ear Lord, did you have to deliver me into the hands of an outlaw? The wind tore at her hair, yanking off her veil and pulling free the plaits and flowers. Tears stung her eyes as Shalimar galloped furiously to keep up with the stallion. Mayhap she should have been more precise when she’d sent up prayer after prayer asking for deliverance from her marriage, seeking a way to escape the horror of being Holt’s wife. But was this man—this savage scoundrel dressed in black—the answer to her pleas? Would God play so cruel a trick upon her? Surely not!
“Halt!” Holt roared from the steps of the keep; his furious voice carried on the wind and followed them. Megan’s blood turned to ice. “Guards!” he yelled. “Where the hell are the bloody guards?”
Megan hung on for her life.
“For the love of Christ,” Holt thundered, his voice fading in the distance. “Stop that man! Kill him if you must. He’s stealing my wife!”
The horse turned and Megan’s hands, tied as they were, tightened over the pommel of Shalimar’s saddle. Mud spattered upward, staining her tunic as the dark sky cracked open. Rain and sleet slid down her back and pummeled the ground. Darkness crowded over the valley as the horses raced onward, galloping madly along the road. If only she could grab the reins, twist Shalimar around, and somehow elude her captor as well as her husband’s guards. Looking ahead, she saw only the outlaw’s broad back and his long black mantle sailing in the wind.
Behind them, she heard the shouts of men and thundering of hooves. Hazarding a quick glance over her shoulder, she imagined she saw the flickering lights of torches as Holt’s men gave chase. Her heart drummed as wildly as the horses’ hooves and yet she didn’t know which was a worse fate, being kidnapped by a criminal or being caught by her husband.
My husband. What a horrid, blasphemous thought. She shivered inside, thinking that if only she knew the outlaw’s intentions were honorable, she would thank him for helping her escape. But what noble man steals another man’s wife on his wedding day?
The demon rode on, kicking his huge mount’s sides, pulling at Shalimar’s reins, making the little mare gallop at a breakneck pace. They sped frantically down the road, splashing through puddles, careening around corners, sliding through wagon ruts. Faster, faster, faster! Shalimar was breathing hard, struggling to keep up with the longer-legged warhorse, and ’twas all Megan could do to stay astride the game mare.
Think, Megan, think! she told herself as the cold air tore more flowers from her hair and billowed her tunic over her jennet’s rump. As thankful as she was to this criminal, she could not trust him. For all she knew he planned to rape, maim, or kill her.
For weeks she’d thought her fate—that of marriage to Holt—was her doom. She’d nearly collapsed at the altar when Holt had slid the ring on her finger and said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, with this ring, I thee wed.”
After the nuptial Mass, Holt had received the kiss of peace from Father Timothy and passed it on to her. She’d nearly been sick. She’d been certain no fate would be worse than being tied to him for life. But this … this could be a swift and certain death.
She had no choice but to escape the madman who had single-handedly, it seemed, stormed through the guarded gates of Dwyrain, attended the celebration uninvited, and stolen her away right from under her husband’s nose.
The road forked and her captor pulled up short. Shalimar skidded to a halt and Megan nearly toppled over the mare’s head. Somehow she managed to stay in the saddle.
“Where are we?” she demanded, for she’d lost her bearings in the dark.
Still holding on to the reins of her mount, he frowned at the ground. Rain dripped down his face, plastering his dark hair against his skin. His horse stomped impatiently, as if eager to be off again. “Damned flowers,” he muttered under his breath, sidling his horse next to hers. Once close enough, he reached down and raked his fingers through the tangled strands of her hair.
“Ouch!”
“Be quiet!” Yanking mercilessly on the remaining braids, he stripped the blooms from her tresses.
“Stop! What’re you doing?” she cried, attempting to urge her mount away from him. His grip on the mare’s reins was stronger than the armorer’s vise. Shalimar sidestepped and Megan ordered, “Stay away from me!”
“Hush, woman!” he ordered. “I have spies in the castle; they would slit your husband’s throat if I were but to give the command.”
