lankets tossed over his legs, Wolf leaned against the trunk of a tree and stared at his tent. His men were scattered about the fire, some in temporary shelters of their own, while others, the few who could stand no walls, were curled up as he was, beneath the shelter of a tree, the hilts of their swords and knives in their closed fists. Heath, Cormick, and Dominic slept fitfully, as if they’d spent too many years in closed dungeons behind iron bars. Guards were posted, their eyes searching the darkness as, ever vigilant, they tended the fire and walked around the edge of the camp.
Wolf was certain Megan would try to escape. Would he not attempt the same if he were the one who had been abducted? No small cord around his wrists would stop him. Nay, he didn’t blame her for wanting to return to her home, even if it were to share a bed with Holt of Prydd. His stomach turned at the thought and a new emotion, one akin to hot jealousy, crept through his blood. He didn’t like the feeling, for he prided himself on his solitude, for his need for no one else, especially a woman.
So she would try to escape and he would catch her and then he would end up sleeping in the tent with her, on the same pallet, under the same furs and blankets with her breathing softly in his ear, her body warm and comforting.
’Twould be hell. Even at the thought of it, his lust stirred. He’d been long without a woman, and none had touched him as had this one with her condemning golden eyes and tongue as sharp as a fine dagger’s blade, this woman Holt had chosen for his bride. Saints in heaven, ’twas his curse to lust after his enemy’s woman.
He’d planned to cut her hair, hoping to make her appear more manlike, to disguise her if they were accosted by Holt’s men and also so that she would be less attractive, less feminine, so as not to distract his men or himself. But he had not been able to go through with it, and ’twould not have mattered, for hers was a beauty that was not bits and pieces—eyes, hair, lips—but all-encompassing. He attempted to force his thoughts to a different path, but his wayward mind would have none of it. He could not concentrate on plans for moving the camp, or hunting for the next meal, or training Robin with a sword; no, his mind was determined to settle on Megan, with her wide eyes the color of honey and red-brown hair spread out around her face. The curls were thick and rich and he wanted to bury his face in their scented strands and lose himself in the wonder that was this woman.
Yea, the thought of sleeping with her held more than a little appeal. He dug the heel of his boot into the ground as he remembered the few glimpses he’d caught of her breasts, pale and full, her nipples dark, ripe spheres beckoning his touch. He’d seen the length of her spine as she’d shed her wedding dress, the gentle valley that curved to split her small, round rump.
Stifling a groan, he shifted, damning his manhood that had sprung to life at the thought of coupling with her. How glorious ’twould be to join his body to hers, to thrust deep into the warm well of her womanhood, to collapse on those soft, welcoming breasts.
Aside from the pure physical comfort he would receive, Wolf considered there to be no greater humiliation for his old enemy than for Wolf to steal Holt’s wife’s virginity. Even if she were not a virgin, ’twould be an insult of the highest order for a hated adversary to take her before she could lie with her husband.
Smiling in the darkness, Wolf savored that particular thought, but an old, unwanted streak of nobility, one he hadn’t been able to discard no matter how hard he’d tried, wouldn’t allow him to attempt to seduce the woman. Though she was a fool for marrying Holt, his intent was not to hurt her. His grin faded. Such a simple plan was suddenly complicated. He should ransom her now rather than wait. For though he enjoyed the thought of Holt twisting in the wind, not knowing where his bride was—whether she was alive or dead—keeping her was dangerous, not only because of the threat of Holt’s men finding them, but for other reasons as well—reasons that touched his heart and frightened him. In a few days … then he’d contact his old enemy and ransom the feisty woman.
He picked up a stick on the ground and idly shredded the bark from the softer white wood. Robin had offered to stand guard at Megan’s door and now, seated near the flap, his arms crossed over his knees, his head lolling, he was falling asleep. With a snort, the boy shook his head to awaken, but within seconds his head was falling forward again.
Robin wanted so much to be a man; he was eager to prove himself and would someday make a challenge for the leadership of their outlaw band.
Wolf understood a boy’s need to be considered an adult far better than anyone, including Robin, could know. He, too, had been a young eager pup, ever ready to take command of Abergwynn, the castle he’d left long ago in the life he’d shed.
Now, obviously, Robin was fascinated with Megan, the first woman the lad had seen and spoken with since Wolf had saved him from the jailer. Wolf knew the emotion. ’Twas all he could do to keep his hands off her and see that his men, a randy, vicious lot, did, as well.
