by Lisa Jackson
Why not kill Holt for betraying you, his own mind said to him—or was it his mind? He felt a shiver like tiny footsteps crawl down his spine.
“Get down,” he ordered, and pulled roughly on the man’s tied hands. The cripple toppled to the ground, lost his footing for a second, but managed to scramble to his feet, such as they were.
Connor slid an arrow from his quiver and hoisted his bow. “Run!”
No.
God’s eyes, he hadn’t said a word, but Connor had heard the answer clear as a bell. Perhaps ’twas his mind playing tricks on him again. His hands weren’t as steady as they usually were as he drew hard on the bowstring with the arrow. “Move, sorcerer, and ye’ve got a chance.”
And your soul will rot forever in the depths of hell.
“Say wha—?” Connor jerked as if someone had struck him. This time he was certain it wasn’t his own mind chiding him. Nay, but the prisoner hadn’t moved his lips nor used his voice. ’Twas as if the sorcerer had talked to him mind to mind.
He looked over his shoulder, half expecting another to have joined them. What kind of devilment was this man conjuring?
Go on, kill me if you can.
“For the love of God, I will!” he said, nearly pissing in his breeches.
Overhead, through the rising mist, came the sound of great wings flapping wildly. An owl, the same huge ruffled-feathered bird who had landed on the prisoner’s arm the night he’d been recaptured, settled onto one of the cripple’s shoulders.
“So ye’ve found me, Owain,” the magician said in his calm voice. He turned his haunted eyes to Connor and the soldier felt a shiver cold as death crawl through his bowels. “Give Holt a message,” the cripple commanded, spreading his arms wide, his wrists no longer bound, as the mist, like a thick curtain of fog, began to rise from the ferns and grass surrounding him. “Tell him that the Devil wants his due.”
The forest became engulfed in the icy haze and Connor let his arrow fly. He waited for the scream, or the sound of running feet, or the angry flap of huge wings, but silence greeted his ears and the fog was suddenly thick as Cook’s tasteless pea soup.
“Where are ye?” he called, striking out after the sorcerer, assured that he’d stumble across the man’s corpse. “Hey! Where are ye?” He walked across the clearing thrice before stopping to scratch his head and fight the dry fear that had settled in his mouth. His arrows never missed; his aim was straight and true. A split second before the mist rose, he’d had the sorcerer in his sights, but … Then he realized that not only had the man disappeared, but so had the owl and both horses as well. Without a sound, they’d been swallowed by the forest.
Unnerved, he whistled sharply, hoping his mount would respond, but there was no answering whinny, no snort of recognition, no pawing of a hoof against the forest floor. Nor was there any other sound. The shrouded woods were completely silent and he heard neither the call of a winter bird, the scramble of some rodent hurrying through the bracken, nor the whir of a single insect’s wings. No breeze rustled the dry leaves and no water splashed over stones in a nearby creek. ’Twas as if he were truly alone on the earth, and for the first time in years, fear—as dark as the middle of a winter night—bored deep into Connor’s black heart.
Walking backward, he expected the sorcerer to appear and kill him on the spot, and when he reached the edge of the clearing, he turned and ran, not knowing which direction he took and not caring. He knew only that if he was to escape with his life, he would have to run as far and as fast as his feet would carry him.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Odell’s smile stretched from one side of his craggy face to the other as Bjorn rode into the shifting circle of light thrown by the campfire. “Find us, did ye?”
“Where’s Wolf?” Bjorn demanded, blowing on his hands in an attempt to warm them, then motioning for Cayley to urge her horse forward and join him. He searched the faces of the men, looking for the man who had sent Cormick to his death.
“Ain’t ’e with you?”
“Nay.”
“But he and Jagger and Robin left days ago to find Lady Megan and collect the ransom. Leastwise, that’s what he claimed!” Odell’s grizzled face squinched and he scratched his bald head thoughtfully. “Where’s Cormick, and who’s the woman?” he asked as if suddenly suspicious. “Ye know the rule.”
