Page 36 of Desire's Ransom
But she couldn’t.
Because she had to hide.
Damn it all. She hated hiding.
She let out another long sigh, consoling herself with a blackberry.
She was mid-bite when a sudden, loud howl from the road startled her, nearly making her upend the whole basket.
The hounds snapped to attention, but they made no sound. Temair had trained them well. They stood silent, at the ready, waiting for her signal.
She cocked her head to listen. The distant baying sounded suspiciously like a song. She gulped down the blackberry. What fool would travel through an outlaw-infested forest, singing at the top of his lungs?
A gullible fool, she thought. Probably one with more coin than sense. Easy prey for an outlaw like Temair.
She caught her lip under her teeth. She was supposed to lie low. She could not be seen. She knew that. Anyone she encountered might send her description back to the chieftain.
But how could she resist the temptation of easy coin?
It wouldn’t take long, she reasoned. She could slip out onto the road, relieve the bellowing bard of his riches, and then vanish into the woods again in the blink of an eye. She’d be there and back in a matter of moments, with none the wiser.
She could trust Flann and Bran to stay obediently behind. And she’d return immediately to camp with her spoils.
While she pondered the risks, the singing grew louder. She couldn’t make out the words, though they sounded French. His voice was powerful and not unpleasant. Maybe he was a troubadour with a heavy purse.
If she didn’t decide quickly whether to take the risk, he’d pass by. And the chance would be lost.
“To hell with it,” she muttered, setting down the basket of berries.
She pulled her scarf up over her face and her hood down over her head. Then she turned to the hounds with a stern finger.
“Flann. Bran. Sit.”
They did.
“Stay.”
She placed the basket in front of them, as if it was their duty to guard it.
“Stay,” she repeated.
The hounds slid down until their front paws touched the basket.
Then she slung her bow and quiver of arrows over her shoulder and tripped lightly across the log to the far bank. Following the source of the sound, she made her way soundlessly through the fern and willows. Near the narrows of the road, she hid behind the thick trunk of an oak. Silently nocking an arrow into her bow, she waited for the singer to draw close.
His truly was an outstanding voice. The melody was strong and confident. The tone was rich and rolling with just a touch of melancholy. In fact, Temair had to be careful not to get so distracted by the performance that she misjudged her timing.
She’d made the leap from behind this particular oak so many times she could do it with her eyes closed. The tree was perfectly situated to conceal an outlaw from anyone traveling along the road until the very last instant. All Temair had to do was listen for the footsteps—or in this case, the loud singing—for the ideal moment to pop out.
Just before the man grew even with the oak, Temair sprang out onto the road with her bow drawn.
“Hold, sir, and—!”
The air went out of her lungs. It was him. Somehow—impossibly—it was the English knight.
