“You healed the horse and cursed us all!” Cayley cried, fury twisting her face. “Mother, Bevan, even tiny Roz—” Flinging herself at him, she began to batter him with her fists and Holt didn’t stop her. If this man were as powerful as was believed, then he could shield himself from her blows, untie the ropes that bound his hands and feet, and stop her, but he didn’t. Instead he stood proudly, unflinching, and didn’t say a word as she cursed him and flailed mercilessly at his face and chest.
“By the gods,” Reginald muttered under his breath. “Has she lost all sense?”
“Cayley—” Holt finally restrained her, but not until most of the fight had left her and she was sobbing pitifully, tears running from her eyes, her throat so clogged she could barely speak, her pain raw as the wind that tore through the outer bailey. “Take her away,” he said to several of the guards, and she fought them off.
“Unhand me!” she cried.
The guards stopped for a second.
Holt’s fury grabbed his tongue. “I said, ‘Take her away.’ ” Were all his men so soft they wouldn’t restrain a woman? God’s eyes, he was surrounded by fools. Pitiful fools. Soon, he would take care of this stubborn woman. Cayley was fast becoming a thorn in his side. The sooner he got rid of her, the better.
“Don’t touch me! I’m still the baron’s daughter.”
The man held prisoner said in a voice as calm as deep water, “Megan is safe, Lady Cayley.”
Holt’s gut twisted. “Know you where my wife is?” he demanded, new rage burning through his blood.
“Nay, only that she’s safe.” The prisoner’s face was so untroubled Holt felt another sharp jab of fear. The man should have been furious for being restrained, resentful that the hellcat of a woman had attacked him, or, if not angry, then afraid for his very life that he was to be held in the castle to which he brought such tragedy and pain. But he was serene, as tranquil as a lazy summer day.
“Where is she? Who is she with?”
“ ’Tis only a feeling,” the strange man explained.
“So you don’t know she’s safe? ’Tis but a sense?”
“Aye.” The man’s gaze moved to Cayley again. “Be strong.”
“You lying bastard!” Cayley cried. “You know where she is! You—” Two guards clamped powerful hands around her arms.
The sorcerer stepped forward as if to help her, but he nearly tripped, his bad leg dragging a bit. A soldier yanked him back and he fell to the gatehouse floor, cracking his head against the worn stones. Cayley gasped, and Holt felt nothing but loathing and fear for this pitiful excuse of a man.
“Throw him into the dungeon,” he commanded, “and when he wants to tell me more about where I can find my wife, bring him to me. Otherwise, leave him to rot. No food, no water, nothing!”
Cayley shook her head. “You cannot—”
“You’re the one who condemned him to hell, m’lady,” Holt sneered. “I’m just carrying out your request.”
“Nay—”
“Take her to her room. Place a guard at her door.”
“You cannot restrain me.”
“You’re not in your right mind, I’m afraid,” Holt said. “Do not fret, Lady Cayley. ’Tis for your own good.”
Megan watched the boiling water steam and thought longingly of a warm bath. Snow was drifting from the dark sky and a cold wind whistled through the surrounding trees, causing their dark, leafless branches to dance eerily. Feeling alone, she shivered. Wolf had left the camp. Again. There were days when he was gone for hours. Sometimes he rode alone; other times, some of his men accompanied him. She was never asked or allowed to ride with him, nor was she told what he did. But when he left, one guard was always asked to watch her closely, and no matter how she flirted with the man or complained of needing time to herself, she was never alone for a minute. No one wanted to incur Wolf’s wrath should she escape.
She was surprised how the camp changed when Wolf was away. The men were more silent and brooding, and she felt as if s
omething vital, the heart of their small group, had stopped beating. Even Cormick, the kindest of the lot, was in a foul mood.
“Fool,” she muttered under her breath as she plucked the feathers of a goose unlucky enough to have been on the wrong end of one of Robin’s arrows. These days, the boy was always off hunting, trying to avoid her, as if sensing that she and Wolf had grown closer.
She dipped the carcass into a pot of boiling water, soaking all the quills and pinfeathers as she’d seen some of the serving girls at Dwyrain do. Working swiftly, she plucked the wet feathers and dropped them into a bucket. Her breath fogged in the air and her fingers grew numb, but she didn’t complain. Jagger and Cormick spent hours chopping wood; Peter, brushing the horses and cleaning up after them; Robin, sharpening knives; and others cooking, cleaning, shoring up tents, tanning hides, and mending or polishing weapons. Each man worked hard and complained only a bit now and again.
As the wet feathers stuck to her hands, she glanced at the slate-colored sky. Surely the Christmas revels had begun at Dwyrain. ’Twas that time of year when the castle would be decorated with holly and ivy, and the Yule log—the trunk of a great tree—would be dragged by horses from the surrounding woods and hauled into the great hall to burn for days. Music, wine, dancing … she missed it, and thought often of her ailing father. And yet, would she return? If she had no threat of her marriage to Holt, would she think of Dwyrain as her home?
Surely Wolf would send a messenger soon with ransom demands, though he hadn’t as yet, and he was cross most of the time, snapping at his men and ordering her about as if she were his servant. He’d taken his post at the door of the chapel, and had never kissed her again. After the day when they’d nearly made love on his pallet, he had not touched her and kept his own counsel. The men had begun to mutter behind his back, remarking on his black mood, and sliding worried glances in her direction.