by Lisa Jackson
“Nay, I’ll not be left behind—”
Wolf’s harsh glare stopped Odell’s quick tongue. With a sheepish glance, he lifted his cowl and scratched his balding head.
Robin’s chin jutted forward. “Ye said I could ride with ye,” he reminded Wolf.
“When it came time to deal with Holt.”
“Be ye a liar?” the boy insisted.
“Nay, but—”
“Ye promised,” Robin said stubbornly.
“That ye did,” Peter reminded him, and Wolf’s fists clenched.
“Is yer word not good?” Robin asked, and again the men stared at him.
Knowing he was making a mistake, Wolf nodded. “Aye, you ride as well … but no one else,” he added when he saw an eager light appear in more than one man’s eyes. It had been long since they’d battled; many were thirsty for the excitement of waging war. “We’ll ride straight to Dwyrain. Once there, we’ll help Cormick and Bjorn if they need it.”
“What of the lady?” Robin asked boldly, and the men who had been restless suddenly quieted, only the wind rushing through the leafless branches and stirring up the flames of the campfire making any sound.
“What of her?”
“Will ye not bring her with you when ye return?”
Two dozen eyes bored into him and Wolf realized then that she’d touched each of the men in special ways. Damn her. “Nay,” he said gruffly as he read bitter disappointment on the boy’s young face.
“But—”
“She wants not to be with us, lad.”
Squatting near the fire, Wolf stared into the flames, and that hopeless idea settled as surely as lead in his heart. Why had he been so foolish, thinking she could care for a rogue like him? When had he lost his heart to the saucy tart with a tongue that could sting like a whip? ’Twas a silly notion to think that she could really care for him, and Wolf didn’t appreciate being considered a fool.
Nor could he explain why he’d let her go, how he’d felt as if he were a self-serving king holding a rare, unhappy bird in a cage. She was a noblewoman by birth and could not be expected to give up everything that she had at Dwyrain—wealth, family, servants, even a husband—because an outlaw fancied her. It had taken every bit of his willpower to let her leave after making love to her, but his instincts told him he had no choice.
If she escaped and returned to Holt, the bastard might not harm her, though the fact that she wasn’t a virgin would be difficult to disguise and would enrage Holt even more. Wolf’s jaw tightened when he imagined his old enemy taking out his vexation, vengeance, and anger on Megan.
Holt had better not be so foolish, for if the bastard ever laid one hand on her, Wolf would gladly slit his throat. And then again, if Holt truly became Megan’s husband, joining feverishly with her … getting her with child … By the gods, what a mess. Already, Megan could be carrying the first beginnings of their own babe. His throat turned as dry as seeds in the wind. What if even now there was a child growing in her womb? Would Holt claim the infant child as his own issue?
His fury became dark, his eyes narrowing with a newfound reason to hate his old enemy. Rage burned bright in his blood and his fingers curled anxiously around the hilt of his sword as he thought of it, the mating of Holt and Megan. ’Twould be a pain he would never be able to expunge, one he would bear as his own personal cross, one he would carry with him to the grave.
He felt the men’s stares and scowled to himself. Life as an outlaw in the woods had lost much of the appeal that had once been strong within him. There were several men in the band who were capable of leading the others. Bjorn was strong and fierce, a levelheaded man capable of extreme savagery if ’twas necessary. Jagger, too, was strong, though somewhat dim-witted, and then there was Odell, with his mercenary heart. Nay, he’d be a bad choice.
“Make ready,” he said as he turned on his heel and returned to the pallet in the empty chamber he and Megan had shared. The ashes were cold where the fire had been, a chill wind blew through the window, and the room was as dark and cold as the bottom of the sea. Gritting his teeth, he flung himself down and drew up the hides and furs, trying to ignore the scent of her, which lingered on the bed. “Damn it to hell,” he growled and attempted to push aside the vivid images of making love to her, how her supple legs surrounded his waist, how she smiled up at him in the moonlight, how her skin, so white, was smooth as marble, how her blood would fire so easily.
