by Lisa Jackson
“You know not,” she accused, but his eyes were dark as the black waters at the bottom of a well. “Tell me,” she whispered. “What is it you know of him?”
Wolf stared at her as if about to say more, then changed his mind. He glanced at the sky, black and starless. “Come,” he said gruffly. “ ’Tis time for sleep.”
“You know something of my husband.”
“Many things.”
“Yet you will not tell me.”
“Ask Holt,” Wolf said angrily, “about Tadd of Prydd and the fisherman’s daughter.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter. Come, woman, you tire me.” His skin was stretched so tightly over his face that his jawbone showed white and his eyes had darkened to an evil, murky color that warned her she was wading too far into treacherous waters.
Even so, she could not hold her wayward tongue. “But I needs know—”
“When the time is right,” he bit out, fury rolling from him in waves.
She begged him to tell her more, but he refused and took hold of her hand, pulling her behind him, dragging her toward his tent. Several men working around the campsite sent curious glances her way as she argued with him. There were whispers and laughter and she imagined she was the subject of their ribald jokes and meaningful knowing glances. Her cheeks burned with color as he pushed her into his tent then closed the flap behind them.
The space was small, but in the light from the campfire she saw not only the pallet in the center, but also a chest and two sacks, one she recognized as holding her wedding dress. Several tools were stacked near the doorway and she spied a hand ax and a coil of thick rope.
Whirling upon her, he planted his hands firmly on his hips and stood between her and the doorway. “Never!” he said, his voice without compromise, his nostrils flared. “Never again defy me in front of my men.”
“Why not?”
“It shows a lack of respect.”
“But stealing a bride on her wedding day does not?”
Muttering a curse, he yanked on her hand and twirled her against him. Before she could break free, both of his arms held her in a grip that threatened the air in her lungs. “Do not challenge me, Megan.” His voice was low, his lips nearly brushing her temple as he gave her a tiny shake. She could barely breathe, and as the light from the campfire seeped through the walls, she met his hard glare with a mutinous stare of her own.
“Do not order me about like some addled scullery maid.”
“I have treated you well.”
“You—you have treated me with only contempt.”
His eyes drifted to her lips and she quivered in anticipation. They were alone in the dark, standing near the edge of a single pallet covered with thick furs. Megan counted her heartbeats and watched as his throat moved.
“You—you promised that I would sleep alone,” she said, suddenly mindful of her virtue.
“Aye, and I keep my word,” he said as her breasts rose and fell against the hard wall of his chest.
Her pulse was pounding in her head and when she licked her dry lips, he groaned then dropped his arms from her quickly, stepping back. “Mother of God,” he whispered, running both his hands through his black hair. “What kind of woman are ye?”
“A captive,” she said, her voice breathless.
“If I’m not here with you, what’s to prevent you from sneaking away?”
“I would not—”
“Do not lie, Megan. You’ve been planning to escape since you first arrived. I saw you eyeing the horses and searching the woods. You’ve watched the men in the camp all day and even this night, hoping you’ll discover where the sentries are posted and who they be.”
Swallowing hard, she mentally kicked herself. How had she been so obvious?
He reached into a bag on the floor and withdrew a length of soft cord. “Give me your hands.”
“Nay.”
A muscle worked at the edge of his jaw. “Would you rather I force you?”
“Please, Wolf, do not bind me,” she pleaded, and he hesitated, his eyes searching hers, his lips folding in on themselves.
“And I would have your word that you will not try to escape?”
“As God is my witness,” she said, hoping the Lord didn’t strike her dead for the lie.
He looped the cord through both his hands, stretching it tight. “Then I’ll give you a choice, Megan of Dwyrain,” he said slowly. “You can sleep alone with your wrists bound. Or—”
“Or?” she repeated, her heart knocking crazily, the air in the tent suddenly too heavy to breathe.
“Or I will make my bed in here with you and you can sleep unbound.” One of his dark eyebrows lifted insolently and she quivered inside at the eager gleam in his deep blue eyes. “So tell me, m’lady,” he urged, snapping the cord again, “what will it be?”