“Aye, and I had no choice but to bring her,” Bjorn said, hopping lithely to the ground before trying to help Cayley from her saddle. She would have none of his assistance and he held up his hands as if in surrender and allowed her to dismount. Rubbing the kinks from his shoulders, he was grateful to have finally found camp and the men he knew and trusted. Women, especially rich women, were trouble to deal with and difficult to understand. He wanted to despise this headstrong blond woman he’d been forced to ride with, but he’d found, as they’d spent so many long hours together, that she’d proved herself stronger and quicker witted than he’d ever thought possible. “This, lads, is Lady Cayley, Megan of Dwyrain’s sister.”
“Another one!” Odell rolled his eyes as if searching for divine intervention.
Bjorn took the time to introduce each man, but Odell was impatient.
“Tell us all everything,” Odell demanded as Peter saw to the horses. “Sit down by the fire and I’ll get ye somethin’ to eat, but tell us what happened.”
The strips of eel and shanks of rabbit were far overcooked, but it had been long since Bjorn had eaten. As he gnawed on a rabbit bone, Bjorn told them of his capture, Cormick’s death, and his escape with Cayley. The men were grim-faced throughout and in the end, they voted, by throwing their knives into the fire, to seek vengeance for their comrade’s death.
“Holt will rue the day he killed one of us,” Odell crowed.
“Aye,” Heath agreed, the skin beneath his beard stretched tight. The thirst for vengeance glinted in his eyes.
As the men swapped stories about how they intended to find Wolf and kill Holt, Bjorn watched Cayley from the corner of his eye. She wasn’t repulsed by the outlaws’ promises of revenge. She ate heartily and without complaint.
When she was finished, she eyed each man, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it decisively. Bjorn swallowed a smile as she licked her greasy fingers, then wiped them on her mantle. She was a pretty one, though spoiled, and she’d been far less trouble than he’d expected. But her tongue—how she could give a man a lashing with it!
“I had trouble findin’ ye,” Bjorn admitted as Heath passed a jug of ale. Bjorn took a long swallow. The brew was bitter, but he was grateful for a draft and drank his fill before wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He handed the jug to Cayley, who licked her lips and seemed about to decline. Then, gaze fastened to Bjorn’s, she hoisted the dirty vessel to her lips and took a swallow, only to end up coughing so hard she had trouble catching her breath and nearly dropped the jug.
“Careful!” Odell warned.
Tears streamed from her eyes, spilling on red cheeks. “What is that?” she asked.
Odell sniffed, offended. “ ’Tis me own brand of mead.”
“ ’Twill burn out yer insides if ye’re not careful,” Peter said.
“Even if you are,” she said, struggling with her voice.
“I don’t see ye passin’ the jug too often without takin’ more’n yer share, Peter,” Odell grumbled, his pride wounded.
“Shh. ’Tis of no matter.” Bjorn glanced at Cayley. “The lady is fine. Mayhap she’d like another sip.”
“Later,” Cayley said, her voice a raspy whisper, and she patted her chest with the flat of her hand.
“Good.” Bjorn couldn’t hide the amusement he felt as she tried to regain her composure and hide the fact that her face had turned crimson. “Now, we must find Wolf. Since he’s not returned, he’s at the chapel waiting for our return, or on the road, or at Dwyrain.”
He’s in the prison, Bjorn, where you were once chained. Bjorn turned swiftly, reaching for his sword as he saw the crippled sorcere
r step into the golden shadows of the campfire. A speckled owl sat on his shoulder and he held the reins of two fine horses in his hands. “Hagan of Erbyn has a small army of men that we can join,” he said, the men staring at him as if he were the ghost of some great Welsh warrior. “The lady left him and rode day and night to Dwyrain. His soldiers moved more slowly but they will reach the gates of the castle soon.” No one had heard him approach, nor had they heard the sound of his horses’ hooves.
“God be with us, ye’ve got that flappin’ beast with ye!” Odell exclaimed, leaping backward at the sight of the sorcerer and his winged friend. The bird’s head swiveled to pin the wiry man in his wide-eyed stare. “Owl stew is what ye’re good for, and nothin’ more! Git!” Odell waved his arms at the bird, but the owl only settled in and gave a soft hoot. “Bloody Christ, just what we need!”
