Disgusted, he tossed the shredded stick aside and wiped his hands. Force and rape were what had driven him to become an outlaw in the first place, though Megan knew nothing of his past. ’Twas years before when he was just beginning to be a man, Wolf, then known as Ware, had been left in charge of the castle while his brother Garrick was away. Ware had never doubted his ability to command and his own pride and foolishness had been his downfall. He’d lost control of Abergwynn to the enemy and then, while he and his best friend Cadell were fleeing for their lives, they had been chased to the cliffs rising high over the sea. Rather than surrender, Ware had chosen death, urging his mount over the edge of those sharp bluffs and hurtling into the blackness wherein Cadell had already fallen.
He’d thought he was dead when he awoke in a fisherman’s hut and the sweetest woman in the world, the man’s daughter, Mary, pressed cool cloths to his head. Her hands were soft, her eyes trusting, her lips pink and always turned into a kind smile. She whispered words of encouragement and told him that she’d never lost faith, that she was certain with enough kindness and prayer he would awaken.
He was in love with her from the moment she’d asked him how he felt. He’d blinked his eyes open and even in his fuzzy vision her image had smiled down on him. “I knew you’d wake up,” she said in a voice as soft and pure as the first light of dawn. “God would not take one so young and handsome.”
She’d tended to him and he’d strengthened, living with her and her father, Alan, learning how to sail and fish, how to read the storms gathering in the distance, becoming accustomed to the gentle swaying of the boat. ’Twas easy to shed his other life, to leave his past and his shame on the rocky shoals beneath the cliffs of Abergwynn. Though his memory returned, he hadn’t been able to face his brother. Aside from the guilt of allowing his family to think him dead, he was content and in love—so innocently and completely in love.
He had planned to wed Mary, but before he was able, Tadd of Prydd, cruel firstborn son of Baron Eaton, had ridden through their village and altered the course of their lives forever. Mary, while selling fish in the market, had unwittingly caused Tadd to notice her, and after only one glimpse of her, he’d decided that he would claim her—not for a wife, nay, but for a night’s sport and pleasure.
That evening, Tadd and a few cruel-faced soldiers burst into their tiny hut. Swords drawn, expressions murderous, they slammed the door shut behind them and waited for their leader’s command. Tadd’s face was red from ale. He drew up a stool, smiled evilly, and announced that he wanted only a few hours with Mary, then he and his men would be on their way. He’d pay the fisherman for his trouble, but Mary’s father, a man of uncommon strength of character and faith in deliverance from the Lord, had refused, placing himself squarely between the soldiers and his daughter.
“You’re being foolish,” Tadd warned him, as Ware, too, tried to intervene.
“Leave here,” Ware had ordered, but Tadd was quick and armed. His sword struck swiftly, cleaving Ware’s eyebrow and knocking him into a watery darkness where he couldn’t move.
Tears streaming down his leathery face, Mary’s father tried to rescue her, and for his efforts his arm was severed at the elbow by Tadd’s sword, in a swift blow that left him howling in blind pain. He fell to the floor and Ware, barely conscious and lying in his own blood, thought Alan dead.
With all his strength, Ware struggled to his feet, but the blackness overcame him and he fell again. No amount of prodding could urge his pained muscles to support him.
Mary’s horrified screams rang in his ears, and through damaged eyes, he saw murky images of Tadd moving toward her. Ware screamed but no sound came from his’ mouth. He tried to climb to his knees, but his legs were no longer under his control. The darkness was like a warm cloak, offering to blind him from the pain, but he fought the urge to give up the battle. Desperate, his own ragged breathing filling his head, he scrabbled for Tadd’s sword, which the bastard had discarded as he’d untied his breeches. Eyes gleaming, Tadd stalked Mary, who was on the floor, trying to back away, her hands and feet failing her as they slipped in her father’s blood.
“Please, m’lord,” Mary had pleaded, tears streaming from her eyes, her body quaking. “Do not do this.”
“ ’Twill be pleasant, girl. You will enjoy it.”
“Nay, I cannot—”
“Ah, but you will,” Tadd said smoothly, then turned to Holt. “Hold her!”
“No!”
/> Ware grasped for the sword but his muscles would not move. The shadowy fog threatened him again.
Tadd’s breeches fell to his ankles as Holt wrested Mary to Alan’s bed.
No! No! No! Ware’s mind screamed, but no words passed his lips. Merciful God, help her! Let me save her! Do not let this happen!
The floor was sticky with his blood and Ware stretched, only to be swept away again, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t hear her horrifying, bloodcurdling screams or the smack of flesh on skin as Tadd slapped her.
I’ll kill you, I swear on my life that I’ll kill you!
Holt held her arms over her head while Tadd, undeterred by her kicks or screams, mounted her, grunting in pleasure, his fat white rump jiggling as he rutted hard and fast, undeterred as she screamed in pain. Ware was powerless. He swam in and out of the darkness that was his mind while a leering Holt pinned Mary to her father’s bed.
Gritting his teeth, he climbed to his knees, crying a hoarse, “Get off her, you sick bastard,” and received a sharp kick to the face from one of the soldiers.
With a cry, he finally lost all consciousness. When he awakened, he realized that again he had failed, just as he’d failed when he’d lost Abergwynn to Strahan. But this was worse—this was not a castle; not a moat, and walls, and locked gates. This was a woman’s very soul, her heart. His shame was immense.
When finally he could pull himself to his feet and stagger over to her, he found his Mary, his beautiful, sweet, loving Mary, cowering in a corner, holding a bloodied blanket over her bruised body and allowing no one to come close or touch her. Trembling, spittle and blood collecting at the corner of her mouth, her eyes round, her face bruised, she mewed like a helpless, frightened kitten, then hissed and scooted away when he’d tried to touch her.
He’d found more blankets to cover her ripped clothes and her battered body, but though he’d tried only to help her, she’d been afraid to look at him, nor would she ever speak to him again. That day Tadd and Holt had robbed her of more than her virtue; they’d stolen her mind as well. Her father survived long enough to take one last voyage with his daughter. Alan had refused to let Ware join them, and they didn’t return. A storm as savage as the wrath of God swept into the town, and Ware waited. With each day that passed, his transformation continued, and when he hadn’t seen Mary for over a month, he knew she was gone from him forever.
That was the day that Ware, no longer of Abergwynn, became Wolf the outlaw, a rogue who trusted no man and asked no questions of those who chose to follow him. Having lost all his faith in God as well as trust in his fellow man, he’d given up what few possessions he had acquired and had stolen away to the forests, where he could live life alone and would make no friends.
Eventually, he’d met up with a few tattered wanderers who, like himself, had pasts they could not face, and as their numbers grew, Wolf became the leader. He alone could read, and he, though not as large as some of the men, was more agile and quick and ruthless with his sword. No one challenged him. And no one ever admitted to rape unless they wanted to incur Wolf’s legendary and excruciating vengeance.
For the past few years he’d been satisfied with his vagabond, criminal life.
Until now.