Three

egan bit her tongue. She wanted to rant and rave at the devil who’d captured her, to kick and scream at him, but she didn’t say a word as they rode into the camp. ’Twas better if he thought she was meek and frightened.

A sharp whistle broke the morning stillness as Wolf’s horse emerged from the forest. The outlaw’s camp was little more than a clearing by a small stream with several dirty tents and a few wagons scattered around a fire pit.

“I was beginnin’ to think ye’d been caught,” a thin, short man with a shock of gray hair grumbled. “About time ye decided to return.”

“Were ye worried for me, Odell?” Wolf said with a mocking grin that caused the shorter man to blush.

“Me? Worry?” Odell spit on the ground as Wolf swung from the saddle. Before he could help Megan to the ground, she hopped off the stallion’s back and stood a distance away from him, her hands still bound, her hair wild about her face. “ ’ell’s bells, I never worry!”

“Then why were ye askin’ about him every time there was a noise in the woods?” another man, with only one good eye and a patch over the other, teased.

“For the love of—” The thin little man eyed Megan curiously as he changed the subject and said to Wolf, “So this is yer prize,” narrowing his eyes as he scratched his head and studied her with a frown of distaste. “Ye gods, what are we going to do with ’er?”

Most of the men edged closer, forming a half-ring about them, and Megan managed to meet each set of curious eyes with her own stare. A sorrier group of outlaws she never wished to see!

“This is Megan of Dwyrain,” he said as the men gaped at her. “She is our guest and—”

“Guest?” she repeated, stung and unable to quiet her tongue. “You call me a guest? Was I invited? Did I have a choice of whether I would come with you?”

“Shh—” he said, his blue eyes glinting as the morning mist began to rise.

“Was I treated as a guest or as a prisoner? Were my clothes not taken from me? Was I not forced to ride into the forest?” Rage seethed through her and though she knew she should clamp her lips together to appear meek and frightened, she couldn’t stop the tirade that came from deep in her soul. “Were not my hands bound and my horse whipped so that it would run off?”

“Ye let a good ’orse get away?” Odell asked, his voice edged with concern.

“I had no choice.”

Again Odell spit, this time in disgust, and Megan, though she knew she shouldn’t say another word, couldn’t keep her jaws clamped together. “If this is how your leader treats a guest, I would hate to think what he does with a prisoner!”

By the time she was finished, Wolf’s expression was deadly, his hands clenched in tight fists, and his bold jaw was jutted and rock hard. “I promised I would not hurt you, Megan,” he said with slow measure, each word pronounced as if it was to be the last she would hear in this lifetime, “and I always keep my word. I ask that you do the same.”

“You have ripped me away from my home, dragged me away from my marriage feast, and forced me to ride with you here, wherever we are.”

“Have you been whipped?” he asked through lips that barely moved.

“Nay.” She shook her head and her wild curls brushed her shoulders.

“Beaten?”

“No, but—”

“Raped?”

Her breath caught for a second. “Nay,” she whispered.

“Bound except for your hands, which were set free when I knew I could trust you?”

When she didn’t answer, he lifted a dark brow. “Nor were you gagged, hauled about like a sack of grain, or touched in a familiar manner. You, m’lady, have been treated as my guest. However, should you disobey me or make trouble with my men, then you will be treated as a prisoner.” He pressed his face close to hers, near enough that she could see the angry streaks of gray in his blue eyes. “I mean you no harm, Megan of Dwyrain, but you will do as I say or suffer the consequences.”

“You have no right—”

“And as for your husband, if you love him, then you must know that I will do anything in my power to destroy him.”

“But why?” Megan asked, her eyes searching his face. What a puzzle he was—gentle one moment, cruel the next.

“Because he did the same to me. Now—” He looked up and found his men, quiet for once, staring openmouthed at the two of them. “Is there nothing to eat? We’ve been riding all night and our guest must be starved.”

“Robin caught us some rabbits,” Odell ventured. “And there’s pike from the stream and bread we stole from …” His voice drifted off and he cleared his throat. “Let me get the fires going.”