“You have no power!” But she trembled to think that all the deceit and betrayal she’d felt within the castle walls had been because of this man, this devil with the harsh, rugged face and cruel threats. Was he the reason that Ewan’s knights no longer felt honor-bound to their pledge of fealty? Had he undermined and stripped the baron of his authority? “You scare me not,” she lied. If only she could wrest Shalimar’s reins from his fingers and ride … where? Not back to Dwyrain, not as Holt’s wife, so where? “My father—”
“Your father is an old, foolish man who has put his faith and command of his army in a traitor.”
“A traitor—?”
“The man you call husband, the man with whom you will soon share a bed and with whom you will bring forth children,” he said, his lips curling in disgust.
Megan hoisted up her chin. “You know naught about Dwyrain—”
He laughed, and the sound was wicked as it echoed through the valley. “You’re as blind as Ewan!” Leaning closer to her, he said, “If I know naught of Dwyrain, how did I capture you, eh?”
“Bastard!”
“At your service, m’lady.”
“Pig!”
“Curses from a woman who would marry Holt of Prydd.”
“Nay, Holt is not of Prydd,” she said, bristling, then wondered why she was defending a man she did not trust.
In the darkness his gaze slid down her body and she sensed that he was seeing beneath the folds of mud-spattered velvet and silk, through her mantle, tunic, and even her chemise. “ ’Tis a pity that you should waste yourself on such a man.”
“At least I am not a thief, a highwayman who steals and robs and pillages and …”
“And what?” he prodded, his voice low.
“Rapes,” she whispered. “Or murders.”
This time there was no bark of laughter, no sharp denial. “Think what you will, woman,” he said. “ ’Tis of no matter to me.” His gloved hands ripped through her hair again and she yanked her head away.
“Stop it!”
“Then take the flowers from your hair,” he demanded urgently. “Give them to me! Now!” His lips pressed into a thin, hard line and he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Holt’s soldiers to appear from the shadows at any second.
“My hands are bound.”
“By the gods, Odell was right,” he growled, and picked—more carefully now—the petals from her hair.
“Who’s Odell?” she asked. “And who are you?”
His smile was evil in the darkness. “Tonight I’m Kelvin from Castle Hawarth.”
“And tomorrow?”
His gaze found hers and his stare was so baldly sensual, so intense, she gasped. Even shadowed with the night, his chiseled face was cruelly handsome. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, were guarded by thick black lashes and brows. His nose was crooked, his smile wicked. “I’ll be your keeper, m’lady,” he said in a voice so low she scarce heard it over the pounding of icy rain.
“Nay! No man keeps me!”
He laughed, the sound wicked. “Not even your husband, or so it appears.” Satisfied that the dried blooms were free of her tresses, he gave a sharp order to his horse again and took the east bend in the road. His tireless destrier charged along at a furious pace, and poor Shalimar, her coat already flecked with lather, had to race to keep up with him. As they thundered down the road, the kidnapper dropped the flowers from his gloved hand, sprinkling them on the ground until there were no more, then he pulled the reins on his mount and again rounded on her.
“Well, m’lady, ’tis time to give up your mare.”
“What?”
“A fine animal she is, but methinks it would be best if she were set free.”
“Nay, Shalimar is a good mare and not yet spent—” But her horse was breathing hard, lathering, and was in great need of a rest. “If we could but walk—”
“And let Holt catch us? I think not.” Before she could argue any further, the captor lifted her deftly from the saddle, swung her astride his own horse, dropped Shalimar’s reins, and slapped the mare’s rump hard with his hand. With a startled squeal, the fiery jennet bolted, hooves flying down the east path until she was swallowed in the darkness.
“Good.” Her captor was pleased.
“Are you daft?” Megan cried, trying to climb out of the saddle. She kicked and fought, slapping away his hands though hers were bound, calling out for Shalimar, but the man held her fast. Her heart filled with sudden fear. Without her mare, Megan had no chance of escape. Now she was completely alone with this beast of a man, this criminal, to be forced to do his bidding. He could ransom her to Holt, sell her, or have his own way with her. She swallowed hard, refusing to be defeated, keeping her despair at bay. “My horse is worth much—”
“I care not,” he said swiftly, one strong arm circling her waist, the muscles of his forearm resting hard and firm beneath her breasts, his iron grip clenched tight around her wrists as he held her tight against him.
“But the ransom—”
He clucked to his horse and headed deep into the forest, away from the road, where the darkness was so thick Megan couldn’t see. Branches slapped at her face and her back was pressed hard against her abductor’s chest. Along with the rain, his warm breath tickled the back of her neck, and his smell, so like the forest, enveloped her. The horse plodded on through the undergrowth and the demon said not a word.
