Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  Megan helped break camp by folding tents and lashing them to poles to be pulled by some of the horses. There was but one wagon and another small cart for supplies and weapons.

  Wolf insisted that they travel at night, avoiding those who traveled by day.

  She packed the rugs and fur blankets, lashing them to the pallet. Would she ever see her beloved father again? Or Cayley—would she be able to laugh and argue with her sister? Or ride in the fields surrounding the castle?

  That part of her life was over, for even if she did return to the keep, she would have to face Holt as his bride, unless she could persuade her father and Father Timothy or the abbot that the marriage should be annulled, that she could not possibly remain Holt’s wife.

  She grabbed the bag holding her clothes, the white tunic, red surcoat, and green mantle, then bit down hard on her lower lip as she drew the string that would secure her bag. Surely Holt would want her not if she were no longer a virgin. Would he not cast her out as his wife if she’d lain with another man? And would coupling with another be worse than being married to him for the rest of her life?

  Her gaze strayed to Wolf kicking dust into the campfire. Her pulse pounded in her temple. Could she give herself to this man, this black-heart, if only for a night? Her mouth turned to dust at the thought of his touch, warm against her skin, the pressure of his lips as they claimed hers. Her blood heated and she looked away.

  Losing her virtue to him would not ease her burden. The clouds shifted, blocking out the moon, and she remembered the crippled prophet’s words. Could this man Wolf, leader of this band, be the destruction of Dwyrain as was prophesied, and if so, would she really lose her heart to him?

  Five

  ye, they were here,” Connor said, eyeing the soggy remains of a campfire and deep ruts from a heavy wagon. Bootprints and hoofprints were visible in the mud by the stream. “If not the outlaw Wolf and his miserable band of cutthroats, then someone like them.” Bending down, he examined the crushed grass and rubbed a few wet blades between his fingers.

  “How long?” Holt asked from astride his muddy destrier.

  “Less than a week since they left. The fire is cold, but it looks only a few days old.” Connor glanced up at the sky, where the clouds were beginning to part, and a few weak rays of sun shone on the glen tucked in the woods. “My guess is that they stayed here for some time—see how some of the grass is yellow there where it was covered for days, maybe weeks, with a tent? This camp was left only because we approached.”

  “Then we are close?”

  Connor rubbed his jaw, scratching the short whiskers that covered his chin. “I think not, but I’ll send men to inquire. They can ride from house to house and see if anyone saw a group of men and horses and one woman traveling.”

  Kelvin of Hawarth climbed down from his steed and stretched his muscles. His complaints, as the days and nights had stretched into nearly a week, had become louder and more annoying. “ ’Tis a wild goose chase,” he said now, walking stiffly to the stream and splashing water over his face. “This may not have been Wolf’s camp.” Giving a short, humorless laugh, he added, “ ’Twould not surprise me if the cur had this place and others like it made to look like the men were here.”

  What a fool, Holt thought. Kelvin, so anxious to do battle with Wolf when he’d been brought to the castle, now was more than ready to return to the warm fires and fine food of Hawarth. “Wolf is clever but has neither the means nor the men to carry out such a plan.”

  “Has he not? What about his spies at Dwyrain? Do ye know who they be or how great their number?”

  Holt’s fingers clenched over the reins of his mount. “I will find them all, flush them out, and punish them. Doubt me not—before I get through with them, they will tell me everything they know of Wolf.”

  “If the castle is still under the baron’s rule.” Kelvin threw out his hands. “Mayhap the kidnapping of the lady was but a ruse to lure you and your best soldiers away from Dwyrain so that either Wolf or someone he conspires with can overtake the keep.”

  “Nay, I think not—” Holt said, then bit his tongue when he saw Connor’s reaction. The man’s blank eyes darkened just enough to worry Holt.

  “What he says has merit.” Connor walked slowly along the bank, his eyes searching the shallows. “Why not?”

  “What would an outlaw want with a castle?”

  “What would he want with a man’s wife?”

  Holt knew a moment of fear. ’Twas true. Wolf could have enticed him away from Dwyrain only to capture the castle for his own use when Holt and his best soldiers were searching through the woods. Though Wolf had but a small band of men, there were spies within the castle walls, spies who could turn against the guards in the keep. Even those sentries could not be trusted, not fully, for their first allegiance was to Ewan, and as long as the old man lingered, there was the chance that his mind could be turned against his new son-in-law.

  “Aha,” Connor said and waded into the stream. He reached into the water as if he planned on catching a fish with his bare hands, but instead plucked a piece of gold from the streambed. With a cold smile, he turned and plowed his way out of the water. “Methinks, Sir Holt,” he said, grinning evilly as he extended his fist, slowly opened his fingers, and showed the tiny gold band in his wet palm, “your wife is not honoring her wedding vows.”

  They traveled three nights, stopping in the forest during the day only to rest, always moving to the north. Megan was beginning to wonder if they would ever stop for more than a few hours so that she would have enough time to sneak away from Wolf and his band of loudmouthed, bad-mannered, yet good-hearted men. They were a sorry lot, though happily so, and Wolf, the black-heart, was a hard, dangerous man she wished she’d never met. She was always nervous and wary around him, but fascinated as well. His smile was captivating, his wits were sharp, and his gaze, ever restless, never moved too far from her, as if he expected her to bolt at any minute.

