Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

She gasped and cried out.

“ ’Tis true,” he admitted drunkenly, his tongue loosened by wine. “Your brother as well as your father. Neither would hurry to his grave fast enough.” With a belch, he laughed, and Megan wanted only to do him harm.

“I detest you!” she spat, giving up her plan to dupe him and play the willing bride. She could never, would never . . .

He clucked his tongue. “I would have done anything for this time with you,” he said and she spat up at his face.

“Get off me!”

“Too late. Now, wife,” he said, rising above her, his white, naked body poised between her legs, “watch as I make you mine.”

She stared up at him, but she would not touch or caress him. One of her arms was flung over the side of the bed and her fingers touched his garments, the velvet and leather an

d … something metal. Her fingertips scraped the hilt of his knife.

A gift from God. She licked her lips as her fingers wrapped over the carved handle.

“Now and forever, Megan of Dwyrain, ye belong to me!”

He thrust forward. Her fingers wrapped around the weapon and with a swift shifting of her body, she brought up the knife and plunged the wicked blade deep into his side.

Blood sprayed the bedclothes.

Holt let out a hideous, timber-rattling roar. Rage and pain contorted his features. “I’ll kill you!”

“Go to hell, you murdering beast!” Megan squirmed away as Holt tried to reach for the knife that stuck beneath his ribs.

Rolling off the bed, she grabbed her chemise and landed near the fire and basket of logs. She had to get out of here. Now! Escape!

“You’ll pay for this,” he charged, but was sweating and breathing hard. Stumbling to his feet, he yanked out the knife. More blood splattered. Holding the dripping weapon, he dove forward. She sidestepped his attack and he fell on the floor with a thud and a pained grunt.

“ ’Tis Wolf I love,” she said, wanting to wound him, to make him feel some of the pain she felt now that she knew that he’d taken both her brother’s and her father’s lives. She threw her chemise over her head.

“The thief.”

“But not a murderer.”

“He killed Tadd of Prydd.” Holt was struggling, his arms levering his torso upright. Blood ran from his side. “Now, you are my wife and—”

“In name only,” she said, as she gathered up the rest of her clothes. Holt’s skin was pale, but as Megan tossed on her tunic and backed toward the door, he sprang to his feet with renewed strength.

“You’ll regret you ever crossed me, woman.” He thrust at her with the knife and she spun away, knocking over the basket of firewood. Small logs rolled free.

“Keep far from me!”

“Not until you beg for mercy.”

Without thinking, she snatched up what had once been a branch and heaved it at him. He ducked, but the corner of the log caught him on the edge of his jaw and sent him spinning into the wall, where he cracked his head on a crucifix hung near the door. Megan, certain she’d killed him, dropped a second piece of oak and stumbled backward. “Oh, God, please help me,” she cried.

He groaned and lay still.

Never before had she taken a life, and though she hated Holt with all her heart, she’d never truly believed that she’d have to kill him. She nearly retched, but told herself to keep going, this was her chance. Grabbing her mantle and boots, she stepped over his bleeding body. Fingers fumbling, heart pounding, she threw on her mantle, pried the knife from his fingers, and bolted for the door. It opened without a sound and soon she was in the corridor for the first time in days.

“God be with me,” she whispered, thankful as she locked the door behind her that Holt had dismissed the guards.

The air in the corridor was cool. The rush lights flickered dimly, casting shadows against the walls, but Megan’s steps were sure. She’d grown up in this castle and knew connecting routes to back stairs and seldom-used passages. Walking barefoot and noiselessly, she slipped unseen through the hallways. Most of the castle was asleep—only a few nodding guards stood their posts—but Megan hurried down a curving staircase, through the gallery, past a door leading to the priest’s quarters, and finally down another set of steps to the kitchen.

A cat lurked near the door, but it only watched with amber eyes as she stole outside where the moon, not quite full, bathed the bailey in its silvery glow. The gallows, with its noose swaying softly, loomed like a huge, ungainly beast, casting a horrid shadow over the grass. In her mind’s eye, Megan saw her beloved Wolf swinging from the hangman’s rope, and she sped forward, past the evil structure and the pillory to Rue’s hut.