The sound of men’s voices, still far away, whispered through the gloom. Through the bare branches of oak and yew, she spied flickering lights, the torches of Holt’s soldiers casting odd points of illumination as they searched for her. As if sensing she might cry out, the outlaw’s hand clamped over her mouth again.
Her mind spun in wild, frightening circles, but she would not give in to the fear that threatened her. She could not trust this man. Surely her fate with him would be as bad as it would have been with Holt, but at least she was past the sentries and could find her own means of escape.
Without Shalimar, she reminded herself, and felt a great loss.
She heard a night bird call and Wolf stiffened. From his throat came a like cry.
A signal. So there were more of them! Her heart sank. Escaping one man would be far easier than fleeing a band of cutthroats and ruffians. She shivered and the man pulled her more closely to him. His muscles were solid and she felt the shape of his knee and thigh pressed intimately to the outside of hers. She sat tall, trying to keep her buttocks from pressing against his crotch, but the task proved impossible. The saddle was confining, and they were wedged together close enough that she felt the rub of his breeches against the silk covering her rump.
“You’ll be caught,” she warned him when the lights had faded and the sounds of the soldiers’ voices no longer reached them.
He laughed.
“And tortured!”
Again the soft, amused chuckle.
“Then hanged.”
“And will you watch?” he asked, his breath feather-light against her ear.
“Aye!” she lied, for in truth she could not watch a man—any man—swing from the hangman’s rope. If the rogue were captured and returned to Dwyrain, she would plead for his life.
“My father will not stand for this.”
“Your father has lost control of his castle.”
The words were true and rang like the dull chimes of death.
“You will be hunted down like a wounded bear.”
“By your husband?” he asked, and she felt her spine stiffen and her chin lift.
“Aye.”
“Good. ’Tis what I want.”
“Who are you?”
“Can you not guess?” He leaned forward, whispering into her ear, causing a naughty little thrill to slide down her spine. “I, m’lady, am the embodiment of your husband’s worst fears.”
“Which are?”
“That he will be forced to pay for the sins of his past.” He yanked on the reins and suddenly, over the drip of rain and soft thud of hooves, she heard the sound of water rushing through the forest. A brook splashed wildly as it cut through the trees. Her abductor let his mount drink for a few seconds before pulling on the reins again and urging the big horse upstream.
“You are Holt’s enemy.”
“Aye.”
“Are you not worried that you, too, might be forced to face your own sins?”
His laugh was without humor and the warm arm surrounding her ribs pulled her even tighter against his chest. “Worried?” he repeated, his voice soft. “Nay, m’lady. I long for that day.”
Rage and humiliation burned in Holt’s gut, eating at him as hungrily as new maggots on a carcass. Icy sleet poured from the sky, creating mud and muck in the inner bailey as Holt waited in the gatehouse, his ears straining for the sound of his men. He only hoped they’d caught the blackguard who had stolen Megan. When his soldiers brought the fool back, Holt would take personal pleasure in whipping the bastard until his back was raw and bleeding, then have him hanged.
Who was he? Holt wondered, and his conscience pricked with the faces of enemies he’d made during his life. Aye, they had been many, but usually weak men or meek women who had seen the dark side of his temper. None of them would follow him here. So who would dare defy him so openly? Who?
His teeth gritted. All his carefully laid plans had changed. Instead of bedding Megan and basking in the glory of becoming the next baron of Dwyrain, he was standing in the driving rain, trying to conjure up the face of the cur who had deceived him.
Holt had been dancing with the scandalous Lady Peony, elderly wife of Baron Griffin, when he’d noticed the stranger in black—a tall man who caused more than one pretty female head to turn.
Within seconds, the stranger with the fierce countenance had taken Megan as his partner, twirled her about the floor, then as suddenly as he’d appeared, vanished with Holt’s new wife, leaving Holt alone in the middle of his own wedding celebration.
Holt had thought at first his mind was playing tricks with him, for his greatest fear had been that Megan would refuse to marry him, but after the ceremony when the ring was securely around her finger, he’d let down his guard, actually enjoyed the feast and music. Only later, when he’d finally understood that Megan had been abducted, he’d shouted out and then he’d heard the gasps, whispers, and titters of the guests.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Lady Peony had asked, her eyebrows lifting in delight.