“But first, introductions,” Wolf insisted, naming them each to Megan. Odell, the older scamp who wondered about Wolf giving up her house and was tossing dry leaves and twigs onto the warm coals, looked harmless enough, though she wouldn’t trust him with the truth. The others—Jagger, who appeared tough and mean-tempered; Peter, with only one eye; Bjorn, blond and muscular; as well as several others. Last in the group was Robin, a boy of no more than 12 who could only stare at her and swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a leaf upon a rippling stream. His face, beneath a thatch of dark hair, turned three shades of red when at last he spoke, and upon saying her name, his voice cracked. The rest of the men laughed and made great sport, but the poor lad ducked away hurriedly, finding an excuse to slip into the privacy of the forest.

Odell had already constructed a spit over the glowing coals, and soon two rabbits were roasting, sending the scent of sizzling meat through the naked trees and bracken. Megan’s stomach growled and she heard a great flapping of wings in the branches of an oak tree overhead. Looking up, she spied an owl seated near the trunk, its neck twisted so that he could view her.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” Odell muttered. “Look who’s back!”

“He’s been here before?” Megan asked.

“Aye, lately.” Odell raised his eyes up at the huge bird. “ ’E’s a bother, if you ask me. Bad luck.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” Peter put in, but he, too, glanced up at the bird in vexation. “All he wants is our breakfast.”

“Sorry, ’e’ll ’ave to be cookin’ ’is own. I’m not wastin’ my time sweatin’ over an open fire for some bloody damned bird. Go on,” Odell yelled, raising his hands and flapping them wildly. “Shoo away, ye overgrown pigeon. Off with ye!”

The owl only blinked and settled his head into his neck feathers.

“Ah, who cares about ye anyway,” Odell complained, turning back to the charring meat, frowning as the grease drizzled onto the coals.

“Come,” Wolf said, once the men had gone back to their tasks. Some hunted, some whittled, some sharpened weapons, others gathered wood or tended to the horses. One man was carefully cleaning the blades of daggers and swords, and the boy, Robin, cast several nets into the stream.

“Come with me,” Wolf ordered, then led her to the largest tent situated near the forest’s edge. “This is where you’ll be sleeping,” he said and Megan heard Odell, from the fire pit, give a snort of laughter.

“Whose tent is it?” she asked, but she knew the answer.

“Mine.”

Her silly heart fluttered. “And where will you be?” she asked, lifting a dark brow and crossing her arms under her breasts.

His smile was that of a rake and her pulse thundered as he said, “I’ll be outside, m’lady, guarding the door, but if you try to escape, then I’ll be forced to sleep inside with you to make sure you stay until your husband comes for you.” His gaze touched hers and she lost her breath. “Where I sleep—how close to you—’tis all up to you.”

“Who was the outlaw?” Holt demanded of the commander of Ewan’s troops, a tall gaunt-looking soldier who never smiled. Connor was his name, and he had no family and no friends; he was a solitary sort who kept to himself. He gave a few of the men the willies. But the tall man was smarter than the rest of the lazy scum that were supposed to guard Dwyrain, and Holt needed his help. Now, Connor was checking the chain mail that had been cleaned and was hanging on pegs in the armory. “And don’t tell me the rogue’s name was Kelvin McBrayne, for I know better.”

“Nay, he was not McBrayne,” the guard said, fingering the tiny links, the metal clinking softly. “He looked more like … well … ’tis not possible.”

“What?”

“Years ago, I rode with Strahan of Hazelwood at Abergwynn, and the younger brother to Baron Garrick was a hotheaded lad who was eager for battle.” Lost in private thoughts, Connor moved from the mail to a wall of swords, the finest in all of Dwyrain. Old Ebert, sitting on a cask near the door and fixing links on another mail tunic, watched as Connor picked up a sword and tested its blade. “This boy, Ware, disappeared in one of the many battles at that time. Rode his horse over the cliff and into the sea. Never heard from again. Thought to be dead.”

“And now resurrected?” Holt sneered.

Connor lifted a shoulder. “I know not, but the outlaw who came so boldly here knew how to act the part of a nobleman. His bearing, ’twas much like Garrick of Abergwynn.”

Holt turned this information over in his mind. A rogue nobleman, but why would Ware of Abergwynn have any grudge against him? They’d never met, and Holt was certain Megan’s abduction was aimed at him rather than Ewan—elsewise why do it on the wedding day? “This man—this outlaw—Ware or whoever else he may be, has spies within the castle walls.”

