Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

The chapel bells had rung hours before, announcing that the marriage ceremony itself and the nuptial Mass following the ceremony had ended. Good. ’Twas important that Holt be married. Wolf only hoped Holt loved Ewan’s daughter with all his black heart. She was the older of the baron’s daughters, and some, including his allies within the castle walls, blamed her for their troubles, claiming she’d brought a curse upon the keep. They were only too eager to help him with his plot and be rid of Megan.

As if he had every right to enter, he half ran up the steps of the great hall and ignored a guard posted at the door, but he was stopped by a tall, lanky soldier with a scraggly red beard and a scar running down one side of his face.

“Excuse me, sir, but have you an invitation?”

Wolf paused and let a small, amused smile play upon his lips, the kind of knowing grin that one of superior birth rains on an underling. “Pardon me?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “An invite, sir.”

The knife in his boot rubbed against his leg and he wondered if he’d have to use the weapon. “Aye, from the baron himself.”

“Yer name, sir?” the sentry persisted, glancing nervously about. No doubt he didn’t want to offend any of Baron Ewan’s friends.

“Do you not recognize Kelvin of Castle Hawarth?” another soldier, Sir Reginald, a man who owed Wolf his life, asked. Reginald, big and burly, looked Wolf straight in the eye and lowered his head a bit. “How be ye, sir?”

“Hawarth?” the sentry repeated, dully.

Wolf’s gut tightened. “Aye.”

“That’s right, Wendall, Hawarth. Are you dense as a stone?”

Scarface’s eyebrows drew into one thick line of concentration. “But I thought the baron was Osric.”

“Aye, ’tis so. And his younger brother—?” Reginald prompted while he sent Wolf a glance that silently told him he’d gladly run scarface through with his sword if needs be.

“Lord Osric sends his best to Sir Holt and Lady Megan,” Wolf said, though he nearly choked on the words.

Wendall scowled for a second and then, as if some dim thoughts appeared in his cloudy mind, he nodded slowly. “Kelvin of Hawarth,” he repeated, “kindly pass. I’m afraid ye’ve missed the ceremony and the feast.”

“ ’Tis of no matter—just as long as I can give Sir Holt and his bride my gift.”

Reginald’s smile was as stiff as a dead dog’s leg. Wolf slipped inside to mingle with the invited guests. The smells from the meal lingered, rising above the smoke and chatter, and Wolf’s stomach growled at the scents of cooked salmon, venison, and pheasant. It had been years since he’d lived in a castle and the feasts he’d taken for granted as a youth were far distant.

Servants had cleared the room of tables and musicians tuned their lyres, viols, and lutes. Guests in silk, velvet, and fur gathered in groups filled with good wishes for the bride and groom.

Wolf’s heart burned with a silent fury and he climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing for a better view of the newlyweds. A loud tapping interrupted the noise. Instruments stopped. Laughter and voices stilled.

On the dais, an old man pounded his cane. He was a tall man, now stooped, with a white beard and hair that had once been red. He smiled widely, though with effort, it appeared. “Please, please …” he said, his voice raspy. “Thank you all for coming to this, the celebration of my daughter’s wedding. Please welcome Sir Holt, who has been like a son to me and now is truly part of my family.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he added, “I only hope their union is blessed with many children and I live to see them. After I am gone, Holt will become the baron of Dwyrain!”

A bad taste rose in the back of Wolf’s throat while everyone else in attendance clapped, laughed, and shouted congratulations. Holt beamed and his wife lost some of her color. As she held her husband’s hand, no smile curved her lips, despair rounded her eyes, and Wolf was struck by her as he’d been when he’d seen her before. Though she was not as beautiful as the golden-haired one who was her sister, there was a spark to this woman that none other in the great hall held. So why did she appear unhappy? Was she already regretting her marriage vows?

“Now, musicians, play!” the old man commanded.

Immediately, music filled the great hall and the crowd parted. In the middle of the floor, Holt bowed to his bride, his eyes never leaving her face as he began to dance.

She was smaller than Wolf remembered, dressed in white, her dark hair braided with flowers and covered with a fine veil captured about her head with a thin gold band. Her eyes, when she looked at her groom, were filled with a quiet, seething fire that Wolf guessed was more than a hint of her spirit.

So this was the woman who was supposed to love Holt. Wolf had caught glimpses of her riding on horseback either coming or going to the castle these past few months, but never had he stared at her full in the face and never had he guessed her so prideful and gloriously beautiful. Her skin was pale but smooth, her eyes wide and warm gold with thick curling lashes and finely arched brows. White and gold ribbons were wound in her hair and small flowers framed a face far too lovely for the wife of Holt.

Wolf’s fists clenched.

Holt was with his new bride. His gaze never left her face, his smile seductive and full of promise.

In his mind’s eye, Wolf saw them coupling, Holt naked and dark, mounting this small, white-skinned lady . . .

For the love of Christ, what was he thinking? Cursing under his breath, he stared at the woman. What did it matter how Holt bedded this woman—his wife? As long as the mating didn’t happen before Wolf had kidnapped and ransomed her, it was none of Wolf’s concern. Slowly, he opened his hands and started down to the dance floor. ’Twas time to meet Megan of Dwyrain.

It’s over. I am Holt’s wife. For now until eternity. Megan danced on leaden legs, allowing her new husband to twirl her around the great hall. He laughed and whispered into her ear, reminding her of everything he intended to do to her later that night. She shivered, not in eager anticipation, but in disgust.