“I know not,” Holt had grumbled and she’d thrown back her head and laughed, an ugly braying sound not unlike that of a donkey.
“What? What happened?” Ewan had searched the great hall with his pathetic blind eyes. “Where’s Megan?”
“She’s been stolen away,” Baron Griffin had surmised.
“What?” Ewan had leaned heavily on his cane.
“Holt’s bride has disappeared.” Sir Mallory had eyed each guest with suspicion.
“Disappeared? You mean she left, don’t you? But with whom?” another woman, whom Holt did not recognize, had asked. Her mouth had rounded in delighted horror.
“The stranger in black, did you not see him? Those eyes, so blue, and his visage … oh, my.” Cayley had looked to the doorway as if hoping to see the cur again.
“Like the very image of Lucifer!” Father Timothy had proclaimed. “He must be brought back!”
“How thoroughly and utterly romantic!” Cayley had said with a sigh, and Holt’s men had all laughed and made jokes about his first night as a husband with no wife. Speculation had run high that the man was Megan’s lover, that she’d expected him, that even now they were off in a private hideaway. His blood curdled to think of how he’d run outside into the rain, hearing the fading clatter of hoofbeats as he yelled to his lazy men to give chase.
Now, hours later, he still felt the sting of humiliation on his cheeks, the hard bite of betrayal. Guests and servants alike had gossiped and laughed at his expense and his wrath was greater than he ever could have imagined.
When at last his soldiers returned, they came with the bad news that the outlaw had evaded them deep in the forest.
“So you found her not?” Holt said, cutting through the litany of excuses made by his knights—Dwyrain’s best men—for returning to the castle without his wife or her abductor. What a pitiful lot!
“Aye, we lost them,” Sir Mallory admitted, his moustache dripping with rain and mud, defeat evident in his eyes as he tried and failed to meet Holt’s stare. He was holding the reins of his horse when a page came by and gathered them, leading the sweating, lathered beast away.
“How?”
“We followed their trail,” the soldier admitted, opening his palm to show a few wilted and dried blooms. Another soldier handed Megan’s bridal veil to Holt. “Hoofprints and flowers from m’lady’s hair. They took the fork that leads to Prydd, but … there were many tracks because of all the guests traveling through the rain. We found only the lady’s horse, grazing alone in a meadow at the edge of the forest by St. Peter’s Abbey.”
“Did you search the surrounding woods?”
“Aye,” Mallory said, “and the abbey itself, though the abbot was not pleased. We searched until our torches failed and the fog rolled in.”
“And what of the dogs?” Holt asked, barely holding on to his temper. He should have ignored his guests and taken off after his wife himself. As it was, he looked like a fool, yet again trusting these thickheaded farmers who called themselves soldiers.
Mallory shook his head. “The hounds were useless. Once they found the horse, they knew not what we wanted.”
“God’s blood, you’re fools! The whole lot of you!” Holt’s voice resounded in the gatehouse and he threw down the muddy wedding veil in disgust. This was to have been his wedding night, when finally he would not only bed the woman who had teased his mind for years and caused his cock to become stiff as granite, but, being married to Ewan’s oldest daughter, he would by rights inherit all that was Dwyrain. Taking off one glove, he slapped it against his hand, thinking hard, trying to understand the way of the outlaw’s mind. “Have you any thought as to who the rogue was?”
“He claimed he was Kelvin of Hawarth.”
“Kelvin of Hawarth?”
“Aye, younger brother to the baron, Osric McBrayne.”
Holt squeezed his eyes closed and counted slowly to 10. Ewan saw these men as dedicated, good-hearted, and loyal, but in Holt’s estimation, they were lazy mental midgets and cowards. Not a brave, smart one in the lot. “The man was not McBrayne’s brother. He’s an outlaw, I’m certain of it.” The sky opened up, and rain sliced to the ground in heavy curtains of water. Holt, already chilled to his bones, saw no reason to stand outside. “Come to my chamber,” he ordered, striding swiftly away.
