Page 51 of Desire's Ransom
Lady Mor agreed. “There’s nothin’ more sacred than a knight’s vow.”
Cambeal asked, “Is this agreeable to ye, Gray?”
Temair felt her face growing hot. Did no one sense the awkward paradox of that? Ryland had trusted her, and she’d promptly betrayed his trust. Why would he feel any compunction whatsoever to keep a promise made to her?
At her delay, Ryland spoke, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I could give you a blood oath if you prefer.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she decided. “Oath or no, if ye run off into the woods, my hounds will track ye down.”
He gave a mock shudder, which infuriated her. He wasn’t afraid of her dogs. The rogue had tamed the disloyal beasts with little more than salted pork and a few scratches.
Then he sobered. “I vow on my honor as a knight,” he said solemnly, “I won’t leave the camp without your consent.”
She should have doubted him. But she didn’t. Even without Cambeal’s confirmation, she got the sense that Sir Ryland was a man of his word.
So she acknowledged his promise with a nod. “Fine. I hope I don’t live to regret it. Ye can untie him, Cambeal.” Then, eager to get past the awkward situation, she called out, “What’s for supper tonight, Friar?”
Brian hoisted up two rabbits someone had snared. “Rabbit pottage.”
“And I’ve made oat bread,” Sorcha announced.
There would have been blackberries as well, but in her hurry, Temair had left the basket behind.
Ronan waggled his bushy black brows and pulled out a wineskin. “A bit o’ refreshment from a passin’ jurist. He insisted we have it.”
Young Fergus chortled at that, and the tense atmosphere in the camp began to dissolve.
Meanwhile, Sorcha laid out a cloth on the ground where the spoils of the day could be deposited.
There wasn’t much.
Aife had nipped a few cloak pins from a jeweler. She’d exchanged one of them for information from the maidservant.
Cambeal had lifted a heavy silver pendant from the same jurist who’d donated the wine.
Young Fergus and Lady Mor dropped handfuls of coins they’d taken from a trio of passing nobles.
The woodkerns then went about their work as usual. Domnall gathered wood for the fire. Aife skinned the rabbits. Young Fergus took out a whetstone and sharpened blades. Old Sorcha, who knew how to read and write, recorded the take for the day. Friar Brian would distribute the gifts to needy families on the Sabbath.
Temair had watered the hounds, and they’d fed well already. There was nothing for her to do.
Sir Ryland was idle as well. He sat, staring morosely at the fire ring.
Even though holding him hostage had beenherplan, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His king had used him to make an alliance, forcing him to move to a foreign country, to wed a woman he’d never met. Now Temair was using him to pay for an army to get hertuathback.
None of it was his fault. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders rose and fell as he let out a heavy sigh.
Domnall tossed a log onto the fire and grunted, “Were ye in the Crusades then, fightin’ under Richard?”
“Aye,” Ryland said. “I fought in the Battle of Arsuf.”
Domnall’s heavy brows went up. Then he nodded. “Was it as savage as they say?”
“’Twas a waste of good warriors,” Ryland replied, surprising Temair with his insight. “Religious wars always are.”
Their conversation caught the attention of Maelan, the other old soldier. “I fought at Acre. And ye’re right. What a bloody massacre ’twas. And for what? Because one man didn’t like what the other was thinkin’.” He shook his head.
