Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Ye sleep in Wolf’s tent,” he finally said.

“Aye.” So that was what was bothering him.

“Yet ye are not his wife.”

His wife. How strange to think of Wolf married and yet … a part of her saw some woman reaching past his hard skin, finding the inner man, the kind man behind his mask of hate. “Nay, Robin, I’m not his wife, nor do I sleep with him.”

Grunting in disbelief, he took the net from her hands.

“Believe what ye will, Robin, but Wolf and I, we touch each other not.”

His eyes narrowed on the net, but his mind was on other things. Wiping her hands on her tunic, Megan rocked back on her heels to meet the boy’s concerned gaze. “What is it?”

“Are you not married?” he asked, staring pointedly at the ring on her finger. “To another man—this Holt of Prydd?”

She nodded. “ ’Tis my misfortune, I’m afraid.” In haste, she worked the horrid gold band from her finger. It had been uncomfortable from the moment Holt had placed it there, a constant reminder of her mockery of a marriage, yet she’d not removed it, feeling duty-bound to wear the cursed thing. Now, however, she felt no such need and deftly tossed the tiny band into the stream. It spa

rkled in the sunlight before dropping into the clear water and settling between two rocks.

Robin stared at her as if she were mad. “ ’Tis worth something,” he cried. “ ’Tis gold.”

“I want it not. If you find some value to it, you may have it. ’Tis yours, Robin, all you needs do is go and fetch it, but I will never again wear it. Nor do I ever want to see it again.”

He swallowed hard and stared at her, as if she were some creature he couldn’t possibly understand.

“Now, let’s see about your net, shall we?”

“The net … oh …” Once the string was tied and the net strong again, they dipped it into the stream where the water pooled and promptly caught a frog swimming just under the water’s surface. Robin grabbed him from the net, but the slippery creature croaked in protest and struggled away, leaving the boy and Megan to laugh at his quick, ungainly escape.

They didn’t notice Wolf standing behind them, watching their antics from a thicket of oak. “Robin,” he said, and the boy nearly jumped from his own skin.

“Aye?” The boy’s flush was hot and red.

“Help Peter with the horses. We’re moving the camp.”

“Tonight?” the boy grumbled, holding the dripping net against his tunic.

“Aye. Holt’s soldiers are headed this way and we want not to be surprised.”

Megan’s heart dove. The thought of seeing Holt again struck hard, but then she’d found a happiness here as Wolf’s captive. The men treated her with respect and she was beginning to know each of them, from Odell, the sharp-tongued liar, to mean-tempered and daring Jagger. Peter, with his one eye and level head, was a kind soul who trusted horses more than he did his fellow man. Bjorn, strong and handsome, was rumored to be some kind of bastard prince, and young Robin reminded her of her brother Bevan when he was young. Then there was Wolf, the leader, a man outwardly cruel and arrogant who willingly defied the law, yet who was blessed with a kinder side he kept hidden. Wolf, who saved a young boy from the jailer; Wolf, who swept her away from a husband she hated; Wolf, who carried a secret that weighed heavily on his heart; Wolf, the man who guarded her each night, sleeping near her but not touching her, holding her prisoner and yet protecting her as well. Aye, he was an appealing man, and it crossed her mind that if she gave in to the desire that awakened whenever he was near, that if she dared kiss him or touch him or make love to him, she would have cause to have her marriage to Holt annulled. But as much as she wanted her freedom from her husband, the thought of actually lying with Wolf frightened her. ’Twas dangerous to become emotionally entangled with a criminal.

Megan helped break camp by folding tents and lashing them to poles to be pulled by some of the horses. There was but one wagon and another small cart for supplies and weapons.

Wolf insisted that they travel at night, avoiding those who traveled by day.

She packed the rugs and fur blankets, lashing them to the pallet. Would she ever see her beloved father again? Or Cayley—would she be able to laugh and argue with her sister? Or ride in the fields surrounding the castle?

That part of her life was over, for even if she did return to the keep, she would have to face Holt as his bride, unless she could persuade her father and Father Timothy or the abbot that the marriage should be annulled, that she could not possibly remain Holt’s wife.

She grabbed the bag holding her clothes, the white tunic, red surcoat, and green mantle, then bit down hard on her lower lip as she drew the string that would secure her bag. Surely Holt would want her not if she were no longer a virgin. Would he not cast her out as his wife if she’d lain with another man? And would coupling with another be worse than being married to him for the rest of her life?

Her gaze strayed to Wolf kicking dust into the campfire. Her pulse pounded in her temple. Could she give herself to this man, this black-heart, if only for a night? Her mouth turned to dust at the thought of his touch, warm against her skin, the pressure of his lips as they claimed hers. Her blood heated and she looked away.

Losing her virtue to him would not ease her burden. The clouds shifted, blocking out the moon, and she remembered the crippled prophet’s words. Could this man Wolf, leader of this band, be the destruction of Dwyrain as was prophesied, and if so, would she really lose her heart to him?

Five

ye, they were here,” Connor said, eyeing the soggy remains of a campfire and deep ruts from a heavy wagon. Bootprints and hoofprints were visible in the mud by the stream. “If not the outlaw Wolf and his miserable band of cutthroats, then someone like them.” Bending down, he examined the crushed grass and rubbed a few wet blades between his fingers.