I love Holt not, she’d said over and over again, but she’d been eager to leave. Why? Had she lied to him, and did she truly care for the man she’d pledged to love before God and country? Or was it, as she’d insisted, a marriage she couldn’t avoid? Then why return to the scoundrel?
Because she thought you were going to sell her to Holt! Why would she want to stay? What choice had he given her? Tossing off the damned coverlets, he rolled to his feet and decided he had to hunt her down. Before she reached Dwyrain, he had to find her and speak with her and … and what? Offer her the life of an outlaw? A future running from the law? No home? No warm hearth? No servants? No real bed? What of children?
“Bloody Christ,” he growled, stalking out of the room and striding to Jagger’s tent, where the big man was already snoring. He placed the toe of his boot against Jagger’s ribs and the man snorted, cried out, and was on his feet in an instant, a blade ready in his hand.
“For the love of Jesus, Wolf, ye scared the piss right outta me!”
Wolf had no time for explanations. “I ride tonight.”
“But ye just got in.”
“It matters not.”
Muttering under his breath, Jagger found his mantle. “I’m beginnin’ to think that Odell’s right about ye, Wolf,” he said, shaking his head and adjusting his hood as he stepped out of the tent and frowned at the snow beginning to drift from the dark heavens. “Ever since ye kidnapped the lady, ye’ve been actin’ strange, like ye’re not right in the head.”
“I’m not,” Wolf admitted. “Now, will ye ride with me or not?”
“Aye, I’m with ye, but what about the boy? He’ll only slow us down.”
“He comes,” Wolf said, hoping that he wasn’t sending Robin to an early grave.
Cayley couldn’t help herself. ’Twas as if the magician had cast a spell upon her. She stealthily crossed the bailey, sending a goose squawking and nearly bumping into one of the stableboys, who was leading a gray jennet from the farrier’s hut. ’Twas nearly dark, the air cool as it pressed hard against her cloak as she approached the north tower. She carried with her a bucket of Cook’s bean and brawn soup and a dark loaf of bread. The smell of the soup caught the attention of some of the baron’s dogs, who were being walked near the dovecote. They turned their noses upwind, let out hungry whimpers, and were reprimanded by the page whose duty it was to care for them.
Cayley clutched her cloak around her and stepped around the piles of horse dung that littered the streets.
The stairs leading downward were as dark as pitch. She snagged a rush light from its sconce, mounted near the door, and used the flickering light to guide her down the gritty steps. As she hurried by some of the cells, she heard hoots and whistles, but she ignored them and hurried onward.
In the dungeon, the sentries had changed, and one of the men she trusted, Sir Stephen, a gangly young knight with pockmarked skin and hair as straight and unruly as straw, was guarding the prisoners.
“Who goes there?” Stephen called out.
“ ’Tis only me,” Cayley replied, feeling suddenly as if she needed fresh air. How could the men stand to be held in such decay and filth? “I brought fresh food for the prisoner and for you, Sir Stephen.”
“Say what? Did Holt send ye?”
“Nay, ’twas mine own idea,” she said as she approached his stool and small table. “I thought some good food might jolly our prisoner into telling me more about my sister.”
Stephen snorted and shook his head. “Ye’re wastin’ yer time, m’lady. Kind as ye be, the man’
s daft. Completely out of his mind.” Stephen pointed a finger at his head and rotated his hand. “You’ll not get a straight answer from that one.”
“At least let me try. Now, about the soup.” Stephen, ever hungry, tore off a thick hunk of bread, dipped heartily in the broth, and motioned for her to do the same. “Has the prisoner given us his name?”
“Naw, but I ’aven’t asked. Don’t care what ’e’s called.” He ate hungrily, chewing with a great amount of noise, grinding teeth and making contented grunts as she tore off a piece of bread and dunked it in Cook’s stew.
“I’ll give this to him, if you let me into his cell.”
“Say wha—?” He lifted his head and greasy soup dripped into his scraggly beard. “You want inside?” he asked, hitching a thumb toward the barred alcove the sorcerer now called home.