In the great hall, he came upon a page and ordered wine to be sent to his room, but his thoughts lingered on the man who had so baldly stolen his wife. The criminal’s face had been vaguely familiar when Holt had spied the man in black dancing with his wife. Tall and dark-haired, he’d twirled Megan on her feet until she was breathless. Holt had been about to reclaim his bride’s attention when he’d noticed the stranger and Megan slip into the shadows and then quickly away.
His anger burned savagely within him.
Megan might have helped hatch the plot to humiliate Holt, for she’d made it plain that she married him unwillingly. Would she go to such lengths as to plan a false abduction just to avoid his bed?
’Twas possible. Earlier in the week, Holt had come across her in the hallway after one of her visits to her father’s chamber. Holt had tried to touch her and she’d shrunk away as if he were poison. “Leave me be,” she’d ordered, anger flaring in her eyes.
“Ah, Megan, I cannot. Asides, we’ll be wed soon and—”
“And I’ll be your wife in name only,” she’d said proudly, her chin mutinous, her eyes blazing with a fire that brought his damned cock to attention. He couldn’t wait to tame her, to force her to open her legs and mouth to him, to make her want him as much as he wanted her. He’d make her beg for him, tie her to the bed and touch her all over with feathers, allow some of his men to watch her surrender. But no one else would have her. Nay, they could look at her long-legged body, see the pink nipples of her high breasts, lust over the thatch of curls where her legs met, watch as their bodies joined, but only he could press his skin to hers and spill his seed in her unwilling body.
“You’ll want me so badly you’ll beg me to bed you,” he’d told her in that hallway, and she’d slapped him. Her palm had burned an imprint on his skin and he’d grabbed her arm. “Rough ye want it, lass?” he’d growled into her ear. “Then rough ’twill be.”
“You’ll rot in hell before you touch me!” She’d pulled her arm away and run down the hallway. He’d been so hard with wanting that he’d slid into a dark alcove and slipped his hand into his breeches to ease the ache. No one had seen him gasping there, imagining entering her body, seeing her mouth wet with desire as she kissed and touched him. He’d bit down hard at his release but he’d been unable to stop from whispering her name in a desperate voice he barely recognized as belonging to him.
No, he would not be denied.
The page brought in a pitcher of wine and several wooden mazers, which he left on a tray near the hearth. As his men shuffled in, looking like whipped pups, Holt wondered what kind of soldiers they were. He glared at the sodden lot of them, spineless men warming their backsides at the fire, causing steam to rise from their filthy clothes. “No one steals my wife,” he said slowly as he unsheathed his sword and stared at the firelight gleaming against the sharp-edged blade. “No one steals my wife and lives to tell about it. Find out who the bastard is and hunt him down. Kill him if you have to, but my wife’s safety and her virtue will not be compromised!”
His gaze roved from one sad soldier to the next, and he smelled their fear. They were frightened of him, which was good. He could use their trepidation to his advantage. Holt ran a finger along his blade, pressing hard enough that a drop of blood showed on his skin. He spread it slowly over the steel and saw each man swallow a sudden knot in his throat. With a smile meant to be cruel, he said, “Do not fail me, lads.”
Wolf was beginning to wonder if his plan to humiliate Holt was as clever as he’d first thought. When he’d heard that his enemy was planning to wed the daughter of Baron Ewan, Wolf had finally decided that fate had smiled on him, giving him an opportunity to belittle and disgrace the man he’d hated for so long. He’d thought only of the kidnapping, and then of the ransom, giving not too much consideration to the woman herself. He had heard that she was headstrong and that she’d been blamed for much of the pain in the house of Dwyrain, but he cared not and decided she was the pampered daughter of a rich man, a woman stupid enough to marry one of the vilest snakes in all of Wales. In his estimation, Megan of Dwyrain deserved her fate.
He hadn’t expected to see a beauty and pride in her that appealed to him, nor had he thought that holding her so closely to him while astride the horse would cause him any worry. As it was, he was distracted by the warm, female scents of her and the feel of her skin so close to his. Her hair tickled his nose and his arm felt the soft, supple weight of her breasts. Despite himself, that male part of him that was always giving him trouble responded, and to his disgust his member started to swell.
“We’ll stop here,” he said gruffly, when the evidence of his desire could no longer be hidden.
“Here? Why?” she asked as he slid to the ground, sinking into thick mud. The sleet had stopped, but the forest was chilled and shimmering in raindrops. Only a few stars dared wink behind a thick bank of clouds.
