by Lisa Jackson
“The man is an outlaw,” Holt said slowly, as if the dolt hadn’t heard correctly. “And he stole my wife. I want him and his pack of criminals found and brought back here, and justice served.”
“I know, I know,” the sheriff, a doddering old fool named Herbert, agreed. He belched into his cup of wine, then took a long gulp. Holt wanted to strangle him for sitting on his fat rump when he should be off chasing thieves and kidnappers. “Wolf’s been a pain in my arse for a long time as well. I’ve got my best men tracking him down.”
“Do they know where he is?”
Herbert scratched his head and scowled. “Nay, but he’s a slippery one, that Wolf is.” He finished his cup and eyed the wine jug longingly. “How’s the baron? Heard he collapsed at the wedding celebration.”
“ ’Tis true. Losing Megan has nearly killed him,” Holt said, gladly shoving some more guilt onto the corrupt sheriff’s conscience.
Herbert turned his eyes away from the wine. “And where does that leave ye? If the baron dies, will ye, as Lady Megan’s husband, become the new lord?” He rubbed his palms on the front of his dirty breeches. “A sticky problem, eh? Since your wife was stolen away before ye bedded her.” Struggling to his feet, he cast one last baleful glance at the wine, then snapped his fingers to the two guards he’d brought with him. “Worry not, Sir Holt. We’ll find the rotter.” He marched out of the hall with surprising speed for one so heavy. His two soldiers followed without a word, treading after the old fool blindly. For a second Holt experienced the sharp pang of jealousy. Would any of the soldiers guarding Dwyrain obey him without question? Fight to the death?
As Herbert had so pointedly reminded him, the castle was not quite his. Should Ewan die, Dwyrain by rights would fall to Megan, and, as her husband, Holt would inherit the castle, but since the marriage had never been consummated, it could be easily annulled. If Megan were found dead before the old man gave up his ghost, the castle and lands would revert to Cayley, and then Holt would be left with nothing. All his plotting—years of scheming and allying himself with Ewan—would be for naught.
Snarling at a page to bring him more wine, Holt refused to be thwarted. There was blood on his hands already, and the poison he was slipping into the old man’s cup was slowly working.
He didn’t mind hurrying Ewan to his grave more rapidly than nature intended. But he couldn’t be foolish enough not to make sure that he inherited the castle. If it fell to Cayley and she married Gwayne of Cysgod … By the gods, it looked as if he might have to find a way for Megan’s younger sister to meet with an accident.
That particular thought wasn’t pleasing. Killing women was difficult because of the joy they could give a man. Fingering the hilt of his knife, he frowned. Nay, the answer was not to take Cayley’s life. He had promised her to Connor, but there might be a more permanent solution. Why not double-cross Connor and marry her off? This thought appealed to him. However, right now he had to find Megan and that damned outlaw.
Near the morning fire, Wolf talked in low tones to his men, pointing emphatically to Bjorn before spying Megan as she carried a basket of herbs she’d collected near the creek. Several heads swiveled her way and ears burned a bright red at her approach. She’d never before intruded on one of their meetings, meekly allowing them to discuss her and her fate, but she was tired of being treated as if she had no say in what was to happen. She dropped the basket with a thud and it landed at Odell’s feet.
“What’s this?” she asked, plopping down on the cold ground where the men squatted. Several had knives and were drawing in the dirt, as if making maps.
“We’re discussing what to do with you,” Wolf said, his eyes burning with fury at her indignation.
“Without talking to me?” She let her eyes rove to each man.
Jagger cleared his throat and sheathed his knife. Bjorn’s smile widened, but he found interest in cleaning his fingernails with his blade. Odell muttered under his breath and stoked the fire with a long stick, and Robin’s eyes slid away. Only Wolf held her stare with an intense glare that nearly made her flinch.
“So what plan have you chosen, hmm?” she asked, defying the leader of these men.
“Ransom.” Wolf rocked back on his heels. “We just haven’t decided how much.”
“No? I think ’twould be easy.”
