Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “And … and the lady?”

  His jaw clenched so tight it ached. Both Cayley and the prisoner were worth more to him alive than dead, but he cared not. “Kill her if she won’t return peacefully.”

  “But she’s the baron’s daughter!” the cook proclaimed, unable to hold his tongue.

  “Nay,” Holt snarled to the pathetic people clustered around him. “If what Sir Mallory says is true and Ewan has given up his life, then I’m baron of Dwyrain!”

  Megan stirred and reached for Wolf, but her hand found only an empty place on cold linen sheets. Opening her eyes, she blinked in the darkness and wondered where he was, what he would be thinking. Her dream of holding him close, of feeling his warm body and demanding lips, had been so real, so vivid, and she’d thought for just an instant that he was here with her.

  “So ye’re awake.” The voice, that of the old crone, startled her and she scooted upward in the bed, holding a blanket over her chest.

  “Aye,” she said as the woman lit a candle from the dying embers of the fire.

  “I know ye be worried about yer man, the outlaw Wolf.”

  “How would you know … ?”

  “I see things, lass. ’Tis my curse.” Rubbing the huge knots that were the joints of her fingers, the gnarled woman lowered herself onto the foot of the bed and gazed out the chamber’s single window to the star-studded sky. “Something’s amiss tonight,” she said, as if to herself. “The gods are not happy.”

  “Gods—you mean God,” Megan said.

  “Aye, Him, too.” Sighing, she placed a candle on a small table near the bed and the flame flickered in the breath of wind stirring through the castle. “There’s good and bad in the world, m’lady. Everyone has a share of each.”

  “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Isolde?”

  “There was a death tonight,” the old one said, her eyes far away. “At Dwyrain.”

  “Nay—”

  “Your father, lass.”

  “Nay! Nay! Nay! I believe you not!” Megan cried, though the lines of sadness around the old woman’s eyes and etching over her forehead half convinced her.

  “ ’Tis true. He was helped to his death by your husband.”

  The world jolted and spun. Megan’s breath stopped dead in her lungs. “No,” she cried, but sensed the woman would not have come here if she did not believe it.

  “I sensed a tremor, child, a rending in the air. ’Twas Ewan giving up his life.”

  Megan’s bones no longer supported her. She felt as if the world had stopped, as if life itself had withered. Her father, her wonderful father, now dead? Though she’d told herself that his death had been imminent, that there was a chance she wouldn’t see him alive again, she could not believe that he was really gone. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she held them at bay, refusing to break down. “Leave me alone. I—I believe this not.”

  “There is more.”

  “I do not want to hear it.”

  Isolde reached forward and grabbed Megan’s fingers, still clutching the coverlet. “Aye, this news is sweet,” she said with a smile. “For every death, there is new life, and you, m’lady, carry new life in your womb.”

  Megan couldn’t speak. Her words jumbled and clogged in her throat. A baby? Is that what the woman was saying? She was going to have a child? Wolf’s issue? “How … how would you know?”

  Isolde sighed. “ ’Tis a gift,” she said.

  “You practice the dark arts.”

  “Aye,” she admitted. “Some say I be a witch, but ’tis not true. I’m a nursemaid. ’Twas I who helped Lady Sorcha come into this world.”

  Megan glanced down at her flat abdomen, now covered with thick blankets. Could this be true? Could she believe this glorious gift had been given her and deny the woman’s death sentence for her father?

  “As for the babe growing within you, ’tis early yet, the child only just conceived.”

  Megan swallowed hard. A baby! Though she felt a deep grief at the loss of her father—if the old woman spoke the truth—the thought of bringing Wolf’s child into the world brought with it a joy she’d never before known.

  Isolde placed a warm, aged hand over the furs and blankets that covered Megan’s abdomen. A small smile played at the edges of her thin lips. “I know not what it will be, ’tis much too soon. But ye must be careful, Megan. This babe was created by great love. You must take care of yourself and of it. Now”—she reached for her candle—“sleep well. Both of you.”

  Megan slid lower in the bed and placed a hand over the skin stretched between her hipbones. Could she believe this old woman? Was Ewan really dead? Did a child grow deep inside her?

