by Lisa Jackson
Several men cut in on her dance with Holt and Megan was relieved. Holt, enjoying himself, danced with other ladies, and Megan endured the smiles, congratulations, and sweaty hands of new partners. She was about to make good her escape upstairs to her room when a deep voice asked, “May I?” to her partner, and before she could think twice, she was being swept around the chamber by a handsome stranger she didn’t recognize.
Taller than Holt by an inch or two, he was built strong, with wide shoulders and trim waist. His movements were quick and sure. When his gaze touched hers, the breath in the back of her throat caught, for his eyes were an intense shade of blue that cut to her very soul.
“Lady Megan,” he drawled lazily.
“And you are—?”
“A friend of Holt’s,” was his reply, and she noticed that his hands were not soft, but callused, and in the cleft of his eyebrow was a battle scar. He was handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that surprised her, and his smile, when he showed it, was crooked and secretive and scared her more than a little.
“Have you no name?” she asked, and he laughed, holding her closer than she thought was necessary. Yet she didn’t draw away—the heat of his body was distracting in a wicked way.
“None that you’d know.”
“But if you’re a friend of my … my . . . Sir Holt’s—” she couldn’t say it. Holt was her husband but she could not speak the word, would not let it trip from her tongue.
“Come,” he whispered into her ear so softly she wasn’t certain she heard it correctly. “I have a wedding gift for you and your husband.” He guided her to a spot near the door where a bit of a draft moved the tapestries.
“Now—?” She glanced around, eager for a chance to leave, though uncertain.
He pulled her behind the curtain.
“Now,” he said against her ear and she tingled inside. What was she doing letting this man, this stranger, touch her so familiarly? He leaned forward as if to kiss her and she told herself to step away, to slap him for being so bold, but she couldn’t. To her surprise he clamped a hand over her mouth.
Her body convulsed.
She tried to scream. What was happening? She fought, struggling, but he had one arm, strong as an oak log, wedged under her breasts, the other hand pressed over her mouth.
“Do not struggle, m’lady,” he said with a sneer in his voice, “and your family will not be hurt.”
She bit down hard on the callused hands, but they didn’t shift one little bit.
“If you fight me,” he growled, “you seal their fates and your precious husband, sister, and father will be killed. Slowly and painfully.”
She went limp in his hands and Wolf felt not only a stab of regret for scaring her and lying to her, but a new emotion as well—jealousy that this woman could love a bastard such as Holt of Prydd. With the cord tucked around his wrist, he quickly bound her hands. She cried out at the injustice of it, but he didn’t have time to argue with her.
As he dragged her down the steps, smiling when he noticed the sentries missing from their posts, just as he’d planned, he heard the first shouts from the great hall. No more time.
Not only his horse, but hers as well, was waiting near the cistern. “Climb into the saddle and say not a word. As you can see, I have friends here, friends who have dispensed with the guards and stolen your horse. If you breathe too loudly, I swear, I will have them destroy all that you love!”
He removed his hand from her mouth and she opened hers, only to shut it again. He helped her into the saddle, then climbed onto his own steed while holding fast to her mare’s reins.
As the doors of the great hall burst open, Wolf dug his heels into his mount’s sides and the stallion took off, racing like the wind through the outer bailey, hooves clattering on the drawbridge.
The feisty mare kept up, her nose at the stallion’s flank, her legs a blur. Wolf slid a glance at his prize and her eyes met his for an instant. He expected hatred, or fear, but saw neither. Instead, in that heartbeat, he noticed a glint of triumph in her gaze.
Almost as if she’d been expecting him.
Two
ear Lord, did you have to deliver me into the hands of an outlaw? The wind tore at her hair, yanking off her veil and pulling free the plaits and flowers. Tears stung her eyes as Shalimar galloped furiously to keep up with the stallion. Mayhap she should have been more precise when she’d sent up prayer after prayer asking for deliverance from her marriage, seeking a way to escape the horror of being Holt’s wife. But was this man—this savage scoundrel dressed in black—the answer to her pleas? Would God play so cruel a trick upon her? Surely not!