He raised his split brow, inviting her to continue. “How about thirty pieces of silver?” she asked, then dusted her hands, stood, and whirled, storming away from the fire toward the chapel.
“Ouch,” Odell muttered. “That stings a mite, don’t it?”
Bjorn had the nerve to laugh and Wolf, seething, couldn’t resist rising to the bait. He followed after her, catching up with her at the ruins and dragging her inside. “I thought you’d want to return to your castle.”
“Did you? And what of my husband? Did you think I wanted to see him again? Did I not tell you that I married for duty? You know I love Holt not!”
His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Her face, fresh-scrubbed with water from the river, turned up and her tangled hair fell around cheeks flushed with color. Her fists were curled as if she’d like nothing better than to batter his chest and her eyes, the color of light ale, snapped fire.
“My father will find you, Wolf,” she said. “And when he does, he will have no mercy on your black soul. ’Twill be as if hell itself were unleashed on you!”
“Your father is not the man he once was,” Wolf said, refraining from telling her that he’d learned only this morning that Ewan of Dwyrain was gravely ill. Jagger had ridden late last night to meet with spies in the castle, and the word was not good. Ewan, after collapsing just after Megan’s kidnapping, had become inattentive and confined to his quarters. The priest and Cayley visited him often and he was bedridden, surely dying. By rights, Megan should be with him, to ease his suffering and to be within the castle when he died, so that she, or Holt as her husband, could rule the keep.
“My father will not rest until I am safely returned.”
“And your husband?”
She shuddered visibly, her skin turning pale. “I will talk to Holt,” she said.
“And say what? That you changed your mind? That you were marrying him only as an obligation and now you feel no need? What?” he asked, unable to resist moving closer to her and watching her lips. They trembled slightly and her pulse, so visible at the open throat of his old tunic, fluttered.
“I have not decided.”
“Time is running out,” he said, and the irony of his words reflected in her eyes. Their time together was fleeting as well.
She was the first to look away. “So that’s it, then. You’ll send a messenger to Holt.”
“Have I not promised as much?” Guilt sliced through his heart at the tightening of her mouth. What would her fate be with the man who had held down a sweet maiden while another raped and used her? How could he ever release Megan to such a beast? He’d once thought that Holt’s humiliation would be enough to satisfy him, but he’d been wrong. Now, because of Megan and his fear for her, Wolf wouldn’t be satisfied with less than the bastard’s death.
He reached forward, tracing the slope of her cheek with the tip of his finger. “I meant not to hurt you, Megan.”
“Ha!” But she quivered beneath his touch.
“I wanted only to wound Holt.”
“Nay, Wolf. ’Tis more than that. ’Tis not only the wounding you wanted, but also the savoring of your vengeance.” She stepped away from him and shook her head, her red-brown curls brushing her shoulders. “Whatever it is that makes you hate Holt so, you nourish it, feed it, keep it alive. You delight to think that you thwarted him, that he is vexed because you are cleverer than he, but you will not be satisfied to return me to him. Whatever this rift is between you two, ’twill not be mended by gold coins.” She shoved aside his hand and looked up at him with disdain. “Money will not ease your pain, nor will causing Holt a smidgen of humiliation. Nay, this—whatever it is—that festers in you
will be cleansed only by your death or his.”
The truth of her words cleaved all hope he bore of purging himself of his burden of hate. Had she not voiced what he had already considered? She turned away from him, but he grabbed her arm, spun her to face him. Without another thought, he held her fast, as if afraid she would disappear, then captured her mouth in his.
“No,” she whispered, but opened her mouth to the pressure of his tongue. Small and yielding, her body fit against the harder contours of his. Her mouth was sweet, and Wolf’s mind swam with hot images of making love to her. He pressed harder, shoving her back against the wall, one hand reaching upward to feel the weight of her breast. Even through the coarse fabric, he noticed her nipple harden, and a part of him lost all control. He reached beneath the hem of her tunic and soft chemise to her warm, waiting flesh.
