by Lisa Jackson
“I intend to,” he agreed, reaching for the ale pitcher again. “I’ll start by freeing the magician this night. Mayhap he’ll help me find Megan and Cayley, and then, I swear, once they’re safe, I’ll come for Holt.”
“Will ye kill him?”
Wolf thought of Megan and how she might suffer at Holt’s hands should he ever find out that Megan had given herself to his sworn enemy. Something deep in Wolf’s heart stirred; he couldn’t bear to think of her with another man, especially not a cruel cur the likes of the man who had willingly held down a fair maid so that she could be brutally raped. The ale and bread suddenly tasted sour and stuck in his throat. When he lifted his eyes, he found Rue staring at him and he nodded. “Aye,” he vowed, “if needs be, I’ll send him to hell, where he belongs.”
“We cannot stop!” Megan said, though every bone in her body ached, her head throbbed, and her legs were sore from three days of riding.
“The men are tired and you, m’lady, need to rest.” Hagan’s eyes searched the dusky countryside, looking for a spot near the road to make camp.
“Nay! We are too close.” Though she dreaded facing Holt again, she’d felt drawn to Dwyrain, knew she had to return to her home. Hagan had sent word ahead to the abbot of St. Peter’s in the hope of annulling her marriage, and Megan had been restless and eager to ride under the portcullis of Dwyrain. Despite her feeling of despair, she had been whispering prayers that Isolde had been wrong about Ewan, that he yet lived. Though Isolde had sworn that she’d seen him in his grave, the old woman could surely make a mistake now and again. Megan refused to believe that because the nursemaid had been correct about the baby growing in Megan’s womb, this meant that she was never wrong.
“Here!” Hagan indicated a small field not far from the road. “We’ll camp for the night.”
She wanted to argue, to insist that they travel on, but she held her tongue. Hagan of Erbyn had been good to her and his men; she would not thwart him, but she couldn’t shake the feeling—the dread—that something dire was happening within the stone walls of Dwyrain, that if only she were there, some kind of tragedy could be averted.
’Twas but a feeling, although ’twas so real. Goose bumps crawled up her arms and she refused to give in to the fear that gnawed at her insides, the fear that somehow Holt had caught up with Wolf and that even now, the outlaw might be dead, killed by her husband’s hand. Shivering, she dismounted, and as the men started a fire and skinned the squirrels and rabbits they’d killed on the journey, she found the bucket tied to the saddle of her mare and walked to the stream. Dipping into the dark water, she was reminded of her stay with the sorry band of criminals she’d grown to love. She wondered about Robin. Had his wounds healed? Had Odell learned to cook any better? Was one-eyed Peter ever the quiet voice of reason whenever there was a fight? Did Wolf think of her as often as she did of him?
A knot tightened in her throat as an image of Wolf with his brooding dark looks, the pain of his past, the silent anger that drove him, crossed before her eyes. She lifted the pail, but in the ripples of the water she saw his face, handsome, arrogant, and proud, his smile as hard and cunning as the beast from which he’d taken his name. As she drew her bucket through the clear water, she heard the men behind her as they staked out the tents and told jokes. She absently rubbed her abdomen, trying to comfort the child growing deep within her womb. Would this tiny person ever meet his or her father? Would the outlaw Wolf ever learn that he was a father?
Rather than dwell upon the thoughts that were forever tormenting her, Megan squared her shoulders and sent up a prayer for his safety.
In a few days, they’d arrive at Dwyrain and then … then somehow she’d find a way to untie the dreadful knot of her marriage and become a free woman.
Why? To what end? So that Wolf will marry you? He’s an outlaw, Megan, a criminal running from the law! Is that what you want your child to grow up with, knowing that his or her father is a common criminal?
Not common. Far from common. A nobleman turned outlaw.
She lugged the pail back to the fire and set it on the rocks surrounding the crackling kindling.
Aye! My baby will know the wonderful rogue who gave him or her life. By the gods, if it’s the last thing I do, Wolf and his son or daughter will meet!
