Page 79 of Desire's Ransom
Shehaddone something. He was acting strangely. What the hell had happened?
She racked her brain. She remembered stating her frank opinion of Cormac O’Keeffe. But so had the rest of the outlaws. And he hadn’t seemed to be offended by it.
“Did I…” she began.
“What?”
“If I did…or said anythin’…untoward…”
He rubbed at his chin in consideration. “Well, youdidpromise that when I’m ransomed, I can take Flann with me.”
That coaxed a smile from her. “Ye’re full o’ shite. That I’d never promise…no matter how much ale I drank.”
He laughed. “What about Bran?”
She shook her head, then pressed fingers to her temple. Even that small movement hurt.
“How did you get these fine lads anyway?” he asked, bristling Bran’s fur with his fingers.
She told him the truth. “I don’t know where they came from. After my ma died, the two pups just trotted up to me and ne’er left.”
He scratched Flann under the chin so he wouldn’t get jealous. “You’re good lads to look after a lost little maid.”
His touching words caught her off-guard and choked her up. Quickly, before he could notice, she gulped down the rest of the water and returned the cup to him.
“Six years ago?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“So your mother died when you were…” he prompted.
Temair narrowed her eyes. Ryland had asked one too many questions. What was he trying to find out? He was a kind man, an honorable man. But he was also a very clever man. She had to be careful what she revealed.
“Just a young lass,” she said, being as vague as possible.
“Well, I’m glad these lads were there for you.”
She nodded. Maybe she was being overly cautious. Whatever she’d said or done last night, it didn’t seem to have changed anything between the two of them.
“I should get up,” she decided. But when she sat forward, the blood pounded in her head. She grimaced.
“Raw eel,” he said.
“What?” she moaned, burying her face in her hands.
“Raw eel. ’Tis the English cure for too much ale. Would you like me to pull one out o’ the stream for you?”
She peered at him between her fingers. He had to be jesting. Indeed, his sober expression couldn’t hide the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Two could play that game.
“Aye,” she told him, “and while ye’re doin’ that, I’ll be buryin’ myself neck-deep in river sand.” At his quizzical look, she said, “’Tis theIrishcure for too much ale.”
His laughter should have grated on her ears, but it didn’t. Instead, it felt like a warm, comforting cloak wrapped around her.
“Since ’tis the Sabbath,” he murmured, “perhaps I’ll just pray for your recovery.”
Temair wondered who he’d be praying to. The woodkerns worshipped an assortment of gods, from theTuatha De Danannto Odin to the Holy Spirit. The friar had never tried to convert any of them. They practiced good will, and that was all that mattered. But at the behest of the friar, though they couldn’t afford to be completely idle on the Sabbath, they did abstain from thieving.