“ ’Tis as good a place as any.” He helped her from the saddle, then reached into his boot, withdrew his small dagger, and sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists.
She gasped at the sight of the blade flashing silver in the night, then swallowed hard. “Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her wrists and stretching her fingers.
“Not far from the camp.”
“Why have we stopped?”
He eyed her in the darkness, her white tunic nearly glowing. Even with dirt smudged on the fine fabric, she was beautiful, too beautiful. “ ’Tis a wonder we weren’t seen,” he said, gruffly, noticing the long column of her throat and the proud point of her little chin. Angry with himself, he motioned to her dress. “But there was no time. Now, before we get to the camp, you needs wear something more … more common.”
“Such as?” she asked, clearly uncertain of his reasoning.
“Such as these.” Reaching upward for the bag he’d tucked behind his saddle, he untied the straps that had held it securely, then tossed the sack to her.
She caught it easily and loosened the drawstring.
“The clothes will be too big, but they will have to do.”
She slid one hand into the open sack and withdrew plain men’s clothes, brown leather breeches and long tunic, the colors of which weren’t visible in the night.
Hesitating, she lifted her curious eyes to his. “Why?”
“Your dress is like a beacon, white as the moon on a dark night!”
“But we outran the guards.”
“It matters not,” he said, eager to be off again. Being alone with her was dangerous. “Just be quick about it.”
Stubbornly, she shook her head. “I cannot!”
“Aye, you can and you will, m’lady,” he said, watching her lips purse in mulish denial. “Or I will do it myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare—” she said, and he took a menacing step forward.
But instead of skittering away, she stood her ground, and when he brought up a hand to untie the ribbons at her throat, she didn’t flinch.
“Do not touch me,” she whispered, but her breath was as ragged as the night, her pulse fluttering wildly below her ear.
His own heart beat a desperate, tremulous rhythm.
“Then undress yourself.”
Silently she defied him.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered and instead of loosening the ribbons, he slit them through.
The fabric gaped and Megan’s hands fluttered nervously. “Leave me be.”
“Put on the men’s clothes.”
“I won’t be ordered about like some kitchen wench who—oh!” He cut the ties again, pieces of the ribbons floating to the ground, and the thick velvet fabric parted farther to expose the swell of her breasts, white in the slight moonglow, heaving in mute fury. Ah, they were beautiful, soft and round and large enough to fill his palm, but he didn’t let his eyes rest on their plump, unwitting invitation too long. Instead he lay the blade of his weapon between them to the next set of ribbons. “Shall I go on?” he asked, his voice but a rasp.
“Nay!” she whispered, and when his gaze reached hers again, he saw her rage, but there was more in her indignant stare, more than ire and mutiny. Unless he was mistaken, he recognized desire, hot and wanton, steal fleetingly across her face. “You’re a true bastard of the lowest order.”
“Aye, m’lady. Now, at last, we understand each other.”
Muttering under her breath, she snatched up his bag of clothes, stalked off to a nearby tree, and started to disappear behind its thick trunk.
“Come back here,” he ordered.
“But you asked me to change.”
“How am I to know you won’t run off?”
“To where?”
“I’ll not be spending the rest of the night chasing you down.”
“I swear I won’t.”
“I dare not take the chance.” Silently, he followed her until he could see her beneath the empty branches. She was working feverishly, quickly removing her mantle, surcoat, and tunic, stripping off the white velvet, standing in only her chemise. His gaze fastened on the cleft of her breasts, dark and dusky and deep, and his blood heated as she bent over to step into his breeches and pull them over long, supple legs. Tying the length of twine about her small waist, she was able to keep the breeches from falling to the ground, and then she struggled into his tunic, the shoulders far too wide, the sleeves and hem much too long.
“Better,” he said, and her head snapped up.
“You watched me!” she cried.
“Aye.”
Tossing her hair off her face, she advanced upon him. Lightning crackled in her eyes. “You have no right to do this,” she accused.
“I touched you not.”
“Only with your eyes.”
“No harm came to you.”
“Yet.” Dark hair spilled over her skin, and he felt a tug on his heart, a tug that he could not afford.
“As long as you are with me, Megan of Dwyrain, you are safe.” He sighed and looked into her eyes. “This I pledge you.”
