Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Without talking to me?” She let her eyes rove to each man.

Jagger cleared his throat and sheathed his knife. Bjorn’s smile widened, but he found interest in cleaning his fingernails with his blade. Odell muttered under his breath and stoked the fire with a long stick, and Robin’s eyes slid away. Only Wolf held her stare with an intense glare that nearly made her flinch.

“So what plan have you chosen, hmm?” she asked, defying the leader of these men.

“Ransom.” Wolf rocked back on his heels. “We just haven’t decided how much.”

“No? I think ’twould be easy.”

He raised his split brow, inviting her to continue. “How about thirty pieces of silver?” she asked, then dusted her hands, stood, and whirled, storming away from the fire toward the chapel.

“Ouch,” Odell muttered. “That stings a mite, don’t it?”

Bjorn had the nerve to laugh and Wolf, seething, couldn’t resist rising to the bait. He followed after her, catching up with her at the ruins and dragging her inside. “I thought you’d want to return to your castle.”

“Did you? And what of my husband? Did you think I wanted to see him again? Did I not tell you that I married for duty? You know I love Holt not!”

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. Her face, fresh-scrubbed with water from the river, turned up and her tangled hair fell around cheeks flushed with color. Her fists were curled as if she’d like nothing better than to batter his chest and her eyes, the color of light ale, snapped fire.

“My father will find you, Wolf,” she said. “And when he does, he will have no mercy on your black soul. ’Twill be as if hell itself were unleashed on you!”

“Your father is not the man he once was,” Wolf said, refraining from telling her that he’d learned only this morning that Ewan of Dwyrain was gravely ill. Jagger had ridden late last night to meet with spies in the castle, and the word was not good. Ewan, after collapsing just after Megan’s kidnapping, had become inattentive and confined to his quarters. The priest and Cayley visited him often and he was bedridden, surely dying. By rights, Megan should be with him, to ease his suffering and to be within the castle when he died, so that she, or Holt as her husband, could rule the keep.

“My father will not rest until I am safely returned.”

“And your husband?”

She shuddered visibly, her skin turning pale. “I will talk to Holt,” she said.

“And say what? That you changed your mind? That you were marrying him only as an obligation and now you feel no need? What?” he asked, unable to resist moving closer to her and watching her lips. They trembled slightly and her pulse, so visible at the open throat of his old tunic, fluttered.

“I have not decided.”

“Time is running out,” he said, and the irony of his words reflected in her eyes. Their time together was fleeting as well.

She was the first to look away. “So that’s it, then. You’ll send a messenger to Holt.”

“Have I not promised as much?” Guilt sliced through his heart at the tightening of her mouth. What would her fate be with the man who had held down a sweet maiden while another raped and used her? How could he ever release Megan to such a beast? He’d once thought that Holt’s humiliation would be enough to satisfy him, but he’d been wrong. Now, because of Megan and his fear for her, Wolf wouldn’t be satisfied with less than the bastard’s death.

He reached forward, tracing the slope of her cheek with the tip of his finger. “I meant not to hurt you, Megan.”

“Ha!” But she quivered beneath his touch.

“I wanted only to wound Holt.”

“Nay, Wolf. ’Tis more than that. ’Tis not only the wounding you wanted, but also the savoring of your vengeance.” She stepped away from him and shook her head, her red-brown curls brushing her shoulders. “Whatever it is that makes you hate Holt so, you nourish it, feed it, keep it alive. You delight to think that you thwarted him, that he is vexed because you are cleverer than he, but you will not be satisfied to return me to him. Whatever this rift is between you two, ’twill not be mended by gold coins.” She shoved aside his hand and looked up at him with disdain. “Money will not ease your pain, nor will causing Holt a smidgen of humiliation. Nay, this—whatever it is—that festers in you

will be cleansed only by your death or his.”

The truth of her words cleaved all hope he bore of purging himself of his burden of hate. Had she not voiced what he had already considered? She turned away from him, but he grabbed her arm, spun her to face him. Without another thought, he held her fast, as if afraid she would disappear, then captured her mouth in his.

“No,” she whispered, but opened her mouth to the pressure of his tongue. Small and yielding, her body fit against the harder contours of his. Her mouth was sweet, and Wolf’s mind swam with hot images of making love to her. He pressed harder, shoving her back against the wall, one hand reaching upward to feel the weight of her breast. Even through the coarse fabric, he noticed her nipple harden, and a part of him lost all control. He reached beneath the hem of her tunic and soft chemise to her warm, waiting flesh.

“Wolf,” she cried as his fingers scaled her ribs slowly, laying siege steadily. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her mouth an open invitation as he kissed her.

The swelling between his legs was hard and hot and needing release. He skimmed her nipple with his fingers and she sighed into his open mouth.

Lord help me, he silently prayed, but he couldn’t resist her sweet temptation and he lifted the coarse tunic over her head. Then, through the thin fabric of her chemise, he touched her with urgent fingers. Moaning, she leaned closer as he kissed her eyes, her neck, her throat. His blood thundered in his ears. Surely he was crossing some forbidden line, and in so doing, damning them both, but he couldn’t stop.