  Though it had been nearly a week since she’d been abducted, he refused to trust her, insisting on sleeping near her, never letting her out of his sight except for the nightly meetings around the campfire when the men gathered together, whispering among themselves. Megan couldn’t hear what they were saying, but knew that it involved her and her fate, for often one of the men would frown, cast a glance in her direction, and argue under his breath.

  ’Twas unfair to be treated so; she could do nothing but plan her escape.

  The best time would be during the day, when the men were resting and Wolf, as was his custom, took one man, usually Bjorn, and rode ahead, searching the countryside, looking for a new hiding spot. Often Robin and Jagger went hunting and Odell was busy tending the fire and spit, but he always found jobs to keep her busy. She hauled water, washed the few pots they had, cleaned fowl and fish, or helped sharpen the cooking knives. She considered stealing one of the sharp blades, but Odell knew his few weapons and pieces of cutlery. Before she could find a way to sneak away from the camp, Wolf always returned and trained his suspicious eyes upon her once again.

  On the fourth night, they veered from the road and continued on what appeared to be an old deer trail, slogging through muck, easing the wagon through the trees with torches as their only light. The horses shied, and Megan shivered in the wind as she rode upon a gray jennet and held on to the saddle pommel. Her hands were free, but the reins of her horse were firmly in Wolf’s hands as he drove to the remains of an old chapel tucked near the bend of a river. The water moved swiftly, a dark, wide ribbon that tumbled over steep cliffs, creating a waterfall not 20 yards from the back door of the ancient church.

  “ ’Ere?” Odell grumbled. “Ye expect us to make camp ’ere?”

  Wolf’s smile was a slash of white in the darkness. “And what’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s falling down around us. We’ll be lucky if the roof don’t give way and crush us!”

  “Here we have a choice. At the last camp, we did not. Those who want to
sleep inside may; those who favor tents or the bare ground can do as they wish.”

  Odell, upon the destrier he’d stolen from Kelvin of Hawarth, edged his mount forward and raised his torch high so that a pool of flickering light fell upon mossy stone walls. Ivy climbed up what had once been a great fireplace but now was a pile of rubble, and beams, charred from a great fire, held up only a portion of the roof.

  “Looks like the Devil himself was ’ere,” Odell said and crossed himself swiftly, one of the first signs Megan had ever seen that some of the men concerned themselves with God.

  “We make camp here,” Wolf said, and though a few of his men grumbled under their breaths, most climbed off their tired mounts, stretched, and hurriedly went about constructing the tents and a fire.

  “We’ll be inside,” Wolf said as he slid from his saddle, and Megan hopped to the ground. Her muscles ached from hours in the saddle and she saw no point in arguing. “Odell’s right—part of the old chapel is unsafe, but there are rooms where the roof is intact and the walls strong, and ’tis warmer than outside.”

  “You know this place well?” she asked, eyeing the blackened rafters that creaked in the wind.

  “Well enough,” he said gruffly, then ordered his men to bring his pallet, rugs, and bags to a corner room with a small window and a spot where another fire had been lit. The floor was stone, the walls solid, the ceiling appearing steady.

  Through the window, she saw sparks from the fire drifting toward the sky and she realized how alone she was with this man. Oh, she’d been in his tent with him each night, but the walls were only thin cloth and she’d not felt so distant from the rest of the men. But here, in a chamber, they were more removed from the outlaws who gathered in their tents around the fire.

  “You’re not pleased.”

  “I hate being a prisoner.”

  “Is it so bad? Have you been mistreated?” She heard him stake out a place near the door. “ ’Twill not be forever,” he said, and she thought she heard a smidgen of regret in his voice, but it could have been her mind playing tricks on her. “Soon enough I will return you to the arms of your beloved Holt.”

  “When?”

  “Shortly I will send a note for your ransom, then you will be returned safely to Dwyrain.”

  Her stomach clenched at the thought of facing Holt, but she held her tongue and slid out of her boots.

  A yawn escaped him, and in the darkness she saw him wrap a fur rug around himself and prop his head against the bag holding her clothes. “Now that he has tasted of bitter disappointment, I’ll only too gladly give him back his wife in exchange for gold.”

  Her insides froze. “Gold? So that’s what this is about. Money.” She said the word as if it tasted bad. “You’re nothing more than a common thief.”

  “Not so common, m’lady,” he retorted sarcastically, his hooded eyes trained on her, his smile as dangerous as the predatory beast for which he named himself. “But, aye, I am a thief.”

  Holt took aim at the stag’s chest and the great heart beating within, pulled back on his bow, and watched as his arrow, usually true, veered away from its target, thwacking hard as it landed in the soft white bark of a birch. The startled buck fled, leaping high over a hedge of brush and disappearing through the forest.

