Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

Hagan watched his wife ascend the steps and a kind, nearly reverent expression changed the hard contours of his face as his gaze followed her. The love in his eyes touched Megan. Here was a man who would lay down his life for his lady and child, a man devoted to her, a man, upright and law-abiding, who wanted only to provide for and protect his family and castle.

Unlike the renegade outlaw to whom she’d given her heart.

“Did Wolf kill Tadd?” she asked once Hagan had turned to her again.

“Aye. After Tadd nearly killed me.” He finished his wine and set his mazer on the hearth. Then he told her the story of Sorcha of Prydd, his wife, born with the birthmark of the kiss of the moon, an ancient prophecy stating that whosoever was born with the mark would become the savior of Prydd. Many had scoffed at the thought of a woman becoming a leader, mostly Tadd, Sorcha’s older brother, but in the end, she proved herself to be uncommonly brave and determined.

Megan withered inside. Sorcha had done so much for those who depended upon her, while Megan had brought only fear, distrust, and now, by marriage, the reign of a cruel baron. Unwittingly, she’d become the curse of Dwyrain. And now she was in love with a wild man, an outlaw of the forest, who used her only for revenge against a sworn enemy.

As if reading her thoughts, Hagan said, “Wolf breaks the law without a thought, he takes refuge in the forest and disdains life within a castle, he makes his own rules and lives by them, but he is a good man, Lady Megan; his heart is pure.”

“I—I believe you.”

“Good. Then eat the food that Cook has prepared and rest. We’ll talk of riding to Dwyrain tomorrow.”

Megan didn’t argue as a page brought in a trencher filled with eggs and eels, a round of cheese, and a few tart winter apples. The cold seeped from her bones and she realized how badly she missed a part of her life at Dwyrain. The adventure of living in the forest was appealing, though, and she thought of the outlaw band—grizzled Odell, innocent Robin, even-tempered Peter with his one eye—but she knew that the source of her fascination with the life of the thieves was their leader. Where was he now? Was he following her? Would he even now burst through the gates of Erbyn? If he asked, she would eagerly give up the comforts of the keep to be with him.

Silly girl. Foolish heart. He was probably glad to be rid of her and the problem of returning her to her husband.

Holt.

Her blood curdled at the thought that she was, in the eyes of the church and in accordance with the laws, bound to him for the rest of her life.

She’d finished eating when Sorcha, carrying the tiny babe, swept down the stairs. No longer wailing, the infant’s face had lost its scarlet hue and was as smooth and white as her mother’s. “She’ll not be an easy lass,” Sorcha said proudly. “Headstrong.”

“Like her mother.” Leah swallowed a last bite of eel and sighed contentedly. Fluttering her fingers, she indicated that she wanted to hold her tiny niece, and Sorcha reluctantly gave the swaddled babe to her sister.

“I know of Ware of Abergwynn,” Sorcha said. “I knew him first as Wolf, the outlaw. But he is Baron Garrick’s younger brother who, in his youth, was overly confident and eager to prove himself a man. Unfortunately, when his brother trusted him to rule the keep, he was overthrown by a traitor; his own cousin.” She crossed her legs and laced her fingers over a velvet-draped knee. “Ever since that time, Wolf has been a man haunted by his past, an outlaw who is forever chased by the demon guilt. Though Garrick blamed him not for losing Abergwynn years ago, I think that Wolf has never been able to redeem himself in his own eyes.

“At the time he and Lady Morgana’s—she is now married to Garrick—anyway, her brother, Cadell, escaped from the murderers only to be forced over the cliffs at Abergwynn and into the sea far below. Their bodies were never found. They were both thought dead for years until the outlaw Wolf turned out to be Ware of Abergwynn.”

“What happened to Morgana’s brother?” Megan asked.

“Never heard from since. ’Tis presumed that he died in the fall off the cliffs or drowned in the sea.”

“And Ware blames himself for this as well?”

Sorcha lifted a shoulder. “I say only what I’ve been told by those who were there. ’Twas a long time ago. Over ten years.” She cleared her throat, dispelling the dark mood that clouded her eyes. “ ’Tis late and you need your rest, Lady Megan.”

“Nay, now that I know the truth, I must return.”

“Tomorrow,” Sorcha said. “With Hagan and his army.”

“Curse your bones, Megan,” Cayley growled under her breath as her fingers curled more tightly over the rope. Fighting a fearsome dizziness, she climbed out the window, swallowed back her qualms, and began to lower herself slowly into the waiting cart filled with straw. If only her sister hadn’t gotten herself into such a mess, then she wouldn’t have to go through this torture. Her arms and shoulders ached from holding up her weight, her shoes slipped on the stones of the castle wall, and the rope felt as if it were shredding the skin off her hands even though she was wearing gloves.

Finally, she was close enough to the cart to jump. Silently counting to three, she let go and fell, landing in the piled straw with a soft thud. The night air was crisp and cold, her breath fogging, the moon shining bright and nearly full to give some light. Rolling off the cart, she alighted on the hard ground and twisted her ankle. Holy Mother, she wasn’t any good at this!

Biting the urge to cry out, she hurried onward. Fear crawled up her spine, and she was constantly looking over her shoulder, certain she was being followed. As she passed the fish pond, she heard a splash in the water and nearly screamed. Her hasty footsteps echoed down the path near the beehives and through the bedraggled gardens.

Beneath her black-hooded mantle, deep in a pouch strapped around her waist, was the small knife Rue had given her, and she prayed that she didn’t have to wrestle with the guard and his huge sword. Dear God in heaven, what was she doing?

Tamping down the dread that stole the spit from her mouth, she opened the door of the north tower and tiptoed quietly down the steps. A few rush lights still burned, fouling the air with their oily smoke and causing shadows to shift in the narrow, dark halls. This was no mission for a lady—no mission for a sane person—but she continued downward, half expecting some burly guard or ghost of a dead prisoner to jump out at her. God be with me, she silently prayed as she rounded the final corner.

She comes. Be ready! The unspoken words charged at Bjorn from the next cell, and he saw the stranger arise. Using some small piece of metal, the sorcerer silently unfastened the manacles over his wrists, then did the same with the shackles at his feet. Come closer. As Bjorn edged closer to the barred wall, a hand shot through the metal slats and a nail was dropped into his palm. Sweating nervously, Bjorn glanced up at the guard and worked at his own bindings.

The man was so strange, he frightened Bjorn, but Bjorn was thankful that the fire in his back had faded to a dull ache, and his face, swollen and no doubt bruised, was stiff and sore but no longer throbbed i

n agony. Whatever magic this man possessed, ’twas powerful.