  Tears slid down her face and she knew not if they came from grief or happiness.

  Thirteen

  solde told me you were with child,” Sorcha said as her husband gathered together a small band of men to accompany Megan to Dwyrain. Leah had already left Erbyn with a sentry and was riding to her duties in the nunnery.

  Now Sorcha and Megan stood on the steps of the keep, cowls pulled tight around their necks, hems caught in the stiff breeze. From the armorer’s hut came the clank of a metal hammer repairing broken links of mail; from the outer bailey could be heard the slice of saws and chop of axes chewing through timbers for firewood and beams. In a lean-to near the farrier’s hut a wheelwright pounded new spokes into a broken cart wheel.

  Smoke filled the air and icy rain drizzled from the heavens.

  Megan glanced away from the questions in the other woman’s deep blue eyes. “Isolde is only guessing. ’Tis too early to tell.”

  “But ’tis possible.”

  “Aye.” Megan nodded, biting her lip, mentally calculating and realizing that her time of the month should arrive soon, or mayhap was already a few days late.

  “She is rarely wrong in these matters.” Sorcha laid a hand on Megan’s shoulder. “The babe. Is it not Holt’s?”

  Megan sighed, but didn’t answer.

  Sorcha persisted, “If you are with child and that babe is not your husband’s, will he not know it?”

  How could she possibly explain? Lord Hagan and his lady had a fine marriage where they teased often, touched intimately, and ruled together as one. Their love was deep and strong, their marriage as solid as the castle built high on this cliff. “I detest my husband and wanted to marry him not, but my father would not hear my protests. Then, on my wedding day, I was abducted …”

  “By Wolf.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you fell in love with him,” Sorcha said as if reading Megan’s thoughts.

  Pain clawed its way through Megan’s tortured soul. “Aye.”

  “So you gave yourself to him.”

  Megan’s spine stiffened and she lifted her head proudly, her hood falling away and her hair waving wildly around her face. “I would do it again if given the chance.”

  “Holt will not be pleased.”

  “Nay.”

  “He might want to harm the child,” Sorcha said, her gaze clouding.

  “He will never have the chance!” A fierce new fire grew within Megan and she knew she would do anything to save the life of her unborn infant. Should Holt try to harm her child, she would kill him.

  “If, as Isolde says, your father has passed on, you must find a priest or abbot who will annul your marriage.”

  She thought of Father Timothy, a weak man with no convictions, a man who only wished people punished, and knew she could not speak with him. Nay, she needed someone with power, someone who understood her precarious position, someone who could strike down the marriage vows.

  “Hagan will help you find the right abbot,” she assured Megan. “Now, does Wolf know of the child?”

  “Nay.” She shook her head and bit her lip.

  “Does he … does he love you, or was your seduction part of his plan to embarrass your husband?”

  “I know not,” she admitted, though she clung to the hope that he’d lain with her not because s
he was Holt’s bride, but because he could not stop himself, that he, as she, was compelled to kiss and touch, to caress and bond.

  “You must tell him.”

  ’Twas not the first time the thought had crossed her mind. Wrapping her arms around her waist, as if to protect the fragile life growing inside her, she nodded. Should she meet Wolf again, what would she say? How could she tell him he’d unwittingly become a father of a bastard child? “I will, but not before I am free.”

  Instead of condemnation in Sorcha’s gaze, there was silent praise. “God be with you, Megan of Dwyrain,” she said, adjusting Megan’s cowl again and kissing her lightly on the cheek, “and with your babe.”

  “ ’Tis time,” Hagan said, astride a large gray destrier. He led a smaller horse, a bay with a notched ear. Climbing down from his mount, he handed Megan the bay’s reins, then kissed his wife so passionately, Megan had to look away. “I’ll be back,” he promised.

  “Ride safely,” Sorcha said, kissing him lightly on the cheek and blinking against tears. A blistering howl rose from inside the castle. “ ’Tis your daughter, m’lord,” Sorcha said with a smile. “Methinks she is hungry again.” She shot Megan a glance that said, See what you have to look forward to?