  None of his men said a word. What they thought didn’t spring to their lips. As the best archer in all of Dwyrain, Holt should not have missed so clear a shot, but he was bothered, his mind elsewhere than on game. He’d sworn he wouldn’t return to the castle empty-handed, but he had no choice. Out of supplies and without new information as to where the rogues had fled, spending more time in the forest was useless. And he had to return to the castle for fear Wolf’s intentions were to take over the keep.

  “Bloody hell,” he growled, seething inside to think he’d been bested by a cunning criminal who had stolen his wife and no doubt bedded her as well. As a painful reminder of her faithlessness, he wore her wedding ring on his fifth finger.

  Kelvin and Connor had convinced him to return to Dwyrain and wait for word of ransom. The winter air was tinged with ice, frost lay on the ground, and the outlaws’ trail was as cold as death. The Christmas revels were soon upon them, and Connor believed that each day away from Dwyrain was another day for the outlaw to take over the castle. Connor … an odd one. Deadly. A man who would be brutal to Cayley.

  As the stag disappeared into a thicket, Holt motioned for his men to move on. He’d leave Connor with a few men to keep looking in the forests and towns, ever searching for the elusive outlaw and stolen bride. Holt would return to Dwyrain and become baron, for certainly the poison he’d had Nell slip into Ewan’s wine would be taking its toll, and the old man, already ill, would be perilously near death, if not dead already.

  Half the men continued on their quest. The other half, some of whom would later return to the search party with more supplies, returned to Dwyrain with Holt, but as the horses drew nearer to the castle, Holt’s fury mounted.

  Megan’s ring burned against the skin of his finger and he argued with himself. Whether she was with him or not, he would inherit the castle. He was her husband, and though he suffered a few insults and raised eyebrows and unkind jokes, he would still be baron. Those who opposed him would be silenced forever. If he never saw Megan again, ’twould not matter.

  Except that she had escaped him. He’d waited for months to have her serve him, to see her naked on her knees, to force her to do his bidding. He’d savored thoughts of the wedding night and dreamed of how it would feel not just to mount her but see her surrender to his power. For nearly a year she had avoided him, argued with her father about his courtship, defied him at every turn, and he’d waited, somewhat impatiently, because he’d known in the end he would win.

  And he’d been thwarted. By a scar-faced outlaw who acted as if he delighted in Holt’s humiliation. Why else had there been no demand of ransom?

  They plodded on for hours, and at the final bend in the road, the trees parted and Holt caught his first view of Dwyrain in nearly a week. Tall and proud, a giant that swelled from the very earth on which it was built, the castle was one of the finest Holt had ever seen. When he’d left Prydd years ago and come into Ewan’s service, he’d silently vowed that someday the keep would be his. He’d started by being of service to the old man, proving himself worthy, using his brains, brawn, and skill to gain Ewan’s trust.

  And then there was Megan, beautiful, haughty first daughter of the baron, second in line to inherit the castle. Only Bevan stood in Megan’s way of inheriting all that was Dwyrain. Fate had cast Holt a great favor in the form of the sorcerer’s prediction. Even now as he rode through the brittle-cold afternoon to the gates of Dwyrain, Holt smiled. The prophet’s words, foretelling that so many would die, that there would be great pain and loss, destruction and deceit within the castle walls, that Megan would be blamed, had all been too good to be true. Aye, the prophecy had come to pass, but Holt had felt no qualms about hurrying it along a bit.

  Bevan’s reckless nature had given Holt an opportunity to poison the lad before he could recuperate from his near-drowning. By killing Bevan, Holt had removed Ewan’s son as the final obstacle to Megan’s inheritance, and from there it was only a matter of convincing the old man that no one would want to marry her. By the gods, it looked as if that pathetic cripple had been right, and had cursed her.

  It took little to persuade some of the servants and a few of the more superstitious knights that she was the reason for the illness that swept through the castle. Had not it been foretold? And when any misfortune befell the castle or those who worked there, it was a simple matter to remind the victim or his family that there was a curse on the keep.

  The only part of the prediction that worried him was the piece concerning the marriage being cursed and something about restoring Megan’s honor only through true love or some such pig dung. Not that Holt believed in the prophecy; it was just a convenient ploy to use against the simple minds in the c
astle.

  He heard the sentry’s shout and the blast of a trumpet announcing his return. Soldiers scurried over the wall walks and Holt smiled to himself. Let the little people hurry to serve him. ’Twas his destiny.

  First, he’d show his respect, visit Ewan, eat a hot meal, drink wine, and then find himself a willing wench who would take his mind off Megan. At least for the night.

  “You found her not?” the old man asked from his bed. Unable to rise, he hardly moved, but sighed loudly, disappointment etched across his brow. He was ill; the herbs were working their magic and Holt could barely suppress a smile. He was so close to becoming baron, he could feel it; the promise of death hung heavy in the air.

  “Nay, the outlaw eluded me.” Holt crossed the room and sat on a bench near the fire, warming his backside as he silently willed Ewan of Dwyrain to die. “I left Connor with some men and will send others with supplies to join them soon. But I did not want to stay away from the castle too long in case there was a demand for ransom or …” He let his voice drift away.