Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “ ’E’s alive, ain’t ’e? Jest a mite clawed up, and we got meat enough fer days—”

  “The skin is Robin’s, Odell,” Wolf reminded the older man quickly.

  “I know, I know.” Grumbling under his breath, Odell ambled back to the fire, and Wolf, locking eyes with Megan for an instant, called a meeting together.

  Megan wasn’t about to be treated as an outsider any longer. Despite Wolf’s hard glare, she walked to the fire and sat on a stump, warming her hands, while the rest of the band gathered together. Meat sizzled over the fire, the flames danced wildly with a breath of wind, and afternoon faded into night.

  “There be no women in our midst,” Odell said, though not unkindly.

  “I’m here. I’m a part of this group, even if only as a ‘guest.’ ” Defiantly, she refused to budge.

  “This concerns you not,” Wolf said.

  “Then why should I have to leave?” Crossing her ankles, and tucking her arms under her breasts, she turned her face up saucily and smiled, silently begging him to continue.

  “Megan, please,” he said with a quiet calm that was more frightening than a furious rage. “ ’Tis man-talk.”

  “Have I not cooked for you?”

  The men exchanged glances, but no one argued.

  “Have I not helped mend your torn breeches? And you, Peter, did I not find some softer fabric for your eye patch?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, though he wouldn’t meet her stare.

  “And Dominic, when you needed help cleaning the weaponry, did I not offer assistance?” Before he could answer, her gaze swept to Heath. “I’ve helped you tan hides, and Lord knows I’ve done my share with Odell.”

  Several men laughed and nodded their heads.

  There was a quiet muttering in the background as Heath whispered something to Peter.

  “Have I not cleaned, hunted, and helped make camp?”

  “Can’t argue there,” Robin said, his eyes shining in awe as he looked at her.

  She stood slowly, inching up her chin, standing toe to toe with the lord and master of the outlaws, the man called Wolf, the renegade to whom she’d unwillingly given her heart. “And have I not, when you were injured, stitched you together and balmed your wounds?”

  A muscle in the side of his jaw tightened.

  “Why then, just because I am not a man—nay, because I am your guest—would I not be allowed to listen and speak my mind? Have I not done everything I could to help you?”

  “But you tried to escape.”

  “And failed.”

  “Why not let her listen in?” Dominic rolled his hands toward the darkening sky.

  “Aye, but she’s got no say.” Jagger, sitting on a rock, hung his hands between his legs and shook his head. “The rule is ‘no women—’ ”

  “So be it!” Wolf declared. “Sit, Megan; hear what we have to say, because I lied when I told you the talk is none of your concern.” He glanced around the fire to each of his men, their hooded cloaks dusted with snow and their faces illuminated by the golden flames. Megan eased back onto her stump but heard the knell of doom thundering in her ears. “Bjorn and Cormick have already been sent to Dwyrain. In Bjorn’s pouch, he carries a letter from me that states that I have Holt’s wife and am willing to return her in exchange for gold.”

  Megan felt as if the world had begun to spin.

  “Just like that?” Odell wondered aloud.

  “It should have been done a week ago.”

  “By the gods,” Odell whispered.

  Megan’s heart pounded painfully in her chest. No! No! No! she inwardly cried. She could not think of leaving. Not now. Not ever! “You are sending me away?” she asked, her voice catching. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted mournfully.

  “Aye. Your father is ill, Megan,” he said gently. “The day I took you from the castle, he fell and had to be carried to his bed, where he has remained.”

  “Nay!” she cried. She knew, of course, that her father was no longer the strong leader that he’d once been, that ofttimes he’d been confused, that he’d even thought that he talked with her dead mother and Baby Roz, but Megan refused to think Ewan would die soon and refused to believe the painful words. “ ’Tis but a trick to lure me back there.”

  “No trick,” Wolf said gently, then cast a tormented glance to the stars just starting to appear in the vast, dark sky. “Asides, you needs be with your husband.”

  “After what you told me of him, you would send me back?”