“Yes.”
“Nay, m’lady, I cannot trust ’im.”
“But he’s bound, is he not?”
“Aye, but ’e’s supposed to be some kind of magician, say what. ’e might jest disappear if I lets ye into the cell.”
“If he truly was a sorcerer, why would he not escape with the door locked? Why would the restraints hold him?”
Stephen considered as he chewed, then wiped his mouth with a grubby sleeve. “I guess they wouldn’t.”
“Right. So there’s no reason I can’t speak with him and find out what more he knows, is there?”
Stephen frowned. Even in the poor light, she saw great lines furrowing deep in the skin between his eyebrows. “I don’t think that—”
“And as the baron’s daughter and lady of the castle, I’m not asking you to open the cell to me, I’m ordering you to do it.”
“Well, that’s it, then, ain’t it?” Shoving away from the table, he rattled his keys and opened the metal door, which screeched on its rusting hinges.
Cayley slipped through the opening and found the magician seated in a dark corner of his cell. Above him, there was a small hole bored into the wall to let in a bit of fresh air. The breeze was faint, but enough to make it easier to breathe. “You want to know more of your sister,” he said in that calming voice of his.
“Aye.” She handed him the bread, and he took it gratefully. Then in a voice so low she could barely hear him, he said, “Two men are riding to Dwyrain. They come with news of Megan and will be treated as enemies, for they are outlaws.”
“Criminals?” she gasped, her heart pounding in dread. “They know of Megan?”
“Aye, but they will not speak, for they are loyal to their leader, a man who hates Holt.”
“How do you know this?” she demanded.
“I know.” Again, the calm, reassuring tone that frightened her.
“Who be they?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder to the guard, but Stephen paid no attention to them as he dipped into the soup again.
“They be friends, though they will be brought to this prison and flogged. One will die. The other will help you find your sister and save the castle.”
“Die?” she repeated, her throat turning to dust. “Die?”
“Aye, there is naught either of us can do.”
“You speak with a devil’s tongue,” she hissed, frightened. “How can I trust you?”
“How can you not?”
She wanted to run, to hide, to wake up from this foul nightmare she’d been living, the one that had started when Megan had been kidnapped and her father had collapsed, leaving Holt to rule Dwyrain. If only Megan had fought her attacker, if only she’d escaped, then maybe Cayley herself wouldn’t have to fight, wouldn’t be forced to meet with prisoners in the dungeon or make plans to save her father and the castle. Her shoulders were just too small to carry so big a burden.
“You are stronger than you think,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You doubt me still, but all that I have said, ’twill come to pass.”
“Where is Megan?” she demanded.
“That I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice more ruffled than before, as if he were irritated at the limits of his powers, “but you will need these men and must befriend them as you’ve befriended me.”
“But they are criminals.”
“Friends,” he said as Stephen rattled his keys again, indicating that it was time for her to leave. Obviously, the soup was gone.
Megan’s stomach grumbled loudly as she rode onward. She paused only to eat once a day, and that was usually a scant meal, as she had no money and her only weapon was a small knife. She’d fashioned a basket with willow branches and had caught fish from each creek she’d crossed, plucked winter apples from a tree she’d discovered on the first day of her journey, and stolen eggs twice from a farmer’s untended chicken’s nests.
Four days had passed since she’d left Wolf, and as she rode through the snow and sleet, past villages and through dank woods, her thoughts continually strayed to him and she tried to imagine what he’d done when he’d found her missing. Had he been furious and enraged, or relieved to be rid of her? Had he ranted and raged, damning her to hell, or had he smiled inwardly that she was no longer his burden? Had he returned safely to his camp, only to be the laughingstock of his men? She smiled faintly at that thought. Had he then climbed aboard another swift steed and set off after her? Would he appear at the next bend in the road? Her heart raced impatiently with that thin hope. Or would he meet with Holt and try to explain the fact that he had no wife to return for his blood money?