“Wolf,” she cried as his fingers scaled her ribs slowly, laying siege steadily. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her mouth an open invitation as he kissed her.
The swelling between his legs was hard and hot and needing release. He skimmed her nipple with his fingers and she sighed into his open mouth.
Lord help me, he silently prayed, but he couldn’t resist her sweet temptation and he lifted the coarse tunic over her head. Then, through the thin fabric of her chemise, he touched her with urgent fingers. Moaning, she leaned closer as he kissed her eyes, her neck, her throat. His blood thundered in his ears. Surely he was crossing some forbidden line, and in so doing, damning them both, but he couldn’t stop.
“I … I cannot,” she insisted, trying to push away, but he was strong, and as she twisted from him, he slid his arms around her, his hands cupping both her breasts as he held her close to him, and he kissed the back of her neck, leaving a trail with his tongue. Through his breeches his hard, stiff member was pressed against the valley of her rump. “Wolf, please—” she murmured, and he turned her again, looking into her eyes, searching her face before he kissed her with all the passion that seared through his blood. Her resistance was without conviction, and soon her arms wrapped around his neck and she was clinging to him, her breasts rising and falling beneath the chemise, her mouth such soft, sweet wonder.
He dragged them both to his pallet, and there, nestled in the furs, she gazed up at him, her eyes filled with surrender as his heart beat a wild, primal cadence. Slowly, he untied the ribbons of her chemise, parting the light cloth, exposing exquisite white flesh.
With a finger, he rolled the fabric back until both her breasts were visible, straining upward, a slight image of tiny veins beneath her skin, her glorious pink tips hard and wanting. He thought she would blush or turn away, but she stared straight into his eyes, and when he lowered his head and brushed a feather-light kiss across one sweet bud, she sighed deep in her throat. “This is wrong,” he growled, and again the dark nipple puckered expectantly.
“Aye, we cannot.”
“We mustn’t,” he agreed, but lowered his mouth around the sweetness of her skin and touched his teeth and tongue to the ripe, willing mound.
With a cry, she arched her back and he caught her, big hands splaying over the curve of her spine, holding her tight as he suckled, like a hungry babe, wanting so much more, feeling her tremble with her own desire.
“Wolf,” she cried, and it was more a plea than protest. His groin was tight and he thought only of lying with her, of thrusting into the warm, moist haven that was hidden between her legs, of coupling with her far into the night. Still kissing her, he moved, rolling atop her, spreading her legs with his knees, gazing down at her naked breasts and beautiful flushed face. It would be so easy to love her . . .
And then what? She was married to Holt, a woman pledged to another. In that instant, that small flame of nobility, the one he’d tried so desperately to extinguish, sparked in his brain and he knew that he could never have this woman; no matter what, she was married to another man. No matter that Holt was his sworn enemy, no matter that she’d never loved him, no matter that she’d never lain with him, ’twas a sacrament he couldn’t break. With all the effort he could gather, he rolled off her and away, landing on his feet and swearing roundly.
“For the love of Christ, what am I to do with you?” he asked, breathing hard, squeezing his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as he willed the wild heat roaring through his blood to cool.
“I thought you were going to ransom me,” she said saucily, though she was dying inside. What had she just done? Nearly given herself to this man—this criminal who had told her that he was sending her back to her husband for a few coins?
Shame colored her cheeks, but she stiffened her spine as she tossed on the old tunic and shook her hair off her face. “If you’re going to sell me, Wolf, be done with it!”
“I told you, ’tis not the money.”
She tied the strings at her neck and said, “I believe not a word you say.” A tic developed under his eye, and she should have felt some sort of satisfaction for vexing him, but the truth of the matter was that she was wounded inside. She’d never felt such longing, such craving for a man, and the way she’d acted like a hot-blooded wench, writhing and wanting him to lie with her, brought fear deep to her heart. ’Twas not wise to give a man such power. ’Twas not wise at all.