One of his men, Simon, had once bragged of taking a woman by force and Wolf’s justice had been swift. Within seconds he’d knocked away Simon’s weapon and pressed the blade of his sword to Simon’s long, skinny neck. Simon had been tall and strong, his face pockmarked, his eyes never warm. He’d had arguments and fights with some of the men, and so it was with no regret that Wolf had stripped him of his clothes, horse, and weapons; banished him from the band; and left him, tied and bound, naked as the day he was born, screaming obscenities in the middle of a town to the east of Erbyn.
Simon had sworn vengeance, spitting and kicking and vowing to slice Wolf to ribbons, but Wolf had not worried. Simon was a coward, a bully who loved to prove he was stronger than those weaker—especially women.
Wolf had no stomach for rape and he would not let any of his men near Megan for fear that they might not be able to control themselves around a woman. There would be brawls and harsh words, all because they would want her attention. ’Twas the way of men—the curse of being born male. Even young Robin was already smitten.
This was one plan he hadn’t thought through well enough. Was he not as bad as his men—mayhap worse? Though he would defend her honor to the death rather than see her taken by force, was he not, even now, planning her seduction? The thought of making love to Megan over and over again was a welcome balm, and he felt that if given enough time, he could seduce her. But seduction thought out so carefully, planned without her knowledge, was probably not so much better than forcing her. Even though stealing Holt’s wife’s virtue would be great revenge, a way to further humiliate his enemy, and it appealed to Wolf’s sense of justice for the rape of Mary, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, abuse Megan thus.
Disgusted, he tossed the shredded stick aside and wiped his hands. Force and rape were what had driven him to become an outlaw in the first place, though Megan knew nothing of his past. ’Twas years before when he was just beginning to be a man, Wolf, then known as Ware, had been left in charge of the castle while his brother Garrick was away. Ware had never doubted his ability to command and his own pride and foolishness had been his downfall. He’d lost control of Abergwynn to the enemy and then, while he and his best friend Cadell were fleeing for their lives, they had been chased to the cliffs rising high over the sea. Rather than surrender, Ware had chosen death, urging his mount over the edge of those sharp bluffs and hurtling into the blackness wherein Cadell had already fallen.
He’d thought he was dead when he awoke in a fisherman’s hut and the sweetest woman in the world, the man’s daughter, Mary, pressed cool cloths to his head. Her hands were soft, her eyes trusting, her lips pink and always turned into a kind smile. She whispered words of encouragement and told him that she’d never lost faith, that she was certain with enough kindness and prayer he would awaken.
He was in love with her from the moment she’d asked him how he felt. He’d blinked his eyes open and even in his fuzzy vision her image had smiled down on him. “I knew you’d wake up,” she said in a voice as soft and pure as the first light of dawn. “God would not take one so young and handsome.”
She’d tended to him and he’d strengthened, living with her and her father, Alan, learning how to sail and fish, how to read the storms gathering in the distance, becoming accustomed to the gentle swaying of the boat. ’Twas easy to shed his other life, to leave his past and his shame on the rocky shoals beneath the cliffs of Abergwynn. Though his memory returned, he hadn’t been able to face his brother. Aside from the guilt of allowing his family to think him dead, he was content and in love—so innocently and completely in love.
He had planned to wed Mary, but before he was able, Tadd of Prydd, cruel firstborn son of Baron Eaton, had ridden through their village and altered the course of their lives forever. Mary, while selling fish in the market, had unwittingly caused Tadd to notice her, and after only one glimpse of her, he’d decided that he would claim her—not for a wife, nay, but for a night’s sport and pleasure.
That evening, Tadd and a few cruel-faced soldiers burst into their tiny hut. Swords drawn, expressions murderous, they slammed the door shut behind them and waited for their leader’s command. Tadd’s face was red from ale. He drew up a stool, smiled evilly, and announced that he wanted only a few hours with Mary, then he and his men would be on their way. He’d pay the fisherman for his trouble, but Mary’s father, a man of uncommon strength of character and faith in deliverance from the Lord, had refused, placing himself squarely between the soldiers and his daughter.
“You’re being foolish,” Tadd warned him, as Ware, too, tried to intervene.