The magician heeded him not. ’Twas as if he hadn’t heard a word of Odell’s chatter. “Wolf needs our help. If we hurry, we can join Hagan of Erbyn’s army and try to save him.” The sorcerer somehow locked his gaze to that of each and every person gathered around the fire. “If we do not come to his aid—and soon—I fear that he, Robin, Jagger, and those in the castle who have been his spies will surely die.”
“Jack?” one man asked.
“Aye.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yea,” the sorcerer said sadly. “The Lady Megan as well.”
“ ’Tis time to collect my part of the bargain.” Holt swayed slightly as he glanced over his shoulder to the hallway. Leaning against the doorway, he said, “Leave us be, guards—I want no one to disturb us.” Then, weaving, he entered her chamber and closed the door behind him.
Dread clamped around Megan’s lungs. Throughout the gloomy day she’d watched from her window as the gallows was finished, nails pounded into place, a thick noose swinging ready from a crossbeam. The thought that Wolf would lose his life on that monstrous scaffold turned her stomach, and now, facing the man who was her husband, the self-proclaimed baron who had ordered Wolf’s death, she recoiled. “All of the prisoners have not been released.”
“ ’Tis only a matter of time.” He fumbled with his belt and she smelled wine souring on his breath. “You and I, wife,” he said, his eyes finding hers, “have wasted too much time already.”
“Nay, I—”
His head snapped up and his lips turned bloodless with rage. “Do not dare defy me, wench, for we struck a deal and you, if you want to see any more of that sorry lot of prisoners released, will do as I say.”
She bit down hard on her tongue rather than telling him to fly straight to the portals of hell. A breeze swept through the half-open window, rattling the shutters and causing a stir in the fire. Amber coals glowed brighter and flames crackled.
“Or would ye rather see the young one—Robin, I think he’s called—hanging from the end of a rope? Is that what ye want, his death on your head?”
“He’s but a boy,” she protested, knowing that Holt had her cornered.
“And a traitor to Dwyrain.” His jaw grew tight, his countenance unforgiving. Fury flared his nostrils. “Now, Megan, test me no more.” His belt dropped to the floor, the buckle smacking the stones with a heavy chink. She jumped. Oh, God, this was really going to happen. She would have to lift her skirts to this … this monster she detested. Frozen for a second, she watched as he tossed his surcoat onto the foot of the bed and began working the laces of his mantle. “Did you hear me, woman? If ye do not strip yourself of your clothes, I’ll do it for you and I’ll make you watch while not only Wolf but his band of thieves and Judases are killed one by one!” With a final tug, the mantle fell free and dropped to the floor.
Megan’s heart beat in fear.
Advancing upon her, his eyes gleaming bright with the reflection of the fire, Holt stretched out a hand and ran one long finger over the slope of her jaw. Her skin crawled and she fought the urge to slap the damning hand away. What did it matter if he touched her tonight or later in the week? She was doomed to lie with him, to pretend that the child within her was his progeny. She had no choice if she was to protect Wolf’s babe, but she’d never been the kind of woman who let her fate be decided for her. For as long as she could remember, she’d been vocal and demanding about what her life should be. Her independence had been her undoing in the end, and her father, deciding she could not make the right choice, had betrothed her to Holt.
Now her enemy of a husband bent closer, the stench of consumed wine with him as he pressed his lips to her cheek and neck. Her skin prickled in revulsion and she couldn’t imagine the torture of letting him bed her.
Could she lie with him night after night? Nay! ’Twas unthinkable, but she had only a few days and then each of the prisoners would be released. If she allowed Holt to think that she enjoyed him, that she couldn’t wait to be with him, there was a chance he would no longer lock her in her chamber. He might even remove the guard from her door. If he were duped into believing that she’d accepted her lot as his wife, he might not have her watched so closely and she would be allowed to roam the castle freely. She knew more about Dwyrain than anyone within the castle walls, for she and Bevan had, while growing up, explored every staircase, attic, loft, and cellar. If given a tiny bit of freedom, she could find a way to release Wolf.
