havin’ none of it.”
When Sir Ryland finally spoke, his voice was cool and even. “Did you try beating her into submission?”