  “ ’Twas not I who married him,” he reminded her. “And in my letter, I’ve demanded that as part of your ransom, no injury befall you. Should I hear that you are being mistreated, I’ve vowed to storm the castle, sneak into his bedchamber, and cut out his heart.”

  “You think a threat will change him?” she mocked.

  “Would you rather stay here?” A challenge flamed in his eyes.

  “Never!” she lied, feeling torn between two homes, the castle, with its secure walls and comforts, and the forest, where she felt free even though she was held captive.

  “So be it.” He searched the faces of his men as Megan’s heart turned to ice. “We’ll wait here for Cormick and Bjorn’s return, then send Lady Megan home, break camp, and move on.”

  “Bring in the new log,” Holt ordered, his face flushed from wine, as peasants and knights guided a huge horse into the hall and rolled the log onto the iron dogs in the fireplace, sending ash and embers flying. Sparks and laughter erupted as Holt lit the new log and watched the dry wood catch fire.

  Shouts of “wassail” and “drinkhaile!” floated over the songs being played by the musicians in the gallery, an alcove cut high into the wall facing the lord’s table, where Holt sat near a comely seamstress.

  The Christmas revels were upon them, the great hall decorated with ivy, holly, and mistletoe, and peasants, knights, servants, and lords all rejoicing. Holt had decreed that there would be merriment in the halls of Dwyrain despite the fact that his wife was missing and the tired old baron was hovering near death.

  “If only Lord Ewan could see this,” Rue whispered to Cayley as she wiped her hands on her skirt and tapped her foot in time with the drummer. They stood near the stairs, where pages and servants hurried to and from the kitchen. “ ’Tis a pity he can’t join us.” Sadness stole through her old eyes.

  “Aye, I think I’ll take something up to him. Cook’s saved him a joint of venison and some pheasant, along with his soup.”

  “A good daughter ye are, Cayley girl,” Rue said, slipping back to the name she’d called Cayley when she was but a child.

  Not as good as you think, Cayley thought as she hurried to the kitchen and carried a tray to her father’s room. But the baron didn’t move when she entered. The tempo of his breathing never wavered, and even though she spoke to him, he remained blissfully asleep, unaware that there was treachery within the castle walls, that Megan had not been found, that the outlaw roamed free. Nay, her father was probably dreaming of happier times when the family was together and his wife and all his children were alive.

  “Sleep well,” Cayley said, pressing a kiss to his temple and adding more heavy logs to the fire in his room. She tore off big hunks of the meat, wrapped the greasy chunks in a towel, poured wine into his cup, and took the bottle. Her heart thudding in fear at her plan, she left his tray at his bedside and knew that he would eat no more than a few spoonfuls of broth and drink even less wine. Once a robust man, he had wasted to nearly nothing. Something had to be done, and Cayley, though she cringed at the thought, was the only one to do it. Whereas Megan had always leaped at adventure, had ridden as well as Bevan and shot an arrow straight and true, Cayley had been content to be considered silly and pampered, enjoying the attention of men and pretending that she was helpless.

  Ofttimes her mother had reprimanded her, telling her that she was lazy and needed to work some around the castle. Lady Violet had insisted that her daughter learn how to embroider, keep the books, and care for the
poor by passing out alms—money and any uneaten food in the castle. Violet had even dragged Cayley with her to the nunnery, hoping her second daughter would take an interest in some charity, but Cayley, at that time in her life, had been interested only in herself. She’d seen no reason to do for herself when others, be they friends, relatives, or servants, were willing to do for her.

  “Stupid girl,” she told herself now, for she had no skills on which to rely and few friends to help her. Oh, if only Gwayne were here, but that thought was not as comforting as it had once been. She’d heard nothing more of his betrothal, but she saw him in a different light and what she had once considered clever, now she thought mean. He was vain and pompous. In all the while he’d courted her, he’d never once spoken of love or marriage.

  Well, she had not the time to be thinking of him. She had much to do. Gritting her teeth and wishing she’d taken the time to learn how, if nothing else, to handle a weapon, she set her plan into motion. She’d have to rely upon her wits rather than swords, axes, and arrows. She stopped at her chamber to don her hooded cloak, ducked through the corridor, and was relieved to find no guards at their posts.

