by Lisa Jackson
“That’s better,” Father Timothy said, laying a hand upon her bent head. His fingers touched her hair and lingered a second too long against the back of her neck. “Surely God will answer your prayers now.”
She hoped so.
Nearly an hour later, the doctor announced that Ewan had awakened.
“Never again doubt the power of prayer,” Father Timothy said, thankfully relieving her of her prayer duty. On aching legs, she hurried up the stone stairs of the great hall, past guards who had been stationed throughout the keep and were ever vigilant for spies or thugs or strangers. “A bit late,” old Rue had said, silently motioning to the guards. “Why close the stable door once the horse has escaped?” But Holt had ordered the men to watch over everyone in the castle, and no one was looked upon without suspicion.
Passing so quickly by the rush lights that they flickered in her wake, Cayley slid through the door of her father’s chamber. Only a few candles burned near the bed. A fire was lit, but it had burned down earlier and now there were only red-gold embers glowing in the grate.
“News of your sister?” Ewan asked hopefully, his dim eyes sparking for a second.
“Nay, Father, the soldiers found her not.”
He sighed wearily. “Then we must pray for her safe return.”
“I have prayed all the long night,” Cayley said, sick of the tiresome supplications to a God who was deaf this night. Discovering mossy chunks of dry oak in a basket near the door, she tossed two dry logs onto the fire. Sparking hungrily, greedy flames crackled and hissed over the new fuel.
“Holt believes that there are those soldiers and servants who are unfaithful to me,” Ewan said as he adjusted the furs on his bed with his bony hands. “He claims that the outlaw who invaded our keep had spies within the castle, men who helped him steal your sister away.”
“I know not,” Cayley said, though she’d sensed a change in the castle these past few months.
Somehow, Cayley thought as she walked to the window and watched the clouds part to show a sliver of moon, the magician was responsible for her sister’s abduction as well.
Frowning, she sent up one last prayer. “Keep her safe, Lord. Please, keep her safe.”
The tunic was scratchy and far too large and every one of her bones ached as the first gray streaks of dawn lighted the eastern sky. They had been riding for hours and Dwyrain was miles behind them, somewhere far to the south. She’d not spoken to the outlaw since catching him watching her step into his clothes. Never had a man seen her in such a state of undress; the thought bothered her.
His mount was lagging as they climbed a steep trail that crested a ridge and then eased down to a valley near a winding stream. On the far shore of the brook was the glow of a fire.
“Your camp,” she said, dread clamping over her heart.
“Aye.”
Laying a hand over his, she drew up on the reins. “Why did you do this?” she asked, wanting an answer from this silent man before she had to face those who called him their leader.
His eyes were dark and the lines around them proved that he, too, felt the strain of the long ride. “I came for you,” he said, and she felt the jump in her heartbeat, no doubt visible at her neck. Nervously, she licked her lips, and he watched the motion. “I stole you away because you are Holt’s bride.”
“Why not before the marriage?”
“ ’Twould not have been the same.”
“Because, in truth, this had naught to do with me.”
“Aye.”
“So I am but a prize with which to barter.”
His jaw became hard as iron and she caught a glimmer of regret, leading her to believe that she was seeing a glimpse of another man, one he’d been long before he’d taken the life of the outlaw. She guessed from the conversation they’d had while dancing, the way he’d fit into the skin of a nobleman so easily, the few words they’d exchanged in the forest, that hidden beneath his ill manners and roguish ways was an educated man, one who might be able to read as well as command, one who was shrewd in the ways of the forest as well as in the running of a castle.
Again she asked, “Who are you?”
His smile was positively wicked. “Wolf.”
“You took the name of a beast.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“And why do you hate Holt?”
“Because he once rode with Tadd of Prydd.”
“Tadd of Prydd is dead,” she said and felt a tremor of fear.
“Aye.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry as sand and her fingers curled into nervous fists. “You killed him.”
Wolf’s eyes flashed. “I sent him to hell where he belonged.”
