Page 6 of Desire's Ransom
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging her cuts. But the pain wasn’t enough to distract her from the chaos of her thoughts.
How could her sister have taken her own life?
Why had she done it?
Why hadn’t she just run away with Temair?
And the most tormenting thought of all…
Could Temair have done something to stop her?
She sobbed with the burden of her guilt—deep, racking sobs that came from the tortured depths of her soul. And even at twelve years old, she knew that question would curse her forever.
She lurched onward for miles, out ofTuath O’Keeffe,farther than she’d ever gone afield alone.
Until the moon rose high over the trees.
Until the hounds led her off of the main path, as if they knew where they were going, taking a trail that twisted through trees and landscapes unknown to her.
Until her sides ached with fatigue.
Yet it still didn’t feel far enough.
At last, when she was weary with sorrow and her fingers were half-frozen, the toe of herbrogcaught on a root, and she pitched forward, falling onto her hands and knees.
All at once the weight of her sister’s death pressed down on her like a heavy hand. Unable to rise, she hung her head, weeping brokenly, letting the moss absorb her tears.
Flann nudged her with his wet nose, urging her on. But she had nothing left. She could go no farther. Her legs were useless. Her eyes were swollen and sore. Her mind was exhausted.
She collapsed atop the leafy ground, curling in on herself, pulling herbrataround her.
Surrendering, Bran and Flann circled and bedded down in the ferns beside her. The last thought Temair had before she fell into the blissful oblivion of sleep was that if she died tonight, at least it would be in the company of her last two friends in the world.
Nobody woke Cormac O’Keeffe. Anyone who dared to wake him from slumber learned quickly what a grave mistake they’d made. Which was why theclannchieftain didn’t hear the news until late the next morn.
When he finally pried open his groggy eyelids, it was to the sight of his sniveling servant, hovering over his bed. The man bunched his cap in white-knuckled hands. His eyes were red and raw. His chin was quivering. The man looked as if he might piss histriusat any moment.
Cormac growled low in his throat. He wondered how long the dullard had been standing there, watching him sleep. Long enough, apparently, to prod the banked fire on the hearth to life.
“What?” Cormac grunted, wincing at the throbbing in his head.
He’d indulged in the brew from the monastery again last night. The strong stuff made him forget his troubles easily enough. But it punished him like the devil the next morn.
“Sorrowful tidin’s, m’lord.”
Cormac scrubbed at his eyes. What was it this time? Escaped cattle? A pregnant servant? Bugs in the wheat stores? “Spill it.”
The man looked ready to crumble. “I regret to inform ye…your daughter is…she’s dead, m’lord.”
Cormac halted. Surely he’d heard wrong. He gave his head a shake. “Say that again.”
The servant wiped his wet nose with the back of his hand. “She’s dead, m’lord. Your daughter’s gone.”
Cormac blinked.
He felt nothing.
Not regret. Not even surprise.