  Darting down the stairs, her cloak billowing behind her, she slipped through the kitchen and out the door.

  The sound of music from lutes and pipes followed Cayley as she held her skirt high and ran. Her boots sank in the mud and mire as she crossed the inner bailey to the north tower, under which were the dungeons.

  “Be with me,” she prayed, her voice the barest of whispers as she opened the door to the guardhouse. Curved stairs led ever downward. In the darkness, rats scurried from her path. She carried only a solitary candle, its flickering light reflecting on the cold stone walls, which always appeared wet. The smells of rotting straw, mildew, and urine rose from the dungeon, nearly choking her. The guards, too, were in the keep, their sorry charges left alone in the dank cavern, which held the enemies of Dwyrain.

  Shuddering, Cayley made her way down slippery steps and past cells, where eyes gleamed at her from within the gloom.

  “Who goes there?” one raspy voice asked.

  “ ’Tis the lady.” Another, deeper, voice.

  “What lady? Violet?”

  “Nay, she’s been dead two or three years. ’Tis her daughter.”

  “A comely wench, say what?”

  “Sorcerer?” Cayley said, her voice thinner than usual, a tremor running through it. “Are you here?”

  “So you’ve come.” His voice was smooth as the ice that sometimes covered the lake in coldest winter.

  “Aye.”

  She walked on, holding her candle aloft, trying to keep her wits about her when she imagined all sorts of vile creatures swooping out of the darkness at her.

  “Good. I have much to say.”

  She followed the sound of his voice to the lowest cell, where water dripped from the ceiling and the straw on the floor was moist and fetid. The stench was unbearable, the rooms cold as death.

  “I have no key,” she said, shivering, “but I overheard Holt say that you’ve been given no food.”

  “ ’Tis true.”

  “Nor water.”

  “I’ve survived.”

  “I don’t know how.” She held her candle aloft and found him chained to the far wall. “My God,” she whispered, crossing herself as before her very eyes he slipped out of his shackles and limped, unbound, across the cell. “How did you—?”

  “ ’Tis not magic, child,” he said in his soothing voice. “I found a nail in the old straw and was able to pick the locks. The guards, they know not.”

  “You’re not afraid I will warn them?”

  “I think not, though you do not trust me.”

  “I hated you.”

  His smile was cautious. “I know.” Through the bars he asked, “And now?”

  “Now there is trouble dark and deep within Dwyrain, but I think you are not the cause. I—I cursed you, said I wanted you to roast in hell and—”

  “ ’Tis forgiven. Asides, anyone who would steal venison from the lord’s table and wine from his mazer would not endanger their only friend.”

  “You—you are my friend?” she asked as she handed him the bundle of meat and bottle. He ate hungrily and started to drink from the bottle, only to stop and spit the wine on the floor.

  “What?”

  “ ’Tis poison you bring!” he said, coughing and gasping.

  “No—”

  In the candlelight, his eyes turned harsh. “ ’Tis only a little, but enough, if given over time …”

  “Dear God, no,” she cried, stepping away and nearly dropping her candle. Wax slipped down the metal holder and burned her hand. “ ’Twas meant for my father. No one else would dare touch wine from his cellar. I brought it to you only so no one would notice.” Her throat turned as dry as milled flour and ugly thoughts began to fill her mind.

  He eyed her in the darkness, then spit again. “Your father is being poisoned.”

  “No, I’ll not believe …”

  “ ’Tis true, Cayley. Whoever is giving him wine each day is making sure that he will die.”

  She leaned against the wall. “Holt,” she muttered, finally understanding why her sister did not trust the knight who would now inherit Dwyrain. “Holt allows no one to take my father the wine except one of his most trusted knights—or Nell. Because of the revels, ’twas forgotten …”

  “Listen to me, Cayley,” the sorcerer said, his voice low and deadly. “You must trust me.”

