by Lisa Jackson
The horses were close by and she saw her notched-ear jennet resting at her tether, one hoof cocked in slumber. ’Twas quiet in the camp, aside from the gentle snoring of the man who was supposed to be tending the beasts.
Praying she was not making a huge mistake and inviting the wrath of another baron when Hagan awoke, Megan stole to the horses and untied her mare. The horse awoke with a snort. “Shh,” she murmured, knowing she was inviting doom.
But because of Wolf, she could wait no longer. As sure as the moon rose in the sky, there was trouble at Dwyrain, and she, as the baron’s eldest daughter, had to return.
Cold water splashed over him in a wave and Wolf coughed and sputtered, his eyes opening slowly, his head thundering in pain. He didn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. A second after he saw the smooth leather shoes and gold braid of a surcoat, he lifted his eyes farther to find his old enemy Holt standing before him in the inner bailey. There were people everywhere, the sun was rising through a gray fog, and geese, ducks, chickens, and children scrambled out of the way of the new, imposing ruler of Dwyrain.
“How dare you,” Holt said. One of the guards hauled Wolf to his feet and he stood, between two burly men, swaying. Stripped to only his breeches, he tried to stand on his own and failed. His muscles flexed as a blast of northern wind cut through the bailey, chasing the last hint of fog. “How dare you sneak into my keep and try to steal one of my prisoners? Did you not think my soldiers were told to watch and wait, that your coming here was inevitable?”
Even in his pain, an insolent smile curved Wolf’s lips. “How dare you presume to be baron?”
A glimmer of recognition flashed in Holt’s eyes and Wolf knew he’d struck a sensitive nerve.
“Ewan chose me as his successor.”
“Was that before or after you started poisoning him?”
Holt’s fist crashed into Wolf’s body, the metal studs on his gloves cutting into Wolf’s flesh. “Impudent whelp!” he roared, then, as if realizing dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him, Holt drew in a long, ragged breath. “Bring him to my chamber,” he growled.
“What about the others?”
“Leave them to rot for now. They’ll hang later.”
Surcoat billowing behind him, Holt stormed up the steps of the keep, and Wolf was half pushed and shoved behind him. He caught several men’s eyes, and their expressions varied. The carpenter, Tom’s father, gritted his teeth against his fury, the armorer slid Wolf a knowing look, several soldiers spit as Wolf was hauled roughly through, and milkmaids and laundresses looked upon him as if he were an amusement. An old woman, weathered and gaunt, crossed herself, though her piety seemed forced.
“Move!” one of the guards ordered as he elbowed Wolf forward.
On shaking legs, he followed Holt up winding stairs, past rush lights that cast shifting gold shadows upon the walls, and into the lord’s chamber. A fire roared at the grate and tapestries draped the walls. Above the curtained bed, the horns and antlers of beasts the lord of the manor had felled in years past were mounted proudly.
As the guards held Wolf, Holt sat in a huge chair. A page brought him wine and dates, which he plucked at as he stared at his enemy. “Where is my wife?” Holt asked, a vein throbbing across his temple.
Wolf managed a sneer. “Have trouble keeping her?”
With a motion of one finger, Holt gave a silent command to the guard and a fist, hard-knuckled and bare, crashed into the side of his face. Bones crunched. Blood sprayed. Wolf’s knees buckled, but the sentries held him upright. “Why is it you stole her from me?”
“Know you not, Holt?” Wolf asked. “Do you not remember me when Tadd of Prydd had his way with the fisherman’s daughter in a village east of Prydd?”
“I remember not.…” But his voice faded and his jaw grew tight. Clearing his throat, he glared at Wolf.
“Now,” Holt said, dismissing whatever thoughts chased through his evil mind. “Let’s start again. Where’s my wife?”
“Go to hell.”
Holt’s lips flattened over his teeth. “Hell? Interesting that you should bring it up, because I think, when I’m through with you, you’ll wish you were there.” Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, he said to a thick-bodied knight, “Throw him in the dungeon, but not in the same cell with his friends. Torture him slowly, until he tells us what we want to know. When he finally confesses, see that all the rest of the prisoners—the damned sorcerer, the two who rode with this cur, Jack, and Tom, the carpenter’s son—feel the noose tighten around their necks.”
