Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “What?”

  “Half the men are in love with you.”

  “They just haven’t had a woman in their midst,” she said, feeling her cheeks turn a hot scarlet hue.

  “They want me not to ransom you.”

  “And you, Wolf, what do you want?” she asked, her voice breathless.

  He stared at the floor, then studied his hands for a second. When his eyes found hers again, there was regret in his gaze. “I have no choice in this, Megan,” he said. “ ’Tis out of my hands.” His lips were blade-thin. “You are wed to Holt.”

  She choked back a cry of desperation, for she realized then that she was beginning to care for this rogue with his tortured soul and seductive gaze. She’d known from the first time she’d seen him and he danced with her that he could be dangerous to her heart, and later admitted to herself that she was attracted to the demon, but now her feelings had deepened. “As I said, I—I love him not …”

  “Then you should not have spoken the vows.”

  “And had I not, I would never have met you.” Proudly she lifted her jaw and tossed her hair off her shoulder.

  A sad smile touched his lips. “ ’Twould have been better for all.”

  From his pallet, the wounded boy moaned, and Megan hurried to his side. “Robin? Can you hear me, lad?”

  Groaning, he blinked his eyes and a smile lighted his face. “Is this heaven?” he asked in a rough whisper.

  “Nay, just an old chapel.” Tenderly, she brushed his hair from his forehead.

  “Be ye not an angel?”

  Megan felt tears gather in her throat. “I think not, lad.”

  “Ahh, but ye’re prettier than any in heaven,” he said before his eyes closed again, and his breathing was once more slow and steady. Adjusting the furs over his body, she glanced over her shoulder at Wolf, but instead of appearing relieved that the boy was coming around, he only glowered through the window at the snow falling to the frozen ground.

  “He’s right,” Wolf finally said, turning to face her again. “You are an angel of mercy to most of these men.” He didn’t bother smiling. “And I, methinks, am the Devil.”

  Before she could answer, there was a commotion on the other side of the rubble that was one of the standing walls. Wolf, pulling on his tunic and mantle, walked through the door with Megan at his heels.

  Dominic and Heath had returned. They were leading Robin’s gray rounsey, across whose swayed back was the carcass of the boar. Large curved tusks jutted out of its mouth and blood was crusted over its nostrils. Its eyes were glazed and dead.

  “Ye gods, what was the boy thinkin’?” Odell muttered as the crowd around the riders grew. Dominic dismounted swiftly, and with the help of Peter and Jagger, pulled the dead boar to the ground. “We’ll be havin’ ’s a fine new pouch, now, won’t we?”

  Wolf stared hard at the dead beast. “Robin will. ’Tis his kill.”

  Swinging a bloody sword, Heath laughed as he hopped to the ground. “Then why was it your blade we retrieved from the animal?” He tossed the weapon to Wolf, who caught it deftly.

  “I would not have slain it, were it not that Robin was in trouble.”

  “Good thing you were nearby,” Odell muttered, sizing up the dead boar. “Or the boy would be dead now, instead of the beast.”

  Megan’s blood chilled at the thought. ’Twas true enough that Wolf, demon though he professed to be, had risked his life to save the boy. Not only were his gouges proof enough, but the fact that the great beast was felled with a sword at close hand rather than an arrow from a distance, only proved to her that Wolf was far more virtuous than he would let anyone, even his most trusted men, believe.

  Holt drew back his arrow until his bowstring was tight, then let go. The slim missile sizzled through the air, hitting the target with a snap. The arrow pierced through the tarp, which was painted in the shape of a stag and covered a haystack.

  “Good shot,” Sir Oswald said. “Right in the bugger’s heart!”

  Holt snorted at the praise, for Oswald, the ugliest of all the knights, was known to lick the lord’s boots for favors.

  “Has the sorcerer spoken?” Holt asked, withdrawing another arrow from his quiver and wishing that the painted target was really Wolf, his tormentor. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the target.

  “Nay, well … aye, he’s spoken, but to the walls, and through the bars to no one. The man is daft, I say.”