The moon was cloaked in clouds and no campfire guided them as they picked their way through the woods. Cayley was bone weary, her back sore, her spirits sinking with each plod of her mount’s hooves. It felt as if it had been years since they’d seen civilization. The naked trees of the forest were gloomy and protected them little from the icy mist that drizzled from the sky. Wet branches slapped at her face and vines clawed at her cape.
Bjorn, the broad-shouldered outlaw brute, rode on and outwardly appeared not to notice the cold or feel the sleet, rain, or snow. Proudly, he sat astride his mount, moving onward, pausing only once or twice to hunt some small forest beast or rob an unsuspecting traveler. Since leaving Dwyrain, Bjorn had stolen two blankets, food for themselves and the horses, and several weapons. He never asked for gold, silver, or jewelry, didn’t bother with anything more than they needed or could carry. Cayley had never actually seen him stalk his human prey; he’d done most of his thievery at night, and when she’d awakened, there had been a loaf of bread, a new thick blanket tossed over her, or a knife to keep in her boot. The horses had eaten well and Bjorn had refused to explain whom he’d had to threaten in order to survive.
’Twas thrilling, and had Cayley been a stronger woman, she would have insisted upon going with him on his nightly marauding. She thought he made camp close to his intended victims, for she knew that he would not leave her long alone in the woods with only a fire and her own small knives to protect her.
She’d imagined that she’d never sleep a wink, but each morning, ’twas Bjorn who placed a huge, callused hand on her shoulder and shook her awake. She’d slept without dreaming, her head resting on a root of a tree or a flat rock, her fingers curled over the hilt of her dagger.
“Holy Christ, Odell, what’ve ye done?” Bjorn muttered as the overgrown trail broke into a clearing near a river. The rushing sound of a waterfall greeted her ears; the grass and weeds of the small clearing had been trampled by horses, carts, and people.
From the tone of Bjorn’s voice, she knew that something was wrong—very wrong. Cayley clucked to her mount, reaching Bjorn’s side. “What?”
“They’ve moved.”
“Who—what?”
“Wolf’s band. The sorcerer told me that the band was ordered to stay here, but Odell, curse his flea-riddled hide, decided to move on.” He slid from his mount, and still breathing fire and swearing, he kicked at a circle of stones that had once been the rim of a campfire.
Cayley, too, dismounted, and for a second, her tired legs were unable to hold her, but she steadied herself, stretched, and viewed the night-darkened landscape. Aside from the fire pit, there was evidence that people had recently been here, the broken grass, wheel ruts, and discarded bones from meals still visible. A huge skeleton of a building, half standing, half in rubble, loomed near the river.
“Used to be a chapel,” Bjorn said tightly as if reading her mind. “We stayed here with your sister and Wolf told Odell not to move camp.” He spat loudly. “That slimy little cur!”
“Where would he go?”
“Good question.” He thought for a second. “Odell’s a bit of a coward. He talks much, acts as if he’s braver than the other men put together, but the truth of the matter is that he would do nothing to incite Wolf’s wrath.”
“So he was forced to move.”
“Mayhap.”
“What would cause him to leave?”
Bjorn rubbed the back of his neck. “Holt’s army,” he decided, and then, as if determining that they, too, might not be safe, said, “Come, lead your horse into the old chapel.”
“A beast in the house of God?” she said, shaking her head at the blasphemy of it. “Nay, I don’t think�
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“Hush, woman! ’Tis no longer a chapel and God will not care if one of his four-footed creatures stumbles upon the altar. Methinks all manner of beasts have already crept their way through the windows and open doors.” His patience was nearly gone—that much was obvious—and the argument that simmered between them, which was her forever doubting or second-guessing his orders, flared again. He’d told her once that he thought her nothing more than a pampered, rich pain in the backside, and she’d let him know that he was an uneducated criminal brute. They were at a stalemate, stuck with each other until they could find Wolf and Megan.
From what Cayley had gleaned, and it wasn’t much from this quiet, stubborn giant, Wolf and several of the men had fallen half in love with her sister.
“Come, m’lady,” he said as she crossed herself with practiced fingers. “If ye want to save yer pretty skin, you’ll do as I say and guide yer horse through the door!”