Not that she cared. Wolf could suffer these and every other kind of indignity for his plans to ransom her to an enemy he detested.
But she couldn’t stop her heart from taking flight every time she approached another traveler, a man who sat tall upon his mount, a man with black hair and broad shoulders. Her pulse always pounded wildly for a second, only to return to its regular, even cadence when she drew close and she saw that the rider was not Wolf and bore not much resemblance to him. Oh, wayward, willful heart!
How willingly she’d given herself to him! The shame that should have been her companion, the disgrace of having lain with him, did not chase after her. Truth was, she had no regrets. If she could spend another night with him, she would gladly share his bed and suffer the consequences, for she was not married in her heart, nor had she slept with her husband.
Her plan—pray that it worked!—was to prove Holt to be the traitor she knew him to be. She’d find that proof in Erbyn, which was still several days’ ride away. God help me, she silently prayed as the snow fell in flurries that obscured her view and chilled her deep into her bones, and please, please be with Wolf. Give him peace and keep him safe.
Absently, she rubbed her abdomen, heard her stomach growl again, and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her neck. She only hoped that Sorcha of Erbyn could help her.
Holt eyed his new prisoners with disgust. How easily tricked they’d been, how angry they were that when they’d shouted that they came in peace, they were set upon by half his army. Now they knelt before him, their hands and feet bound, ropes around their necks like common beasts of the field, their noses nearly pressed into the frozen mud and manure behind the stables. Sipping from a mazer of wine, he walked in front of them and felt a grain of satisfaction. Things were finally turning around. These poor, idiotic brutes, sent by Wolf the outlaw, were under his power.
“Did you think I would barter for my wife?” he asked, his long surcoat twirling behind him.
“I only bring the letter.” The big blond one had the nerve to glance upward, but at a lift of his eyebrow, Holt signaled for his soldier to pull on the noose. Oswald was only too happy to wrap the heavy rope one more time around his fist, causing the kneeling cur to cough.
“Aye, you bring a letter from the Wolf.” Holt read the perfect scrawl again. ’Twas true the outlaw was no common man, but educated and, no doubt, from a noble house. “But friend, ’tis not only a gentle missive, but a demand for ransom.”
This time the yellow-haired giant didn’t say a word.
&nb
sp; “Fancy that.” Holt clucked his tongue, then took a long swallow from his cup. “Nay, I think not. Instead I think you and your companion here will join my other guests in the dungeon.”
“Wait!”
Holt’s temper snapped as he spied Cayley striding across the outer bailey. Without being restrained by a wimple, her blond hair flew behind her like a golden banner. Her small face was set with anger, her jaw stretched forward defiantly. He’d taken her for a brainless twit, interested only in herself, but lately, since her father had fallen ill and Megan had been kidnapped, Cayley made herself a much stronger presence than she had been. ’Twas no wonder why Connor wanted to bed her, though Holt had no intention of honoring his bargain with the surly knight. Nay, he had other plans for his feisty sister-in-law. ’Twas almost as if she’d risen to new heights in the face of adversity, and it bored Holt. Now, she was bearing down on the men as if she were driven by an inner fire, her boots clicking on the hard, frozen ground.
“Who are these men?”
“Criminals,” Holt replied, and she wasn’t surprised or even repelled. “ ’Tis no concern of yours.”
“Why not? Am I not the baron’s daughter, his only issue here at the castle?”
“Cayley, dear, this”—he waved toward the men groveling at his feet as if they were insignificant flies swarming over horse dung—“is to be handled by men.”
“I see not why. If they are here to ransom Megan, then give them the money or whatever ’tis they demand.”
So she knew about the ransom. Either she’d been hiding nearby listening to the conversation or she had a spy within his ranks of soldiers—a spy who had run to her with the news. “Nay,” he said with forced patience. “I’ll not pay. ’Tis what the criminals want. They won’t be satisfied with the first demand, but will ask for more, again and again. ’Tis impossible to barter with them. They have no sense of honor.”