  “Take care of her and worry not about me!” With a final look at his wife, he signaled for his small army to move out. Megan climbed onto the bay mare and tugged on the horse’s reins as Bryanna wailed again and Isolde, carrying the loud, tiny bundle, appeared in the doorway. Waving, Megan urged her mount forward and joined the soldiers in their march to Dwyrain. She silently chided herself for leaving the ragged outlaw band, with its well-meaning criminals and brooding rogue of a leader.

  What would you do had you stayed with them? Tell Wolf that he will be a father? Hope that he would marry you? Even if you were not already wed to Holt?

  Wolf, the outlaw, was not a man to marry.

  Aye, she told herself, clucking to her mare, but surely Ware of Abergwynn is.

  “Something’s wrong,” Jack said, eyeing the crenels of Dwyrain’s north watchtower. “See there—one of the shutters is closed; the others are open.” He, Jagger, Robin, and Wolf, astride their sweating mounts, were hidden in the forest and watching the castle through the wintry foliage that remained. The wind was biting, the clouds dark, sleet starting to fall. “The baron’s standard is not flying …”

  Wolf felt a stab of fear deep in his soul. His gaze moved to the flagpole. ’Twas true. The new colors waving vividly against the dawn sky were a deep blue field with a red chevron … the symbol Wolf had seen upon Holt’s shield. A sickening dread stole over him. “Baron Ewan is dead. Sir Holt has proclaimed himself the new ruler of Dwyrain.”

  “So it appears.” Jack spit on the ground. “ ’Tis cursed we are.”

  “Unless we defeat him,” Wolf said, his eyes narrowing on his enemy’s lair. His fingers clenched over the hilt of his sword. What pleasure he’d find in running the bastard through. Was Megan somewhere in the stone keep? A prisoner, mayhap, or Holt’s willing wife? Had she returned to Dwyrain to her father, only to find that he’d died and she was forever married to the new baron? Had she shared a bed with the bastard? Given herself willingly to him? Been forced into submission? Had she suffered a beating at Holt’s hands, and was she now his prisoner?

  Guilt clawed at him. Had he not sealed her fate by stealing her from her husband? If Holt’s wrath was aimed at Megan for her betrayal, was not Wolf responsible? Had he not incited Holt, humiliated and taunted the man in an effort to belittle him? Pray that he would not hurt her!

  Rage stormed through his blood. Horrid, painful images of Megan being used by Holt brought a snarl to Wolf’s lip. ’Twould be so easy to kill Holt and taste sweet, long-awaited vengeance. “Let’s go!” he growled, eager to find Megan, to kidnap her if ’twas what it took to keep her safe.

  “Be ye mad?” Jagger asked. “We can’t ride through the gates, now can we?”

  “Why not?” Robin, impatient for battle, demanded.

  “I’ll go ahead,” Jack offered, “and I’ll take with me the kills that I’ve got—” He motioned to the stag and boar he’d slain this morning and now were lashed to a sled built of poles. “I’ll tell Cook that I’m taking a hunting party out this evening, and when we return, late, there may be three more men with me. No one will notice.”

  “And the men who leave the castle with you? Will they not wonder?”

  “I’ll choose my party well. ’Twill be made of those who detest Holt as much as we do,” Jack said with a wicked smile. “There are men within the gates of Dwyrain who would follow you blindly on only my word.”

  “Good. While you’re inside, learn what you can about Megan—if she’s within the keep.”

  “I will,” he promised. He rode through the underbrush to the road to join a small procession of carts and horsemen moving to and from the castle through a curtain of icy rain that washed away any lingering traces of snow and added to the chill that had already settled deep in Wolf’s bones. ’Twas all he could do to remain where he was and not steal into the thick walls of Dwyrain to see for himself if Megan had returned.

  ’Twas simple enough to sneak into the castle with the hunting party. Once inside the walls, several of the men carried the kills of badger, pheasant, boar, and stag to the butcher and the tanner, while Jack and Tom, the carpenter’s son who so often was in the north watchtower, led Wolf, Jagger, and Robin down a dark, winding staircase past the brewery, where the alewives stirred oaken vats of ale, and into a small chamber used for the hoarding of grain. With a few candles for light, the men rested on sacks of grain and watched shadows play on the rock walls.

