by Lisa Jackson
“Such as yours?” Something flickered in her gaze, a hint of distrust that he hadn’t seen before.
“Aye, such as mine.” Holt ignored her and glanced at Oswald. “Take them both to the north tower and leave them there until I call for them.”
“Nay. They are our guests. If they can tell us that Megan is well and safe—”
“She is,” the blond one said.
Oh, he was a bold, rebellious one, and Holt could almost feel the snap of his whip as he cracked it over the outlaw’s broad back.
“Where is she being held?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“She is safe. Unhurt. She will be returned when the demands of the letter are—aahh!” Holt kicked the lying cur in the ribs, the toe of his shoe digging deep in the hard-muscled flesh.
“Where?”
The big man had the insolence to lift his head and glare at Holt with unyielding eyes. Though there was already a bruise forming on his skin, he didn’t flinch when Holt rounded and kicked him again.
“Stop!” Cayley cried. “Do not—”
“Take her away!” Holt ordered to another guard standing near the inner gate.
The soldier hesitated. “But she’s the lord’s daughter—”
“Take her!” Holt was sick of excuses and whining and pathetic attempts by the men to weasel out of their assigned tasks. “Do it now. Lock her in her room.”
“Nay, Holt, you cannot!” Cayley cried, frantic. “You must keep these men safe!”
“I can do anything I wish, and I will,” he said, his hands curling around the stem of his mazer just as Father Timothy hurried out of the chapel. The clumsy priest nearly stumbled over the hem of his robe at the sight that met his eyes, and for a second Holt thought the priest had drunk too much of the holy wine again. Lately, Timothy had been having second thoughts about his allegiance to Holt and he, as a minion of the Almighty, was becoming a royal pain in the arse.
“You are not yet baron!” Cayley cried.
Holt turned to the immediate problem of Cayley’s newfound sense of injustice. “ ’Tis only a matter of time, m’lady, before the baron leaves this earth.”
She gasped. “Nay!”
He couldn’t help but smile. He crooked his neck, hitching his head in the direction of the keep as he ordered the nearest soldier, “Post a sentry at her door.”
“I’ll not be treated as a prisoner!”
Holt rolled his eyes. “Of course you will, m’lady,” he drawled, “unless you do as you’re told, which seems to be harder for you each day. Now, guard, take her.”
He watched as a knight, a silly fool of a lad named Foster, grabbed Cayley’s arm and led her toward the keep. The girl fought and argued, yanking hard against the hard manacle of the lad’s grip, but Foster forced her across the snow-dusted grass of the bailey.
One of Holt’s first duties as new lord would be to marry her off, and not to Connor, who wanted her so badly. Nay, Cayley, the beautiful, mule-headed daughter of Ewan of Dwyrain, would be worth much to some of the older barons whose wives had died. He would have to pay no dowry, because there was one man, Baron Rolf of Castle Henning, a tired old soldier, who was rumored to like to watch his young wives play and mate with his soldiers or servant boys while he watched. ’Twas said that Rolf had an entire chamber filled with peepholes where he could witness his wife’s seduction and betrayal, then find her unfit as the lady of his castle. Four of his wives had died and two had disappeared, run away, it seemed. Yea, Rolf would be a good choice to tame Cayley.
As soon as he was baron, Holt would force her to marry.
Today, however, ’twas his mission to deal with the two traitors who dared try and sell him his wife. “Take them away,” he ordered the soldiers who held the ropes surrounding their necks. He finished his wine. “I’ll flog them later.”
Father Timothy made the sign of the cross over his chest as he watched Cayley being dragged into the keep against her will. “In the name of our God, Holt,” he said in a low, desperate voice as his gaze shifted over the few meager troops still holding the prisoners, “what are you thinking?”
“I’ll have no disrespect,” Holt said, tired of arguing with everyone. Cayley was supposed to be her submissive self and the priest had promised to be his ally. Now … since the time the sorcerer had been dragged into the dungeon, loyalty to him had begun to waver, Cayley appeared to have grown a backbone, and the priest was suddenly God-fearing.