“Leave here,” Ware had ordered, but Tadd was quick and armed. His sword struck swiftly, cleaving Ware’s eyebrow and knocking him into a watery darkness where he couldn’t move.
Tears streaming down his leathery face, Mary’s father tried to rescue her, and for his efforts his arm was severed at the elbow by Tadd’s sword, in a swift blow that left him howling in blind pain. He fell to the floor and Ware, barely conscious and lying in his own blood, thought Alan dead.
With all his strength, Ware struggled to his feet, but the blackness overcame him and he fell again. No amount of prodding could urge his pained muscles to support him.
Mary’s horrified screams rang in his ears, and through damaged eyes, he saw murky images of Tadd moving toward her. Ware screamed but no sound came from his’ mouth. He tried to climb to his knees, but his legs were no longer under his control. The darkness was like a warm cloak, offering to blind him from the pain, but he fought the urge to give up the battle. Desperate, his own ragged breathing filling his head, he scrabbled for Tadd’s sword, which the bastard had discarded as he’d untied his breeches. Eyes gleaming, Tadd stalked Mary, who was on the floor, trying to back away, her hands and feet failing her as they slipped in her father’s blood.
“Please, m’lord,” Mary had pleaded, tears streaming from her eyes, her body quaking. “Do not do this.”
“ ’Twill be pleasant, girl. You will enjoy it.”
“Nay, I cannot—”
“Ah, but you will,” Tadd said smoothly, then turned to Holt. “Hold her!”
“No!”
Ware grasped for the sword but his muscles would not move. The shadowy fog threatened him again.
Tadd’s breeches fell to his ankles as Holt wrested Mary to Alan’s bed.
No! No! No! Ware’s mind screamed, but no words passed his lips. Merciful God, help her! Let me save her! Do not let this happen!
The floor was sticky with his blood and Ware stretched, only to be swept away again, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t hear her horrifying, bloodcurdling screams or the smack of flesh on skin as Tadd slapped her.
I’ll kill you, I swear on my life that I’ll kill you!
Holt held her arms over her head while Tadd, undeterred by her kicks or screams, mounted her, grunting in pleasure, his fat white rump jiggling as he rutted hard and fast, undeterred as she screamed in pain. Ware was powerless. He swam in and out of the darkness that was his mind while a leering Holt pinned Mary to her father’s bed.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed to his knees, crying a hoarse, “Get off her, you sick bastard,” and received a sharp kick to the face from one of the soldiers.
With a cry, he finally lost all consciousness. When he awakened, he realized that again he had failed, just as he’d failed when he’d lost Abergwynn to Strahan. But this was worse—this was not a castle; not a moat, and walls, and locked gates. This was a woman’s very soul, her heart. His shame was immense.
When finally he could pull himself to his feet and stagger over to her, he found his Mary, his beautiful, sweet, loving Mary, cowering in a corner, holding a bloodied blanket over her bruised body and allowing no one to come close or touch her. Trembling, spittle and blood collecting at the corner of her mouth, her eyes round, her face bruised, she mewed like a helpless, frightened kitten, then hissed and scooted away when he’d tried to touch her.
He’d found more blankets to cover her ripped clothes and her battered body, but though he’d tried only to help her, she’d been afraid to look at him, nor would she ever speak to him again. That day Tadd and Holt had robbed her of more than her virtue; they’d stolen her mind as well. Her father survived long enough to take one last voyage with his daughter. Alan had refused to let Ware join them, and they didn’t return. A storm as savage as the wrath of God swept into the town, and Ware waited. With each day that passed, his transformation continued, and when he hadn’t seen Mary for over a month, he knew she was gone from him forever.
That was the day that Ware, no longer of Abergwynn, became Wolf the outlaw, a rogue who trusted no man and asked no questions of those who chose to follow him. Having lost all his faith in God as well as trust in his fellow man, he’d given up what few possessions he had acquired and had stolen away to the forests, where he could live life alone and would make no friends.
Eventually, he’d met up with a few tattered wanderers who, like himself, had pasts they could not face, and as their numbers grew, Wolf became the leader. He alone could read, and he, though not as large as some of the men, was more agile and quick and ruthless with his sword. No one challenged him. And no one ever admitted to rape unless they wanted to incur Wolf’s legendary and excruciating vengeance.
For the past few years he’d been satisfied with his vagabond, criminal life.
Until now.
