Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

She swallowed back the urge to cry out that she’d never return to Holt.

As he climbed beneath the covers, he kept his fingers around her wrists, and turned his body so that it was behind hers, fitting intimately against her curves. Her back was pressed against the wall of his chest, her calves brushed his shins, and her behind fit in the crook of his waist and crotch. Closing her eyes, she felt his manhood, hard, wanting, nearly quivering as it was pressed against her, but he didn’t move, just held her close and tried to sleep. She didn’t dare even twitch, afraid of what one small movement might cause, certain the simmering heat in her blood would spark to life. Never before had she experienced true wanting—the hunger between a man and woman—but right now she understood that desire all too well.

Holding Megan against him, Wolf gritted his teeth. Her body was warm and fragrant and he wanted to bury his face in her locks and make love to her until dawn.

Sleep eluded him and images of her, naked and willing, filled his wayward mind and caused his eager member to harden and swell. He’d been a fool, dallying with the woman, teasing Holt, keeping her rather than ransoming her right away. But the money had been of no consequence; Holt’s humiliation had been the prize.

Now the situation had changed. Keeping Megan with him was not so much punishment for Holt, but sweet torment for Wolf. He couldn’t look at her without wanting, couldn’t speak to her without wondering what it would feel like to lie with her, couldn’t hear her footsteps without his heart tripping a little more quickly.

He must be mad. What would he want with a beautiful, feisty tart with a tongue like the sting of the whip? Why did the woman fascinate both him and his men? He saw how easily she flirted and how half his soldiers were willing to do her bidding. Even mean-tempered Jagger smiled when she was around, and Robin—the boy was smitten.

’Twas strange how most of the men accepted her, though they had a solid unwritten law that no woman could be a part of their band. Some of them appeared half in love with her, others amused by her, still others restless and prone to fighting, like bucks interested in a single doe.

The sooner he was rid of her, the better for all—and Holt’s money could be put to good use. But the thought of returning her to his enemy, the idea that Holt might take some of his fury out on her, the merest inkling that Megan would lie with him, caused a burning in Wolf’s guts, a painful jealous heat that kept him awake as he held her small wrists in his hands and felt the rise and fall of her chest against his knuckles.

Why not bed her? Why not seize his ultima

te revenge against Holt and strip her of her virginity, not brutally as Holt had allowed Tadd to rape Mary, but slow and with care, making her quake with wanting, feeling her go limp and hot with desire? She would be supple and willing, and oh, the sweet rapture of it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his body against the vision of her lying naked and pure beneath him. No, he could not soil her, could not defile her, could never make love to her, as she was another man’s wife. And yet he wanted her, with an aching lust that stormed through his blood and clamored in his brain. Her rump brushed his cock and he thought of the sweetness of entering her, of hearing her pant against his ear, of listening to the sweet moans from her lips.

She wasn’t what he expected. She claimed she loved not Holt, and Wolf clung to that thought, though he damned himself for caring. Oh, Megan. What am I to do with you? She touched a dangerous, rebellious part of him, a part that caused him to second-guess his plan. Strong and determined, she claimed to want to return to Dwyrain, yet he sensed the hesitation in her voice, that a part of her would like to remain free of castle life, away from her responsibilities.

Though she was a prisoner with the outlaws, she had no castle walls that bound her, no duties to perform as Ewan’s eldest daughter, no Mass to attend. She had found a new kind of freedom, and she embraced the nomadic life as Wolf once had before he’d become jaded and tired of moving from one spot to the next, forever looking over his shoulder while outrunning the law.

There was a time only a few months back when Wolf had been offered his freedom, when he’d met his family at Abergwynn, but he had yet unfinished business with Holt. Once through with this, he silently swore to himself, he’d give up his black-hearted ways and return to Abergwynn, which was all well and good, but what would he do with Megan? Could he really ransom her back to a husband he knew to be cruel and ruthless?

She sighed softly and he felt his cold heart of stone begin to crack.

Six

olt’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to bash the sheriff’s thick skull against the wall in the great hall. Servants cast worried glances his way and shuffled hurriedly from the room, hiding behind tapestries, as they wanted no part of his wrath. The two men who’d come with the sheriff stood near the door like trained dogs, not saying a word, not accepting the wine that Holt had offered.

“The man is an outlaw,” Holt said slowly, as if the dolt hadn’t heard correctly. “And he stole my wife. I want him and his pack of criminals found and brought back here, and justice served.”

“I know, I know,” the sheriff, a doddering old fool named Herbert, agreed. He belched into his cup of wine, then took a long gulp. Holt wanted to strangle him for sitting on his fat rump when he should be off chasing thieves and kidnappers. “Wolf’s been a pain in my arse for a long time as well. I’ve got my best men tracking him down.”

“Do they know where he is?”

Herbert scratched his head and scowled. “Nay, but he’s a slippery one, that Wolf is.” He finished his cup and eyed the wine jug longingly. “How’s the baron? Heard he collapsed at the wedding celebration.”

“ ’Tis true. Losing Megan has nearly killed him,” Holt said, gladly shoving some more guilt onto the corrupt sheriff’s conscience.

Herbert turned his eyes away from the wine. “And where does that leave ye? If the baron dies, will ye, as Lady Megan’s husband, become the new lord?” He rubbed his palms on the front of his dirty breeches. “A sticky problem, eh? Since your wife was stolen away before ye bedded her.” Struggling to his feet, he cast one last baleful glance at the wine, then snapped his fingers to the two guards he’d brought with him. “Worry not, Sir Holt. We’ll find the rotter.” He marched out of the hall with surprising speed for one so heavy. His two soldiers followed without a word, treading after the old fool blindly. For a second Holt experienced the sharp pang of jealousy. Would any of the soldiers guarding Dwyrain obey him without question? Fight to the death?

As Herbert had so pointedly reminded him, the castle was not quite his. Should Ewan die, Dwyrain by rights would fall to Megan, and, as her husband, Holt would inherit the castle, but since the marriage had never been consummated, it could be easily annulled. If Megan were found dead before the old man gave up his ghost, the castle and lands would revert to Cayley, and then Holt would be left with nothing. All his plotting—years of scheming and allying himself with Ewan—would be for naught.

Snarling at a page to bring him more wine, Holt refused to be thwarted. There was blood on his hands already, and the poison he was slipping into the old man’s cup was slowly working.

He didn’t mind hurrying Ewan to his grave more rapidly than nature intended. But he couldn’t be foolish enough not to make sure that he inherited the castle. If it fell to Cayley and she married Gwayne of Cysgod … By the gods, it looked as if he might have to find a way for Megan’s younger sister to meet with an accident.

That particular thought wasn’t pleasing. Killing women was difficult because of the joy they could give a man. Fingering the hilt of his knife, he frowned. Nay, the answer was not to take Cayley’s life. He had promised her to Connor, but there might be a more permanent solution. Why not double-cross Connor and marry her off? This thought appealed to him. However, right now he had to find Megan and that damned outlaw.

Near the morning fire, Wolf talked in low tones to his men, pointing emphatically to Bjorn before spying Megan as she carried a basket of herbs she’d collected near the creek. Several heads swiveled her way and ears burned a bright red at her approach. She’d never before intruded on one of their meetings, meekly allowing them to discuss her and her fate, but she was tired of being treated as if she had no say in what was to happen. She dropped the basket with a thud and it landed at Odell’s feet.

“What’s this?” she asked, plopping down on the cold ground where the men squatted. Several had knives and were drawing in the dirt, as if making maps.

“We’re discussing what to do with you,” Wolf said, his eyes burning with fury at her indignation.