She had allies, she thought, as Holt’s hand reached for the tie holding her tunic over her breasts and his hot breath feathered across her collarbones.
Father Timothy, and surely the carpenter, the nursemaid Rue, and others loyal to Ewan. Surely the outlaws would come for their leader, and Hagan of Erbyn was due to arrive on the morrow unless he, infuriated with her for deceiving him and stealing away into the night, had returned to his family.
The tunic opened and she shivered with loathing. “That’s better,” he breathed against her skin before looking up and pressing hot, insistent lips to hers. She couldn’t kiss him back, but neither did she push him away. His tongue slid into her mouth and she nearly gagged. Please God, no! she silently screamed as his weight pressed her down to the bed. Tears burned behind her eyes as he stripped off her clothes, ripping them in his hurry, dropping them onto the floor by the bed along with his own tunic, breeches, and purse.
With great effort, she closed her eyes and pretended that she wasn’t in the room, that what was happening to her body had naught to do with her. His hands were rough against her breasts, tweaking and pushing them, giving her no pleasure, and when he slid his knees between her own bare legs she scooted upward on the bed, as far from him as she could get.
“Do not try to escape from me, wife,” he ordered. “ ’Tis time to give up your virginity.”
Oh, God, soon he’d know! There would be no blood, no ripping of her maidenhead. Then he’d realize that she’d been with another man. Surely he was not so stupid that he would not discern who that man—the father of her child—was. Eventually, he would know the babe wasn’t his.
Holt growled into her ear, “I have waited long for this, planned for it, dreamed of it, been more than patient since you arrived at the castle. Taking your virtue will be more satisfying than killing your brother—”
She gasped and cried out.
“ ’Tis true,” he admitted drunkenly, his tongue loosened by wine. “Your brother as well as your father. Neither would hurry to his grave fast enough.” With a belch, he laughed, and Megan wanted only to do him harm.
“I detest you!” she spat, giving up her plan to dupe him and play the willing bride. She could never, would never . . .
He clucked his tongue. “I would have done anything for this time with you,” he said and she spat up at his face.
“Get off me!”
“Too late. Now, wife,” he said, rising above her, his white, naked body poised between her legs, “watch as I make you mine.”
She stared up at him, but she would not touch or caress him. One of her arms was flung over the side of the bed and her fingers touched his garments, the velvet and leather an
d … something metal. Her fingertips scraped the hilt of his knife.
A gift from God. She licked her lips as her fingers wrapped over the carved handle.
“Now and forever, Megan of Dwyrain, ye belong to me!”
He thrust forward. Her fingers wrapped around the weapon and with a swift shifting of her body, she brought up the knife and plunged the wicked blade deep into his side.
Blood sprayed the bedclothes.
Holt let out a hideous, timber-rattling roar. Rage and pain contorted his features. “I’ll kill you!”
“Go to hell, you murdering beast!” Megan squirmed away as Holt tried to reach for the knife that stuck beneath his ribs.
Rolling off the bed, she grabbed her chemise and landed near the fire and basket of logs. She had to get out of here. Now! Escape!
“You’ll pay for this,” he charged, but was sweating and breathing hard. Stumbling to his feet, he yanked out the knife. More blood splattered. Holding the dripping weapon, he dove forward. She sidestepped his attack and he fell on the floor with a thud and a pained grunt.
“ ’Tis Wolf I love,” she said, wanting to wound him, to make him feel some of the pain she felt now that she knew that he’d taken both her brother’s and her father’s lives. She threw her chemise over her head.
“The thief.”
“But not a murderer.”
“He killed Tadd of Prydd.” Holt was struggling, his arms levering his torso upright. Blood ran from his side. “Now, you are my wife and—”
“In name only,” she said, as she gathered up the rest of her clothes. Holt’s skin was pale, but as Megan tossed on her tunic and backed toward the door, he sprang to his feet with renewed strength.