Page 9 of Desire's Ransom
But Cormac wasn’t stupid. He knew the English would eventually have their way. King Henry’s hunger for land was insatiable. He might devour it one bite at a time. But hewoulddevour it.
Henry’s son John already reigned over most of the eastern coast, which made the young man’s nickname, Lackland, laughable. It was only a matter of time before all of Eire would be subject to the English king.
It was Cormac’s intention to come out on the right side of the inevitable battle. And to do that, he needed to prove his loyalty to the crown. What could be more convincing than bartering away his oldest daughter and the heiress toTuath O’Keeffeto a vassal of King Henry?
But now, curse his fate, he had nothing to barter.
He stared hard into the bright flames—his gaze and his options narrowing.
Cormac could take another bride. A young bride. One who could give him sons.
But by the time a son of his grew to manhood, Cormac would be a doddering old fool. Nay, he needed leverage now, something to secure and solidify the bond between Lord John and the O’Keeffes, something to prove his allegiance.
Temair.
He sneered with distaste.
The lass was unfit to be any man’s bride. Willful and bullheaded, conniving and sly, she was as slippery as an eel and as tenacious as a wild boar.
She was ugly as well. Unlike her delicate, milky-fleshed, red-haired sister, Temair had raven-black hair and spooky gray eyes that smoldered like ashen coals. It was little wonder Cormac’s fist found her face so often. She had the kind of cocky countenance that looked in need of a good clout. With looks like hers, the lass invited brutality.
But she was his only hope.
He sighed. He would have to pray she would grow breasts, for she was currently as flat as a plank. And he would have to find a way to tame her, to mold her into the kind of meek, mild bride her sister would have made. Which would be no easy task.
Beating the lass didn’t work. Besides, if he was to make a bride of her, he’d have to preserve what little beauty she had. He couldn’t send her to her betrothed with a black eye and missing teeth.
He scratched at his flea-bitten arse.
How else could he make her behave?
As the last bit of linen curled and burned and smoked itself to gray ash, destroying the proof of his sin, the answer occurred to him.
Her hounds.
The lass might not care what happened to her. But she protected those dogs of hers with an unnatural ferocity. Master the hounds, and he could master the lass.
He rose to piss on the fire, feeling better already.
Temair awoke to the sound of the hounds growling low in their throats. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She blinked into the blinding dawn, trying to see what had upset the dogs.
She rose on her elbows. The hounds were standing watch at her feet, snarling a warning to something beyond.
She shielded her eyes with her arm, trying to make out what it was.
Someone yelled, “Call them off!”
She sat up all the way and gasped. A ragged band of archers had their arrows trained on Bran and Flann.
“Nay!” she cried. “Don’t shoot! Please!”
No one lowered their bow.
“Please!” Temair begged again.
“Then ye’d better call them off!” one of the men barked.
“Aye, I will,” she assured them. “But ye’ll have to lower your bows.” Temair knew that as long as the hounds perceived a threat to her, they wouldn’t let down their guard.