Connor’s head snapped. His fingers tightened over the hilt of the sword. “Spies?” he said, but Holt guessed it was not the first time that particular thought had crossed Connor’s fertile mind.

“Elsewise how could he have got in alone?” Holt lifted a small sleek dagger with a bone handle, testing its weight. It fit well into his palm. “ ’Tis your job, Connor, to ferret out the spies, find who they be, how they know the outlaw, and bring them to me.”

“What if I fail?”

“Do not.”

“What if I discover them, but their tongues will not be loosened?”

Holt turned slowly and faced the thin man. “There are ways to convince a man to talk. Some men do not do well with pain, others are more likely to speak if they think a loved one may be seriously maimed, still others can be convinced by bribery or by desire for a woman. I care not how you find the truth,” he said. “Do whatever it takes and you will be rewarded.”

“With what?”

“What is it you want?” Holt asked, expecting to hear an exorbitant sum.

“A woman.”

“Is that all?” Holt was relieved. Women were easier to part with than gold.

“Not just any woman, Sir Holt,” Connor said, his eyes slitting in eager anticipation. “I want the daughter of Ewan.”

Holt’s temper flared and he grabbed the soldier by his throat. Shoving him hard against the wall, knocking over a cask of sand, he growled, “Do not test me. Megan is mine.”

“ ’Tis not Megan I want,” Connor said, laughing despite the strong fingers at his throat. “Nay, ’tis the second daughter, the one with hair of gold.”

“Cayley.”

“Aye. If I find the spies in Dwyrain and they lead to the return of your wife, then I want the lady Cayley.”

“As your wife.”

Connor’s nostrils flared. “Nay, m’lord, I want her for my whore.”

“… to be robbed of yer wife on yer weddin’ day.” Red, one of the guards stationed at the door of the keep, was eyeing the peddlers, farmers, and hunters riding into the castle while observing some of the late-staying guests who were leaving at last. Red had always had an ear for gossip, so Cayley, on her way to her father’s chamber, tarried in the hallway, listening to what the men were saying behind Ewan’s back. “ ’Tis a shame, say what?” Red continued, speaking to a tall soldier with eyes as flat as the stones on the keep’s smooth floor. “To be thinkin’ all day that you’ll be weddin’ your wife and then to have her snatched away so some outlaw can ’ave his way with ’er, and don’t try and tell me that the lady’s virtue will be intact when she returns. She’s a pretty one, eh, and what man with blood flowing through his veins wouldn’t want a go at ’er?”

“You think she was stolen to become an outlaw’s whore?” the tall man said in a raspy voice that caused Cayley’s skin to crawl.

“I’m not sayin’ that was the reason she was taken, but I’ll be bettin’ my last piece o’ gold that someone besides Holt bedded her last night.”

“If so, that someone will pay and pay dearly,” the taller soldier replied. “Holt will not stand for it.”

“Aye, Connor,” Red agreed. “And methinks ’e might blame ’is wife as well. Even if she put up a fight and the man raped her, Sir ’Olt’s not a forgiving man.”

Cayley’s stomach turned over, and she again prayed that her sister was safe.

Shouts filled the air.

“Who’s at the gate?” Red asked.

“Maybe the outlaw’s been caught.”

Cayley’s heart beat like a madman’s drum.

There was a loud cry from the sentry and both soldiers rushed down the steps. Cayley, her blood cold as the bottom of the moat, slid out from the shadows and hurried through the open door and down the wet steps. Her boots sank into the mud of the inner bailey, but still she ran forward. Soldiers were dragging a half-dressed man up the path leading to the great hall.

“Call for Sir Holt!” one of the knights ordered Red. “We’ve got a man who claimed he was attacked by the outlaw!

“So you’re Kelvin of Hawarth,” Holt said, tearing off a piece of bread and handing it to the blond man his men had found wandering through the forest not far from the castle. Nearly naked, half frozen, his lips blue as midnight, he’d been discovered by two of Holt’s men who were looking for the outlaw.

