Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “Or what?”

  “Well, or news of Megan.”

  “News?” Ewan said and his lips compressed. His washed-out gray color paled even more. “What kind of news?”

  Holt sighed and plowed his hands through his hair. “ ’Tis possible that this outlaw, the one they call Wolf, is an enemy of yours or mine. It might not be money he’s after.”

  “What then?”

  “Perhaps her virtue.”

  Ewan closed his old eyes and shook his head in vehement denial. “I think not.”

  “Or her life,” Holt added, and his father-in-law physically jerked, as if his ancient heart had stopped beating for a moment before jolting into rhythm again.

  “Nay, she’s alive,” Ewan gasped. “I cannot lose Megan, too, not after the others …” His old voice faded.

  “I pray she’s safe,” Holt said, but his voice sounded full of doubt.

  “You must find her!”

  Holt’s eyes slid away. “I’ll do what I can, m’lord, but I cannot promise.”

  “You must!”

  “ ’Tis not that easy. There are spies within the castle walls—those who would betray you and follow the criminal.”

  Jaw clenching beneath his beard, Ewan said, “Then flush them out, Holt. Find out what they know. Mayhap they can tell you where the cur is holding my daughter!”

  “As you wish,” Holt agreed, then walked back to the bed and offered Ewan his cup of wine. Smiling inwardly, he watched as the old fool drank a long sip, then slid back between the linen sheets. Ewan’s eyes closed and Holt wished him dead. It would be so easy to smother the man, as he was already weak, but as that thought chased through his mind, the door opened and Cayley entered.

  “You found Megan not?” she asked, casting a worried look at her father’s sleeping form.

  “Nay, the blackguard eluded us.”

  “A pity,” Cayley murmured, crossing herself.

  “Aye, that it is,” Holt said as Cayley walked to her father’s bedside and laid cool fingertips to his forehead. He didn’t move.

  “He gets worse with each day. I thought that if Megan were to return he might recover a bit …” Sighing, she brushed a strand of white hair from his forehead.

  “He is near death’s door,” Holt whispered, wishing he could find a way to push the baron through that black portal just a bit sooner.

  The moon was high, the campfire mere embers, and Megan knew she had no choice. If she were to escape, she had to leave now while Wolf slept peacefully near the door. Quietly, she slipped from his pallet and across the room to the window, where, with one final glance over her shoulder to see that he had not moved, she hoisted herself up and slid through the opening. She landed with a soft thud on the frozen ground and slowly edged her way around the old chapel. Two sentries, shoulders propped against trees, stood near the clearing where the horses were tethered. Though their backs were to her, she could not get past them and steal a horse as she’d hoped. No, she would have to make her way on foot and hope that by the morning’s light she had put enough distance between herself and the camp to elude Wolf.

  Her heart squeezed at the thought. There was a foolish part of her that longed to stay with him, to trust him. You are addled, she told herself. What would she want with a criminal, a man always on the run, a man who lived by his own rules? Rather than dwell on the dark turn of her thoughts, she crept to the river’s edge and decided to follow it upstream, keeping to the banks until she came to a crossing, either a shallow spot where a road splashed across the current, or, if she was lucky, to a bridge. Sooner or later she would come across a village or a traveler who could direct her toward Dwyrain.

  And what then? Give up? Live as Holt’s wife? Nay! She’d plead with her father and Father Timothy or the local abbot to have her marriage annulled. Why? So that her father could insist she marry another man, one no better than Holt? What other options did she have? Life in a nunnery? Or could she find a hut where she could grow and sell herbs and mix potions as she’d watched Rue do?

  “Oh, bother,” she muttered under her breath as a cloud passed over the moon and the night grew dark. She picked her way carefully, slipping on rocks, holding on to branches and roots that grew out of the bank, and telling herself she was glad to be rid of that wild group of cutthroats and thugs. She was better off away from them, including grumpy Odell and sweet Robin. Now she wouldn’t have to feel Wolf’s intense eyes on her, nor would she have to train hers away from the unforgiving lines of his face—masculine, rugged, and sensual. When his eyes sought hers, she felt as if hundreds of butterflies filled her stomach. Her heart pounded so loudly that she was certain the entire camp could hear it. When she felt his gaze on the back of her head she had to force herself not to turn around and search his face for just a tiny bit of nobility that she was certain was visible in his unforgiving countenance if only she knew just where to look.