So he was a murdering rogue. God in heaven, why did she feel safe in his arms? Why had she no fear for her life or her virtue? Why did she feel that she could trust him? Though she’d never met Tadd of Prydd, she’d heard from her father that Tadd had been a cruel leader who met with a well-deserved and painful end. At Wolf’s hand.
“I have no argument with you, Megan. Nor with your father. Only Holt, your husband, is my sworn enemy.” He eyed her and frowned. “What know you of him?”
“Only that he had been in my father’s service for years.”
“And before that?”
She shook her head. “ ’Tis as if he has no past.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, m’lady,” Wolf said, tilting up her chin so she was forced to look into his eyes. “What he doesn’t have is a future.”
“Because of you?”
“Aye.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Now, before we meet my men, I think you should know that we have a rule that there are to be no women in the camp.”
“Then what of me?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“You will dress, think, and act like a man. You will do nothing to distract them. They are to think of you as one of them.”
She tossed her glorious mane of hair. “Well, I certainly have the clothes for the part.”
“But ’tis not enough.” Was there regret in his voice?
She turned to look ahead. “What more could you want from me?”
“Only this, m’lady,” he said. “Forgive me.” She felt him grab her hair in one hand and then, quick as a starving dog on a shank of meat, he withdrew his knife as if intending to slice the long tresses in one swift swipe.
“Nay!” she cried, her hands flying to her head. He hesitated, his weapon upraised. “You black-hearted beast!” she cried, trying to slide out of the saddle while his arms, strong as new steel, held her against him. Tears of fury burned behind her eyes but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting them spill. “You have no right to treat me this way. No right!”
“ ’Tis only hair,” he said.
“My hair. You have no right.… Please do not cut it.”
“But ’twill grow.”
True, it would grow, but the humiliation, the idea of him taking a part of her without so much as asking, burned hot in her soul. “If you do this, I hope you roast in hell!”
“No doubt I will, m’lady,” he said, sheathing his weapon and sighing as he let her long hair fall free. Clucking the horse forward, his eyes dark with self-loathing as they approached the camp, he said again, “No doubt I will.”
Three
egan bit her tongue. She wanted to rant and rave at the devil who’d captured her, to kick and scream at him, but she didn’t say a word as they rode into the camp. ’Twas better if he thought she was meek and frightened.
A sharp whistle broke the morning stillness as Wolf’s horse emerged from the forest. The outlaw’s camp was little more than a clearing by a small stream with several dirty tents and a few wagons scattered around a fire pit.
“I was beginnin’ to think ye’d been caught,” a thin, short man with a shock of gray hair grumbled. “About time ye decided to return.”
“Were ye worried for me, Odell?” Wolf said with a mocking grin that caused the shorter man to blush.
“Me? Worry?” Odell spit on the ground as Wolf swung from the saddle. Before he could help Megan to the ground, she hopped off the stallion’s back and stood a distance away from him, her hands still bound, her hair wild about her face. “ ’ell’s bells, I never worry!”
“Then why were ye askin’ about him every time there was a noise in the woods?” another man, with only one good eye and a patch over the other, teased.
“For the love of—” The thin little man eyed Megan curiously as he changed the subject and said to Wolf, “So this is yer prize,” narrowing his eyes as he scratched his head and studied her with a frown of distaste. “Ye gods, what are we going to do with ’er?”
Most of the men edged closer, forming a half-ring about them, and Megan managed to meet each set of curious eyes with her own stare. A sorrier group of outlaws she never wished to see!
“This is Megan of Dwyrain,” he said as the men gaped at her. “She is our guest and—”
“Guest?” she repeated, stung and unable to quiet her tongue. “You call me a guest? Was I invited? Did I have a choice of whether I would come with you?”
“Shh—” he said, his blue eyes glinting as the morning mist began to rise.