Until Megan of Dwyrain had disrupted all his carefully laid plans. He’d had the satisfaction of destroying Tadd of Prydd and he’d thought that ruining Holt would only add to his vindictive fulfillment, but he hadn’t considered that he might be attracted to the woman whom Holt had wed.
“Mother of Moses,” he grumbled as the damp fog laid in closer about the camp. He should have killed Holt and been done with it, but he’d wanted to wound his old enemy in other, deeper ways. Death was too easy; he wanted Holt to suffer not only the indignity of losing his bride on his wedding day, but of having to search for her and appear the fool when he couldn’t find her. Holt would be the laughingstock of everyone at Dwyrain, servants, guests, freemen, and soldiers alike. The news would travel to other castles and baronies as well and Holt’s name would command no respect.
Then Wolf would kill him. But not before.
So what of Lady Megan? What was Wolf to do with her? He’d thought that ransoming her would solve his problem, but the very idea of returning her to Holt was unthinkable. There was not enough money in all of Dwyrain’s treasury to change his mind. So he was stuck with her.
That particular thought brought an unlikely smile to his lips.
Jovan the apothecary was a short, stooped man who liked gold. Where he squirreled all his money away, Holt could only guess. Jovan wore tattered rags, his hut was a hovel, his horse, barely skin and bones, was a sorry hack with a back so swayed it appeared broken. Whereas some men liked money for what it could buy and spent their gold on fine clothes, jewelry, or women, Jovan hoarded his gold pieces jealously. He found pleasure in owning gold, not in considering what he could buy.
But it mattered not. All Holt cared about was that Jovan was greedy and knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“So we do business again,” he said as Holt entered his shop. He hunched over a dirty bench, with a mortar and pestle, his knobby fingers working steadily as he ground some bitter-smelling leaves into a paste. Only one candle burned near him; Jovan would not waste precious wax just to save his eyes.
“Aye.” Holt dropped a small leather pouch on the bench. The flame of the candle flickered and Jovan could barely take his eyes off the tiny parcel. His tongue rimmed dry lips and his hands faltered in their work. With a cough, he set the mortar aside.
“And you want the same herbs?” Jovan asked, his eyes gleaming with the thought of a nice, fat payment.
“Yes, the same.”
“The price has gone up.”
“Not much, old friend,” Holt said, eyeing the dusty jars of roots, berries, and leaves.
Jovan reached for the leather pouch, but Holt grabbed hold of his bony wrist. “We understand each other, do we not?”
“No one will know, Sir Holt,” Jovan said.
“I was not here.”
The apothecary smiled, showing off spaces where there once had been teeth. “I know you only as a knight of Dwyrain, now husband of the baron’s daughter. Soon to be baron.” Was there the tiniest bit of amusement in his tired old eyes? “I will say that you have never visited my shop.”
Holt allowed himself a smile and let go of the old man’s arm. “Take it,” he said of the pouch. “Just make sure your blend is stronger than the last. I have not much time.”
Jovan snorted as he unwrapped the pouch and saw the gold. Quickly, he snatched the purse in a clawlike hand and stowed his prize deep in the folds of his dusty tunic. Surprisingly agile, the old man climbed onto a ladder to reach a high shelf with a hidden door. From the cupboard, he withdrew a clean jar. “I thought ye might be needin’ this,” he admitted, smiling as if he thought he was clever. “It has no taste and will go unnoticed if dropped into food or ale.” He handed Holt the bottle and their gazes collided, each sharing his part of a private secret, each knowing that he couldn’t trust the other.
“Two drops, no more than three, at each meal,” Jovan cautioned. “Elsewise ye’ll bring suspicion on the cook.”
“The man is old already and dying.”
“Aye, but he’s the baron. He will be watched.”
Holt felt an evil grin slide over his face. “I know,” he said. “ ’Tis I who will see that Ewan of Dwyrain is cared for.”
Jovan chuckled and the sound was cold and without any soul. “Then his fate is sealed, and you, sir, will soon be the new baron.”
“That,” Holt said, “is the idea.”
Again Jovan laughed. He rubbed his hands together. “I only hope that I will be rewarded.”
“ ’Twill be done,” Holt said, thinking how easily it would be to get rid of the old man and find his stash of gold and silver. But he could not kill off the apothecary for a while, not until he was certain he didn’t need Jovan’s help in murdering his enemies.