Father Timothy eyed the two new captives, then his gaze wandered after Cayley again. She was struggling like a beast from hell against the soldier’s grasp as he hauled her up the steps of the keep. From the corner of his mouth, Timothy said, “Lady Cayley cannot be treated like a common wench, and these men,” he motioned to the new prisoners, “if they bring word of Lady Megan, should be taken in as guests of the baron.”
“Even if they bring a note of ransom from the outlaw Wolf?” Holt asked, arching one eyebrow disdainfully. “I think not.”
“ ’Twould be the Christian gesture to offer them—”
“Food and shelter?” Holt cut in sarcastically as he sneered at the two captives. “Or, mayhap a cup of wine and a trencher of brawn? Or … wait, they might prefer a night in bed with a wench from the kitchen!”
“Nay, Holt, do not mock me. ’Tis only that if you are to become baron, you must look like a fair and even-tempered leader.”
“ ’Tis not a matter of ‘if,’ but ‘when’ I become baron, Timothy,” Holt said, his eyes narrowing on the soldiers and prisoners. “ ’Twould be a good idea to remember where your allegiance lies, for I know much about you.”
The priest’s face sobered and turned a sick shade of gray. ’Twas so easy to humble a prideful man whose guilt and piety constantly battled with each other. “Aye, ’tis right you are,” Timothy said and crossed himself hurriedly.
Holt chuckled. “Amen.” He motioned to his beaten prisoners. “Take their sorry arses into the dungeon and put them in the lowest cells, next to the sorcerer. Mayhap we’ll get lucky and he’ll place a curse on them so that they’ll talk.”
The blond one sneered and the other glared with eyes filled with hate. Well, let them rot. There would be no bartering with him about his wife, and if he ever found the outlaw rogue who had stolen her away, he’d personally see the man drawn and quartered.
Cayley paced from one end of her chamber to the other. Who would save her father now that she’d been foolish enough to get herself trapped in her room? For the past few days, ever since the sorcerer had convinced her that Ewan’s wine had been poisoned, she’d poured out his mazer and filled it herself. She had no idea who was fouling his drink, though she’d tried to watch as Cook prepared Ewan’s dinner. Nell sometimes carried Ewan’s tray to him, as had she. There were others as well, pages and serving girls, none of whom Cayley thought would try to kill the baron. No, the poison had to have come from Holt, who was rarely in the kitchens … but he visited her father daily to report to Ewan about what was happening within and without the thick walls of Dwyrain, and though Ewan hardly responded, Holt considered it his responsibility to tell the old baron everything.
And doctor his drink?
Cayley’s heart sank. It didn’t matter that she had poured Ewan wine from a new jug before his tray was taken to him. The dark deed was done later.
How could she have been so blind? “Father, I’m sorry,” she said softly, wishing there was a means of escape from her chamber and knowing there was none.
She should have confided in someone, but she’d been frightened and wasn’t sure whom to trust anymore. The castle had once been a happy place where she’d grown up in the glow of her parents’ love, with siblings around her. ’Twas no longer. In the past two years, Dwyrain had become dark and sinister, not the same safe haven she’d lived in all her life.
She no longer walked freely through the gardens of marigolds and fragrant roses, nor did she linger at the dovecote,
watching the birds fly in and out, nor did she ever take long walks through fields strewn in wildflowers. This year, she found no joy in her favorite season—the Christmas revels, with their merriment, dancing, feasting, and general feeling of goodwill.
A soft knock sounded on the door, and the sentry opened it to allow Rue, the old nursemaid, into her room. With a cry of delight, Cayley ran across the chamber and flung herself into the old lady’s arms.
With a cluck of her tongue, Rue asked, “Now what did ye do, Cayley girl, to get yourself locked away?”
“I asked that Holt hurt not the new prisoners—the messengers from Wolf.”
“And he disagreed?” Rue lifted a graying eyebrow. “Ah, child, will ye never learn? As stubborn as yer sister, ye are. Well, we’ll just have to find a way to get Holt to set ye free, now, won’t we?”