“Father … please, wake up,” Cayley said softly as she took Ewan’s hand in her own. She knelt in the rushes by his bed. His two hounds lay next to him, their ears perked, their suspicious eyes trained on her. Each day, Ewan appeared weaker. His skin was cool and paper thin, his eyes mere slits.
“Has … has Megan returned?” His voice was but a rasp, far from the loud bellow that used to announce his arrival. It had been long since she’d seen him stand without a cane or heard him tell a ribald joke, which had always earned him an elbow in the ribs from his wife.
“Nay, there is no word of Megan, but Rue told me that you refused your dinner.”
“I have no hunger.”
“Please,” she pleaded, but his eyelids closed again and he drifted off, as he did often when she visited. His breath was so shallow it barely ruffled the soft hairs of his moustache. She couldn’t imagine life in the castle without him. Who would she turn to? Who would perform the duties of the lord? So many people depended upon him, and she loved him with all her young, willful heart. Please, Father, do not die. Stay with me here at Dwyrain. I have no one else. … And that was the sad truth. If Ewan died, then her only family was Megan, the sister with whom she’d spent so much time arguing and fighting. Even the love of her life, Gwayne of Cysgod, no longer visited. There were ugly rumors that he was betrothed to someone else and Cayley felt disappointed, but not the great heartrending sorrow she had expected.
With all the trouble in the castle, she felt as if the very walls of Dwyrain were tumbling in upon themselves, just as it had been foretold by that snake of a prophet. If only she could have one chance at that pathetic worm of a man, she’d spit in his face and curse him to hell. He was the reason for all of the trouble at the castle, not Megan.
Please, Lord, see her safely home.
The terrifying thought that Megan might already be dead crossed her mind, but she pushed the idea firmly aside. Megan was too strong, too stubborn, too cursedly defiant to die. And surely the outlaw did not steal her from within the castle walls just to kill her. Or did he?
Nay, she wouldn’t believe it. When she conjured up the face of Wolf, for he was now blamed for the kidnapping, she envisioned strong, forceful features, a countenance set by fierce determination, a powerful enemy, but she did not consider him a murderer. And soon he would be found. Holt wouldn’t rest until he was flushed out and captured.
She should have felt a flicker of hope in those thoughts, for she had once trusted Holt, believed in him as her father did, thought him a capable leader and honest man. But lately, she had discovered her first misgivings. He surrounded himself with men she did not trust. Connor, a knight who kept Holt’s counsel, was a hard-hearted man with eyes that missed n
othing, and Kelvin of Hawarth was a simpleton who appeared to enjoy other people’s suffering. Jovan, the apothecary, was reputed to be a miser who would sell his own daughter’s virtue for the right price, and Cayley had seen him once in Holt’s company.
Holt himself was more than troubled and worried over Megan’s disappearance. In his agitation, he showed another side to himself.
“Oh, Father, you must wake up and take your place as baron,” she said, desperation and fear clutching her throat. For the first time in her life, Cayley felt as if she could rely on no one but herself, and that feeling scared her half to death. Were the situation reversed and she the one captured, Megan would have known what to do. Megan had always called her weak, and now, finally, Cayley understood why. She didn’t have the first notion how to help her sister.
There was a soft knock on the door and one of the dogs growled low in his throat. The other lifted her nose aloft, sniffed the air, and snarled. Cayley, who had been kneeling at her father’s bedside, climbed quickly to her feet just as Father Timothy entered. One look at the bed and he sighed, crossing himself as he said a quick prayer for the baron’s recovery, keeping a wary distance between himself and the sharp teeth of the hounds.
“He is no better?”
Cayley shook her head. “Nay.”
“Mayhap ’tis his time,” the priest said as he moved closer, and one dog leaped to his feet. With lowered head, the fur on the back of his neck bristling, the male growled a low warning. His mate, a bitch with dark spots, pulled back black lips to expose her wicked fangs. Her eyes never left the priest’s soft throat.
He swallowed and his tongue rimmed his lips nervously. “Must the dogs be kept in here?”
“ ’Tis what Father wants.”