Megan knew he would be waiting for her. As surely as the sun would rise in the east in the morn, Wolf would expect for her to attempt to flee. She had no choice but to try. Silly as it sounded, she was afraid that if she were to stay she might lose her foolish heart to the handsome criminal with the rough edges and hidden nobility. Worse yet, he would ransom her, not to her father, but to Holt, her new husband. Spittle collected in her mouth at the thought of her husband, and she knew she could never return to him.
The cords binding her wrists were not tight, and it was a simple matter to scoot off the pallet and slide over to the side of the tent where she’d seen the tools and the small ax. Silently she slid the cord over the blade, sawing until the twine broke free and she was able to use her hands again.
She wondered where Wolf had positioned himself and decided that he was probably sleeping near the door, so her best chance of avoiding him was to slip out the back. Carefully, she felt around the bottom of the tent, where the cloth walls were stretched tight. There was no room for a snake or mouse to slide through, but with her ax, she could cut a slit in the tent and . . .
She felt him before she saw him. Though she’d not heard the flap move, she sensed his presence.
“I wouldn’t,” he said.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Come, Megan, act not like I’m a fool. You are not the first prisoner I’ve kept.”
“And I thought I was a guest,” she mocked, turning to face him in the blackness that was the tent. Could the man see in the dark? Did he have the hearing of her father’s dogs?
“ ’Tis time to sleep.” His voice was soft and patient and she wanted to crumple into a heap rather than think him kind. His hand reached for hers and she wanted to yank her fingers away.
“Do not touch me,” she said, walking the short distance to the pallet. “Leave me alone.”
“Nay, Megan, I stay.”
“But you can’t!”
“ ’Tis my tent.”
“But—”
“My camp, my rules. Lie down, woman, and argue not. I’m tired and have no patience left.” He dropped her hand, snagged a rug from the bed, and sat on the ground, propping himself against the bags.
“The men, they will think that we … you and I—”
“What matters what they think?” he said around a yawn. “They are not gossiping old hags who will tattle to your husband.”
She tried a new tack. “I won’t be able to sleep with you in here.”
“You weren’t sleeping before.”
“But I’ll … I’ll be restless.”
“Not I,” he said, stretching one arm over his head. “Now, either you lie down alone right now, or I’ll come over to the bed and lie with you.”
Her throat turned to dust at the thought of him sleeping next to her, his arms holding her against the hard contours of his body, his breath warm as summer wind against the back of her neck.
“ ’Twould be pleasant,” he said.
“Nay.”
“Once again, Megan, you have a choice.”
Reluctantly she lay down, thinking she couldn’t sleep a wink with him so close. Her thoughts would run wild, her mind spin in restless circles, her heart pound with fear. She dragged a fur around her body and within minutes her muscles turned liquid and she closed her eyes, not to open them again until the first light of dawn had broken over the hills to the east and the inside of the tent was filled with a gray light.
He was already awake and watching her, his blue eyes trained on her face, his expression less harsh than before. If anything, she saw puzzlement in his gaze rather than hatred. She blinked and the ghost of a smile played upon his thin lips. “Aye,” he said, rubbing his beard-stubbled jaw. “You slept nary a wink.”
Feeling foolish, she sat upright and held a fur blanket to her chest as if to cover herself, though she was fully dressed in his clothes.
“Everyone here in the camp earns his keep,” he said, rocking to his feet and standing. She’d forgotten how imposing he was, how his mere presence filled the tent.
“Aye.”
“Peter looks after the horses, Jagger tends to the weapons, even young Robin hunts and fishes.”
“And what do you do?” she threw out.
“Capture fair maidens.” His eyes found hers and she caught a tiny glimpse of his inner fire, a passion that he deliberately hid. “When I’ve caught all I need, I lead these men and also work with them. Whatever needs be done, whether it’s gather supplies, bind a wound, fix a ripped tent”—his gaze slid away to the spot where he’d found her standing, ax ready to slice through the walls—“or tend to the horses.”
“You have something you want me to do.”
“Aye. Do you cook?” he asked. “Some of the men have complained about Odell’s fare.”
She nearly laughed. “Is that so?”
“Aye, but Odell, he’s touchy about it. I thought I’d ask him to let you help out.”
“I know not if I could do much better.”
Wolf snorted and a smile danced through his eyes. “Surely you could do no worse.”
