Outlaw

by Lisa Jackson

  “I—I—wanted to know that you were treated well.”

  His laugh was a ruthless bark. “Your husband’s hospitality, m’lady, leaves much to be desired.”

  “Why are ye speaking to her so?” Robin, in the next cell, demanded. “Lady Megan, we were worried about you. We tried to find ye for fear—”

  “The lad’s addled with fear,” Wolf said in that same hoarse, cruel whisper. “And half in love with ye. Stop it, boy, the lady’s a married woman. The new baron is her husband.”

  Something deep in her heart withered. “Why be you so cruel?”

  “ ’Tis my way,” he said, and for a second she thought she saw another emotion flicker in his eyes, a pain she didn’t recognize, but it was fleeting, and when he stretched to his feet and limped slowly to her, her heart tore open. How had she thought he might ever love her? The shackles on his feet chinked as he moved and his face was tight, his lips flat, his gaze steady and hate-filled. His grimy fingers circled the iron slats of his cell and she reached forward to touch him, only to have him draw away. “Return to the keep and leave us in this hellhole, woman,” he said, his lip curling in disgust at the sight of her. “We need not your pity.”

  “I’m tellin’ ye, m’lord, he acted as if the sight of her disgusted ’im, as if he couldn’t bear to see her,” the guard told Holt. “ ’Twas wicked he was to her. Father Timothy he stayed on, asking for confessions, offering to pray with the prisoners, but they turned their backs on ’im as well.”

  “And the lady?” Holt asked, suspicion still pounding through his brain. When he’d heard that Father Timothy had disobeyed him and had taken Megan to the dungeon, he’d been furious, but now, upon the second guard’s word, which was as strong as the first sentry’s, he felt some sense of relief. Was it possible that the outlaw had at least a shred of honor and hadn’t stolen Megan’s virtue? Or was he protecting her? Or did he actually loathe her?

  As Holt sat in Ewan’s recently vacated chair in the great hall, with one boot propped on the hearth and the servants scurrying through the keep to see to his every need, Holt felt a second’s peace.

  The hunt today had been rewarding—a doe and one fawn, though the other wounded yearling had escaped, its trail of blood leading nowhere. Now, it appeared that his stubborn wife might not be tainted, and he so loved to enter a virgin. Lifting his mazer to his lips, he sighed. “You were speaking of my wife,” he said, savoring the word. Marrying Megan had given him this keep, and aside from the pleasures of her body, which he planned to soon sample, his newfound wealth was gratifying.

  “Aye, she’s been askin’ to see ye,” the guard proclaimed.

  More good news. He’d been patient with her, hoping she would see that there was no use in resisting him, but he could not wait forever.

  “Bring her in.” As the sentry hurried up the stairs, Holt clapped his hands and felt immense satisfaction when a page, his eyes round with fear that Holt wasn’t satisfied with the performance of his duties, listened in trembling silence, then retrieved another cup of wine.

  Life, indeed, was good.

  Within minutes, he spied Megan walking slowly down the stairs and he couldn’t help the small catch in his heart at the sight of her. She was beautiful, with her bright, ale-colored eyes and quick smile. The bridge of her nose boasted a few freckles and her thick hair curled in russet-colored waves. She’d dressed in a deep blue tunic and amber mantle and looked as if she were truly the mistress of the keep. One day she would bear him strong sons and beautiful daughters, and if only he could teach her to rein in her wicked tongue, she would be a good companion for him.

  “ ’Tis said that you want to speak with me,” he ventured, waving toward a chair and sliding a cup of wine across the table toward her.

  “Aye,” she said, and he waited until at last she muttered, “m’lord.”

  “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  “The prisoners,” she said, hitching her chin upward in defiance and refusing to take the seat he offered. Nor did she show the least inclination to pick up the cup of wine. Willful. Stubborn. A woman who would be a challenge in bed.

  “I heard you went to visit them and were not well received.”

  “Let them go.”

  He laughed. Surely she was joking, but the serious expression on her small face convinced him otherwise. “They are criminals and needs be punished.”

  “Because I was stolen from Dwyrain,” she said. “But I’ve returned.”

  He ran his finger around his mazer thoughtfully. “How can I be assured that you will stay?”