“Aye, my older brother is Osric, the baron, and Rhosyn is my niece,” he said, shivering in the great hall. He sat on a bench near the fire, warming his back through the blanket that was wrapped around him. A proud man, and impetuous, he was embarrassed as he told his tale. “I was on my way to the wedding when a bastard jumped me, put a knife to my throat, gagged and stripped me, then tied me to a tree. All the while he’s doin’ this, he’s thankin’ me for the fine clothes and invitation to the wedding. Jesus God, I thought my life was over!”

He paused to chew the crusty bread. “Hours later, in the black of the night, an old man comes up to me, tells me I’m lucky not to be dead, and steals my horse, leavin’ me in the freezin’ rain. I started walking, probably in circles mostly, and didn’t find the road until this morning.”

Holt scowled as he cut a piece of cheese with the cruel little dagger he’d taken from the armory earlier. “You knew this man not?”

“Nay, never seen ’im before in my life, but before I left Hawarth, the sheriff warned me of bands of thugs raiding the roads. There’s a man they call Wolf, dark of hair, with a split eyebrow, who is the leader of a group of cast-outs. They say the men know each other only by a name they chose and no women or children are allowed in the group. The men are fiercely loyal to Wolf, the only one of the lot who can read, a man who some claim was of noble birth but was cast out for some past sin.”

“Think you that you were the victim of this Wolf?”

Kelvin took a bite of the cheese, then washed it down with a long swallow of wine. “Aye,” he said with a crisp nod. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he scowled. “Shamed me, he did. Left me to rot, though the other member of his band—at least I think the old bugger was one of the thief’s men—did release me and only steal my horse. A wicked one, that, with an evil cackle that sounded like it came from the bowels of hell.” Shuddering, he looked Holt square in the eye. “I scare not easily. My brother claims I’m too bold and reckless for my own good, but that night alone, strapped to the base of a tree wearing naught but my braies, hearing bats and owls and all sorts of creatures scuttling through the brush, I was scared, let me tell you. What if some beast had come by, or another murdering thug? I had not my sword or hands that I could use. Helpless, I was, and ’tis a feeling I’ll not want to have again any too soon. Even after the old one cut me loose, I was near naked. If I ever come across the black-heart who did this to me, I swear I’ll run him through and take God’s punishment.”

Holt believed him. The man felt as humiliated as he did. So Holt gained another ally in his fight against the outlaw. “This time I will go after him myself,” Holt said. “You may ride with me if you like, but make no mistake, we will not return empty-handed.”

Kelvin grinned. “Aye,” he said. “If you can spare some clothes and weapons, I’ll gladly hunt down the bastard.”

“Are ye hungry?” the lad, Robin, asked her. He was fair of skin with freckles all about his face, round blue eyes, and teeth that were far from straight, but his smile was true and the blush that stained his cheeks caused Megan to return his grin.

“Aye, a bit.”

In truth, she was starved. ’Twas evening. Darkness had collected over the land, bringing with it a soft mist and quiet fog that hung close to the ground. Though she’d done little but explore the camp while thinking of ways to escape, she was hungry again. The charred rabbit and fish had been hours ago and though she’d been offered a goodly portion, she’d barely touched the burned, tasteless food. Odell lacked Cook’s spices and sense of timing, though no one else acted as if it mattered. The men had devoured the tough meat as if the food were a great feast, and Wolf, while he’d sliced off a shank of rabbit and eaten it with his knife, had watched her, apparently amused at her distaste for the meal.

Since then, she’d barely seen him. He’d been in one tent or the other, off riding or talking by the stream with his men. There were many questions asked of him, along with sidelong looks cast her way from each of the men. ’Twas more than obvious that many of the band resented her. Others, like charming Robin, were eager to make her acquaintance.

Wolf had not insisted she be bound. All he had asked was that she stay in the camp in his sight. When the time had come for her to relieve herself, he’d walked with her into the woods and waited on the other side of a copse of trees until she was finished. ’Twas awkward and embarrassing, but better than having her wrists or ankles tied.

The men in the camp were an odd lot, solitary sorts whom she suspected were outcasts either by their own choice or the choosing of their loved ones. Cutthroats, pickpockets, robbers, or murderers, she knew not. No one, as far as she could tell, discussed his crimes. Past lives were never mentioned, another rule of the band. Just as there were to be no women in the group, there were also no secrets shared about crimes, homes, or loves.