The next four days were much the same, though Odell grumbled about having a woman help him with the meals. At first she was allowed only to gut the rabbits and squirrels or pluck feathers from the birds that were killed, but once Odell discovered that she worked well and hard, she was allowed to help cook. They had only a few spices to work with and there were few herbs that grew in the woods in winter, but with a pinch of salt and pepper, purloined from a peddler who was riding near Erbyn, Megan was able to add some flavor to the meals.
The men, except for Robin, who ate anything offered him, appreciated her efforts, and some of the wary and suspicious glances she’d caught before became kind looks of appreciation.
She was allowed to go on a hunt and surprised the men, including Wolf, with her aim. Jagger, usually tough and mean-tempered, grudgingly nodded his approval when she felled a small boar.
“I knew not ladies could shoot,” he said, sliding her a confused glance.
She smiled and handed him his bow, for she was not allowed to carry her own quiver or arrows. “I knew not outlaws had a sense of humor.”
Even crusty Odell accepted her, though he was worried about Holt’s soldiers finding their camp. But Wolf was not so foolish. He had spies throughout the forests and nearby towns who tracked Holt’s whereabouts.
“He’s with his men near St. Peter’s,” Jagger announced one day. “And an unhappy lad he is.” Smiling as he tore apart a moist piece of dove, he sighed contentedly and sat on his heels. “There are two soldiers who ride with him who are as intent on hunting you down as is Holt,” Jagger went on. “One I know not, a thin knight with lifeless eyes and brown hair that kinks. Goes by the name of Conroy—nay—”
“Connor,” Megan said, a rock settling in her stomach. Connor was a lone man who watched everything and kept quiet. His eyes were empty, but he stared at her often, as if not seeing her.
“Aye, that’s it, and the other is Kelvin McBrayne. ’Tis said he took offense to being tied nearly naked to a tree, then having his horse stolen.”
“And a fine destrier he is,” Odell said with a cackle. “ ’ell’s bells. Kelvin, ’e shoulda been ’appy we left ’im with ’is pitiful life.”
“How so you know so much about who’s with Holt?” Megan asked, wiping the grease from her fingers.
“I get close. Hide with the horses or in a nearby tree, just out of the campfire’s light.”
“He’s foolish,” Wolf said. “Takes chances.”
“Ye get the information ye want,” Jagger pointed out and helped himself to another thick breast of dove. “Odell, ’tis a fine meal ye’re servin’ tonight.”
“Be thankin’ the lady,” Odell said, but smiled just the same.
There were no prayers offered up, no hint of Mass, no mention of God, though some of the men carried charms for good luck and spoke under their breaths of omens. Brave souls when faced with an enemy, they feared that which they could not see.
“I heard from Odell that some old lame witch put a curse on ye,” Robin said one day. “Odell, he listens to all of the gossip in every town we pass through.” Robin was at the creek, frowning, as his net had unwoven and a particularly large pike had swum away. The past few days, he’d been moody and had avoided Megan, sending her dark looks when he thought she could see him not. Now, at her arrival on the shores of the creek, he scowled. With agile fingers, he attempted to repair the damaged net.
“No witch—a prophet, mayhap, or a sorcerer. He healed my mare’s leg.”
“And cursed ye and yer castle, too. That’s what ’tis said.”
“So it would appear,” Megan said, motioning with her fingers for him to hand her the net. “Dwyrain suffered in the past two years, and aye, everyone blamed me.” She worked with the string, but it was frayed badly and would not hold together. “Have you more?” she asked, fingering one of the dirty, ragged lengths.
“Aye.”
“Run and get it and I’ll fix this.”
He did as he was bid and was soon back, sullenly watching her weave the string into a simple net.
“Ye sleep in Wolf’s tent,” he finally said.
“Aye.” So that was what was bothering him.
“Yet ye are not his wife.”
His wife. How strange to think of Wolf married and yet … a part of her saw some woman reaching past his hard skin, finding the inner man, the kind man behind his mask of hate. “Nay, Robin, I’m not his wife, nor do I sleep with him.”
Grunting in disbelief, he took the net from her hands.
“Believe what ye will, Robin, but Wolf and I, we touch each other not.”
His eyes narrowed on the net, but his mind was on other things. Wiping her hands on her tunic, Megan rocked back on her heels to meet the boy’s concerned gaze. “What is it?”