  “Or pretends to be.”

  “If he were a true magician, why does he not save his skin and disappear from the dungeon, eh? Or why does he limp?”

  “Mayhap ’tis all for show,” Holt suggested, though the same thoughts had run through his own mind.

  Oswald rubbed his flat chin thoughtfully. “Nay, methinks the man’s a fraud.”

  “He has but one more day and then, if he doesn’t speak of his own accord, I’ll force his tongue.”

  The toad’s eyes gleamed. “Flog ’im, will ye?”

  “At the very least.” Holt shot again, and his arrow was true once more, piercing deep into the heart of the painted beast. “Or I’ll turn loose the peasants who believe he is the reason they lost loved ones to illness or injury.” That thought brought a smile to his face. Many would thank him for the chance to seek a bit of personal vengeance for the curse. “Now, Oswald, deliver my message and remind him that I’m not known for my kindness.”

  The ugly knight, eager to become Holt’s pet, lumbered off past the fish pond and toward the dungeons. Holt only hoped he could convey the proper fear to the man whom most believed to be the sorcerer who had cursed the keep.

  For two days the prophet had held his tongue, though he’d been given no fresh water or food and had been chained to the wall, where he’d sat in the dirty straw of his cell, his only companions being rats and fleas. But no prodding would make him speak of Megan again. Holt had reasoned with the man, threatened him, and even tried to bribe him, but received no satisfaction. ’Twas as if his newest prisoner had no idea that he was being held against his will, that he was being starved, that he was being punished.

  ’Twas enough to drive a sane man mad.

  Worse yet, the old man wouldn’t die. Though he was being given poison in his wine, Ewan lingered on, floating in and out of consciousness, asking about Megan and conversing with his dead wife as if she were lying in the bed with him instead of rotting in her grave as she had been for nearly two years. Holt had tried to visit Ewan, hoping to aid his ill health along, but each time he’d stopped at the lord’s chambers, there were other guests, either the priest or the old hag Rue or sweet, young Cayley. ’Twas as if the old man had guardian angels posted and their vigilance was keeping him alive. Even the damned doctor had made it his practice to visit Ewan each day, checking his urine and telling all that the baron was not improving.

  For that, Holt was thankful. Ye gods, if the man didn’t die soon, Holt would begin believing in miracles. He thought of visiting old Jovan again, but seeing the apothecary was dangerous. There were too many suspicious eyes in the castle, including those of Cayley, who had once seen him with the old man. He sighed. The baron’s second daughter had once trusted him, but now avoided crossing his path. Aye, if he hadn’t had other plans for her, he’d bed Cayley himself.

  Women, they were difficult to understand, though he tried not. Long ago he’d decided they were put on this earth for only one purpose: to pleasure him.

  Wolf drew in an unsteady breath as Megan smoothed the salve over his injured muscles. Outside, the wind howled around the old chapel, but within the decrepit building, it was warm. They sat by the fire, watching the flames throw golden shadows on the stone walls and listening to Robin’s even breathing. The boy had awakened but once today, eating only a few mouthfuls, moistening his lips, then drifting away again.

  Megan’s fingers slid across Wolf’s back and over his shoulder. His body stiffened, though not from pain, but the sweet, gentle pressure of her hands. The ointment eased the burning of
his wounds, but her hands created another heat, one rising up from the center of him, and he shifted as his manhood swelled against the ties of his breeches. Such sweet, sweet torment.

  Grinding his back teeth together, he ignored the desire throbbing through his veins and prayed noiselessly that it would soon end.

  “Tell me of Holt, why you hate him so,” she said. “ ’Tis only right that I should know of him, since you’re planning to return me to him.”

  Wolf’s jaw ached from clenching.

  Her fingers were more persuasive. “Should I not know the man to whom I’m married?”

  “You’re married not to a man, but a beast from hell,” Wolf said, and whether it was right or wrong, he told her all that he knew of Holt, of how Holt had ridden with Tadd of Prydd and how, while Wolf struggled with consciousness, he had held Mary down so that Tadd could rape her.