She nearly laughed. “So now you’re the noble outlaw, are you?”
He reached forward and strong fingers curled over her tiny fist. “Make no mistake, woman, I am not noble. My intentions for you are far from pure. That you are married to Holt would not stop me from bedding you if I so wanted and you agreed.”
“Agreed?” she sputtered, her breath catching. “I would never—oh, for the love of Saint Peter! When my father catches you, he will skin you alive and then lay hot coals on your bare flesh.”
“And your husband, what will he do?”
She stopped suddenly and stared at him as if pondering a puzzle she had not yet considered. “He will come after you,” she said finally, her voice flat, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “And, I believe, Sir Kelvin or whoever you be, he will kill you.”
Cayley’s knees and back ached as she knelt on the cold stones of the chapel floor. Through the open window she heard the sound of the soldiers returning and the creak of wheels as guests left the castle.
Upon Megan’s disappearance, her father had collapsed and had to be carried to his chamber. Cayley had stayed at his bedside until the doctor had arrived, then Father Timothy had asked her to join him in prayer for her father’s health and her sister’s safe return. Cayley, who would rather have been riding with the soldiers searching for Megan, had spent the past few hours on her knees, whispering prayer after prayer.
Candles burned around the altar, their flickering flames reflecting on the portraits of Christ and the Virgin as the priest walked softly around the chapel, his prayer book open in one hand, a rosary clicking in his pockets.
Guests came and went, stopping long enough to cross themselves and whisper their own quick requests to God, but every time Cayley climbed to her feet, Father Timothy laid a patient hand upon her shoulder and searched her face with soulful eyes. “Let us not give up so easily, my child,” he’d said, and she’d resumed her position, wondering how much pain she had to endure. “God is listening.” Cayley wished He’d listen a little harder.
Cold, tired, and worried, Cayley wanted desperately for her father to awaken in good health. She also needed to know what had become of her sister and why neither Holt nor his soldiers had been able to find Megan and the scoundrel who had abducted her. Cayley had caught a glimpse of the man in black, his bearing resembling that of a devil, and a handsome one at that. Biting her lip, she said another quick prayer and chastised herself for her wanton thoughts, for the truth be known, she thought the stranger far more interesting than Sir Holt or her own beloved Gwayne of Cysgod, the man she’d sworn she would marry years before.
There was something about this ruffian that suggested he could make a woman’s legs go weak and her heart pound in a strange and heady cadence. Aye, the outlaw was Satan incarnate; Cayley crossed herself with renewed conviction and prayed.
“That’s better,” Father Timothy said, laying a hand upon her bent head. His fingers touched her hair and lingered a second too long against the back of her neck. “Surely God will answer your prayers now.”
She hoped so.
Nearly an hour later, the doctor announced that Ewan had awakened.
“Never again doubt the power of prayer,” Father Timothy said, thankfully relieving her of her prayer duty. On aching legs, she hurried up the stone stairs of the great hall, past guards who had been stationed throughout the keep and were ever vigilant for spies or thugs or strangers. “A bit late,” old Rue had said, silently motioning to the guards. “Why close the stable door once the horse has escaped?” But Holt had ordered the men to watch over everyone in the castle, and no one was looked upon without suspicion.
Passing so quickly by the rush lights that they flickered in her wake, Cayley slid through the door of her father’s chamber. Only a few candles burned near the bed. A fire was lit, but it had burned down earlier and now there were only red-gold embers glowing in the grate.
“News of your sister?” Ewan asked hopefully, his dim eyes sparking for a second.
“Nay, Father, the soldiers found her not.”
He sighed wearily. “Then we must pray for her safe return.”
“I have prayed all the long night,” Cayley said, sick of the tiresome supplications to a God who was deaf this night. Discovering mossy chunks of dry oak in a basket near the door, she tossed two dry logs onto the fire. Sparking hungrily, greedy flames crackled and hissed over the new fuel.
“Holt believes that there are those soldiers and servants who are unfaithful to me,” Ewan said as he adjusted the furs on his bed with his bony hands. “He claims that the outlaw who invaded our keep had spies within the castle, men who helped him steal your sister away.”
“I know not,” Cayley said, though she’d sensed a change in the castle these past few months.
Somehow, Cayley thought as she walked to the window and watched the clouds part to show a sliver of moon, the magician was responsible for her sister’s abduction as well.
