Tom and Robin were both with the soldiers, their wrists lashed, their faces pale as the moon. Blood ran from one of Robin’s nostrils and caked his lips. Tom’s eyes were round with fear, blood staining his tunic.
Jack spun and struck, but a huge man swung a mace and it caught Jack midsection, sending him to the ground with a sickening thud.
“Halt, outlaw!” a gravelly voice ordered as a soldier lunged at him, and Wolf’s sword was swift, severing the man’s arm and sending him reeling. With a hideous roar, he fell against the tower wall, blood spurting and spraying as he slid down the stones. Another man, big and burly, rounded on Wolf, only to feel Wolf’s blade slash him through the ribs. As a third came at him from behind, he whirled, intending to draw blood.
Bam!
; Pain exploded in his brain and he fell to his knees.
Thud!
Another blinding jolt of pain. Wolf cried out, dropping his sword. The world tilted. His head slammed into the dirt, the stars and moon spun wildly. He tasted his own blood, and suddenly there was nothing.
Megan woke with a start. Heart pounding, she sat bolt upright. Wolf! Dear God, she’d been dreaming of him, touching him, feeling his skin upon hers, his lips brushing her eyes and throat and breasts, when suddenly he’d jerked, like a puppet on a string, his body wrenched from her. She cried out and the battlements and walls of Dwyrain came into her view.
’Twas only a dream, she told herself and tried to slow her racing heart, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Wolf was in trouble, that he needed her. But that was silly. Restless, she crawled out of the tent Hagan had staked out for her, and walked to the stream. A sudden chill turned the marrow of her bones to ice and she rubbed her arms.
Pausing at the stream, she heard the sound of wings, the rustle of feathers, as a huge owl landed on the bare branch of a willow tree over her head. She swallowed hard and remembered seeing such a bird with the sorcerer when he’d predicted trouble at Dwyrain, then again in the woods at the camp with Odell, and now here.
The owl stared at her with round, unblinking eyes that caused another shiver to race through her blood. He didn’t settle down, his head never lowering into his neck, and he flapped his great wings several times, as if straightening his feathers. She tried to ignore the winged creature—he was probably resting from the hunt—but she felt his eyes upon her and thought that his presence could only be a sign, and not a good one.
What had old Rue said so long ago? That the creatures of the forest had a sense unlike those of man, that the beasts could smell trouble before it appeared, feel a storm before it broke, sense the movement of a fire before the smoke had met human nostrils?
The horses were close by and she saw her notched-ear jennet resting at her tether, one hoof cocked in slumber. ’Twas quiet in the camp, aside from the gentle snoring of the man who was supposed to be tending the beasts.
Praying she was not making a huge mistake and inviting the wrath of another baron when Hagan awoke, Megan stole to the horses and untied her mare. The horse awoke with a snort. “Shh,” she murmured, knowing she was inviting doom.
But because of Wolf, she could wait no longer. As sure as the moon rose in the sky, there was trouble at Dwyrain, and she, as the baron’s eldest daughter, had to return.
Cold water splashed over him in a wave and Wolf coughed and sputtered, his eyes opening slowly, his head thundering in pain. He didn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there. A second after he saw the smooth leather shoes and gold braid of a surcoat, he lifted his eyes farther to find his old enemy Holt standing before him in the inner bailey. There were people everywhere, the sun was rising through a gray fog, and geese, ducks, chickens, and children scrambled out of the way of the new, imposing ruler of Dwyrain.
“How dare you,” Holt said. One of the guards hauled Wolf to his feet and he stood, between two burly men, swaying. Stripped to only his breeches, he tried to stand on his own and failed. His muscles flexed as a blast of northern wind cut through the bailey, chasing the last hint of fog. “How dare you sneak into my keep and try to steal one of my prisoners? Did you not think my soldiers were told to watch and wait, that your coming here was inevitable?”
Even in his pain, an insolent smile curved Wolf’s lips. “How dare you presume to be baron?”
A glimmer of recognition flashed in Holt’s eyes and Wolf knew he’d struck a sensitive nerve.
“Ewan chose me as his successor.”
“Was that before or after you started poisoning him?”
Holt’s fist crashed into Wolf’s body, the metal studs on his gloves cutting into Wolf’s flesh. “Impudent whelp!” he roared, then, as if realizing dozens of pairs of eyes were upon him, Holt drew in a long, ragged breath. “Bring him to my chamber,” he growled.
“What about the others?”
“Leave them to rot for now. They’ll hang later.”
Surcoat billowing behind him, Holt stormed up the steps of the keep, and Wolf was half pushed and shoved behind him. He caught several men’s eyes, and their expressions varied. The carpenter, Tom’s father, gritted his teeth against his fury, the armorer slid Wolf a knowing look, several soldiers spit as Wolf was hauled roughly through, and milkmaids and laundresses looked upon him as if he were an amusement. An old woman, weathered and gaunt, crossed herself, though her piety seemed forced.
“Move!” one of the guards ordered as he elbowed Wolf forward.
On shaking legs, he followed Holt up winding stairs, past rush lights that cast shifting gold shadows upon the walls, and into the lord’s chamber. A fire roared at the grate and tapestries draped the walls. Above the curtained bed, the horns and antlers of beasts the lord of the manor had felled in years past were mounted proudly.
As the guards held Wolf, Holt sat in a huge chair. A page brought him wine and dates, which he plucked at as he stared at his enemy. “Where is my wife?” Holt asked, a vein throbbing across his temple.
Wolf managed a sneer. “Have trouble keeping her?”