  As if it mattered. Now she had to walk to the nearest town, steal a horse if needs be, and hurry to Dwyrain before either Holt or Wolf found her.

  The clouds parted again and the river glimmered silver in the wavering moonlight.

  “Did you really think you could escape so easily?” Wolf’s voice, the merest of whispers, reverberated through the canyon as well as her heart.

  Whirling, she saw his dark form sitting insolently on a mossy boulder not ten feet from her. “I … I was thirsty and wanted a drink …”

  He laughed so loudly she jumped. “A drink?”

  “Aye.”

  Clucking his tongue, he shook his head. “Is the water better here than down at the chapel?”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought you could escape, that you could elude me and … what? Walk the entire distance back to Dwyrain this night?” When she didn’t answer, he stretched to his feet, a tall man looming in the darkness. Slowly he advanced on her. “Come, Megan,” he said gently. “ ’Tis cold out here.”

  “As if you care for my comfort.”

  “I do,” he said, though his tone was tinged with mockery.

  “Then return me to Dwyrain.”

  “All in good time.”

  “For the right amount of gold.”

  “Aye,” he said, and the smile left his voice. She felt his gaze move to her lips. “Why else?”

  “I know not.” She was quivering inside and was afraid it wasn’t from the wind that cut through her clothes as it tore down the valley. No, her trembling was because he was close to her, so close that the toes of his boots touched hers.

  “Come inside.”

  “Nay.”

  “You would defy me?” There was a hard edge to his voice.

  “I will not be ordered about like a slave!”

  “Mother of God,” he growled under his breath and one hand reached forward to clasp her upper arm. “If you haven’t yet noticed, Megan, I’m not a patient man!”

  “Nor I a patient woman.”

  “Get back to the chapel and be thankful that I don’t put you in chains—”

  She gasped and tried to draw her arm away. “What kind of beast are you?” she said, fury spurting through her veins. “You drag me away from the castle against my will—”

  “Liar.” The word was spoken so softly she barely heard it, and yet it echoed through her heart over and over again, repeating itself and mocking her. He dragged her closer to him, so close that even in the night she saw the breeze move through his hair and the reflection of the moon in his eyes. Her traitorous heart beat faster. “You wanted to be free of the castle,” he guessed, his breath caressing her face as he stopped in front of her. “There was a part of you that longed to soar away from all the thick walls and responsibilities.”

  “Nay,” but the lie tripped on her tongue.

  “And freedom isn’t all that you want,” he said, fingers nearly punishing in their grip, moonlight splashing over the ruthless planes of his face. “There is more, much more,” he said, and a cold sweat beaded beneath her hair at
the suggestion in his words.

  “More?”

  “ ’Tis the reason you flee now.” His fingers became more gentle and she saw his throat work.

  “Which is?”

  “Me. You’re afraid of me and what your heart is telling you.”

  “I know not what you say—”

  “Liar.” Again that damning word. “You feel it, too, Megan,” he said.

  “What?”

  He was so close she smelled the lingering scents of smoke, leather, and the earth all mingling together and causing her pulse to pound. “The wanting.”

  “Wanting?” she repeated, feeling silly.

  “The wanting between a man and woman.” His breath

  fanned her face and she felt his heat through his fingers—hot, hungry, pounding.

  Her skin prickled in anticipation, though she could not give in to the wanton thoughts that heated her blood. True, she’d thought fleetingly of seducing him, of finding a way, any way, to have her marriage annulled, but she couldn’t so callously cast away her virtue to this … this criminal. “I want you not,” she lied, trying to deny that which had caused her so much pain. “I’m married—”

  “Aye, to mine enemy.” His eyes were a dark blue, the color of the sea at midnight, and his face, handsome though it had once been, showed the ravages of battle, a scar that cleaved one eyebrow, a nick on his ear that was visible when the wind tossed the hair from his face. The Wolf, they called him, and so like that frightening beast he was.