Wolf felt sick. Because of his love for Megan, he’d brought Robin and Jagger to their deaths.
Another flick of Holt’s finger. A fist splintered Wolf’s nose and the world swam again. Wolf felt as if he were drowning, but before he slid beneath the balming waters of unconsciousness, he sputtered, “I’ll see you in hell, Holt.”
Holt shuddered at the words. Why would this man not break? How deep was his need of vengeance for a woman who had been raped … a woman Holt did not remember? “Take the Judas to Ivor and see that his tongue is loosened,” Holt commanded, his nerves jangled. How could one man, beaten and battered and half dead, dare defy him?
Holt had felt a rush of ecstasy when he’d heard that Wolf had been captured in the north tower. Finally, his luck had turned, and he planned to prove Wolf for the traitor he was. There had been too much gossip in the castle, too much speculation that Megan had not been found because she didn’t want to be located, that she’d taken up with her abductor and willingly slept with him, that she was dirtying her marriage vows and laughing at him.
Holt’s stomach turned at that thought. True, he’d not been celibate since his wife had been stolen from him, but with his vexation, he’d needed some comfort. Nell had willingly provided her lush body to him, but it wasn’t enough. Even when Dilys was forced to watch them couple to add to his delight, ’twas an empty union. As he’d gazed down upon Nell’s freckled and gap-toothed mouth, it had been Megan’s face he’d seen and he had nearly tasted her total and complete surrender. He wanted to mount her like a stallion and trumpet in primal lust that she was his and his alone.
Except for the outlaw. If the cur of the forest had bedded her, then Holt planned to cut off each of Wolf’s balls slowly, drawing out the process and savoring the gelding of his enemy.
He finished his wine and met his guards in the chamber deep beneath the north tower that Ewan, the fool, had rarely used. Wolf was deep within the bowels of the keep, spread-eagled upon the floor, still unconscious. More icy water was used to awaken him, and when his eyes blinked open, Holt stood before him.
“Now,” he said, “let’s begin again.”
Wolf felt as if a thousand destriers had trampled upon him. Every muscle ached and his bones felt as if they’d splintered from his joints. Pain, deep and feral, pounded on his body and he was aware that he was in a dark, fetid chamber surrounded by Holt and his men. A huge fire burned bright in one corner, a boy fanning the flames with a bellows.
Holt reached for a long-handled clamp with his gloved hand, and using the tool, dug in the flames until he found a coal that glowed like a red eye in the night.
“You will tell me where my wife is,” Holt said, advancing slowly, the red ember menacingly close to Wolf’s face.
Wolf raised his head, and mustering his strength, spit on the toe of Holt’s boot.
Rage sparked in the new lord’s eyes. “So that’s the way it is, eh? Fine. You’re a fool, Wolf, and I brand you as such.” With that he dropped the coal onto Wolf’s back. White-hot pain seared into his body as flesh singed and burned. Wolf convulsed and bit down on his tongue. They could burn him, slice him, set the beasts of the forest upon him, nearly drown him, but never would he betray Megan.
“Lord Holt!” a soldier cried as Wolf struggled with consciousness.
“Not now. I’m busy!” Holt walked to the fire again, his wicked weapon in his hand.
“But, m’lord—”
Spinning fast, Holt pinned the soldier with harsh, unforgiving eyes. “I said—”
“ ’Tis the lady Megan,” the soldier announced, his gaze moving from Wolf’s singed back to Holt’s face.
Wolf swallowed to keep his stomach contents from spewing from his mouth.
“What of her?”
“She’s here, m’lord, at the castle gates, and she’s demanding to be let in!”
Fourteen
o my wayward bride has returned!” Holt’s eyes gleamed as the winch was turned and the portcullis grated open. Dressed in a crimson velvet surcoat befitting a king, Holt was surrounded by soldiers holding torches and drawn swords. Though he forced a smile, disapproval edged his mouth and brought deep furrows to his forehead. A dozen accusations sizzled in his eyes—questions Megan didn’t want to hear or have to answer.