Four
lankets tossed over his legs, Wolf leaned against the trunk of a tree and stared at his tent. His men were scattered about the fire, some in temporary shelters of their own, while others, the few who could stand no walls, were curled up as he was, beneath the shelter of a tree, the hilts of their swords and knives in their closed fists. Heath, Cormick, and Dominic slept fitfully, as if they’d spent too many years in closed dungeons behind iron bars. Guards were posted, their eyes searching the darkness as, ever vigilant, they tended the fire and walked around the edge of the camp.
Wolf was certain Megan would try to escape. Would he not attempt the same if he were the one who had been abducted? No small cord around his wrists would stop him. Nay, he didn’t blame her for wanting to return to her home, even if it were to share a bed with Holt of Prydd. His stomach turned at the thought and a new emotion, one akin to hot jealousy, crept through his blood. He didn’t like the feeling, for he prided himself on his solitude, for his need for no one else, especially a woman.
So she would try to escape and he would catch her and then he would end up sleeping in the tent with her, on the same pallet, under the same furs and blankets with her breathing softly in his ear, her body warm and comforting.
’Twould be hell. Even at the thought of it, his lust stirred. He’d been long without a woman, and none had touched him as had this one with her condemning golden eyes and tongue as sharp as a fine dagger’s blade, this woman Holt had chosen for his bride. Saints in heaven, ’twas his curse to lust after his enemy’s woman.
He’d planned to cut her hair, hoping to make her appear more manlike, to disguise her if they were accosted by Holt’s men and also so that she would be less attractive, less feminine, so as not to distract his men or himself. But he had not been able to go through with it, and ’twould not have mattered, for hers was a beauty that was not bits and pieces—eyes, hair, lips—but all-encompassing. He attempted to force his thoughts to a different path, but his wayward mind would have none of it. He could not concentrate on plans for moving the camp, or hunting for the next meal, or training Robin with a sword; no, his mind was determined to settle on Megan, with her wide eyes the color of honey and red-brown hair spread out around her face. The curls were thick and rich and he wanted to bury his face in their scented strands and lose himself in the wonder that was this woman.
Yea, the thought of sleeping with her held more than a little appeal. He dug the heel of his boot into the ground as he remembered the few glimpses he’d caught of her breasts, pale and full, her nipples dark, ripe spheres beckoning his touch. He’d seen the length of her spine as she’d shed her wedding dress, the gentle valley that curved to split her small, round rump.
Stifling a groan, he shifted, damning his manhood that had sprung to life at the thought of coupling with her. How glorious ’twould be to join his body to hers, to thrust deep into the warm well of her womanhood, to collapse on those soft, welcoming breasts.
Aside from the pure physical comfort he would receive, Wolf considered there to be no greater humiliation for his old enemy than for Wolf to steal Holt’s wife’s
virginity. Even if she were not a virgin, ’twould be an insult of the highest order for a hated adversary to take her before she could lie with her husband.
Smiling in the darkness, Wolf savored that particular thought, but an old, unwanted streak of nobility, one he hadn’t been able to discard no matter how hard he’d tried, wouldn’t allow him to attempt to seduce the woman. Though she was a fool for marrying Holt, his intent was not to hurt her. His grin faded. Such a simple plan was suddenly complicated. He should ransom her now rather than wait. For though he enjoyed the thought of Holt twisting in the wind, not knowing where his bride was—whether she was alive or dead—keeping her was dangerous, not only because of the threat of Holt’s men finding them, but for other reasons as well—reasons that touched his heart and frightened him. In a few days … then he’d contact his old enemy and ransom the feisty woman.
He picked up a stick on the ground and idly shredded the bark from the softer white wood. Robin had offered to stand guard at Megan’s door and now, seated near the flap, his arms crossed over his knees, his head lolling, he was falling asleep. With a snort, the boy shook his head to awaken, but within seconds his head was falling forward again.
Robin wanted so much to be a man; he was eager to prove himself and would someday make a challenge for the leadership of their outlaw band.
Wolf understood a boy’s need to be considered an adult far better than anyone, including Robin, could know. He, too, had been a young eager pup, ever ready to take command of Abergwynn, the castle he’d left long ago in the life he’d shed.