“Tell me about your leader,” she said to Robin after he’d brought her a trencher of beans and fish that again was burned. Wolf caught her eye as he spoke to the tall blond one—Bjorn—then turned back to his conversation.

The men ate at will. Whenever their job was finished, they stopped by the fire where Odell offered up his pitiful fare. Wolf had barely eaten but he was unable or unwilling to stop long enough for a meal. There were no prayers of thanks sent to God, no formality whatsoever.

Robin sat on a stone next to hers by the stream. “Wolf took me in.”

“You mean stole you away from your mother,” she said, eating with her fingers as Robin did.

“Nay, I have no ma,” Robin said. “She died birthin’ me.”

“Oh … I’m sorry.”

He lifted a bony shoulder. “ ’Tis no matter. I lived with me uncle and aunt until they died of the sickness and then Brother Anthony, he wanted me to work with the monks at the abbey, but … well, I took to stealin’ and the sheriff caught up with me. If not fer Wolf, I woulda been cast into the prison at Hawarth.”

“But Wolf found you.”

“Aye. I know not how, or why, but he kidnapped me right from under the jailer’s nose.” Chuckling at the thought, Robin ate hungrily.

“Have you no family?”

“Not since me auntie died.” He had the reverence to cross himself, then polished off the remains of his trencher. When she paused after a bite, he pointed at her uneaten portion of beans. “Will ya be eatin’ that, m’lady?”

Megan shook her head. Though she wasn’t finished, she could see that the lad was still ravenous and she remembered Bevan when he was but 12 or 13. It made no matter how much he ate at mealtimes or that he stuffed himself until he belched loudly, her brother could not get enough food to last him from one meal to the next. “Please, if you would finish it for me,” she said, handing him the remains of her trencher. “I would not want to offend Odell.”

He grinned widely and within seconds, beans and stale bread had disappeared. As he licked his fingers, smacking his lips, she tried to ask him a few more questions about Wolf, but the boy had nothing further to add and went off in search of more scraps. ’Twas obvious that this ragged band’s leader was as much a mystery to his men as he was to her.

She should hate the outlaw, despise him, loathe him. For the injustices she’d been made to suffer at his hand, she should be plotting to turn him in to the sheriff herself.

Washing her hands in the icy depths of the stream, she glanced over her shoulder and watched as he walked between the tents, the light from the campfire casting gold shadows upon a hard face that was rigid and unforgiving and battle-scarred.

She had to remind herself that he was a black-heart, a man who should be flogged for snatching her away from her father. But a part of her wasn’t convinced, the small, feminine part of her that found the rogue attractive and appealing. That traitorous female part reminded her that were it not for Wolf, she would today be a virgin no longer, in more than name the wife of Holt, perhaps already carrying his child. The thought revolted her and her stomach, laden with Odell’s tasteless fare, threatened to purge itself.

For saving her from her marriage, she was grateful to the demon, although she had to make good her escape; if not, he would ransom her back to her husband and she would be worse off than before she was kidnapped.

She’d steal a horse. Wolf owed her one for setting Shalimar free, so she’d take his best steed as well as some food and these clothes he’d given her, tattered and large though they be.

Plotting her escape, she stared into the water’s inky depths. She tried to see her image in the black ripples, but the campfire’s light barely gave her enough illumination to view her pale face surrounded by wild, untamed red-brown hair. She’d hardly pass for a boy, but then she didn’t have the bearing of a woman of noble birth. She pushed a shank of unruly curls behind her ear and turned her head to the side.

“So here ye be.”

Wolf’s voice startled her and she jumped, losing her balance and half falling into the brook. She caught herself with her hands, but created ripples that distorted her image. He was on the far side of the creek, one boot propped against an exposed root of a willow tree, his back resting against the trunk, arms folded over his chest, his dark clothes blending into the night.

“You scared me.”

“Because you wandered too far from camp. ’Tis dark and not safe for you alone.”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” she mocked, rising to her feet and wiping her hands on the long hem of the tunic. “You fear I might be abducted by some outlaw who would steal me away and demand ransom for my safe return?”

His laugh was cold as the night. “You’re a sassy one. ’Tis no wonder your father wanted you married off.”

“Back to that, are we?” she said, frowning as she wondered what demons plagued this man who had so boldly stolen her from her father’s castle. “Tell me—why do you hate Sir Holt?”

