Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Unhand me,” she commanded, but he only held her tighter. She slapped at his face, tried to kick, but he laughed at her foolish attempts. “I’ll not let you send me to Holt!”

“You were told not to leave camp.”

“By the leader of an outlaw band! A criminal!”

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked, and in the moonlight she saw that his eyes were hooded, his jaw clenched, his lips white and thin as the blade of a new sword. Menacing and seductive he was, and her heart thudded, not with fear, but with a new, restless longing. Her mind burned with images of lying with him on the pallet, how she’d writhed and begged like a common wench. Her throat turned to sand and her pulse throbbed at the feel of him.

“You should have thought of that afore you decided to marry him.”

“Just let me go. What matters it to you? You’ll get your ransom, for my father will pay it, and I’ll not have to be returned to a husband I detest.”

“A husband who will hunt me and my men like foxes in the field for the rest of my days,” he reminded her, his voice edged in anger.

“Would you not enjoy it? Giving chase, eluding your enemy, vexing him?”

He searched her face for a heart-stopping instant. “Aye, ’tis true. I’d like nothing better than to cause Holt anguish and laugh at him, but there comes a time when a man must stop running.”

As his gaze touched hers, she was suddenly lost, her anger drained away, and the cold, brittle night closed around them. A rush of wind rattled the dry leaves, sending them skittering across the snow-dusted ground. “What are you running from?”

His smile gleamed white and wicked in the darkness. “I know not,” he said, shaking his head. “Myself, mayhap, or the mistakes of my youth.”

“You will make another if you force me to return to Holt.”

“Do you not want to see Dwyrain again?”

“Yes, but—”

“And your father?”

“Aye. I miss him.”

“Then you have to go to Dwyrain as Holt’s bride,” he said, but his lips barely moved. When she stared at them, that newly awakened beast of desire lying deep within her stretched its legs and unleashed its sharp claws. She could not trust this man, didn’t dare give him her heart, but the deed was already done; nothing remained but the physical act of loving him. What would be the consequences of that one, dark, unforgivable act?

She would be condemned. For the love of Jesus, she could not, as a married woman, even consider adultery, but the strength of his arms holding her close to his chest, the thunder of his heart beating a hard cadence not unlike her own, and his eyes, hidden when a gust of wind blew his black hair before them, worked to change her mind. What would be the harm of it?

Were she to give herself to Wolf, her marriage would certainly be annulled and she would not be forced to stay with Holt. However, her father would never forgive her for bringing shame to the house of Dwyrain. Ewan would surely disown her and mayhap banish her. Then she would lose everything.

“Come,” he said, carrying her to his horse.

“No!” Desperate to free herself, she pushed hard against the wall of his chest. “Let me go.”

“I cannot.”

“Then ’tis about money—pieces of gold and silver—nothing more!” she accused, and she felt him stiffen.

The skin over his face tightened but he didn’t answer. As he reached for his mount’s reins, she felt his grip lessen. Using every ounce of her might, she twisted hard and kicked at the horse. With a surprised snort, the animal backed away. Muttering under his breath, Wolf tried to restrain the beast, but the destrier tossed his great head, let out a frightened neigh, and began to rear. Heavy hooves flailed, striking the air, causing Wolf to step away.

“By the gods—”

Megan writhed and yanked herself free, her feet touching ground as Wolf tried to soothe his horse. The mare shied and Megan took off running, heading through the bracken, her boots slipping on the snow, her face being attacked by branches and vines.

“Megan! Holy Christ, where do you think you’ll go that I’ll not find you?” he said, and then there was silence. Her throat tightened and she knew he was stalking her through the thin, leafless trees. She ran faster and faster, intent on getting away, not because she feared him, but because she couldn’t trust herself alone with him, and if she was forced to return to the camp with him, her plan to extricate herself from her marriage would be thwarted.

Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps, her legs beginning to ache, her mind spinning ahead when he caught her. “Little one, stop,” he ordered and then, as if from the very soul of the forest, a hand reached forward and clamped over her arm.

“No!” she cried, but he tugged, spinning her against him, enfolding her in his arms.

“Shh!”