  “You have my word,” she said without the slightest hint of hesitation. “Did I not return when I had the chance?”

  Lifting a shoulder and mindful of the servants who were within earshot, including Nell, who was taking her time polishing the candleholders while pretending not to listen, he said, “Aye, but how am I to know that ’twas your first attempt at escape from the outlaw?”

  “It wasn’t. But I was caught every other time. The last time, I took the leader’s destrier.”

  Holt laughed. “That must have stolen the piss from him.”

  “Unfortunately, it was stolen by the farmer who found me and took me to the nunnery.”

  “Aye, the nunnery that was far from Dwyrain. It appeared you were not returning here so much as fleeing,” he said, watching for any hint of reaction in her smooth features.

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Aye, ’tis true, but I could not chance riding to Dwyrain without the outlaws catching up to me, for ’twas what they expected.”

  “So you want me to believe that you led them on a wild chase that took you to the nunnery.”

  “Believe what you will, Holt. Know you that I did not come to be your wife willingly. I wanted you not. But now”—she turned defeated palms to the ceiling—“I cannot pretend to love you or even care for you, but. . . I … I am willing to be your wife day and night if you let the prisoners go free.”

  He laughed again and this time felt a mite of joy. “Silly girl. Why would I agree to this? You are already my wife. You will do what I say, eat what I tell you, sleep with me when I want you, hold your tongue when you disapprove, and bear my children. This you have agreed to do.”

  “Not willingly. I’ll fight you every step of the way.”

  “But if I release the prisoners?”

  “I will be your servant.”

  He nearly choked on his wine. “Ah, Megan, a fine liar you be, but I think no man would ever be your master.” The thought caused his blood to heat a bit, and seeing her standing before him in her tunic as blue as midnight, color high in her cheeks, her lips quivering slightly, he could barely restrain himself.

  “ ’Tis a deal I wish to strike with you, Holt.”

  “And you’ll promise to do anything I ask?” he jeered.

  She closed her eyes and her fingers clenched into tight fists. “Aye,” she agreed. “Anything.”

  Twirling the stem of his mazer in his fingers, he considered her proposition. Was she sincere? The skin drawn tight over her nose and the lines around the corners of her lips convinced him, and had she not always been true to her word? Firelight gleamed against his silver cup. ’Twas pleasant to think her malleable and fearful of his power. If he agreed, he would finally have her where he’d wanted her—under his thumb and groveling to do his bidding.

  Unless she was lying.

  “You will not argue with me?”

  “On my word.”

  “You will lie in my bed and give me sons?”

  He watched her swallow. “As many as God allows.”

  He couldn’t resist seeing how far she would go. He’d been humiliated in front of his men and ’twould be good to get a little payment in kind. Since he was made to look the fool by her capture and rumors of her ardor for the damned outlaw, Holt wanted her to taste what it felt like to be utterly mortified.

  “What if I wanted to bed you in front of some of my men—or mayhap share you?”


  “Dear God,” she cried in dismay, her face flushing with color, her eyes blinking wildly.

  “Well?”

  She bit down hard on her lip, drawing blood. “Aye,” she consented and faltered a bit as if she were about to keel over.

  “So tell me, Megan,” he said, unable to push aside the horrid thought that had been nagging at him ever since she made her first request. “Do you love the outlaw so much that you would suffer complete shame and indignity to save him?”

  She hesitated, but when she opened her eyes to stare at him, he was awed by the strength in her gaze. “I’ve said I would do what you ask. Why I do it is of no matter. Now, Lord Holt, will you spare the men?”

  “Each one but Wolf. The other men, including the boy and traitors in mine own castle, will be allowed their freedom, but Wolf must remain in the dungeon. His sins of kidnapping, traitorous insubordination, and murderous intent must be atoned for.” She nearly lost her balance, but leaned against the table for support. “Wolf’s punishment will be an example for those who dare think they could defy me. The gallows, though they are nearly finished, will stand for a week, as a reminder of what happens to those who betray me. Then, at week’s end, he’ll be hanged by a rope until he’s dead.”

  “You cannot do this!” she cried, her calm exterior cracking and tears of genuine fear filling her eyes. “Holt, please, I beg you … ”

  “ ’Tis no use.”

