Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

She tried to scream. What was happening? She fought, struggling, but he had one arm, strong as an oak log, wedged under her breasts, the other hand pressed over her mouth.

“Do not struggle, m’lady,” he said with a sneer in his voice, “and your family will not be hurt.”

She bit down hard on the callused hands, but they didn’t shift one little bit.

“If you fight me,” he growled, “you seal their fates and your precious husband, sister, and father will be killed. Slowly and painfully.”

She went limp in his hands and Wolf felt not only a stab of regret for scaring her and lying to her, but a new emotion as well—jealousy that this woman could love a bastard such as Holt of Prydd. With the cord tucked around his wrist, he quickly bound her hands. She cried out at the injustice of it, but he didn’t have time to argue with her.

As he dragged her down the steps, smiling when he noticed the sentries missing from their posts, just as he’d planned, he heard the first shouts from the great hall. No more time.

Not only his horse, but hers as well, was waiting near the cistern. “Climb into the saddle and say not a word. As you can see, I have friends here, friends who have dispensed with the guards and stolen your horse. If you breathe too loudly, I swear, I will have them destroy all that you love!”

He removed his hand from her mouth and she opened hers, only to shut it again. He helped her into the saddle, then climbed onto his own steed while holding fast to her mare’s reins.

As the doors of the great hall burst open, Wolf dug his heels into his mount’s sides and the stallion took off, racing like the wind through the outer bailey, hooves clattering on the drawbridge.

The feisty mare kept up, her nose at the stallion’s flank, her legs a blur. Wolf slid a glance at his prize and her eyes met his for an instant. He expected hatred, or fear, but saw neither. Instead, in that heartbeat, he noticed a glint of triumph in her gaze.

Almost as if she’d been expecting him.

Two

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.