“Halt!” Holt roared from the steps of the keep; his furious voice carried on the wind and followed them. Megan’s blood turned to ice. “Guards!” he yelled. “Where the hell are the bloody guards?”
Megan hung on for her life.
“For the love of Christ,” Holt thundered, his voice fading in the distance. “Stop that man! Kill him if you must. He’s stealing my wife!”
The horse turned and Megan’s hands, tied as they were, tightened over the pommel of Shalimar’s saddle. Mud spattered upward, staining her tunic as the dark sky cracked open. Rain and sleet slid down her back and pummeled the ground. Darkness crowded over the valley as the horses raced onward, galloping madly along the road. If only she could grab the reins, twist Shalimar around, and somehow elude her captor as well as her husband’s guards. Looking ahead, she saw only the outlaw’s broad back and his long black mantle sailing in the wind.
Behind them, she heard the shouts of men and thundering of hooves. Hazarding a quick glance over her shoulder, she imagined she saw the flickering lights of torches as Holt’s men gave chase. Her heart drummed as wildly as the horses’ hooves and yet she didn’t know which was a worse fate, being kidnapped by a criminal or being caught by her husband.
My husband. What a horrid, blasphemous thought. She shivered inside, thinking that if only she knew the outlaw’s intentions were honorable, she would thank him for helping her escape. But what noble man steals another man’s wife on his wedding day?
The demon rode on, kicking his huge mount’s sides, pulling at Shalimar’s reins, making the little mare gallop at a breakneck pace. They sped frantically down the road, splashing through puddles, careening around corners, sliding through wagon ruts. Faster, faster, faster! Shalimar was breathing hard, struggling to keep up with the longer-legged warhorse, and ’twas all Megan could do to stay astride the game mare.
Think, Megan, think! she told herself as the cold air tore more flowers from her hair and billowed her tunic over her jennet’s rump. As thankful as she was to this criminal, she could not trust him. For all she knew he planned to rape, maim, or kill her.
For weeks she’d thought her fate—that of marriage to Holt—was her doom. She’d nearly collapsed at the altar when Holt had slid the ring on her finger and said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, with this ring, I thee wed.”
After the nuptial Mass, Holt had received the kiss of peace from Father Timothy and passed it on to her. She’d nearly been sick. She’d been certain no fate would be worse than being tied to him for life. But this … this could be a swift and certain death.
She had no choice but to escape the madman who had single-handedly, it seemed, stormed through the guarded gates of Dwyrain, attended the celebration uninvited, and stolen her away right from under her husband’s nose.
The road forked and her captor pulled up short. Shalimar skidded to a halt and Megan nearly toppled over the mare’s head. Somehow she managed to stay in the saddle.
“Where are we?” she demanded, for she’d lost her bearings in the dark.
Still holding on to the reins of her mount, he frowned at the ground. Rain dripped down his face, plastering his dark hair against his skin. His horse stomped impatiently, as if eager to be off again. “Damned flowers,” he muttered under his breath, sidling his horse next to hers. Once
close enough, he reached down and raked his fingers through the tangled strands of her hair.
“Ouch!”
“Be quiet!” Yanking mercilessly on the remaining braids, he stripped the blooms from her tresses.
“Stop! What’re you doing?” she cried, attempting to urge her mount away from him. His grip on the mare’s reins was stronger than the armorer’s vise. Shalimar sidestepped and Megan ordered, “Stay away from me!”
“Hush, woman!” he ordered. “I have spies in the castle; they would slit your husband’s throat if I were but to give the command.”
“You have no power!” But she trembled to think that all the deceit and betrayal she’d felt within the castle walls had been because of this man, this devil with the harsh, rugged face and cruel threats. Was he the reason that Ewan’s knights no longer felt honor-bound to their pledge of fealty? Had he undermined and stripped the baron of his authority? “You scare me not,” she lied. If only she could wrest Shalimar’s reins from his fingers and ride … where? Not back to Dwyrain, not as Holt’s wife, so where? “My father—”
“Your father is an old, foolish man who has put his faith and command of his army in a traitor.”
