Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Or what?”

“Well, or news of Megan.”

“News?” Ewan said and his lips compressed. His washed-out gray color paled even more. “What kind of news?”

Holt sighed and plowed his hands through his hair. “ ’Tis possible that this outlaw, the one they call Wolf, is an enemy of yours or mine. It might not be money he’s after.”

“What then?”

“Perhaps her virtue.”

Ewan closed his old eyes and shook his head in vehement denial. “I think not.”

“Or her life,” Holt added, and his father-in-law physically jerked, as if his ancient heart had stopped beating for a moment before jolting into rhythm again.

“Nay, she’s alive,” Ewan gasped. “I cannot lose Megan, too, not after the others …” His old voice faded.

“I pray she’s safe,” Holt said, but his voice sounded full of doubt.

“You must find her!”

Holt’s eyes slid away. “I’ll do what I can, m’lord, but I cannot promise.”

“You must!”

“ ’Tis not that easy. There are spies within the castle walls—those who would betray you and follow the criminal.”

Jaw clenching beneath his beard, Ewan said, “Then flush them out, Holt. Find out what they know. Mayhap they can tell you where the cur is holding my daughter!”

“As you wish,” Holt agreed, then walked back to the bed and offered Ewan his cup of wine. Smiling inwardly, he watched as the old fool drank a long sip, then slid back between the linen sheets. Ewan’s eyes closed and Holt wished him dead. It would be so easy to smother the man, as he was already weak, but as that thought chased through his mind, the door opened and Cayley entered.

“You found Megan not?” she asked, casting a worried look at her father’s sleeping form.

“Nay, the blackguard eluded us.”

“A pity,” Cayley murmured, crossing herself.

“Aye, that it is,” Holt said as Cayley walked to her father’s bedside and laid cool fingertips to his forehead. He didn’t move.

“He gets worse with each day. I thought that if Megan were to return he might recover a bit …” Sighing, she brushed a strand of white hair from his forehead.

“He is near death’s door,” Holt whispered, wishing he could find a way to push the baron through that black portal just a bit sooner.

The moon was high, the campfire mere embers, and Megan knew she had no choice. If she were to escape, she had to leave now while Wolf slept peacefully near the door. Quietly, she slipped from his pallet and across the room to the window, where, with one final glance over her shoulder to see that he had not moved, she hoisted herself up and slid through the opening. She landed with a soft thud on the frozen ground and slowly edged her way around the old chapel. Two sentries, shoulders propped against trees, stood near the clearing where the horses were tethered. Though their backs were to her, she could not get past them and steal a horse as she’d hoped. No, she would have to make her way on foot and hope that by the morning’s light she had put enough distance between herself and the camp to elude Wolf.

Her heart squeezed at the thought. There was a foolish part of her that longed to stay with him, to trust him. You are addled, she told herself. What would she want with a criminal, a man always on the run, a man who lived by his own rules? Rather than dwell on the dark turn of her thoughts, she crept to the river’s edge and decided to follow it upstream, keeping to the banks until she came to a crossing, either a shallow spot where a road splashed across the current, or, if she was lucky, to a bridge. Sooner or later she would come across a village or a traveler who could direct her toward Dwyrain.

And what then? Give up? Live as Holt’s wife? Nay! She’d plead with her father and Father Timothy or the local abbot to have her marriage annulled. Why? So that her father could insist she marry another man, one no better than Holt? What other options did she have? Life in a nunnery? Or could she find a hut where she could grow and sell herbs and mix potions as she’d watched Rue do?

“Oh, bother,” she muttered under her breath as a cloud passed over the moon and the night grew dark. She picked her way carefully, slipping on rocks, holding on to branches and roots that grew out of the bank, and telling herself she was glad to be rid of that wild group of cutthroats and thugs. She was better off away from them, including grumpy Odell and sweet Robin. Now she wouldn’t have to feel Wolf’s intense eyes on her, nor would she have to train hers away from the unforgiving lines of his face—masculine, rugged, and sensual. When his eyes sought hers, she felt as if hundreds of butterflies filled her stomach. Her heart pounded so loudly that she was certain the entire camp could hear it. When she felt his gaze on the back of her head she had to force herself not to turn around and search his face for just a tiny bit of nobility that she was certain was visible in his unforgiving countenance if only she knew just where to look.

As if it mattered. Now she had to walk to the nearest town, steal a horse if needs be, and hurry to Dwyrain before either Holt or Wolf found her.

The clouds parted again and the river glimmered silver in the wavering moonlight.

“Did you really think you could escape so easily?” Wolf’s voice, the merest of whispers, reverberated through the canyon as well as her heart.

Whirling, she saw his dark form sitting insolently on a mossy boulder not ten feet from her. “I … I was thirsty and wanted a drink …”