“Was I treated as a guest or as a prisoner? Were my clothes not taken from me? Was I not forced to ride into the forest?” Rage seethed through her and though she knew she should clamp her lips together to appear meek and frightened, she couldn’t stop the tirade that came from deep in her soul. “Were not my hands bound and my horse whipped so that it would run off?”
“Ye let a good ’orse get away?” Odell asked, his voice edged with concern.
“I had no choice.”
Again Odell spit, this time in disgust, and Megan, though she knew she shouldn’t say another word, couldn’t keep her jaws clamped together. “If this is how your leader treats a guest, I would hate to think what he does with a prisoner!”
By the time she was finished, Wolf’s expression was deadly, his hands clenched in tight fists, and his bold jaw was jutted and rock hard. “I promised I would not hurt you, Megan,” he said with slow measure, each word pronounced as if it was to be the last she would hear in this lifetime, “and I always keep my word. I ask that you do the same.”
“You have ripped me away from my home, dragged me away from my marriage feast, and forced me to ride with you here, wherever we are.”
“Have you been whipped?” he asked through lips that barely moved.
“Nay.” She shook her head and her wild curls brushed her shoulders.
“Beaten?”
“No, but—”
“Raped?”
Her breath caught for a second. “Nay,” she whispered.
“Bound except for your hands, which were set free when I knew I could trust you?”
When she didn’t answer, he lifted a dark brow. “Nor were you gagged, hauled about like a sack of grain, or touched in a familiar manner. You, m’lady, have been treated as my guest. However, should you disobey me or make trouble with my men, then you will be treated as a prisoner.” He pressed his face close to hers, near enough that she could see the angry streaks of gray in his blue eyes. “I mean you no harm, Megan of Dwyrain, but you will do as I say or suffer the consequences.”
“You have no right—”
“And as for your husband, if you love him, then you must know that I will do anything in my power to destroy him.”
“But why?” Megan asked, her eyes searching his face. What a puzzle he was—gentle one moment, cruel the next.
“Because he did the same to me. Now—” He looked up and found his men, quiet for once, staring openmouthed at the two of them. “Is there nothing to eat? We’ve been riding all night and our guest must be starved.”
“Robin caught us some rabbits,” Odell ventured. “And there’s pike from the stream and bread we stole from …” His voice drifted off and he cleared his throat. “Let me get the fires going.”
“But first, introductions,” Wolf insisted, naming them each to Megan. Odell, the older scamp who wondered about Wolf giving up her house and was tossing dry leaves and twigs onto the warm coals, looked harmless enough, though she wouldn’t trust him with the truth. The others—Jagger, who appeared tough and mean-tempered; Peter, with only one eye; Bjorn, blond and muscular; as well as several others. Last in the group was Robin, a boy of no more than 12 who could only stare at her and swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a leaf upon a rippling stream. His face, beneath a thatch of dark hair, turned three shades of red when at last he spoke, and upon saying her name, his voice cracked. The rest of the men laughed and made great sport, but the poor lad ducked away hurriedly, finding an excuse to slip into the privacy of the forest.
Odell had already constructed a spit over the glowing coals, and soon two rabbits were roasting, sending the scent of sizzling meat through the naked trees and bracken. Megan’s stomach growled and she heard a great flapping of wings in the branches of an oak tree overhead. Looking up, she spied an owl seated near the trunk, its neck twisted so that he could view her.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” Odell muttered. “Look who’s back!”
“He’s been here before?” Megan asked.
“Aye, lately.” Odell raised his eyes up at the huge bird. “ ’E’s a bother, if you ask me. Bad luck.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” Peter put in, but he, too, glanced up at the bird in vexation. “All he wants is our breakfast.”
“Sorry, ’e’ll ’ave to be cookin’ ’is own. I’m not wastin’ my time sweatin’ over an open fire for some bloody damned bird. Go on,” Odell yelled, raising his hands and flapping them wildly. “Shoo away, ye overgrown pigeon. Off with ye!”
The owl only blinked and settled his head into his neck feathers.