Now, obviously, Robin was fascinated with Megan, the first woman the lad had seen and spoken with since Wolf had saved him from the jailer. Wolf knew the emotion. ’Twas all he could do to keep his hands off her and see that his men, a randy, vicious lot, did, as well.
One of his men, Simon, had once bragged of taking a woman by force and Wolf’s justice had been swift. Within seconds he’d knocked away Simon’s weapon and pressed the blade of his sword to Simon’s long, skinny neck. Simon had been tall and strong, his face pockmarked, his eyes never warm. He’d had arguments and fights with some of the men, and so it was with no regret that Wolf had stripped him of his clothes, horse, and weapons; banished him from the band; and left him, tied and bound, naked as the day he was born, screaming obscenities in the middle of a town to the east of Erbyn.
Simon had sworn vengeance, spitting and kicking and vowing to slice Wolf to ribbons, but Wolf had not worried. Simon was a coward, a bully who loved to prove he was stronger than those weaker—especially women.
Wolf had no stomach for rape and he would not let any of his men near Megan for fear that they might not be able to control themselves around a woman. There would be brawls and harsh words, all because they would want her attention. ’Twas the way of men—the curse of being born male. Even young Robin was already smitten.
This was one plan he hadn’t thought through well enough. Was he not as bad as his men—mayhap worse? Though he would defend her honor to the death rather than see her taken by force, was he not, even now, planning her seduction? The thought of making love to Megan over and over again was a welcome balm, and he felt that if given enough time, he could seduce her. But seduction thought out so carefully, planned without her knowledge, was probably not so much better than forcing her. Even though stealing Holt’s wife’s virtue would be great revenge, a way to further humiliate his enemy, and it appealed to Wolf’s sense of justice for the rape of Mary, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, abuse Megan thus.
Disgusted, he tossed the shredded stick aside and wiped his hands. Force and rape were what had driven him to become an outlaw in the first place, though Megan knew nothing of his past. ’Twas years before when he was just beginning to be a man, Wolf, then known as Ware, had been left in charge of the castle while his brother Garrick was away. Ware had never doubted his ability to command and his own pride and foolishness had been his downfall. He’d lost control of Abergwynn to the enemy and then, while he and his best friend Cadell were fleeing for their lives, they had been chased to the cliffs rising high over the sea. Rather than surrender, Ware had chosen death, urging his mount over the edge of those sharp bluffs and hurtling into the blackness wherein Cadell had already fallen.
He’d thought he was dead when he awoke in a fisherman’s hut and the sweetest woman in the world, the man’s daughter, Mary, pressed cool cloths to his head. Her hands were soft, her eyes trusting, her lips pink and always turned into a kind smile. She whispered words of encouragement and told him that she’d never lost faith, that she was certain with enough kindness and prayer he would awaken.
He was in love with her from the moment she’d asked him how he felt. He’d blinked his eyes open and even in his fuzzy vision her image had smiled down on him. “I knew you’d wake up,” she said in a voice as soft and pure as the first light of dawn. “God would not take one so young and handsome.”
She’d tended to him and he’d strengthened, living with her and her father, Alan, learning how to sail and fish, how to read the storms gathering in the distance, becoming accustomed to the gentle swaying of the boat. ’Twas easy to shed his other life, to leave his past and his shame on the rocky shoals beneath the cliffs of Abergwynn. Though his memory returned, he hadn’t been able to face his brother. Aside from the guilt of allowing his family to think him dead, he was content and in love—so innocently and completely in love.
He had planned to wed Mary, but before he was able, Tadd of Prydd, cruel firstborn son of Baron Eaton, had ridden through their village and altered the course of their lives forever. Mary, while selling fish in the market, had unwittingly caused Tadd to notice her, and after only one glimpse of her, he’d decided that he would claim her—not for a wife, nay, but for a night’s sport and pleasure.