Astride the bay, Megan shivered but refused to show any sign of weakness. Fear could never be her companion, for courage was her shield. This keep, with its familiar stone walls, tall watchtowers, and wide battlements, was her rightful home, the castle she was to inherit once her brother, poor Bevan, was pronounced dead. Squaring her shoulders, she stared straight at the husband she loathed. “I needs speak with my father,” she said, bracing herself for the ugly truth.
“Well, that’s a bit of a problem, you see.” Holt glanced from her and shook his head slowly. Despair burrowed deep in her soul and she knew before he spoke a word that the old crone had been right. “Baron Ewan passed on a few days ago, I’m afraid.”
Megan thought she’d steeled herself, but when the dreaded words rolled so easily off Holt’s tongue, her insides turned to jelly. A mind-numbing wave of grief washed over her, extinguishing the solitary flame of hope that had burned so brightly in her heart. Oh, Father, she silently cried, I abandoned you. Had I returned sooner, mayhap I could have forestalled your death. Swaying upon the mare’s back, she grabbed the saddle’s pommel, blinked for a second, and fought the tears that blocked her throat.
Dawn was breaking over the walls of the keep but the joy she should have felt at returning to her home, the castle where she’d grown up, withered away. Father, mother, brother, and baby sister, nearly everyone gone. Only Cayley remained, and that thought brought her a ray of happiness. At least she was not alone.
Do not forget that you carry Wolf’s child in your womb. You will never be alone or without one you love. She took a small bit of comfort in that thought.
“I’ve upset you,” Holt said, with feigned remorse as he lifted a hand to her, and the sun, fettered by a thin layer of clouds, offered some illumination to the winter-cold castle. “I’m sorry about your father’s death—’tis a tragedy.” Holt motioned to her horse, and receiving the unspoken command, one of his men, Elwin, a gangly youth who nearly tripped over his own feet, charged forward and grabbed her mount’s reins. The thin straps of leather slipped through her fingers and she silently cursed herself for letting down her guard.
“Come in, wife, and warm yourself.”
’Twas time to set matters straight. “Make no mistake, Sir Holt, I’m not—nor will I ever be—your wife!”
“Did I not hear you vow in front of God, country, and everyone in this keep that I was to be your husband?”
“ ’Twas my father’s bidding. He’s gone. I no longer have to try to please him.”
“Too late, Megan,” he said without the slightest inflection as his jaw turned to granite. Determination flickered in his gaze and Megan knew more than a moment’s fear. This man—heavily muscled and ruthless—was not about to be denied. “Surely you’ve not forgotten that the priest married us, and by the law of the land, as well as that of the church, you are now and for the rest of your days bound to me.”
She didn’t move, but the words crashed over her, echoing through her brain over and over again, like a monk’s damning cadence. “Come, Megan,” Holt said with a hard, unforgiving smile as he motioned for her to climb down from her mare. “You’re tired and need rest. I trust you were able to elude the outlaw who ransomed you.”
Feeling like Judas, she nodded woodenly, telling herself not to think about Wolf and her love for him, that if she pushed him to a far corner of her mind, the pain in her heart would lessen. She could never be with him as wife to a husband—not that he would want that—nor could she be his wench, not as long as she was married to Holt. Bitterness crept into her soul and she prayed for an end to a marriage that had never begun, a marriage that should never have existed. Her heart belonged in the forest with the outlaw who wore the name of the beast of the night. Though she’d tried to turn her mind against him, to pretend that he was nothing but an uncivilized rogue, a criminal who hid in the woods and preyed upon innocent travelers, she couldn’t. She loved him far too deeply. ’Twas her curse.
Holt was staring at her and she forced the image of Wolf’s handsome face from her mind. “Has … has my father been laid to rest?”
“Aye. This morn. In the chapel cemetery.”
Pain ripped through her, as she was unable to say goodbye or see again the man who had sired her, taught her to ride and shoot a bow and arrow, the man who had taught her to look for the finer points of a horse, and, in the end, thinking he was doing what was best for her, insisted she marry Holt. Heart heavy, she said, “I need to visit his grave and speak with Cayley.”
