Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“And what of the dogs?” Holt asked, barely holding on to his temper. He should have ignored his guests and taken off after his wife himself. As it was, he looked like a fool, yet again trusting these thickheaded farmers who called themselves soldiers.

Mallory shook his head. “The hounds were useless. Once they found the horse, they knew not what we wanted.”

“God’s blood, you’re fools! The whole lot of you!” Holt’s voice resounded in the gatehouse and he threw down the muddy wedding veil in disgust. This was to have been his wedding night, when finally he would not only bed the woman who had teased his mind for years and caused his cock to become stiff as granite, but, being married to Ewan’s oldest daughter, he would by rights inherit all that was Dwyrain. Taking off one glove, he slapped it against his hand, thinking hard, trying to understand the way of the outlaw’s mind. “Have you any thought as to who the rogue was?”

“He claimed he was Kelvin of Hawarth.”

“Kelvin of Hawarth?”

“Aye, younger brother to the baron, Osric McBrayne.”

Holt squeezed his eyes closed and counted slowly to 10. Ewan saw these men as dedicated, good-hearted, and loyal, but in Holt’s estimation, they were lazy mental midgets and cowards. Not a brave, smart one in the lot. “The man was not McBrayne’s brother. He’s an outlaw, I’m certain of it.” The sky opened up, and rain sliced to the ground in heavy curtains of water. Holt, already chilled to his bones, saw no reason to stand outside. “Come to my chamber,” he ordered, striding swiftly away.

In the great hall, he came upon a page and ordered wine to be sent to his room, but his thoughts lingered on the man who had so baldly stolen his wife. The criminal’s face had been vaguely familiar when Holt had spied the man in black dancing with his wife. Tall and dark-haired, he’d twirled Megan on her feet until she was breathless. Holt had been about to reclaim his bride’s attention when he’d noticed the stranger and Megan slip into the shadows and then quickly away.

His anger burned savagely within him.

Megan might have helped hatch the plot to humiliate Holt, for she’d made it plain that she married him unwillingly. Would she go to such lengths as to plan a false abduction just to avoid his bed?

’Twas possible. Earlier in the week, Holt had come across her in the hallway after one of her visits to her father’s chamber. Holt had tried to touch her and she’d shrunk away as if he were poison. “Leave me be,” she’d ordered, anger flaring in her eyes.

“Ah, Megan, I cannot. Asides, we’ll be wed soon and—”

“And I’ll be your wife in name only,” she’d said proudly, her chin mutinous, her eyes blazing with a fire that brought his damned cock to attention. He couldn’t wait to tame her, to force her to open her legs and mouth to him, to make her want him as much as he wanted her. He’d make her beg for him, tie her to the bed and touch her all over with feathers, allow some of his men to watch her surrender. But no one else would have her. Nay, they could look at her long-legged body, see the pink nipples of her high breasts, lust over the thatch of curls where her legs met, watch as their bodies joined, but only he could press his skin to hers and spill his seed in her unwilling body.

“You’ll want me so badly you’ll beg me to bed you,” he’d told her in that hallway, and she’d slapped him. Her palm had burned an imprint on his skin and he’d grabbed her arm. “Rough ye want it, lass?” he’d growled into her ear. “Then rough ’twill be.”

“You’ll rot in hell before you touch me!” She’d pulled her arm away and run down the hallway. He’d been so hard with wanting that he’d slid into a dark alcove and slipped his hand into his breeches to ease the ache. No one had seen him gasping there, imagining entering her body, seeing her mouth wet with desire as she kissed and touched him. He’d bit down hard at his release but he’d been unable to stop from whispering her name in a desperate voice he barely recognized as belonging to him.

No, he would not be denied.

The page brought in a pitcher of wine and several wooden mazers, which he left on a tray near the hearth. As his men shuffled in, looking like whipped pups, Holt wondered what kind of soldiers they were. He glared at the sodden lot of them, spineless men warming their backsides at the fire, causing steam to rise from their filthy clothes. ?

?No one steals my wife,” he said slowly as he unsheathed his sword and stared at the firelight gleaming against the sharp-edged blade. “No one steals my wife and lives to tell about it. Find out who the bastard is and hunt him down. Kill him if you have to, but my wife’s safety and her virtue will not be compromised!”

His gaze roved from one sad soldier to the next, and he smelled their fear. They were frightened of him, which was good. He could use their trepidation to his advantage. Holt ran a finger along his blade, pressing hard enough that a drop of blood showed on his skin. He spread it slowly over the steel and saw each man swallow a sudden knot in his throat. With a smile meant to be cruel, he said, “Do not fail me, lads.”

Wolf was beginning to wonder if his plan to humiliate Holt was as clever as he’d first thought. When he’d heard that his enemy was planning to wed the daughter of Baron Ewan, Wolf had finally decided that fate had smiled on him, giving him an opportunity to belittle and disgrace the man he’d hated for so long. He’d thought only of the kidnapping, and then of the ransom, giving not too much consideration to the woman herself. He had heard that she was headstrong and that she’d been blamed for much of the pain in the house of Dwyrain, but he cared not and decided she was the pampered daughter of a rich man, a woman stupid enough to marry one of the vilest snakes in all of Wales. In his estimation, Megan of Dwyrain deserved her fate.

He hadn’t expected to see a beauty and pride in her that appealed to him, nor had he thought that holding her so closely to him while astride the horse would cause him any worry. As it was, he was distracted by the warm, female scents of her and the feel of her skin so close to his. Her hair tickled his nose and his arm felt the soft, supple weight of her breasts. Despite himself, that male part of him that was always giving him trouble responded, and to his disgust his member started to swell.

“We’ll stop here,” he said gruffly, when the evidence of his desire could no longer be hidden.

“Here? Why?” she asked as he slid to the ground, sinking into thick mud. The sleet had stopped, but the forest was chilled and shimmering in raindrops. Only a few stars dared wink behind a thick bank of clouds.

“ ’Tis as good a place as any.” He helped her from the saddle, then reached into his boot, withdrew his small dagger, and sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists.

She gasped at the sight of the blade flashing silver in the night, then swallowed hard. “Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her wrists and stretching her fingers.

“Not far from the camp.”

“Why have we stopped?”

He eyed her in the darkness, her white tunic nearly glowing. Even with dirt smudged on the fine fabric, she was beautiful, too beautiful. “ ’Tis a wonder we weren’t seen,” he said, gruffly, noticing the long column of her throat and the proud point of her little chin. Angry with himself, he motioned to her dress. “But there was no time. Now, before we get to the camp, you needs wear something more … more common.”

“Such as?” she asked, clearly uncertain of his reasoning.

“Such as these.” Reaching upward for the bag he’d tucked behind his saddle, he untied the straps that had held it securely, then tossed the sack to her.