Page 97 of Desire's Ransom
She told herself they were tears of fury and frustration.
The heavy ache in her chest said otherwise.
She was heartbroken.
“Shite!” Ryland spat, seizing the collars of the hounds, who wanted to run after her.
He hadn’t wanted Temair to find out like this. He’d wanted to break the happy news to her while she lay close to his heart, cradled in his arms.
“Go after her, m’lord,” Warin urged him, narrowing his eyes at the woodkerns. “They dare not shoot us while you’re in pursuit of their leader.”
Ryland shook his head. Warin might be his best man, but he was more a man of quick impulse than measured judgment.
His brother Adam scoffed. “Their leader?”
Ryland sighed. What Adam knew about Ireland would fit in a thimble. There was much for him to learn.
“That’s right,” Ryland announced proudly. “And aye, sheismy bride. So I’ll thank all of you to watch your tongues.”
Warin drew back as if he’d struck him.
“Now. Will ye not lower your weapons?” Ryland asked the woodkerns. “I can explain.”
But they refused to stand down. He supposed they were right not to trust him. After all, in their eyes, he’d betrayed their mistress.
“Ye can explain while we have our bows drawn,” Maelan replied with a scowl.
Ryland’s men were sorely vexed—all but Warin, who looked as anxious as a priest in a brothel. Old Sorcha had him in her sights, and her bow kept wavering as her strength waned.
He’d have to make it fast.
First he addressed the woodkerns. “I meant to speak to her last night.”
“But ye were too busy ‘polishin’ your dagger,’ isn’t that right?” Ronan sneered, still staring at his target, Osgood.
Ryland bit the inside of his cheek.
“If she’s his bride,” Adam sneered back at Ronan, “then he’s entitled to ‘polish his dagger’ any time he wants. I don’t see the problem with that.”
Ronan’s black beard quivered. “I’ll tell ye the problem. She doesn’t want to be wed to a kiss-arse o’ Lackland.”
His men took offense at that, and Ryland held up an arm to silence them.
The noble Cambeal, his arrow still trained on Adam, asked Ryland, “How long have ye known who she was?”
“Only since last night,” he replied.
“And what do ye intend to do?” Cambeal pressed.
“What I came to do—marry her.”
His men grumbled about that. So did the woodkerns.
Old Sorcha addressed him. “Listen to me well, m’lord. When Temair came here six years ago, she was broken and battered. I think ye know why. We took her in. And we made her a vow. We promised she’d always have a home here.”
Menacing Domnall had his bolt aimed at Laurence. “That vow may not be the oath of a proper knight,” he snarled, “but ’tis worthy, all the same.”
Young Fergus jutted out his stubborn chin as he held his bow steady. “She’s under our protection. Ye can’t have her. She’s ours.”