  She bit her tongue. Though she wished him no ill will, she could not forget the pain and suffering that had been with Dwyrain these two years past. “Trust you?” she repeated. “Even though you cursed the castle and—”

  “I thought you understood, girl!” he said, losing the calm that had been with him each time she’d seen him. His fingers curled over the rusted bars of the cage in which he was kept. “I told Megan only what I saw. It came to pass through no fault of mine, but if you do not listen to me and help me, your father will die, Megan will return to Dwyrain only for Holt to shame her and use her to gain possession of this keep, and you and everyone you hold dear will live as his prisoners.”

  Wolf stayed out much of the night, but Megan sensed his presence the instant he walked through the door of their chamber in the decrepit old chapel. She’d lain for hours, not sleeping a wink, jumping at every sound.

  A few embers glowed red in the fire and he paused to add another log. Lying on the pallet, Megan feigned sleep, while plotting how she would elude him. She would not let him haul her back to Dwyrain like a prisoner. Nay, if she intended to return to Dwyrain, ’twould be her own way. She wouldn’t be traded for a few coins, like a sack of flour or prized horse! If this taste of freedom had proved anything to her, ’twas that she was her own woman and she needed no man to tell her what to do.

  Soft snoring rippled down the roofless corridor from the chamber where Robin and Odell were sleeping near their fire, but Megan found no comfort knowing they were close by. Whenever she was alone with Wolf, ’twas as if they were the only two souls in the world and she thought of nothing save him.

  For the past few nights, Wolf had taken up his vigil at the doorway, watching over her but not lying beside her beneath the furs. ’Twas better, she supposed, as when he was near her, his body molded around hers, her thoughts turned wanton and through the hours of the night, she fought the urge to turn in his arms and kiss him, to kindle the sinful flames of passion that perpetually ignited whenever his skin touched hers.

  She heard his boots scrape against the floor. “I know you sleep not,” he said and sighed wearily as he slid to a sitting position near enough to the fire that golden shadows were cast upon his face. “I brought you something.”

  She didn’t move, but through slitted eyes watched as he opened his bag and removed a tunic—shimmering green silk trimmed with gold velvet.

  “Something to replace the tunic you tore up to bind Robin’s wounds.”


  Unable to ignore his kind gesture, she pushed herself to her elbow and shoved a handful of hair from her face. “Is this what you want me to wear when you return me to Holt?” she asked, unable to keep the sting from her words.

  His lips flattened.

  “So that he will want me? So that he will take me as his bride?” She couldn’t help the hurtful words, and they tumbled out of her mouth in rapid succession, one after the other, meant to wound as she’d been injured.

  Tossing the tunic to the floor, Wolf leaped to his feet, strode to the pallet, and yanked her from the covers. His fingers held her fiercely, digging through her chemise to her upper arms and dragging her to her feet. “Understand this, woman,” he said in a voice that was nearly a growl. “I want you not to return to Holt, and if there was a way to keep you from him, I would. But there is none. In the eyes of the land and the church you are his wife; you pledged yourself to him and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  She hoisted her chin upward and narrowed her eyes at him. “Then let me go,” she demanded, knowing that deep in her heart it would kill her to walk away from him. “Leave me to my freedom.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Aye,” she said without hesitation, though deep in the darkest recess of her heart, she knew that what she truly wanted was to stay with him, to be his wife, to become an outlaw’s woman. Shame burned up her spine, but she could not lie to herself. This man touched her as no man ever had and none ever would again. She was as certain of that single damning fact as she was of her own name.

  “You vex me.”

  “As you do me.”

  “You test my will.”

  “You try mine.”

  “I cannot have you here with me.”

  “I know. Oh, dear God in heaven, I know,” she said, and her skin, beneath the tense fingers holding her in a death grip, tingled. Her flesh, where his breath brushed over it, heated; her heart, trapped deep in her ribs, hammered anxiously.

  His eyes were as tortured as her own condemned soul. “God have mercy on me,” he muttered roughly as his lips crashed down on hers, hard and hot, unforgiving and filled with want. Desire trumpeting through her body, Megan sighed, opening her mouth to him, feeling her bones turn to jelly as together they fell upon his pallet.