  The fingers on his back stopped their fluid movements. “Why should I believe you?” she asked. “You are a criminal.”

  “I only say what I know.”

  “I believe you not.” But there was doubt in her voice.

  Wolf whirled around and grabbed her hand before she could touch him any longer. “Believe what you want, woman. You asked and I told. ’Tis simple.” Angry with himself, with her, with the world in general, he snatched up his tunic and tossed it over his head. When he looked down at her, he saw the fear in her eyes, knew that he’d been its source, and silently damned himself. She was the root of all his confusion and malcontent, she was the reason he wasn’t thinking, she was the reason he felt the need to stay within the confines of the camp rather than to go out riding, and she was the reason he wasn’t following his plan and sending her back to Dwyrain where she belonged.

  With her husband! He strode outside without his mantle. The breath of winter swept over the land, causing pieces of ice to gather in the stones by the river and dusting the forest floor with snow. He should have been freezing, but his skin was still warm from her touch. Christ Jesus, he’d been such a fool to let her into his heart, for, though he denied it to himself over and over again, she’d gained purchase deep in that locked chamber of his soul. A string of curses rolled off his lips as he crossed the campsite. Some of the men warmed their hands near the fire; others worked in their tents. The boar’s hide was stretched on poles, the meat cut away, the tusks saved for Robin when he awakened.

  What was he going to do with the woman? What? He had no choice but to send her back to Holt, but his guts ached and his mind burned with foreboding at the thought. Angrily, he spit into the ferns growing near the river. He would have to kill Holt, he decided again, and make Megan a widow. Though she professed not to love her husband and Wolf believed her, killing him would be cold-blooded murder. Despite the fact that Holt had been a part of Mary’s rape, he was not wanted by the law; in fact, according to his spies, Holt might very well become the baron if Ewan were to die.

  Which was another source of his irritation. Plucking his knife from its sheath, which was strapped to his waist, he squatted by the river and stared into its swiftly moving depths. The plan in which he’d found so much delight was now causing him only pain. Cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the blade, he argued with himself, but could find no solid reason, other than his own selfish lust, to keep her any longer. Her father was dying and he would not hold her prisoner when she might not see the old man again. Mayhap she could get her marriage annulled if she pleaded with Ewan of Dwyrain.

  Ah, she was trouble. Sweet, tempting trouble. As Mary had, as Morgana had long ago, Megan touched his black soul.

  Would he never learn? Years before, when he was known as Ware of Abergwynn, he was half in love with the woman who would become his brother’s wife and lady of the keep. That alone was a curse, but later, he’d lost Garrick’s castle to his enemy while left in charge.

  Wolf slammed his knife into its sheath and kicked at the icy stones of the bank. He’d never forgiven himself for that mistake, and it wasn’t his last, oh, no. Then there was Mary … sweet, trusting Mary, turned into a pitiful, withdrawn half-brained woman after Tadd of Prydd had raped her. Closing his eyes, Wolf tried to block out the memory of a panting Tadd rutting on Mary while Holt helped hold the girl down. Her screams reverberated through his brain, haunting him. Once again, he’d been useless.

  And now he found his sworn enemy’s wife attractive. More than attractive. If he cared not for Megan, he’d love to bed Holt’s bride and laugh about it, to send her back to her husband, defiled and dirty. He would never rape her, but he would seduce her. After she lost her heart and virginity to him, he’d toss her back to the man to whom she’d vowed everlasting love and fidelity.

  But he couldn’t. Because of Megan and that blasted thread of nobility that bound his soul. Try as he might, he was never able to unwind it.

  “Hell,” he muttered, damning himself again. He had no choice but to send her back.

  Injustice gnawing on his guts, he spit again. ’Twas settled. Come morning, he’d send two messengers to ride to Dwyrain with ransom demands. This woman, like every other woman he’d been cursed to care for, would soon be out of his life forever.