“What know you of him?”

“Very little.”

“But you agreed to marry him and plan to live the rest of your life as his wife.” He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

“He has been loyal to my father—”

“He would cut out your father’s heart like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

Genuine fear gripped her insides. “Nay—” she said, but her protest was weak.

“Fear not, m’lady, I’ll have you back safely in his arms before a fortnight passes—”

“No!” The word slipped out before she could think, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from speaking her true thoughts, which, she was sure, this outlaw would turn against her.

“Want you not to return to Dwyrain?” he asked, and the wind picked up, riding on the current of the stream.

“Aye, but—”

He waded across the creek, mindless of the depths of the icy water that swirled and splashed about his boots, his gaze fastened to hers as if her eyes opened deep into her soul. Oh, what a fool she was. She should not let this man have the tiniest glimmer of what she thought. ’Twould be dangerous for him to know too much about her, to give him that power.

“Why did you agree to marry Holt?” he asked, his voice low.

“ ’Tis no concern of yours.”

“Why?” he said, climbing up the short bank to stand in front of her. He was nearly a head taller than she and he craned his neck downward to stare deep into her eyes. “Do you love him?”

Her throat closed in on itself.

With one clenched fist, he propped up her chin, forcing her to look into his blue, blue eyes. Shadowed in the dark, they glimmered for a second with some deep and strange emotion that touched her before it disappeared. “Tell me.”

A new emotion, one she couldn’t name, started deep in her chest, causing her heart to drum and her pulse to pound and her breath to catch. Though she knew she was making a mistake by confiding in him, she admitted the truth. “Nay, I … I love him not. ’Twas my father’s wish that I marry Holt.”

“And you agreed?”

“I had no say.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as if he didn’t believe her. “I’ve heard of you, Megan of Dwyrain,” he admitted, his face so close to hers she saw red-gold pinpoints of light—reflections from the campfire—in his eyes. She stood as if rooted to the earth, unable to move, unwilling to protest. “ ’Tis said you have a mind of your own, that you do as you choose, that you ride in and out of the castle gates without a guard whenever you so desire.”

“Not always.”

“I’ve seen you myself, while I was waiting for my chance to steal you away.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, thunderstruck. How long had he sought and plotted his revenge?

“Aye.”

Anger took control of her tongue. “You are a fiend!”

His smile was touched with self-condemnation. “So I’ve been told.” He studied her again and she wanted to squirm from beneath his scrutinizing eyes. “Your father gives you much freedom, many choices, pampers you and lets you hunt in the forests and ride far from the castle gates. Yet you say he chose the man for you.”

“What concern is it of yours?” she snapped, unable to stop seething. But what reason did she have to hide the truth? If his revenge was against Holt, mayhap ’twas better if she admitted that she, too, trusted not the man she’d taken as her husband.

“Yea, ’tis true,” she said, pursing her lips. “But my father is no longer young, nor well. He talks of dying and meeting my mother and brother and sister soon in heaven. He fears that my other sister and I will be able not to care for ourselves, that we need men to protect us.”

He snorted as if the thought were that of a simpleton. “Thinks he that you are weak?”

“Nay, not just me. All women.”

Wolf laughed. “Not always and surely not you.”

She favored him with the hint of a smile as he rubbed his cheek where she’d slapped him earlier that evening.

“Father wants a grandson. He decided that because I had no suitors that pleased me and was not hasty to accept a proposal, he would pick a husband for me.”

“So he chose Holt.”

“Aye,” she said, sliding him a glance. “He chose Sir Holt because of his bravery and loyalty and courage.”

“Then Ewan must be deaf, mute, and blind as well as stupid,” Wolf said. “Your husband is a weak coward whose only loyalty is to himself.”

“He is not my husband,” she blurted, then bit her tongue.

“Nay?” Wolf mocked. “Did you not stand up at the altar and pledge yourself to him?”

“Aye,” she admitted, feeling weak. Squeezing her eyes shut, she gritted her back teeth, remembering how soft her voice had sounded, how difficult it was to say two simple words. “I do” had come after tense, silent moments when Holt’s nostrils had quivered in rage and her father had pleaded with her mutely, his cloudy eyes beseeching hers.

“Then are you not his wife?”

“Yes!” The horrid word echoed through the forest.