She had no choice and tugged on the reins, leading the animal through the icy mist to the shelter of the chapel. God forgive her, she had no choice but to depend upon this blond criminal to help her find Megan.
Tom and Robin’s job was to open the gates, Jack’s to guide Wolf to the dungeon where the sorcerer was held, and Jagger was to guard the door so that no one would surprise them as they made their quick escape. Wolf held his knife in his teeth and had one hand on his sword. The other trailed along the wall of the dank-smelling stairs that wound downward.
He had to fight his fear, for this was not the first time he’d been in a prison. Years before, he and his friend, Cadell, brother of Morgana of Wenlock, had been locked in the bowels of Abergwynn. ’Twas only through their quick wits and the guard’s stupidity that they were able to flee the castle walls, only to be chased down by enemy men. Wolf—Ware at the time—had watched in horror as his friend had pitched over the cliffs to the black sea. Then, rather than be captured and imprisoned yet again, he had followed Cadell, throwing himself over the edge. … Wolf shivered inwardly. He hated dungeons, detested confinement. Tight places with locked doors made his skin itch and his head pound.
The guard was awake and held a knife in his hand as if he expected someone to try to help the prisoner escape. “Who goes there?” he demanded.
“ ’Tis only me. Jack, the huntsman.”
“Oh, and what is it ye want, Jack?” the sentry, suddenly more at ease, wanted to know. While Wolf hung in the shadows, Jack, holding his candle high, approached the sentry.
“I’d like a word with ye. I saw yer son, Ian, in the forest the day before last. He was trackin’ a stag on the baron’s land without permission. Got off one good shot, but the deer sprinted away and the arrow missed its mark, landing in the trunk of an oak tree instead.”
“For the love of Jesus.” The guard made a hasty sign of the cross over his thick chest.
“I told Holt not.”
“Thank ye for that much. I’m tellin’ ye, Jack, that boy will be the death of me and his ma. Always gettin’ into trouble, that one, not like his older brother—hey! What the—”
Jack sprang and Wolf lunged from his hiding place in the dark corner near the stairs. Together, they knocked the guard off his feet and wrested the knife from his hands. He fought, kicked, and swore as Jack lashed his hands behind his broad back. “I thought we might make a trade, Theodore,” he said, holding his knife to the guard’s thick neck. “I’ll not tell Holt about yer boy and ye keep yer mouth shut about this.”
“Nay, I cannot.”
“Then ye’ll die.” Jack appeared about to slice his throat open, but Wolf stopped him.
“No more bloodshed.”
“What?”
“Holt’s blood is all that needs be spilled. This man has done nothing wrong.”
“He’ll sound the alarm.”
“So be it.”
Theodore listened to this exchange with bulging eyes. “No good’ll come of this, Jack. What the hell d’ye think ye’re doin’?”
“Saving the castle.”
“By gettin’ me killed? Holt’ll have me hide when he finds out what ye’re up to. Yer skin will be worthless, too!”
“Like as not.”
Wolf reached for the guard’s key ring. He saw the sorcerer in the corner of the cell, standing peacefully, though he was chained with thick links to the wall. “You’re to be a free man,” he assured the magician as he swung open the gate and held a torch aloft, throwing flickering illumination through the cell. When the light touched the cripple’s eyes, Wolf’s blood turned to ice, for standing before him was not the sorcerer he’d heard so much about but his old friend, the boy he thought had lost his life on the rocky shoals beneath the cliffs of Abergwynn.
“I knew you’d come,” Cadell said in an even tone. “What took ye so long, Ware of Abergwynn?”
“For the love of Jesus. Cadell.”
“Aye. ’Tis I.”
“What happened to ye—where’ve ye been?”
“We have no time for this.”
“Let’s go!” Jack said.
“Aye,” Wolf said, grateful that his old friend had survived. He wasted no time, but opened the cell. “Right now, we must leave.” He unchained his old friend, then slapped a small dagger into his hand.
“I use not weapons.”
Wolf’s eyes met Cadell’s in the darkness. “If we escape without battle, praise God. But if we run across anyone who wants to kill us, please, do them the honor first.”
