Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“The lad’s addled with fear,” Wolf said in that same hoarse, cruel whisper. “And half in love with ye. Stop it, boy, the lady’s a married woman. The new baron is her husband.”

Something deep in her heart withered. “Why be you so cruel?”

“ ’Tis my way,” he said, and for a second she thought she saw another emotion flicker in his eyes, a pain she didn’t recognize, but it was fleeting, and when he stretched to his feet and limped slowly to her, her heart tore open. How had she thought he might ever love her? The shackles on his feet chinked as he moved and his face was tight, his lips flat, his gaze steady and hate-filled. His grimy fingers circled the iron slats of his cell and she reached forward to touch him, only to have him draw away. “Return to the keep and leave us in this hellhole, woman,” he said, his lip curling in disgust at the sight of her. “We need not your pity.”

“I’m tellin’ ye, m’lord, he acted as if the sight of her disgusted ’im, as if he couldn’t bear to see her,” the guard told Holt. “ ’Twas wicked he was to her. Father Timothy he stayed on, asking for confessions, offering to pray with the prisoners, but they turned their backs on ’im as well.”

“And the lady?” Holt asked, suspicion still pounding through his brain. When he’d heard that Father Timothy had disobeyed him and had taken Megan to the dungeon, he’d been furious, but now, upon the second guard’s word, which was as strong as the first sentry’s, he felt some sense of relief. Was it possible that the outlaw had at least a shred of honor and hadn’t stolen Megan’s virtue? Or was he protecting her? Or did he actually loathe her?

As Holt sat in Ewan’s recently vacated chair in the great hall, with one boot propped on the hearth and the servants scurrying through the keep to see to his every need, Holt felt a second’s peace.

The hunt today had been rewarding—a doe and one fawn, though the other wounded yearling had escaped, its trail of blood leading nowhere. Now, it appeared that his stubborn wife might not be tainted, and he so loved to enter a virgin. Lifting his mazer to his lips, he sighed. “You were speaking of my wife,” he said, savoring the word. Marrying Megan had given him this keep, and aside from the pleasures of her body, which he planned to soon sample, his newfound wealth was gratifying.

“Aye, she’s been askin’ to see ye,” the guard proclaimed.

More good news. He’d been patient with her, hoping she would see that there was no use in resisting him, but he could not wait forever.

“Bring her in.” As the sentry hurried up the stairs, Holt clapped his hands and felt immense satisfaction when a page, his eyes round with fear that Holt wasn’t satisfied with the performance of his duties, listened in trembling silence, then retrieved another cup of wine.

Life, indeed, was good.

Within minutes, he spied Megan walking slowly down the stairs and he couldn’t help the small catch in his heart at the sight of her. She was beautiful, with her bright, ale-colored eyes and quick smile. The bridge of her nose boasted a few freckles and her thick hair curled in russet-colored waves. She’d dressed in a deep blue tunic and amber mantle and looked as if she were truly the mistress of the keep. One day she would bear him strong sons and beautiful daughters, and if only he could teach her to rein in her wicked tongue, she would be a good companion for him.

“ ’Tis said that you want to speak with me,” he ventured, waving toward a chair and sliding a cup of wine across the table toward her.

“Aye,” she said, and he waited until at last she muttered, “m’lord.”

“What is it you wish to discuss?”

“The prisoners,” she said, hitching her chin upward in defiance and refusing to take the seat he offered. Nor did she show the least inclination to pick up the cup of wine. Willful. Stubborn. A woman who would be a challenge in bed.

“I heard you went to visit them and were not well received.”

“Let them go.”

He laughed. Surely she was joking, but the serious expression on her small face convinced him otherwise. “They are criminals and needs be punished.”

“Because I was stolen from Dwyrain,” she said. “But I’ve returned.”

He ran his finger around his mazer thoughtfully. “How can I be assured that you will stay?”

“You have my word,” she said without the slightest hint of hesitation. “Did I not return when I had the chance?”

Lifting a shoulder and mindful of the servants who were within earshot, including Nell, who was taking her time polishing the candleholders while pretending not to listen, he said, “Aye, but how am I to know that ’twas your first attempt at escape from the outlaw?”

“It wasn’t. But I was caught every other time. The last time, I took the leader’s destrier.”

Holt laughed. “That must have stolen the piss from him.”

“Unfortunately, it was stolen by the farmer who found me and took me to the nunnery.”

“Aye, the nunnery that was far from Dwyrain. It appeared you were not returning here so much as fleeing,” he said, watching for any hint of reaction in her smooth features.

Her eyebrows drew together. “Aye, ’tis true, but I could not chance riding to Dwyrain without the outlaws catching up to me, for ’twas what they expected.”

“So you want me to believe that you led them on a wild chase that took you to the nunnery.”

“Believe what you will, Holt. Know you that I did not come to be your wife willingly. I wanted you not. But now”—she turned defeated palms to the ceiling—“I cannot pretend to love you or even care for you, but. . . I … I am willing to be your wife day and night if you let the prisoners go free.”