Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

A wave of sickness climbed up her throat. She could never give herself to this cur who wore her father’s robes, stole his keep, and lied through his teeth. “What do you want of me? You have the keep!”

Holt eyed her reflectively. Hesitating a second, he touched her hair and sighed. “ ’Twas true, as well you know. I wanted the castle and the wealth that was Dwyrain, and I worked close with your father so that he would choose me as his successor, but that wasn’t enough, Megan. I wanted you as well.” She could hardly believe her ears. His voice was firm, his chin set in determination. “I hoped that you would care for me, that you would agree to become my bride.”

She tried to step away, but his grip was harsh, and as he drew her closer, the tip of his tongue swept over his thin lips. “Since you defied me and rejected my courtship and proposal, I wanted you more than ever.”

“Why?”

His grin stretched into a seductive leer. “Because, dear wife, the taming of you will be that much sweeter.”

Without thinking, she slapped him. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed through the bailey. A woman gasped. The priest crossed himself and all work ceased. The farrier stopped pounding, the carpenters stayed their hammers, even the windmill quieted.

Holt’s expression changed from leering seduction to rage. “That,” he said through lips that barely moved, “was a mistake.”

Two soldiers stepped forward as if to take her off his hands. Every eye in the keep turned in their direction. Holt’s patience was stretched to the breaking point. “Careful, wife, or our joining will be rougher than you might wish.”

“You sick, lying bastard! You told me that Cayley was ill, that you were taking me to see her!”

“A small deception, I’m afraid. I did not want to worry you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What would you have done once I was in her empty chamber?”

“Detain you.”

“As you would a common prisoner?”

“You leave me no choice,” he said with measured calm, “for you said yourself you do not think of me as your husband. Until I can convince you otherwise, you will be locked in your room and—”

“Nay, m’lord,” Father Timothy interjected. “You cannot jail her as you would a traitor.”

“She’ll have her own room, food and water, a guard at her door, and be allowed visitors of my choosing—treated much better than those held captive in the north tower.” Yanking on her arm, he half dragged her toward the keep.

Megan felt like a fool. She dug in her heels, trying to stop him, knowing that dozens of curious eyes were cast in her direction. The men and women who watched her being pulled into the keep against her will, would they help her or damn her for not living up to the forced promises of her wedding day? “Nay,” she cried, “unhand me!”

Holt’s face changed from a mask of determined impatience to one of leashed, ugly fury. “Tell her,” he ordered the priest, anger creasing his words. “Tell her she is my wife.”

Father Timothy fingered the cross at his neck. His eyes, once so superior and condemning, now held only pity. “ ’Tis true, m’lady. Your marriage vows are sacred.”

Despair threatened her and she turned her gaze upon the man with whom she was doomed to spend the rest of her life. “Would you want a wife who loves you not?”

Holt stopped dead in his tracks and whirled on her. “Love?” he repeated. “What in the name of Christ has love got to do with marriage?”

“Everything!” she cried.

“Megan, Megan,” he said, clucking his tongue. “What happened to you in the forest to make you think that love is so important? I never took you for such a fool—” His words stopped suddenly and his eyes narrowed as if a great understanding had come to him. “Wolf,” he said, his teeth grinding together. “You did not come here to flee him,” he said, his nostrils flaring in silent rage, “but to find him.”

“I—”

“Everything that was said, about you leaving with him willingly, about your giving yourself to him like a common whore, ’twas true,” he said venomously, as if wounded to his very soul. Then, as if finding an inner strength, he spat and said, “It matters not.”

She tried to jerk her arm from his deadly grasp, but he only tightened his grip and pinned her hand behind her back, forcing her to face away from him and stare at the carpenter’s hut, where a platform and scaffolding was half finished. “Merciful God,” she cried, realizing that the structure was a gallows, nearly finished. “What is this?”

“For your friends,” he said. “Wolf, the sorcerer, a boy and man who rode with him, and the traitors in the castle.”

“No,” she said and thought she might be sick. The skeleton of the gallows swam before her eyes and her knees buckled, but Holt’s firm grip kept her upright. “You cannot,” she cried and panic raced through her blood, thundering in her brain. “Nay, nay, nay!”

“ ’Tis true enough,” Holt said. “They all will hang. I was only waiting until one of them told me where to find you, but now that my willful wife has returned, there is no need to delay the event any longer.”

“Holt, please,” she begged. “Please, do not send them to their deaths.”