“Ah, who cares about ye anyway,” Odell complained, turning back to the charring meat, frowning as the grease drizzled onto the coals.
“Come,” Wolf said, once the men had gone back to their tasks. Some hunted, some whittled, some sharpened weapons, others gathered wood or tended to the horses. One man was carefully cleaning the blades of daggers and swords, and the boy, Robin, cast several nets into the stream.
“Come with me,” Wolf ordered, then led her to the largest tent situated near the forest’s edge. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said and Megan heard Odell, from the fire pit, give a snort of laughter.
“Whose tent is it?” she asked, but she knew the answer.
“Mine.”
Her silly heart fluttered. “And where will you be?” she asked, lifting a dark brow and crossing her arms under her breasts.
His smile was that of a rake and her pulse thundered as he said, “I’ll be outside, m’lady, guarding the door, but if you try to escape, then I’ll be forced to sleep inside with you to make sure you stay until your husband comes for you.” His gaze touched hers and she lost her breath. “Where I sleep—how close to you—’tis all up to you.”
“Who was the outlaw?” Holt demanded of the commander of Ewan’s troops, a tall gaunt-looking soldier who never smiled. Connor was his name, and he had no family and no friends; he was a solitary sort who kept to himself. He gave a few of the men the willies. But the tall man was smarter than the rest of the lazy scum that were supposed to guard Dwyrain, and Holt needed his help. Now, Connor was checking the chain mail that had been cleaned and was hanging on pegs in the armory. “And don’t tell me the rogue’s name was Kelvin McBrayne, for I know better.”
“Nay, he was not McBrayne,” the guard said, fingering the tiny links, the metal clinking softly. “He looked more like … well … ’tis not possible.”
“What?”
“Years ago, I rode with Strahan of Hazelwood at Abergwynn, and the younger brother to Baron Garrick was a hotheaded lad who was eager for battle.” Lost in private thoughts, Connor moved from the mail to a wall of swords, the finest in all of Dwyrain. Old Ebert, sitting on a cask near the door and fixing links on a
nother mail tunic, watched as Connor picked up a sword and tested its blade. “This boy, Ware, disappeared in one of the many battles at that time. Rode his horse over the cliff and into the sea. Never heard from again. Thought to be dead.”
“And now resurrected?” Holt sneered.
Connor lifted a shoulder. “I know not, but the outlaw who came so boldly here knew how to act the part of a nobleman. His bearing, ’twas much like Garrick of Abergwynn.”
Holt turned this information over in his mind. A rogue nobleman, but why would Ware of Abergwynn have any grudge against him? They’d never met, and Holt was certain Megan’s abduction was aimed at him rather than Ewan—elsewise why do it on the wedding day? “This man—this outlaw—Ware or whoever else he may be, has spies within the castle walls.”
Connor’s head snapped. His fingers tightened over the hilt of the sword. “Spies?” he said, but Holt guessed it was not the first time that particular thought had crossed Connor’s fertile mind.
“Elsewise how could he have got in alone?” Holt lifted a small sleek dagger with a bone handle, testing its weight. It fit well into his palm. “ ’Tis your job, Connor, to ferret out the spies, find who they be, how they know the outlaw, and bring them to me.”
“What if I fail?”
“Do not.”
“What if I discover them, but their tongues will not be loosened?”
Holt turned slowly and faced the thin man. “There are ways to convince a man to talk. Some men do not do well with pain, others are more likely to speak if they think a loved one may be seriously maimed, still others can be convinced by bribery or by desire for a woman. I care not how you find the truth,” he said. “Do whatever it takes and you will be rewarded.”
“With what?”
“What is it you want?” Holt asked, expecting to hear an exorbitant sum.
“A woman.”
“Is that all?” Holt was relieved. Women were easier to part with than gold.
“Not just any woman, Sir Holt,” Connor said, his eyes slitting in eager anticipation. “I want the daughter of Ewan.”