Holt’s eyebrow quirked upward and he smiled, opening his hands to her. “Then come into the keep. She’s not been well and—”
“What?” Megan’s head snapped up and she stared at Holt. Her pulse pounded a dread-inspired tempo. Cayley was the last living member of her family. Nothing could be wrong with her. Nothing!
“ ’Tis true,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “Since your father’s death, the lady has been beside herself and the physician knows not if ’tis something within her or only her grief causing her so much pain.”
“For the love of Jesus, take me to her,” Megan said, her own sorrow forgotten in the thought that she might be able to help her sister. Every muscle in her body ached from days of riding without much rest, but she needed to see the one remaining member of her family. Though they’d often fought as children, she and Cayley were close and had shared many a secret between them.
Dismounting in one swift motion, she was grateful her legs held her, for she wanted not any help from Holt. Though ’twas early, the castle was coming to life with the approaching morning. Peasants, soldiers, and servants alike began to cross the bailey, and she smiled at the faces she recognized—the baker and miller, wheelwright and ale conner. Boys of every age lugged firewood, sacks of grain, and baskets of stones. Girls, too, were busy gathering eggs, tossing seeds to the chickens, carrying laundry to the creek, or checking the eel traps in the pond. Water was being drawn from the well and the farrier’s hammer was already clanking against his anvil.
“Hey, look! ’Tis the lady!” one of Cook’s helpers, who was hauling a side of venison, said.
“ ’Tis!” Nell, this time, carrying a pail of milk.
“Wonder what ’appened to her with that outlaw?” the miller’s wife asked.
A giggle. “ ’E was a handsome devil, ’e was.”
“Look at her. Wonder what she’s thinkin’? Poor lass, losing her father while she was gone.”
“Lady Megan!” Rue cried out, and Megan smiled as she spied her old nursemaid. Never had there been a kinder-hearted soul than Rue. Plucking her skirts upward so the hems would not become soiled, the old woman started across the bailey, but at a signal from Holt, one of the men detained her.
So this was how it was going to be.
“Come, Megan, Cook will fix you something warm while you see to Cayley. Mayhap you can make her feel better,” Holt said, and Megan caught the unspoken messages being exchanged among some of his men. Something wasn’t right in the castle, and ’twas more than her father’s death that caused the eerie feeling to settle upon her.
But she had to see her sister.
As she
hurried across the bent, frozen grass, her stomach rumbled at the smell of smoke mingling with the scent of sizzling meat. A side of pork roasted on a spit over an open fire, turned by a dog rigged to the contraption as it ran in circles.
Chapel bells pealed softly, reverberating in Megan’s heart and reminding her of her mission to untie herself from this unwanted marriage. Father Timothy hurried across the bailey and Megan stiffened. She trusted not his piety or his words. “Welcome, m’lady,” he said with a worried smile. He’d become thinner since she’d seen him last and his air of superiority was missing this morning. “ ’Tis sad news you’ve come home to.”
“Aye,” she said, nodding.
“The lady needs her rest,” Holt said swiftly while clamping possessive fingers over Megan’s forearm.
“Of course.” Timothy nodded, but his eyes never left Megan’s face. ’Twas as if he was trying to silently speak with her. “I’ve said the Mass for your father and I prayed that you or your sister would have been there when he was laid to rest. ’Twas a pity he had no family at his bedside near the end or at his burial—”
“No family? But Cayley …” Dread strangled the words in her throat while Holt glared at the priest. “… was she too ill to attend Mass?” she asked, fear and suspicion mingling in her mind. Had Holt deceived her? “Do not tell me that my sister is on her deathbed.”
“Oh, no, I only meant that she wasn’t in the chapel during Mass when your father—”
Holt coughed loudly and the fingers tightened over her arm. “Excuse us, Father,” he said, “but the lady is tired from her journey and we’ve not had any time together as husband and wife.” His voice was soft and filled with suggestion. “You understand.”
Timothy blushed. “Aye—”
“Wait!” Megan whirled on the hated man who was her husband. “Why would Cayley not attend my father’s funeral Mass?”