  “I—I cannot.”

  “But you will,” he said, as if the knowledge had been with him since her capture, as if he’d planned to bed her before she could even lie with her husband. She swallowed hard and his gaze drifted to the circle of bones at the base of her throat. “You’re a sweet liar, Megan of Dwyrain, but your eyes give you away.” One callused hand reached forward, twining in the thick strands of her hair to brush her nape. “You need the wind in your hair, the song of the falcon in your ears, the power of a steed beneath you.” His hand slid lower to surround her throat in a grip that was as powerful as it was gentle. “You need a man who can tame your wild spirit, a man whose black heart is a match for your own.”

  “Nay,” she whispered, but her lips trembled and her skin, where he touched her throat, throbbed. “Please,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Unhand me.”

  “Oh, I will, little one, but not before you admit it. Say the words.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You want me.”

  “Nay,” she cried again as he drew her near. His lips were close enough to hers that she could fairly taste him.

  His smile was that of a devil. “Then prove me a liar,” he ordered before drawing her body to his and claiming her mouth with a hard, savage kiss that seared through her blood and pierced her very soul.

  She wilted against him, her body having a will all its own. His hands splayed over her back and beneath her clothes, her skin tingled, ready and anxious. She didn’t cry out when he pushed her against the trunk of a tree and fit his body intimately to hers. She felt his heat, his need, the soft throb of desire that ran from his veins to hers.

  His tongue tickled the seam of her mouth and she opened to him, thrilling as he groaned and rubbed against her. Wild, hot, and decidedly sinful thoughts ran through her mind as his fingers slid lower to cup her buttocks and hook around her leg, jerking forward so that her thigh surrounded his.

  “Megan,” he growled as he lifted his head and let out a long, quivering breath. “God in heaven, you are a temptress.” His eyes glazed as he dropped her leg and gasped for breath. She nearly stumbled, but he caught her. “Come, this is madness!”

  “I cannot, will not—”

  “I’ll not hurt you, little one, if that’s what you fear.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me,” he whispered, and she wanted to—oh, how she wanted to believe. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself staying here with this man, envisioned what life would be without the comforts of the castle, the warmth of her family. He kissed her again, so soundly she could barely breathe.

  When he lifted his head, he stared at her long and hard. “Mother of Moses,” he whispered.

  She expected him to take her in his arms again, but he stepped away, holding only her hand. Disappointment welled in her heart, and her legs were as strong as Cook’s pudding when she tried to walk. He half dragged her back to the chapel and she couldn’t stop her heart from racing at the thought of the night alone with him, the night stretching ahead. Not that she could kiss him again, not that she would let him touch her, not that she would … At the bend of her thoughts, she bit her lip and followed him through the door, across the cold stones, and then gasped as he pulled her down on the pallet with him.

  “I’ll not sleep with you—”

  “You have no choice.”

  “Nay. I’m married—”

  “An excuse, m’lady.”

  “Wolf, I cannot—” But her protests were silenced by a kiss that burned through her body.

  When he lifted his head, she felt him shudder. “Sweet Jesus,” he said, as much a prayer as a blasphemy. “Now, Megan, do not move. Just lie in one spot. I will lie here with you and I will hold you close so that you do not escape, but I will not touch you in a way you do not wish, and we will sleep. Within days I will send a messenger with a ransom demand and soon you will be home to face your father or your husband.”

  She swallowed back the urge to cry out that she’d never return to Holt.