  Tom, about the age of Robin, peered over his shoulder as he spoke. “ ’Tis as if the beasts of hell have been let loose,” he said, his green eyes wide in the shadowy room. “The baron drew his last breath last night and Holt proclaimed himself the new ruler of the keep.” Tom’s tongue rimmed his mouth nervously. “He sent men to chase after Bjorn, who escaped with Lady Cayley.”

  “What of Cormick?” Wolf asked, grateful that one of his men was free.

  “Dead. Killed when he was flogged.”

  “Mother Mary,” Jack said under his breath as he crossed himself hurriedly.

  Wolf flinched and again guilt was his companion. Because of his own need of vengeance, he’d sent a trusting, faithful man to his death. Back teeth grinding together, he silently cursed the demons who drove him. If only he’d let things be, Cormick would be alive, Bjorn would not have been flogged, and Megan … oh, sweet spitfire of a woman … would be serving her time as Holt’s wife. Nay, he could never accept that.

  “Lady Megan has not returned?” he asked.

  “Nay, neither Holt nor his men have found her.”

  Where was she? A dozen horrid thoughts crawled through his mind, but he pushed them aside. At least she was not suffering as Holt’s wife.

  “But when Bjorn and Cayley escaped, Holt was in a rage, and he plans to hang the sorcerer who was with them.”

  “Sorcerer?” Wolf said.

  “Aye, the same man who is said to have cursed Dwyrain years ago, the cripple that Lady Megan met in the woods when her mare came up lame two years ago.”

  Wolf had heard the tale, of course. It had spread throughout the countryside like wildfire.

  “ ’Twas as if he wanted to be captured again,” Tom insisted as he anxiously picked at his teeth with the nail of his thumb. “He raced not to the gatehouse but stayed his horse, threw his hands wide as if to heaven, and screamed as loudly as if he were trying to wake the souls of the dead. An owl bigger than I’ve ever seen landed on his arm.”

  “He is being held prisoner here?”

  “Aye, in the north tower dungeon.”

  “And is scheduled to hang?” Wolf asked uneasily.

  Tom nodded. “My father was told to build a new gallows. Holt is said to want to make an example of the man and to prove that he is a strong baron even though his wife was s
tolen from him and neither he nor his best men have been able to find her.”

  Footsteps scraped upon the stairs. Wolf’s hands curled over the hilt of his sword and Jagger flattened against the wall at the base of the steps, ready to jump the intruder. Robin and Tom hid behind sacks of grain, their weapons unsheathed, while Jack waited in the shadows.

  “ ’Tis only me,” a woman called.

  Tom grinned widely. “Rue. Thank the saints.”

  An old, thin woman appeared with a pitcher of ale, loaf of bread, and round of cheese. “ ’Tis not much, I know,” she said, setting her fare on an upended cask. “But ’twas all the cook would give for fear the steward or one of Holt’s spies might see him.” She turned tired eyes on Wolf and offered him the pitcher. “The baron is dead, both his daughters are missing and, I fear, Dwyrain lost.”

  “Nay—” Tom argued, but Rue persisted, staring pointedly at Wolf.

  “ ’Tis said you are Holt’s sworn enemy.”

  Wolf took a long draft from the pitcher, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and nodded. “ ’Tis true.”

  “ ’Tis also thought that you are much to blame for the trouble here. If ye had not stolen Lady Megan, mayhap Holt would have been less angry and cruel.”

  Wolf passed the pitcher to Jagger, who took a long, healthy swallow. “What do you think, woman?” he asked.

  “Holt is bad to his bones. I would waste no tears if Holt were found murdered,” she said, as if she hoped to find the new baron with a sword run through his heart in the morning, “but I’m grateful that both Lady Megan and Lady Cayley are far from his grasp, even though this keep is theirs by rights.” She sliced the cheese with a large knife and sawed off hunks of bread, which she passed to the men. “I think ye, Wolf,” she said, wagging the tip of her blade at his nose as he sank his teeth into the crusty bread, “should see that both of the baron’s daughters are safe so that someday they might reclaim Dwyrain. Ye started this, so I think ye should finish it.”