Instead of being pleased, Wolf was vexed, his mouth blade-thin, his lips flat against his teeth. “ ’Tis a pity,” he said, “for this husband of yours will do naught but give you pain.”

“You know not,” she accused, but his eyes were dark as the black waters at the bottom of a well. “Tell me,” she whispered. “What is it you know of him?”

Wolf stared at her as if about to say more, then changed his mind. He glanced at the sky, black and starless. “Come,” he said gruffly. “ ’Tis time for sleep.”

“You know something of my husband.”

“Many things.”

“Yet you will not tell me.”

“Ask Holt,” Wolf said angrily, “about Tadd of Prydd and the fisherman’s daughter.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter. Come, woman, you tire me.” His skin was stretched so tightly over his face that his jawbone showed white and his eyes had darkened to an evil, murky color that warned her she was wading too far into treacherous waters.

Even so, she could not hold her wayward tongue. “But I needs know—”

“When the time is right,” he bit out, fury rolling from him in waves.

She begged him to tell her more, but he refused and took hold of her hand, pulling her behind him, dragging her toward his tent. Several men working around the campsite sent curious glances her way as she argued with him. There were whispers and laughter and she imagined she was the subject of their ribald jokes and meaningful knowing glances. Her cheeks burned with color as he pushed her into his tent then closed the flap behind them.

The space was small, but in the light from the campfire she saw not only the pallet in the center, but also a chest and two sacks, one she recognized as holding her wedding dress. Several tools were stacked near the doorway and she spied a hand ax and a coil of thick rope.

Whirling upon her, he planted his hands firmly on his hips and stood between her and the doorway. “Never!” he said, his voice without compromise, his nostrils flared. “Never again defy me in front of my men.”

“Why not?”

“It shows a lack of respect.”

“But stealing a bride on her wedding day does not?”

Muttering a curse, he yanked on her hand and twirled her against him. Before she could break free, both of his arms held her in a grip that threatened the air in her lungs. “Do not challenge me, Megan.” His voice was low, his lips nearly brushing her temple as he gave her a tiny shake. She could barely breathe, and as the light from the campfire seeped through the walls, she met his hard glare with a mutinous stare of her own.

“Do not order me about like some addled scullery maid.”

“I have treated you well.”

“You—you have treated me with only contempt.”

His eyes drifted to her lips and she quivered in anticipation. They were alone in the dark, standing near the edge of a single pallet covered with thick furs. Megan counted her heartbeats and watched as his throat moved.

“You—you promised that I would sleep alone,” she said, suddenly mindful of her virtue.

“Aye, and I keep my word,” he said as her breasts rose and fell against the hard wall of his chest.

Her pulse was pounding in her head and when she licked her dry lips, he groaned then dropped his arms from her quickly, stepping back. “Mother of God,” he whispered, running both his hands through his black hair. “What kind of woman are ye?”

“A captive,” she said, her voice breathless.

“If I’m not here with you, what’s to prevent you from sneaking away?”

“I would not—”

“Do not lie, Megan. You’ve been planning to escape since you first arrived. I saw you eyeing the horses and searching the woods. You’ve watched the men in the camp all day and even this night, hoping you’ll discover where the sentries are posted and who they be.”

Swallowing hard, she mentally kicked herself. How had she been so obvious?

He reached into a bag on the floor and withdrew a length of soft cord. “Give me your hands.”

“Nay.”

A muscle worked at the edge of his jaw. “Would you rather I force you?”

“Please, Wolf, do not bind me,” she pleaded, and he hesitated, his eyes searching hers, his lips folding in on themselves.

“And I would have your word that you will not try to escape?”

“As God is my witness,” she said, hoping the Lord didn’t strike her dead for the lie.

He looped the cord through both his hands, stretching it tight. “Then I’ll give you a choice, Megan of Dwyrain,” he said slowly. “You can sleep alone with your wrists bound. Or—”

“Or?” she repeated, her heart knocking crazily, the air in the tent suddenly too heavy to breathe.

“Or I will make my bed in here with you and you can sleep unbound.” One of his dark eyebrows lifted insolently and she quivered inside at the eager gleam in his deep blue eyes. “So tell me, m’lady,” he urged, snapping the cord again, “what will it be?”