“Are you not married?” he asked, staring pointedly at the ring on her finger. “To another man—this Holt of Prydd?”
She nodded. “ ’Tis my misfortune, I’m afraid.” In haste, she worked the horrid gold band from her finger. It had been uncomfortable from the moment Holt had placed it there, a constant reminder of her mockery of a marriage, yet she’d not removed it, feeling duty-bound to wear the cursed thing. Now, however, she felt no such need and deftly tossed the tiny band into the stream. It sparkled in the sunlight before dropping into the clear water and settling between two rocks.
Robin stared at her as if she were mad. “ ’Tis worth something,” he cried. “ ’Tis gold.”
“I want it not. If you find some value to it, you may have it. ’Tis yours, Robin, all you needs do is go and fetch it, but I will never again wear it. Nor do I ever want to see it again.”
He swallowed hard and stared at her, as if she were some creature he couldn’t possibly understand.
“Now, let’s see about your net, shall we?”
“The net … oh …” Once the string was tied and the net strong again, they dipped it into the stream where the water pooled and promptly caught a frog swimming just under the water’s surface. Robin grabbed him from the net, but the slippery creature croaked in protest and struggled away, leaving the boy and Megan to laugh at his quick, ungainly escape.
They didn’t notice Wolf standing behind them, watching their antics from a thicket of oak. “Robin,” he said, and the boy nearly jumped from his own skin.
“Aye?” The boy’s flush was hot and red.
“Help Peter with the horses. We’re moving the camp.”
“Tonight?” the boy grumbled, holding the dripping net against his tunic.
“Aye. Holt’s soldiers are headed this way and we want not to be surprised.”
Megan’s heart dove. The thought of seeing Holt again struck hard, but then she’d found a happiness here as Wolf’s captive. The men treated her with respect and she was beginning to know each of them, from Odell, the sharp-tongued liar, to mean-tempered and daring Jagger. Peter, with his one eye and level head, was a kind soul who trusted horses more than he did his fellow man. Bjorn, strong and handsome, was rumored to be some kind of bastard prince, and young Robin reminded her of her brother Bevan when he was young. Then there was Wolf, the leader, a man outwardly cruel and arrogant who willingly defied the law, yet who was blessed with a kinder side he kept hidden. Wolf, who saved a young boy from the jailer; Wolf, who swept her away from a husband she hated; Wolf, who carried a secret that weighed heavily on his heart; Wolf, the man who guarded her each night, sleeping near her but not touching her, holding her prisoner and yet protecting her as well. Aye, he was an appealing man, and it crossed her mind that if she gave in to the desire that awakened whenever he was near, that if she dared kiss him or touch him or make love to him, she would have cause to have her marriage to Holt annulled. But as much as she wanted her freedom from her husband, the thought of actually lying with Wolf frightened her. ’Twas dangerous to become emotionally entangled with a criminal.
Megan helped break camp by folding tents and lashing them to poles to be pulled by some of the horses. There was but one wagon and another small cart for supplies and weapons.
Wolf insisted that they travel at night, avoiding those who traveled by day.
She packed the rugs and fur blankets, lashing them to the pallet. Would she ever see her beloved father again? Or Cayley—would she be able to laugh and argue with her sister? Or ride in the fields surrounding the castle?
That part of her life was over, for even if she did return to the keep, she would have to face Holt as his bride, unless she could persuade her father and Father Timothy or the abbot that the marriage should be annulled, that she could not possibly remain Holt’s wife.
She grabbed the bag holding her clothes, the white tunic, red surcoat, and green mantle, then bit down hard on her lower lip as she drew the string that would secure her bag. Surely Holt would want her not if she were no longer a virgin. Would he not cast her out as his wife if she’d lain with another man? And would coupling with another be worse than being married to him for the rest of her life?
Her gaze strayed to Wolf kicking dust into the campfire. Her pulse pounded in her temple. Could she give herself to this man, this black-heart, if only for a night? Her mouth turned to dust at the thought of his touch, warm against her skin, the pressure of his lips as they claimed hers. Her blood heated and she looked away.
Losing her virtue to him would not ease her burden. The clouds shifted, blocking out the moon, and she remembered the crippled prophet’s words. Could this man Wolf, leader of this band, be the destruction of Dwyrain as was prophesied, and if so, would she really lose her heart to him?