“Come!” Jack yelled. “We’ve lost too much time.” He had gagged and bound the guard and now tossed the frightened man into Cadell’s cell. Slamming the door shut with a distinct clang, he led them up the slippery stairs.
The air became clearer and Wolf, holding on to the hilt of his sword, breathed deeply. Within minutes, they’d ride through the gates of Dwyrain and into the forest. Once back at the camp, he’d start looking for Megan, sending his men out to the villages and keeps until he found her. Cadell could help . . .
And what then, Wolf, his mind sneered. What do you plan to offer her? The life of an outlaw—a man with no castle, no house, his only possession a sword? Or are you willing to give up your freedom?
Pale light filtered through the open door, and Jack stepped cautiously out of the tower. Wolf was behind him, his eyes searching the bailey for Tom and Robin, who were nowhere in sight. They might have been waylaid trying to raise the portcullis in the gatehouse. Or … the hairs on his nape raised and his fingers tightened over the hilt of his sword. The castle was still as death. Stepping onto the packed mud near the door of the tower, he began to sweat in the cold mist.
“Wolf! Watch out!” Jack’s voice cut through the silence, then there was the clang of steel striking steel. Swords clashed, ringing through the bailey.
From the corner of his eye, Wolf saw a glint of metal, a silent, swift movement near the side of his head. He ducked, spinning fast, sword drawn, as a battle ax cleaved the air and sliced heavily into the earth. The ground shuddered.
Wolf rolled onto the balls of his feet, slicing around him as men, eight or ten of them, ran, swords drawn, from the shadows. Within seconds, they’d surrounded the doorway of the tower. Bloody Christ, what had gone wrong?
Tom and Robin were both with the soldiers, their wrists lashed, their faces pale as the moon. Blood ran from one of Robin’s nostrils and caked his lips. Tom’s eyes were round with fear, blood staining his tunic.
Jack spun and struck, but a huge man swung a mace and it caught Jack midsection, sending him to the ground with a sickening thud.
“Halt, outlaw!” a gravelly voice ordered as a soldier lunged at him, and Wolf’s sword was swift, severing the man’s arm and sending him reeling. With a hideous roar, he fell against the tower wall, blood spurting and spraying as he slid down the stones. Another man, big and burly, rounded on Wolf, only to feel Wolf’s blade slash him through the ribs. As a third came at him from behind, he whirled, intending to draw blood.
Bam!
; Pain exploded in his brain and he fell to his knees.
Thud!
Another blinding jolt of pain. Wolf cried out, dropping his sword. The world tilted. His head slammed into the dirt, the stars and moon spun wildly. He tasted his own blood, and suddenly there was nothing.
Megan woke with a start. Heart pounding, she sat bolt upright. Wolf! Dear God, she’d been dreaming of him, touching him, feeling his skin upon hers, his lips brushing her eyes and throat and breasts, when suddenly he’d jerked, like a puppet on a string, his body wrenched from her. She cried out and the battlements and walls of Dwyrain came into her view.
’Twas only a dream, she told herself and tried to slow her racing heart, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Wolf was in trouble, that he needed her. But that was silly. Restless, she crawled out of the tent Hagan had staked out for her, and walked to the stream. A sudden chill turned the marrow of her bones to ice and she rubbed her arms.
Pausing at the stream, she heard the sound of wings, the rustle of feathers, as a huge owl landed on the bare branch of a willow tree over her head. She swallowed hard and remembered seeing such a bird with the sorcerer when he’d predicted trouble at Dwyrain, then again in the woods at the camp with Odell, and now here.
The owl stared at her with round, unblinking eyes that caused another shiver to race through her blood. He didn’t settle down, his head never lowering into his neck, and he flapped his great wings several times, as if straightening his feathers. She tried to ignore the winged creature—he was probably resting from the hunt—but she felt his eyes upon her and thought that his presence could only be a sign, and not a good one.
What had old Rue said so long ago? That the creatures of the forest had a sense unlike those of man, that the beasts could smell trouble before it appeared, feel a storm before it broke, sense the movement of a fire before the smoke had met human nostrils?
