Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Ah, yes, my love,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “You will dance with me alone tonight and show me what kind of woman you are.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t think of lying with him, of having his hands touch her skin, of letting him pierce her maidenhead to spill his seed into her body. Her stomach clenched and she nearly retched as the musicians played on, the notes of their songs rising like the mist in the morning. Dear God, help me.

There was ever the chance of escape. Should she decide that she could not lie with this cur, she could run away, humiliate her father, and … and go where?

She felt Holt’s lips on her neck, and her skin crawled. “Come, love, at least pretend you’re having a good time,” he cajoled. “I wouldn’t want to get angry,” he said, his eyes locking with hers, his fingers gripping her m

ore tightly. “I have a nasty temper when I’m crossed, or don’t you know?”

“I remember,” she said, tilting up her chin. “I saw you kill the bear cub.”

The corners of Holt’s mouth cinched tight. “We needed his mother for the entertainment.”

Megan had never considered bear-baiting entertainment.

“The cub didn’t need to die.”

“Of course he did, my sweet. He was distracting his mother. And he suffered not.”

Megan closed her eyes, remembering Holt’s orders and the mace that came down fast and hard, crushing the mewling, frightened animal’s skull. She also remembered the furious roar of the mother bear, how the enraged beast had lunged despite the shackles on her back legs. The chains had slipped and the bear swept forward through the crowd in the outer bailey, swiping her powerful claws and leaving one soldier with deep gashes on the side of his face and severing the arm of the miller’s son just below his elbow.

“Now, now, you hunt,” Holt reminded her. “I’ve seen you with the carcasses of pheasant, stag, and boar.”

She lifted her chin. “I kill not the young, nor the mothers of the young.”

“So noble,” he mocked. His chuckle was deep and throaty. “I’m going to enjoy you, Megan,” he said, his eyes sliding down her body. “In every way.”

“And I will detest you forever.”

“Ah, ah, ah. Be careful what you say,” he said, his eyes gleaming malevolently. “I wouldn’t want to have to punish you tonight, on our wedding night.” But the smile that curved his lips suggested otherwise, as if the anticipation of hurting her was somehow exciting and pleasured him.

A shiver of fear slid down her spine and she saw her father, smiling proudly, lifting his hands, asking the guests to join them in their wedding dance. Within minutes, the hall was filled with other couples who jostled and swayed, some laughing, others more serious—men and women dressed in finery, celebrating what should have been the happiest day of her life.

Several men cut in on her dance with Holt and Megan was relieved. Holt, enjoying himself, danced with other ladies, and Megan endured the smiles, congratulations, and sweaty hands of new partners. She was about to make good her escape upstairs to her room when a deep voice asked, “May I?” to her partner, and before she could think twice, she was being swept around the chamber by a handsome stranger she didn’t recognize.

Taller than Holt by an inch or two, he was built strong, with wide shoulders and trim waist. His movements were quick and sure. When his gaze touched hers, the breath in the back of her throat caught, for his eyes were an intense shade of blue that cut to her very soul.

“Lady Megan,” he drawled lazily.

“And you are—?”

“A friend of Holt’s,” was his reply, and she noticed that his hands were not soft, but callused, and in the cleft of his eyebrow was a battle scar. He was handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that surprised her, and his smile, when he showed it, was crooked and secretive and scared her more than a little.

“Have you no name?” she asked, and he laughed, holding her closer than she thought was necessary. Yet she didn’t draw away—the heat of his body was distracting in a wicked way.

“None that you’d know.”

“But if you’re a friend of my … my . . . Sir Holt’s—” she couldn’t say it. Holt was her husband but she could not speak the word, would not let it trip from her tongue.

“Come,” he whispered into her ear so softly she wasn’t certain she heard it correctly. “I have a wedding gift for you and your husband.” He guided her to a spot near the door where a bit of a draft moved the tapestries.

“Now—?” She glanced around, eager for a chance to leave, though uncertain.

He pulled her behind the curtain.

“Now,” he said against her ear and she tingled inside. What was she doing letting this man, this stranger, touch her so familiarly? He leaned forward as if to kiss her and she told herself to step away, to slap him for being so bold, but she couldn’t. To her surprise he clamped a hand over her mouth.

Her body convulsed.