  “But—”

  “Hush! ’Tis done,” he said, his lip curling in disgust when she revealed how much she cared for the forest thug and his motley band of thieves. “Guard!” he called, then turned his anger to Megan. “Prepare yourself, m’lady, for I will come to your bed tonight. Rest now.”

  She started to protest, but held her tongue.

  “So you be a smart girl. Asides,” he said with an ugly chuckle, “your friends will go free. Except, of course, for your beloved, doomed Wolf.”

  Fifteen

  o where were ye for the years we thought ye dead?”

  Wolf asked, eyeing his friend through the iron slats of the wall separating them. “You never once sent word to Garrick or Morgana that you’d survived the fall.”

  “Aye, nor did you,” Cadell reminded him.

  “I had reasons.”

  “As did I.”

  Cadell stared up at the small hole where a breath of fresh air sometimes filtered into the dungeon. “Nearly drowned and broken I was when I washed up on the shore. An old woman, one the townspeople called a witch, Fiona of the Hills, found me. There was barely a breath left in my body, nary a hint of life, but she took me in, healed me with her spells, herbs, and runes. I remembered nary a thing, my mind was near gone, but in time most of it returned. By then, ’twas years and many miles later.”

  “So how did you come to be a magician?”

  “Again, ’twas Fiona. She saw that I had the gift, as did my sister Morgana, and my grandmother, Enit. Fiona was a patient woman and childless; she was grateful to find one who could be nurtured and taught. She showed me how to use what the gods had bestowed upon me.”

  “And you became a sorcerer.”

  “So some say.”

  “You can heal.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But not yourself? You still are lame.”

  Cadell stared deep into Wolf’s eyes. “ ’Tis wise to remember we are only people, even those of us who have been given special powers.”

  “So you stay crippled by choice?” Wolf asked.

  “ ’Tis not so bad.”

  “Cadell, ’tis nonsense ye speak!”

  “Shh! ’Tis time.” Cadell’s gaze shifted to the stairs and Wolf felt it, that tiny rush of air stirring through the cells before the first scrape of a boot was heard. “Holt approaches.” With a twisted smile, Cadell turned his attention to the staircase and his lips moved not, though his words reached Wolf as surely as if he shouted. Do not forget, Ware, ye are injured so badly ye may not survive.

  Like an emperor visiting paupers, Holt strode through the shadowy caverns that were the dungeons of Dwyrain. His mouth was compressed against the foul air, but he carried himself as a conquering king and walked steadily, only to stop in front of Wolf’s cell. Four soldiers stood behind him, their hands on their weapons as if they expected the prisoners to attack through the bars.

  “Lord Holt!” the jailer exclaimed, jumping to his feet from the stool where he’d been nearly napping. “I knew not that ye’d be visitin’ the prison.”

  “Be still!” Holt ordered as his eyes slitted in the darkness and settled on Wolf. “The lady has bartered for your pathetic lives.”

  Wolf’s nostrils flared and his muscles strained. Glaring at his captor through the bars, he prayed for one more chance to place his bare hands around Holt’s neck and strangle him until the bastard could not draw a breath. Megan, sweet Megan, would be better off widowed. “Bartered with what?” he snarled.

  “Her subservience.” Holt’s smile was smug and Wolf’s insides turned to ice.

  Megan? On her knees before this lying, murdering cur? Never! Not as long as there was a breath of life in his body.

  Holt studied his fingernails for a second, as if thinking. “She cares about your flea-riddled hides. Because I want to please my wife, I listened to her pleas, but granted not everything she wanted. ’Twas my decision, as an act of good faith, Wolf, that I would release everyone but you.”

  Wolf felt a second’s relief. At least those he’d dragged into his personal mission of vengeance would be safe. But there was Megan to consider. He could not allow her to spend the rest of her life living as Holt’s doormat.

  “The traitors will be banished, of course, and they will be freed one day at a time to prevent them from banding together and plotting against the castle. But you, Wolf, will hang for your treason.”

  Wolf felt no fear and managed a smile. He was about to tell Holt that he’d meet him in hell, but Cadell’s unspoken voice called to him. Hold your tongue, Ware. Do not mock him. Play the victim.