“Aye, but first we must take care of Father.” Cayley swallowed hard, hoping she could trust the nurse and knowing she had no choice. Many people, servants, knights, and freemen, had, because of the sickness and curse, been unhappy with Ewan’s rule and were embracing Holt as their new leader. They apparently thought Holt could assure them of more prosperous and healthier times. Some of the baron’s most trusted men had turned away from him and become followers of Holt. She only hoped Rue, who had lost her own daughter to the sickness, had not turned her allegiance away from Ewan. “You must help me, Rue,” Cayley said, desperately clinging to the older woman’s sleeve. “You must help me thwart Holt’s plan to murder Father!”
“Worry not,” the strange one in the next cell said as the rush lights burned low in the dungeons of Dwyrain.
Bjorn turned toward the sound and thought he heard the rustle of wings, as if a bat or bird was with the cripple who dared speak to him. Bjorn was not a man easily frightened. Ofttimes he was told he was much too bold and reckless, that he cared not for his own life.
’Twas true, he thought, for though he loved the freedom of living the life of an outlaw and spat upon the rules and laws of the land, there was a part of him that wanted always to defy death, to test his courage, to kill that sorrow that was buried deep within him. He longed for a chance to find out the truth of his birth. Was he, as Tadd of Prydd had insisted, just the bastard son of a whore or was he, as his mother had assured him, a prince among men, the son of German royalty? He wondered now, as he stood in a wet cell that was cold as a corpse, who his father was and he thought again of Leah, poor, tormented Leah of Prydd, a woman who had touched his heart, a woman who, beaten, raped, and nearly killed by Darton of Erbyn, had entered a nunnery where she would be safe from the evils of all men and would devote herself to God.
Bjorn believed not in the Father. Especially not in this wretched cell that smelled of urine, dung, and human fear.
“Who are you?” he asked the calm voice.
“A friend.”
Bjorn snorted. “I have no friends at Dwyrain.”
“Nor I,” Cormick agreed from the next cell.
A cat slunk through the shadows, its eyes reflected in the fading light from the torches mounted on the wall. Silently, the rail-thin cat stalked rats and mice that crawled noisily through the straw and damp rushes strewn in a bare layer upon the floor.
“Wolf comes to free you,” the smooth voice said in a tone that only Bjorn could hear. “You must be ready.”
“How know you this?”
A pause. “I see it as clearly as I do you.”
Cormick coughed. “Well, I see nothing in this damned place! ’Tis darker than pitch at midnight.”
“ ’Tis not with my eyes that I see,” the strange one protested.
“Then ye’re addled,” Cormick decided with a grunt, but Bjorn had experienced many unexplained things in his life. Had not Sorcha of Prydd brought him back to life from the very brink of death? Had she not done the same for her sister, Leah? Aye, he trusted her witchcraft more than he trusted any faith in God.
“Believe me,” the odd one insisted. “He comes.”
“I’ll be ready,” Bjorn promised, eager to have a chance to kill Holt with his bare hands. It mattered not whether he lived or died, only that he fought bravely. He only hoped the half-brained sorcerer was not a fraud, for this time, he was certain, he would fight to the death.
Holt fingered his whip lovingly. The leather pommel fit his grip perfectly, and the resounding crack when he flipped his wrist could cause a faithless man to suddenly fall on his knees and pray for God’s forgiveness. Aye, the whip was a weapon of power and fear, one that took long to kill a man, but gave the owner time to savor the killing.
Connor and Kelvin were with him as he entered the dungeon, and their footsteps no doubt caused dread in the hearts of the wretches chained within the prison. A thrill of power, not unlike the excitement he felt each time Dilys, the milkmaid, was hauled into his room, scorched through his blood. She was a tiny thing, with only the smallest of breasts budding, and Holt had not bedded her; in truth he thought her not ready, but he bared those tiny breasts of hers and made her play with them, her eyes downcast, as he fondled Nell in her presence. She was too young to be a decent whore, but in time she would learn to pleasure him and his men, for soldiers, if not given a bit of feminine pleasure, were a surly lot. Holt had picked out the girls he planned to use to service them—Dilys was the youngest—but in time, two years or less, he planned to deflower her and show her what it was to pleasure a man. She was already learning from Nell, whose ripe, full breasts and fat, round rump were a willing source of pleasure.