Frowning, she sent up one last prayer. “Keep her safe, Lord. Please, keep her safe.”
The tunic was scratchy and far too large and every one of her bones ached as the first gray streaks of dawn lighted the eastern sky. They had been riding for hours and Dwyrain was miles behind them, somewhere far to the south. She’d not spoken to the outlaw since catching him watching her step into his clothes. Never had a man seen her in such a state of undress; the thought bothered her.
His mount was lagging as they climbed a steep trail that crested a ridge and then eased down to a valley near a winding stream. On the far shore of the brook was the glow of a fire.
“Your camp,” she said, dread clamping over her heart.
“Aye.”
Laying a hand over his, she drew up on the reins. “Why did you do this?” she asked, wanting an answer from this silent man before she had to face those who called him their leader.
His eyes were dark and the lines around them proved that he, too, felt the strain of the long ride. “I came for you,” he said, and she felt the jump in her heartbeat, no doubt visible at her neck. Nervously, she licked her lips, and he watched the motion. “I stole you away because you are Holt’s bride.”
“Why not before the marriage?”
“ ’Twould not have been the same.”
“Because, in truth, this had naught to do with me.”
“Aye.”
“So I am but a prize with which to barter.”
His jaw became hard as iron and she caught a glimmer of regret, leading her to believe that she was seeing a glimpse of another man, one he’d been long before he’d taken the life of the outlaw. She guessed from the conversation they’d had while dancing, the way he’d fit into the skin of a nobleman so easily, the few words they’d exchanged in the forest, that hidden beneath his ill manners and roguish ways was an educated man, one who might be able to read as well as command, one who was shrewd in the ways of the forest as well as in the running of a castle.
Again she asked, “Who are you?”
His smile was positively wicked. “Wolf.”
“You took the name of a beast.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“And why do you hate Holt?”
“Because he once rode with Tadd of Prydd.”
“Tadd of Prydd is dead,” she said and felt a tremor of fear.
“Aye.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry as sand and her fingers curled into nervous fists. “You killed him.”
Wolf’s eyes flashed. “I sent him to hell where he belonged.”
So he was a murdering rogue. God in heaven, why did she feel safe in his arms? Why had she no fear for her life or her virtue? Why did she feel that she could trust him? Though she’d never met Tadd of Prydd, she’d heard from her father that Tadd had been a cruel leader who met with a well-deserved and painful end. At Wolf’s hand.
“I have no argument with you, Megan. Nor with your father. Only Holt, your husband, is my sworn enemy.” He eyed her and frowned. “What know you of him?”
“Only that he had been in my father’s service for years.”
“And before that?”
She shook her head. “ ’Tis as if he has no past.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, m’lady,” Wolf said, tilting up her chin so she was forced to look into his eyes. “What he doesn’t have is a future.”
“Because of you?”
“Aye.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Now, before we meet my men, I think you should know that we have a rule that there are to be no women in the camp.”
“Then what of me?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“You will dress, think, and act like a man. You will do nothing to distract them. They are to think of you as one of them.”
She tossed her glorious mane of hair. “Well, I certainly have the clothes for the part.”
“But ’tis not enough.” Was there regret in his voice?
She turned to look ahead. “What more could you want from me?”
“Only this, m’lady,” he said. “Forgive me.” She felt him grab her hair in one hand and then, quick as a starving dog on a shank of meat, he withdrew his knife as if intending to slice the long tresses in one swift swipe.
“Nay!” she cried, her hands flying to her head. He hesitated, his weapon upraised. “You black-hearted beast!” she cried, trying to slide out of the saddle while his arms, strong as new steel, held her against him. Tears of fury burned behind her eyes but she would not give him the satisfaction of letting them spill. “You have no right to treat me this way. No right!”
“ ’Tis only hair,” he said.
“My hair. You have no right.… Please do not cut it.”
“But ’twill grow.”
True, it would grow, but the humiliation, the idea of him taking a part of her without so much as asking, burned hot in her soul. “If you do this, I hope you roast in hell!”
“No doubt I will, m’lady,” he said, sheathing his weapon and sighing as he let her long hair fall free. Clucking the horse forward, his eyes dark with self-loathing as they approached the camp, he said again, “No doubt I will.”