  As he climbed beneath the covers, he kept his fingers around her wrists, and turned his body so that it was behind hers, fitting intimately against her curves. Her back was pressed against the wall of his chest, her calves brushed his shins, and her behind fit in the crook of his waist and crotch. Closing her eyes, she felt his manhood, hard, wanting, nearly quivering as it was pressed against her, but he didn’t move, just held her close and tried to sleep. She didn’t dare even twitch, afraid of what one small movement might cause, certain the simmering heat in her blood would spark to life. Never before had she experienced true wanting—the hunger between a man and woman—but right now she understood that desire all too well.

  Holding Megan against him, Wolf gritted his teeth. Her body was warm and fragrant and he wanted to bury his face in her locks and make love to her until dawn.

  Sleep eluded him and images of her, naked and willing, filled his wayward mind and caused his eager member to harden and swell. He’d been a fool, dallying with the woman, teasing Holt, keeping her rather than ransoming her right away. But the money had been of no consequence; Holt’s humiliation had been the prize.

  Now the situation had changed. Keeping Megan with him was not so much punishment for Holt, but sweet torment for Wolf. He couldn’t look at her without wanting, couldn’t speak to her without wondering what it would feel like to lie with her, couldn’t hear her footsteps without his heart tripping a little more quickly.

  He must be mad. What would he want with a beautiful, feisty tart with a tongue like the sting of the whip? Why did the woman fascinate both him and his men? He saw how easily she flirted and how half his soldiers were willing to do her bidding. Even mean-tempered Jagger smiled when she was around, and Robin—the boy was smitten.

  ’Twas strange how most of the men accepted her, though they had a solid unwritten law that no woman could be a part of their band. Some of them appeared half in love with her, others amused by her, still others restless and prone to fighting, like bucks interested in a single doe.

  The sooner he was rid of her, the better for all—and Holt’s money could be put to good use. But the thought of returning her to his enemy, the idea that Holt might take some of his fury out on her, the merest inkling that Megan would lie with him, caused a burning in Wolf’s guts, a painful jealous heat that kept him awake as he held her small wrists in his hands and felt the rise and fall of her chest against his knuckles.

  Why not bed her? Why not seize his ultima
te revenge against Holt and strip her of her virginity, not brutally as Holt had allowed Tadd to rape Mary, but slow and with care, making her quake with wanting, feeling her go limp and hot with desire? She would be supple and willing, and oh, the sweet rapture of it.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his body against the vision of her lying naked and pure beneath him. No, he could not soil her, could not defile her, could never make love to her, as she was another man’s wife. And yet he wanted her, with an aching lust that stormed through his blood and clamored in his brain. Her rump brushed his cock and he thought of the sweetness of entering her, of hearing her pant against his ear, of listening to the sweet moans from her lips.

  She wasn’t what he expected. She claimed she loved not Holt, and Wolf clung to that thought, though he damned himself for caring. Oh, Megan. What am I to do with you? She touched a dangerous, rebellious part of him, a part that caused him to second-guess his plan. Strong and determined, she claimed to want to return to Dwyrain, yet he sensed the hesitation in her voice, that a part of her would like to remain free of castle life, away from her responsibilities.

  Though she was a prisoner with the outlaws, she had no castle walls that bound her, no duties to perform as Ewan’s eldest daughter, no Mass to attend. She had found a new kind of freedom, and she embraced the nomadic life as Wolf once had before he’d become jaded and tired of moving from one spot to the next, forever looking over his shoulder while outrunning the law.

  There was a time only a few months back when Wolf had been offered his freedom, when he’d met his family at Abergwynn, but he had yet unfinished business with Holt. Once through with this, he silently swore to himself, he’d give up his black-hearted ways and return to Abergwynn, which was all well and good, but what would he do with Megan? Could he really ransom her back to a husband he knew to be cruel and ruthless?

  She sighed softly and he felt his cold heart of stone begin to crack.

  Six

  olt’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to bash the sheriff’s thick skull against the wall in the great hall. Servants cast worried glances his way and shuffled hurriedly from the room, hiding behind tapestries, as they wanted no part of his wrath. The two men who’d come with the sheriff stood near the door like trained dogs, not saying a word, not accepting the wine that Holt had offered.