Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“I know not,” Cayley said, though she’d sensed a change in the castle these past few months.

Somehow, Cayley thought as she walked to the window and watched the clouds part to show a sliver of moon, the magician was responsible for her sister’s abduction as well.

Frowning, she sent up one last prayer. “Keep her safe, Lord. Please, keep her safe.”

The tunic was scratchy and far too large and every one of her bones ached as the first gray streaks of dawn lighted the eastern sky. They had been riding for hours and Dwyrain was miles behind them, somewhere far to the south. She’d not spoken to the outlaw since catching him watching her step into his clothes. Never had a man seen her in such a state of undress; the thought bothered her.

His mount was lagging as they climbed a steep trail that crested a ridge and then eased down to a valley near a winding stream. On the far shore of the brook was the glow of a fire.

“Your camp,” she said, dread clamping over her heart.

“Aye.”

Laying a hand over his, she drew up on the reins. “Why did you do this?” she asked, wanting an answer from this silent man before she had to face those who called him their leader.

His eyes were dark and the lines around them proved that he, too, felt the strain of the long ride. “I came for you,” he said, and she felt the jump in her heartbeat, no doubt visible at her neck. Nervously, she licked her lips, and he watched the motion. “I stole you away because you are Holt’s bride.”

“Why not before the marriage?”

“ ’Twould not have been the same.”

“Because, in truth, this had naught to do with me.”

“Aye.”

“So I am but a prize with which to barter.”

His jaw became hard as iron and she caught a glimmer of regret, leading her to believe that she was seeing a glimpse of another man, one he’d been long before he’d taken the life of the outlaw. She guessed from the conversation they’d had while dancing, the way he’d fit into the skin of a nobleman so easily, the few words they’d exchanged in the forest, that hidden beneath his ill manners and roguish ways was an educated man, one who might be able to read as well as command, one who was shrewd in the ways of the forest as well as in the running of a castle.

Again she asked, “Who are you?”

His smile was positively wicked. “Wolf.”

“You took the name of a beast.”

He lifted a shoulder.

“And why do you hate Holt?”

“Because he once rode with Tadd of Prydd.”

“Tadd of Prydd is dead,” she said and felt a tremor of fear.

“Aye.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry as sand and her fingers curled into nervous fists. “You killed him.”

Wolf’s eyes flashed. “I sent him to hell where he belonged.”

So he was a murdering rogue. God in heaven, why did she feel safe in his arms? Why had she no fear for her life or her virtue? Why did she feel that she could trust him? Though she’d never met Tadd of Prydd, she’d heard from her father that Tadd had been a cruel leader who met with a well-deserved and painful end. At Wolf’s hand.

“I have no argument with you, Megan. Nor with your father. Only Holt, your husband, is my sworn enemy.” He eyed her and frowned. “What know you of him?”

“Only that he had been in my father’s service for years.”

“And before that?”

She shook her head. “ ’Tis as if he has no past.”