Though she was not Megan. His guts tightened again, for ’twas Megan with whom he wanted to lie and with whom he wanted to beget children. More than anything, he wanted her submission, he wanted to thrust his body into hers and see the surrender in her eyes. He could not think of her now without his damned cock bulging in his breeches.
Holt planned to be a strong ruler. His men, allowed to wager on dice, cockfights, and the baiting of bears, would also enjoy the women he provided and the wages he paid. In return, he would demand and receive their undying loyalty.
At the final bend in the stairwell, he held his rush light higher and made his way through the stench to the farthest cells, where the jailer sat on a stool, his mouth open as he snored, drool gleaming in his gray-flecked beard.
“Wake up, you dolt!” Holt kicked at the man, who started and blinked.
“Eh—wha—oh, Sir Holt, er, m’lord, ’tis sorry I am ye caught me nappin’. I was jest restin’ me eyes and—”
“Don’t bother with excuses, man,” Holt said, his skin crawling. He hated dark places, and being on the right side of the cell door didn’t keep him from feeling as if he couldn’t breathe. Biting back the urge to flee, he stared at his three most recent captives. “Have you anything to say of my wife? Where is Lady Megan being held?” He waited, then, his fingers curving over the handle of his whip. The men in chains stared at him but held their tongues.
“You have but twelve hours to change your minds,” Holt said. “Tomorrow, before noon, I’ll haul your sorry hides to the bailey, where you’ll be tied and your shirts removed. I’ll flog you within an inch of your miserable lives and then you’ll tell me what you know!” He waited, half expecting one of the men to break down, beg his forgiveness, and cleanse his soul by spilling the truth, but he heard nothing but the steady drip from the cistern and the rustle of the grimy rushes on the floor. “So be it,” he finally said, rage firing his blood as he cracked the whip, and the sound reverberated against the stone walls. “But think not I’ll have pity on anyone who helped the outlaw bastard steal my wife!”
Megan’s teeth chattered and her fingers and feet were numb with the cold. She’d been riding over a week and had fought the urge to pull on the reins and turn around. Unable to feed herself or the animals, she sold the smaller horse and had enough money in her pocket for several nights’ lodging and warm meals, but she didn’t dare stop, not until she reached her destination, not until … dizziness swept over her, the same sensation
she’d had for two days. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a cup of hot cider or some of Cook’s venison broth . . .
Swaying in the saddle, she clung to the reins and tried to keep her wits about her. Snow fell from the sky, collecting and freezing on her mount’s mane. Though she wore gloves, her hands were clenched over the reins and couldn’t feel. She could barely move her fingers. Undaunted, she kept on, certain she was nearly to Erbyn. If only she could talk to Lady Sorcha, find out the truth about Holt, and return to Wolf . . .
Wolf! Her heart cried for him and she bit her lip. Where was he now? Did he think she had betrayed him? Would she ever see him again? She had to! She was a woman with a mission, a woman who was determined to choose her own fate, a woman who—
The blackness threatened to overtake her again. Moving from the outward corners of her vision, slowly encroaching, it advanced. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to clear her head and clung to the saddle pommel, but no matter what she did, the dizzy sensation continued to overtake her and she could no longer tell which was up and which down. The earth tilted.
“God help me.” Reining in her horse, she attempted to dismount. The blackness threatened again. She was halfway off the horse, her foot searching for ground that wasn’t there. With a cry, she fell, toppling to the ground in a heap. The last thing she saw was the clouds swirling wildly as her head banged against the hard, icy road.
Then there was nothing.
Eleven
rack!
The whip buckled, then hissed forward. Like a snake, the tip bit into his flesh, stinging. Bjorn’s body jerked. Pain exploded in his muscles.
“What know you of Megan?” Holt demanded, standing behind him and ready to flail again. “Speak, outlaw!”
Bjorn bit hard on his tongue and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the next blow. His body was on fire, his legs weak, his wrists raw and bleeding where they were bound by leather cuffs and ropes. The outer bailey of Dwyrain swam before his eyes. Dark clouds, swollen with rain, rolled across the sky, and the wind was chill and harsh, cutting through his soul as easily as the whip sliced through his flesh.