  Eight

  ooh,” Robin moaned, wincing as he levered himself onto an elbow. “Where—what—ooh!” He flopped down on the bed, and Megan felt tears of relief star her lashes. The boy was alive! He was going to live. She whispered a quick prayer of thanks before taking his rough hand in hers.

  “Robin?”

  “Go ’way.”

  “ ’Tis Megan.”

  Eyes closed, he moved, his tongue moving over his teeth. “The lady?” he murmured.

  “Aye.” She squeezed his hand and one of his eyes cracked open, only to close for a second.

  “Oh, Lady Megan!” His eyes flew open again, this time clear and bright. “What happened . . .? Oh, the boar.”

  “Aye, you and he had a bit of a disagreement, and he got the better of you.”

  Robin groaned and blushed. “But how did I live?” Trying to raise himself upright, he sucked in a swift breath.

  “Careful—you didn’t come out of this without a wound or two.”

  “I feel like dog dung. Did you find me in the forest?”

  “Nay. ’Twas Wolf. He came upon you and ran the beast through.”

  Clarity sparked in the boy’s eyes as if suddenly his memory had returned. “ ’Tis true,” he finally said, and his pale face colored. “I should not have gone after him.”

  “Not alone,” she said, but decided he was punishing himself enough and did not need to be told that he’d been foolish. “If you’re feeling well enough, Odell has cooked part of the beast, and ’twould be justice for you to eat a piece of him.”

  Robin laughed and the sound touched Megan’s heart, even though he winced in pain.

  “Where’s Wolf?” Robin asked, glancing through the dark chambers.

  A fine question, Megan thought, for she’d wondered that herself. He’d left the camp hours before with Bjorn and Cormick. Somberly, they’d saddled their mounts and ridden away without so much as a word to her or any of the men. They could be hunting, she decided, though with the boar, they had meat enough for days. They could be out robbing someone traveling on the road or searching for Holt’s soldiers, or they might be in the nearest town, drinking ale, playing dice, and whoring.

  She scowled at the turn of her thoughts, for jealousy invaded her blood whenever she thought of Wolf lying with another woman. ’Twas an image that burned in her thoughts each time he left the camp.

  “Wolf and some of the men have been gone this afternoon, but when they return, he’ll be pleased to see you awake.”

  Robin struggled to his feet and Megan wanted to restrain him, but didn’t. The boy wasn’t woozy, though he grimaced a bit as he walked outside and felt a blast of winter air rip through his thin body. She handed him a hooded cloak, which he donned, and Odell, stirring the coals beneath a boiling pot, cracked a smile at the boy. “So ye decided to s
tay with the livin’, did ye? A fine choice, m’boy. Come and see the skin of the pig ye helped slay.”

  Cackling, Odell led the eager boy to the bearskin, and Megan rubbed her arms against the cold. Though she was this motley band’s captive, she’d never felt more free. With no castle walls to surround her, no priest’s silent scorn, no duties aside from those of surviving, she experienced a vigor she’d never enjoyed as daughter of the baron.

  A sharp whistle and hoofbeats announced Wolf’s return. Megan bit down hard on her lip and tried to stop the sudden clamoring of her heart. ’Twas foolish. He cared not for her. As he rode into the clearing, she couldn’t keep an expectant smile from creeping over her lips. His gaze touched hers for a silent heartbeat, then landed full force on the lad. “There ye be, Robin,” Wolf said, falling into the easy speech of his men. “And Odell, here, had given ye up fer dead.”

  “Nay, I never said—” Odell protested, but caught the twinkle of devilment in Wolf’s eye. “And curse and rot yer soul, ye foul creature of the forest,” he said with a grin as he realized he was being teased.

  Wolf slid lightly to the ground and touched Robin gently on the shoulder. “If I had any brains, I would have your skin stretched like the boar’s!”

  Robin folded his lips in upon themselves and stared at the ground.

  Wolf wasn’t finished. “Goin’ after that one”—he hitched his chin toward the hide drying beneath a tarp—“could’ve cost you your life.”

  Robin’s gaze didn’t falter, but his jaw jutted mutinously and the muscles in his shoulders bulged a bit.