  The thought was revolting. “I cannot!” Wolf announced, and Holt laughed.

  “But you have no choice. You’ll swing by your neck until it breaks or until you can no longer breathe. Either way you’ll be dead.”

  Wolf rolled onto the balls of his feet, ready to lunge.

  Stop! Remember, you are weak and ill from the beating and the torture of the coals against your skin. Do not give him the advantage of seeing that you are healed, or all will be for naught. If ye care for the lady, Wolf, pretend that ye can do nothing to help her—that the bastard has nothing to fear from you.

  “I’ll not—”

  She is with child, Ware. Your child.

  “What?” he cried, and Holt laughed.

  “Are ye daft, Wolf?” Motioning toward the dingy cells, Holt said, “Has being locked away stolen yer mind? I blame ye not. ’Tis not easy to be a prisoner, is it? The mind sometimes leaves us.”

  Gnashing his teeth in frustration, Wolf pretended to try to lunge at the bars, only to fall to the floor as if in great pain. With an agonized whistle, he dragged air through his teeth, then cursed Holt roundly. “Go to hell, you sick bastard.”

  A child? Megan was with child? Was it possible?

  ’Tis true.

  “Why did ye tell me not sooner?” he demanded.

  “He’s gone mad,” Holt said, clucking his tongue.

  ’Twas not necessary and should be something a woman tells a man, but I had no choice.

  Wolf closed his eyes. A baby. His child and Megan’s, and she was now married to Holt. His fists curled into balls of frustration and he pounded uselessly on the grimy floor. He had to protect her and their unborn child. Nothing else mattered, not even his own life.

  “Save your strength, fool.” Holt laughed. “You’ll need it when the hangman comes for you. Now, you, magician, leave this castle tonight and never return. ’Tis banished ye are, and I have guards posted outside the walls of the keep. They have or
ders to kill ye on sight if you come anywhere near Dwyrain.” He glanced to the connecting cells and said, “This goes for the rest of you. If any of my men spies your faces again, ’twill be the last time.”

  Wolf, determined to defy Holt and steal Megan from Dwyrain again, watched as his enemy turned and hastened from the dungeon, his bodyguards following after him like trained dogs. “Trust him not,” he warned Cadell, but the sorcerer was smiling to himself, as if he alone knew all truths.

  “Worry not about me. ’Tis your own skin that is in danger.”

  Wolf cared not about his own life, but he’d fight the very Devil himself for Megan and the baby she carried.

  Riding through the gatehouse with the magician tied and bound on the horse behind him, Connor decided Holt was a fool. Not only had the big outlaw—the one he’d heard called Bjorn—escaped with the woman Connor had planned to seduce, but now Holt was letting his prisoners leave the castle unharmed, or so it was to appear. The magician’s well-being was for show because some of the peasants and servants—aye, even the soldiers—had begun to believe that the man had mystical powers, and Lady Megan had demanded his release.

  ’Twas Connor’s mission to kill the wizard once they were far from the view of any of the sentries who might still be scouring the woods for Lady Cayley and her captor.

  Glancing to the dark sky, Connor cursed his luck. He’d given what small amount of trust he had to Holt, and the man had deceived him. While playing dice and drinking too much ale, one of Holt’s bodyguards had admitted to hearing the new baron conversing with the priest about marrying Cayley off to Baron Rolf of Castle Henning. The thought was disgusting, even to Connor, for Rolf was a withered old man, blind in one eye, who took pleasure in the torment of others—not that Connor didn’t understand the old man’s needs, but Rolf was past his prime, with a limp cock and a thirst for killing his wives, or so ’twas rumored. Connor could have accepted this, but the fact that Holt had lied to him by promising him Lady Cayley, then planning to barter her to a rich baron, was too much.

  Mayhap it was time to deal with Holt.

  A fine mist seeped from the ground, rising upward as Connor turned into the woods and stopped beyond a copse of oak, where a small clearing was surrounded by trees, ferns, and brambles. “Here,” he said, hopping easily to the ground. His quiver pressed between his shoulder blades and he thought that killing a crippled man was not much sport. He would rather have had a shot at Wolf or one of the younger, agile prisoners—Robin or Tom—but Wolf was sentenced to hang and the boys were locked in the dungeon.