“A traitor—?”
“The man you call husband, the man with whom you will soon share a bed and with whom you will bring forth children,” he said, his lips curling in disgust.
Megan hoisted up her chin. “You know naught about Dwyrain—”
He laughed, and the sound was wicked as it echoed through the valley. “You’re as blind as Ewan!” Leaning closer to her, he said, “If I know naught of Dwyrain, how did I capture you, eh?”
“Bastard!”
“At your service, m’lady.”
“Pig!”
“Curses from a woman who would marry Holt of Prydd.”
“Nay, Holt is not of Prydd,” she said, bristling, then wondered why she was defending a man she did not trust.
In the darkness his gaze slid down her body and she sensed that he was seeing beneath the folds of mud-spattered velvet and silk, through her mantle, tunic, and even her chemise. “ ’Tis a pity that you should waste yourself on such a man.”
“At least I am not a thief, a highwayman who steals and robs and pillages and …”
“And what?” he prodded, his voice low.
“Rapes,” she whispered. “Or murders.”
This time there was no bark of laughter, no sharp denial. “Think what you will, woman,” he said. “ ’Tis of no matter to me.” His gloved hands ripped through her hair again and she yanked her head away.
“Stop it!”
“Then take the flowers from your hair,” he demanded urgently. “Give them to me! Now!” His lips pressed into a thin, hard line and he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Holt’s soldiers to appear from the shadows at any second.
“My hands are bound.”
“By the gods, Odell was right,” he growled, and picked—more carefully now—the petals from her hair.
“Who’s Odell?” she asked. “And who are you?”
His smile was evil in the darkness. “Tonight I’m Kelvin from Castle Hawarth.”
“And tomorrow?”
His gaze found hers and his stare was so baldly sensual, so intense, she gasped. Even shadowed with the night, his chiseled face was cruelly handsome. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, were guarded by thick black lashes and brows. His nose was crooked, his smile wicked. “I’ll be your keeper, m’lady,” he said in a voice so low she scarce heard it over the pounding of icy rain.
“Nay! No man keeps me!”
He laughed, the sound wicked. “Not even your husband, or so it appears.” Satisfied that the dried blooms were free of her tresses, he gave a sharp order to his horse again and took the east bend in the road. His tireless destrier charged along at a furious pace, and poor Shalimar, her coat already flecked with lather, had to race to keep up with him. As they thundered down the road, the kidnapper dropped the flowers from his gloved hand, sprinkling them on the ground until there were no more, then he pulled the reins on his mount and again rounded on her.
“Well, m’lady, ’tis time to give up your mare.”
“What?”
“A fine animal she is, but methinks it would be best if she were set free.”
“Nay, Shalimar is a good mare and not yet spent—” But her horse was breathing hard, lathering, and was in great need of a rest. “If we could but walk—”
“And let Holt catch us? I think not.” Before she could argue any further, the captor lifted her deftly from the saddle, swung her astride his own horse, dropped Shalimar’s reins, and slapped the mare’s rump hard with his hand. With a startled squeal, the fiery jennet bolted, hooves flying down the east path until she was swallowed in the darkness.
“Good.” Her captor was pleased.
“Are you daft?” Megan cried, trying to climb out of the saddle. She kicked and fought, slapping away his hands though hers were bound, calling out for Shalimar, but the man held her fast. Her heart filled with sudden fear. Without her mare, Megan had no chance of escape. Now she was completely alone with this beast of a man, this criminal, to be forced to do his bidding. He could ransom her to Holt, sell her, or have his own way with her. She swallowed hard, refusing to be defeated, keeping her despair at bay. “My horse is worth much—”
“I care not,” he said swiftly, one strong arm circling her waist, the muscles of his forearm resting hard and firm beneath her breasts, his iron grip clenched tight around her wrists as he held her tight against him.
