Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

He lifted a bony shoulder. “ ’Tis no matter. I lived with me uncle and aunt until they died of the sickness and then Brother Anthony, he wanted me to work with the monks at the abbey, but … well, I took to stealin’ and the sheriff caught up with me. If not fer Wolf, I woulda been cast into the prison at Hawarth.”

“But Wolf found you.”

“Aye. I know not how, or why, but he kidnapped me right from under the jailer’s nose.” Chuckling at the thought, Robin ate hungrily.

“Have you no family?”

“Not since me auntie died.” He had the reverence to cross himself, then polished off the remains of his trencher. When she paused after a bite, he pointed at her uneaten portion of beans. “Will ya be eatin’ that, m’lady?”

Megan shook her head. Though she wasn’t finished, she could see that the lad was still ravenous and she remembered Bevan when he was but 12 or 13. It made no matter how much he ate at mealtimes or that he stuffed himself until he belched loudly, her brother could not get enough food to last him from one meal to the next. “Please, if you would finish it for me,” she said, handing him the remains of her trencher. “I would not want to offend Odell.”

He grinned widely and within seconds, beans and stale bread had disappeared. As he licked his fingers, smacking his lips, she tried to ask him a few more questions about Wolf, but the boy had nothing further to add and went off in search of more scraps. ’Twas obvious that this ragged band’s leader was as much a mystery to his men as he was to her.

She should hate the outlaw, despise him, loathe him. For the injustices she’d been made to suffer at his hand, she should be plotting to turn him in to the sheriff herself.

Washing her hands in the icy depths of the stream, she glanced over her shoulder and watched as he walked between the tents, the light from the campfire casting gold shadows upon a hard face that was rigid and unforgiving and battle-scarred.

She had to remind herself that he was a black-heart, a man who should be flogged for snatching her away from her father. But a part of her wasn’t convinced, the small, feminine part of her that found the rogue attractive and appealing. That traitorous female part reminded her that were it not for Wolf, she would today be a virgin no longer, in more than name the wife of Holt, perhaps already carrying his child. The thought revolted her and her stomach, laden with Odell’s tasteless fare, threatened to purge itself.

For saving her from her marriage, she was grateful to the demon, although she had to make good her escape; if not, he would ransom her back to her husband and she would be worse off than before she was kidnapped.

She’d steal a horse. Wolf owed her one for setting Shalimar free, so she’d take his best steed as well as some food and these clothes he’d given her, tattered and large though they be.

Plotting her escape, she stared into the water’s inky depths. She tried to see her image in the black ripples, but the campfire’s light barely gave her enough illumination to view her pale face surrounded by wild, untamed red-brown hair. She’d hardly pass for a boy, but then she didn’t have the bearing of a woman of noble birth. She pushed a shank of unruly curls behind her ear and turned her head to the side.

“So here ye be.”

Wolf’s voice startled her and she jumped, losing her balance and half falling into the brook. She caught herself with her hands, but created ripples that distorted her image. He was on the far side of the creek, one boot propped against an exposed root of a willow tree, his back resting against the trunk, arms folded over his chest, his dark clothes blending into the night.

“You scared me.”

“Because you wandered too far from camp. ’Tis dark and not safe for you alone.”

“Oh, don’t tell me,” she mocked, rising to her feet and wiping her hands on the long hem of the tunic. “You fear I might be abducted by some outlaw who would steal me away and demand ransom for my safe return?”

His laugh was cold as the night. “You’re a sassy one. ’Tis no wonder your father wanted you married off.”

“Back to that, are we?” she said, frowning as she wondered what demons plagued this man who had so boldly stolen her from her father’s castle. “Tell me—why do you hate Sir Holt?”

“What know you of him?”

“Very little.”

“But you agreed to marry him and plan to live the rest of your life as his wife.” He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

“He has been loyal to my father—”

“He would cut out your father’s heart like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

Genuine fear gripped her insides. “Nay—” she said, but her protest was weak.

“Fear not, m’lady, I’ll have you back safely in his arms before a fortnight passes—”

“No!” The word slipped out before she could think, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from speaking her true thoughts, which, she was sure, this outlaw would turn against her.

“Want you not to return to Dwyrain?” he asked, and the wind picked up, riding on the current of the stream.

“Aye, but—”