That evening, Tadd and a few cruel-faced soldiers burst into their tiny hut. Swords drawn, expressions murderous, they slammed the door shut behind them and waited for their leader’s command. Tadd’s face was red from ale. He drew up a stool, smiled evilly, and announced that he wanted only a few hours with Mary, then he and his men would be on their way. He’d pay the fisherman for his trouble, but Mary’s father, a man of uncommon strength of character and faith in deliverance from the Lord, had refused, placing himself squarely between the soldiers and his daughter.
“You’re being foolish,” Tadd warned him, as Ware, too, tried to intervene.
“Leave here,” Ware had ordered, but Tadd was quick and armed. His sword struck swiftly, cleaving Ware’s eyebrow and knocking him into a watery darkness where he couldn’t move.
Tears streaming down his leathery face, Mary’s father tried to rescue her, and for his efforts his arm was severed at the elbow by Tadd’s sword, in a swift blow that left him howling in blind pain. He fell to the floor and Ware, barely conscious and lying in his own blood, thought Alan dead.
With all his strength, Ware struggled to his feet, but the blackness overcame him and he fell again. No amount of prodding could urge his pained muscles to support him.
Mary’s horrified screams rang in his ears, and through damaged eyes, he saw murky images of Tadd moving toward her. Ware screamed but no sound came from his’ mouth. He tried to climb to his knees, but his legs were no longer under his control. The darkness was like a warm cloak, offering to blind him from the pain, but he fought the urge to give up the battle. Desperate, his own ragged breathing filling his head, he scrabbled for Tadd’s sword, which the bastard had discarded as he’d untied his breeches. Eyes gleaming, Tadd stalked Mary, who was on the floor, trying to back away, her hands and feet failing her as they slipped in her father’s blood.
“Please, m’lord,” Mary had pleaded, tears streaming from her eyes, her body quaking. “Do not do this.”
“ ’Twill be pleasant, girl. You will enjoy it.”
“Nay, I cannot—”
“Ah, but you will,” Tadd said smoothly, then turned to Holt. “Hold her!”
“No!”
/> Ware grasped for the sword but his muscles would not move. The shadowy fog threatened him again.
Tadd’s breeches fell to his ankles as Holt wrested Mary to Alan’s bed.
No! No! No! Ware’s mind screamed, but no words passed his lips. Merciful God, help her! Let me save her! Do not let this happen!
The floor was sticky with his blood and Ware stretched, only to be swept away again, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t hear her horrifying, bloodcurdling screams or the smack of flesh on skin as Tadd slapped her.
I’ll kill you, I swear on my life that I’ll kill you!
Holt held her arms over her head while Tadd, undeterred by her kicks or screams, mounted her, grunting in pleasure, his fat white rump jiggling as he rutted hard and fast, undeterred as she screamed in pain. Ware was powerless. He swam in and out of the darkness that was his mind while a leering Holt pinned Mary to her father’s bed.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed to his knees, crying a hoarse, “Get off her, you sick bastard,” and received a sharp kick to the face from one of the soldiers.
With a cry, he finally lost all consciousness. When he awakened, he realized that again he had failed, just as he’d failed when he’d lost Abergwynn to Strahan. But this was worse—this was not a castle; not a moat, and walls, and locked gates. This was a woman’s very soul, her heart. His shame was immense.
When finally he could pull himself to his feet and stagger over to her, he found his Mary, his beautiful, sweet, loving Mary, cowering in a corner, holding a bloodied blanket over her bruised body and allowing no one to come close or touch her. Trembling, spittle and blood collecting at the corner of her mouth, her eyes round, her face bruised, she mewed like a helpless, frightened kitten, then hissed and scooted away when he’d tried to touch her.
He’d found more blankets to cover her ripped clothes and her battered body, but though he’d tried only to help her, she’d been afraid to look at him, nor would she ever speak to him again. That day Tadd and Holt had robbed her of more than her virtue; they’d stolen her mind as well. Her father survived long enough to take one last voyage with his daughter. Alan had refused to let Ware join them, and they didn’t return. A storm as savage as the wrath of God swept into the town, and Ware waited. With each day that passed, his transformation continued, and when he hadn’t seen Mary for over a month, he knew she was gone from him forever.