Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

Until Megan of Dwyrain had disrupted all his carefully laid plans. He’d had the satisfaction of destroying Tadd of Prydd and he’d thought that ruining Holt would only add to his vindictive fulfillment, but he hadn’t considered that he might be attracted to the woman whom Holt had wed.

“Mother of Moses,” he grumbled as the damp fog laid in closer about the camp. He should have killed Holt and been done with it, but he’d wanted to wound his old enemy in other, deeper ways. Death was too easy; he wanted Holt to suffer not only the indignity of losing his bride on his wedding day, but of having to search for her and appear the fool when he couldn’t find her. Holt would be the laughingstock of everyone at Dwyrain, servants, guests, freemen, and soldiers alike. The news would travel to other castles and baronies as well and Holt’s name would command no respect.

Then Wolf would kill him. But not before.

So what of Lady Megan? What was Wolf to do with her? He’d thought that ransoming her would solve his problem, but the very idea of returning her to Holt was unthinkable. There was not enough money in all of Dwyrain’s treasury to change his mind. So he was stuck with her.

That particular thought brought an unlikely smile to his lips.

Jovan the apothecary was a short, stooped man who liked gold. Where he squirreled all his money away, Holt could only guess. Jovan wore tattered rags, his hut was a hovel, his horse, barely skin and bones, was a sorry hack with a back so swayed it appeared broken. Whereas some men liked money for what it could buy and spent their gold on fine clothes, jewelry, or women, Jovan hoarded his gold pieces jealously. He found pleasure in owning gold, not in considering what he could buy.

But it mattered not. All Holt cared about was that Jovan was greedy and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

“So we do business again,” he said as Holt entered his shop. He hunched over a dirty bench, with a mortar and pestle, his knobby fingers working steadily as he ground some bitter-smelling leaves into a paste. Only one candle burned near him; Jovan would not waste precious wax just to save his eyes.

“Aye.” Holt dropped a small leather pouch on the bench. The flame of the candle flickered and Jovan could barely take his eyes off the tiny parcel. His tongue rimmed dry lips and his hands faltered in their work. With a cough, he set the mortar aside.

“And you want the same herbs?” Jovan asked, his eyes gleaming with the thought of a nice, fat payment.

“Yes, the same.”

“The price has gone up.”

“Not much, old friend,” Holt said, eyeing the dusty jars of roots, berries, and leaves.

Jovan reached for the leather pouch, but Holt grabbed hold of his bony wrist. “We understand each other, do we not?”

“No one will know, Sir Holt,” Jovan said.

“I was not here.”

The apothecary smiled, showing off spaces where there once had been teeth. “I know you only as a knight of Dwyrain, now husband of the baron’s daughter. Soon to be baron.” Was there the tiniest bit of amusement in his tired old eyes? “I will say that you have never visited my shop.”

Holt allowed himself a smile and let go of the old man’s arm. “Take it,” he said of the pouch. “Just make sure your blend is stronger than the last. I have not much time.”

Jovan snorted as he unwrapped the pouch and saw the gold. Quickly, he snatched the purse in a clawlike hand and stowed his prize deep in the folds of his dusty tunic. Surprisingly agile, the old man climbed onto a ladder to reach a high shelf with a hidden door. From the cupboard, he withdrew a clean jar. “I thought ye might be needin’ this,” he admitted, smiling as if he thought he was clever. “It has no taste and will go unnoticed if dropped into food or ale.” He handed Holt the bottle and their gazes collided, each sharing his part of a private secret, each knowing that he couldn’t trust the other.

“Two drops, no more than three, at each meal,” Jovan cautioned. “Elsewise ye’ll bring suspicion on the cook.”

“The man is old already and dying.”

“Aye, but he’s the baron. He will be watched.”

Holt felt an evil grin slide over his face. “I know,” he said. “ ’Tis I who will see that Ewan of Dwyrain is cared for.”

Jovan chuckled and the sound was cold and without any soul. “Then his fate is sealed, and you, sir, will soon be the new baron.”

“That,” Holt said, “is the idea.”

Again Jovan laughed. He rubbed his hands together. “I only hope that I will be rewarded.”

“ ’Twill be done,” Holt said, thinking how easily it would be to get rid of the old man and find his stash of gold and silver. But he could not kill off the apothecary for a while, not until he was certain he didn’t need Jovan’s help in murdering his enemies.

Megan knew he would be waiting for her. As surely as the sun would rise in the east in the morn, Wolf would expect for her to attempt to flee. She had no choice but to try. Silly as it sounded, she was afraid that if she were to stay she might lose her foolish heart to the handsome criminal with the rough edges and hidden nobility. Worse yet, he would ransom her, not to her father, but to Holt, her new husband. Spittle collected in her mouth at the thought of her husband, and she knew she could never return to him.

The cords binding her wrists were not tight, and it was a simple matter to scoot off the pallet and slide over to the side of the tent where she’d seen the tools and the small ax. Silently she slid the cord over the blade, sawing until the twine broke free and she was able to use her hands again.

She wondered where Wolf had positioned himself and decided that he was probably sleeping near the door, so her best chance of avoiding him was to slip out the back. Carefully, she felt around the bottom of the tent, where the cloth walls were stretched tight. There was no room for a snake or mouse to slide through, but with her ax, she could cut a slit in the tent and . . .