“But the ransom—”
He clucked to his horse and headed deep into the forest, away from the road, where the darkness was so thick Megan couldn’t see. Branches slapped at her face and her back was pressed hard against her abductor’s chest. Along with the rain, his warm breath tickled the back of her neck, and his smell, so like the forest, enveloped her. The horse plodded on through the undergrowth and the demon said not a word.
The sound of men’s voices, still far away, whispered through the gloom. Through the bare branches of oak and yew, she spied flickering lights, the torches of Holt’s soldiers casting odd points of illumination as they searched for her. As if sensing she might cry out, the outlaw’s hand clamped over her mouth again.
Her mind spun in wild, frightening circles, but she would not give in to the fear that threatened her. She could not trust this man. Surely her fate with him would be as bad as it would have been with Holt, but at least she was past the sentries and could find her own means of escape.
Without Shalimar, she reminded herself, and felt a great loss.
She heard a night bird call and Wolf stiffened. From his throat came a like cry.
A signal. So there were more of them! Her heart sank. Escaping one man would be far easier than fleeing a band of cutthroats and ruffians. She shivered and the man pulled her more closely to him. His muscles were solid and she felt the shape of his knee and thigh pressed intimately to the outside of hers. She sat tall, trying to keep her buttocks from pressing against his crotch, but the task proved impossible. The saddle was confining, and they were wedged together close enough that she felt the rub of his breeches against the silk covering her rump.
“You’ll be caught,” she warned him when the lights had faded and the sounds of the soldiers’ voices no longer reached them.
He laughed.
“And tortured!”
Again the soft, amused chuckle.
“Then hanged.”
“And will you watch?” he asked, his breath feather-light against her ear.
“Aye!” she lied, for in truth she could not watch a man—any man—swing from the hangman’s rope. If the rogue were captured and returned to Dwyrain, she would plead for his life.
“My father will not stand for this.”
“Your father has lost control of his castle.”
The words were true and rang like the dull chimes of death.
“You will be hunt
ed down like a wounded bear.”
“By your husband?” he asked, and she felt her spine stiffen and her chin lift.
“Aye.”
“Good. ’Tis what I want.”
“Who are you?”
“Can you not guess?” He leaned forward, whispering into her ear, causing a naughty little thrill to slide down her spine. “I, m’lady, am the embodiment of your husband’s worst fears.”
“Which are?”
“That he will be forced to pay for the sins of his past.” He yanked on the reins and suddenly, over the drip of rain and soft thud of hooves, she heard the sound of water rushing through the forest. A brook splashed wildly as it cut through the trees. Her abductor let his mount drink for a few seconds before pulling on the reins again and urging the big horse upstream.
“You are Holt’s enemy.”
“Aye.”
“Are you not worried that you, too, might be forced to face your own sins?”
His laugh was without humor and the warm arm surrounding her ribs pulled her even tighter against his chest. “Worried?” he repeated, his voice soft. “Nay, m’lady. I long for that day.”
Rage and humiliation burned in Holt’s gut, eating at him as hungrily as new maggots on a carcass. Icy sleet poured from the sky, creating mud and muck in the inner bailey as Holt waited in the gatehouse, his ears straining for the sound of his men. He only hoped they’d caught the blackguard who had stolen Megan. When his soldiers brought the fool back, Holt would take personal pleasure in whipping the bastard until his back was raw and bleeding, then have him hanged.
Who was he? Holt wondered, and his conscience pricked with the faces of enemies he’d made during his life. Aye, they had been many, but usually weak men or meek women who had seen the dark side of his temper. None of them would follow him here. So who would dare defy him so openly? Who?
His teeth gritted. All his carefully laid plans had changed. Instead of bedding Megan and basking in the glory of becoming the next baron of Dwyrain, he was standing in the driving rain, trying to conjure up the face of the cur who had deceived him.