Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Stop! What’re you doing?” she cried, attempting to urge her mount away from him. His grip on the mare’s reins was stronger than the armorer’s vise. Shalimar sidestepped and Megan ordered, “Stay away from me!”

“Hush, woman!” he ordered. “I have spies in the castle; they would slit your husband’s throat if I were but to give the command.”

“You have no power!” But she trembled to think that all the deceit and betrayal she’d felt within the castle walls had been because of this man, this devil with the harsh, rugged face and cruel threats. Was he the reason that Ewan’s knights no longer felt honor-bound to their pledge of fealty? Had he undermined and stripped the baron of his authority? “You scare me not,” she lied. If only she could wrest Shalimar’s reins from his fingers and ride … where? Not back to Dwyrain, not as Holt’s wife, so where? “My father—”

“Your father is an old, foolish man who has put his faith and command of his army in a traitor.”

“A traitor—?”

“The man you call husband, the man with whom you will soon share a bed and with whom you will bring forth children,” he said, his lips curling in disgust.

Megan hoisted up her chin. “You know naught about Dwyrain—”

He laughed, and the sound was wicked as it echoed through the valley. “You’re as blind as Ewan!” Leaning closer to her, he said, “If I know naught of Dwyrain, how did I capture you, eh?”

“Bastard!”

“At your service, m’lady.”

“Pig!”

“Curses from a woman who would marry Holt of Prydd.”

“Nay, Holt is not of Prydd,” she said, bristling, then wondered why she was defending a man she did not trust.

In the darkness his gaze slid down her body and she sensed that he was seeing beneath the folds of mud-spattered velvet and silk, through her mantle, tunic, and even her chemise. “ ’Tis a pity that you should waste yourself on such a man.”

“At least I am not a thief, a highwayman who steals and robs and pillages and …”

“And what?” he prodded, his voice low.

“Rapes,” she whispered. “Or murders.”

This time there was no bark of laughter, no sharp denial. “Think what you will, woman,” he said. “ ’Tis of no matter to me.” His gloved hands ripped through her hair again and she yanked her head away.

“Stop it!”

“Then take the flowers from your hair,” he demanded urgently. “Give them to me! Now!” His lips pressed into a thin, hard line and he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Holt’s soldiers to appear from the shadows at any second.

“My hands are bound.”

“By the gods, Odell was right,” he growled, and picked—more carefully now—the petals from her hair.

“Who’s Odell?” she asked. “And who are you?”

His smile was evil in the darkness. “Tonight I’m Kelvin from Castle Hawarth.”

“And tomorrow?”

His gaze found hers and his stare was so baldly sensual, so intense, she gasped. Even shadowed with the night, his chiseled face was cruelly handsome. His eyes, a deep shade of blue, were guarded by thick black lashes and brows. His nose was crooked, his smile wicked. “I’ll be your keeper, m’lady,” he said in a voice so low she scarce heard it over the pounding of icy rain.

“Nay! No man keeps me!”

He laughed, the sound wicked. “Not even your husband, or so it appears.” Satisfied that the dried blooms were free of her tresses, he gave a sharp order to his horse again and took the east bend in the road. His tireless destrier charged along at a furious pace, and poor Shalimar, her coat already flecked with lather, had to race to keep up with him. As they thundered down the road, the kidnapper dropped the flowers from his gloved hand, sprinkling them on the ground until there were no more, then he pulled the reins on his mount and again rounded on her.

“Well, m’lady, ’tis time to give up your mare.”

“What?”