Outlaw, Page 3

  You will marry … at the bidding of your father … marriage will be cursed—The cripple’s words rang in circles in her head, round and round, spinning ever faster on this, the day of her wedding. There will be trouble at Dwyrain. Sickness. Deceit. Betrayal. The blame will be placed on you.

  “Your Holt will make you happy, as Gwayne will me,” Cayley said dreamily. Always a romantic, Cayley had envisioned herself as the lady of Castle Cysgod from the moment she’d met Gwayne when she was but 4 years old and he a boy of 8.

  “Holt is Father’s choice, not mine!”

  “Shh, child!” Rue hissed, shaking her graying head as she straightened and rubbed the small of her back. “I would be careful were I ye,” she said, giving advice as she always had. “The castle walls sometimes have ears, do they not? Holt would not be pleased were he to hear your thoughts.”

  “He will hear them soon enough,” Megan said, for if she was to wed this man, he would find she had her own mind, her own plans, her own life … or did she? Her heart sank. Whereas Cayley had forever wanted to marry, Megan had longed for something other than being a soldier’s or a baron’s wife.

  “Here, slip your arms through,” Rue instructed as she held up a wine-red quilted surcoat with threads of gold. Megan did as she was bid, including donning a mantle of forest green that was trimmed with gold lace. The old nursemaid trained a practiced eye on her handiwork. “ ’Tis lovely ye are, Megan girl.”

  “Aye,” Cayley said, frowning slightly, twin little furrows growing in the skin between her honey-colored brows. “You are prettier than I thought you’d ever be.”

  Megan should have been pleased, but she was not. She’d looked forward to this day as if it were the beginning of her death sentence. She would no longer have this bedchamber to herself. Holt had been given Bevan’s room and would share it with her. He was not a wealthy man and owned no keep of his own, but he had sworn to her father that he would take care of Megan for all her life and be true to Dwyrain.

  Ewan believed him.

  Megan did not.

  Without much grace, Cayley hopped down from the ledge. “Think ye this keep is cursed?” she asked, biting her lower lip and running a hand along a bare, whitewashed wall.

  Rue snorted. “Ye’ve been listening to idle gossip again.”

  “Well, I believe it!” Cayley said, staring at her sister with silent, unspoken accusations in her eyes. “Were it not, Mother, Bevan, and Baby Roz would yet be alive!”

  “You blame me,” Megan said, the knowledge as painful as a hot knife twisting in her heart. Even her sister had fallen prey to the curse.

  “Nay, not you, but surely that monster of a cripple who you met in the forest. I remember that day, Megan, when you came riding into the castle, your skin the color of curdled cream, your eyes round and frightened, as if you’d just seen your own ghost!”

  Megan remembered that dark day as well. She’d been scared to death and trembled inside. Late that night, she’d slipped from beneath her coverlet to kneel and whisper at Cayley’s bedside. With the light of one lone candle chasing away the shadows of the night, she’d confided in her sister, telling an awestruck Cayley everything the sorcerer had said and done, including healing Shalimar’s leg and predicting the dark fates that would befall the keep.

  “He was the Devil!” Cayley had said, clutching her fur blanket to her chest.

  “Nay, I think not.”

  “He’s cursed us.” Cayley sat bolt upright in bed and narrowed her eyes. “I wish I would have met him in the forest,” she’d said, as she’d tossed her dark honey–colored curls over her shoulder, “for I would have laid a curse on his own black soul.”

  “Nay, Cayley, the man was true of heart.”

  Cayley had snorted her disbelief, and now, years later, as the sand drifted through the hourglass and ’twas nearing the time for her marriage to Holt, Megan feared her sister had been right after all. Dwyrain was cursed and she was the reason.

  “Come now, child,” Rue said with a sigh. “Father Timothy and Holt wait for ye in the chapel.”

  “I’m tellin’ ye, ’tis a fool’s mission we’re on,” Odell complained, rubbing his back and squinting through the underbrush to the castle rising in the distance. Astride a sorrel jennet he’d won in a dice game, he scowled against the surrounding gloom.

  Wolf ignored the older man and stripped off his tunic. Odell was never happy lest he was grumbling. “ ’Tis something I have to do.” Untying the bag he’d brought with him, he reached inside and his fingers encountered the soft fabric of the clothes he’d stolen only a few hours earlier from a nobleman.

  “For the love of Saint Peter, man, think. What needs we with a woman? Do ye not remember the law of our band?”

  “I made the law,” Wolf said through lips that barely moved. He patted his destrier’s thick neck and stared at the throng of people moving along the road toward Dwyrain, the fortress he planned to plunder. Limestone walls knifed upward to thick battlements and towers; a wide moat was crossed by a single bridge spanning a river that surrounded the hill on which the castle was built. A town, hidden by walls cut from the same stone, lay to the east, with only the river separating it from the castle. Outside the walls were a few houses and fields that farmers tended, but the tilled land finally gave way to the woods Wolf now called home.

  “Aye, ye made the law that there would be no women in our band, that women only cause trouble, that women—”

  “I know what I said,” Wolf growled, sliding his arms and head through a silky black tunic.

  “And yet ye’re willing to break yer own rules. For this one? Why? What d’ye want with this cursed woman?” Odell asked, blowing on fingers that showed through the ends of his gloves.

  “She’s not important.” His new mantle was black as well, trimmed in the fur of a silver fox. Metal studs decorated his new belt and gloves.

  “Not important? Fer the love of Saint Jude, then why take her?”

  “Because she belongs to Holt of Prydd,” he said, and felt a cruel smile twist his lips as he tightened his belt and thought of his quest. “In that respect, you’re right, Odell. She is cursed.”

  “I hate to be the one givin’ ye the news, but in case ye havna noticed, this isna Prydd we’re plannin’ to enter—”

  “Not us. Only me,” Wolf reminded him. “You’re to wait for my signal then take Sir Kelvin’s fine horse”—he motioned to the tawny destrier they’d recently stolen—“and ride back to camp.”

  “Aye, aye. Wait fer the signal. I know. But I’m tellin’ ye, Wolf. This woman—this daughter of the baron—will only bring us trouble.”

  Wolf didn’t bother answering, just stared across the great distance that separated them from the castle. His eyes were trained on the crenels of the north watch turret. Baron Ewan of Dwyrain’s standard snapped in the wind, the colors red and gold bright against an ominous slate-colored sky. If ever there was a day for an omen, this was one. But Wolf trusted not in too much sorcery. Aye, he’d watched Morgana of Wenlock talk to the wind and see through a window into the future, and he’d witnessed great healing when Sorcha of Prydd had brought the near-dead back to life again, but he trusted not the dark arts. Nor did he trust God.

  Mist was beginning to gather in the woods and would soon shroud his view. Then he’d have to rely on instincts rather than the help of spies within the castle. Somewhere in the surrounding trees, an owl hooted softly.

  “There it is,” Wolf said squinting hard. One of Dwyrain’s sentries, a watchman in the north tower, paused, closed the shutters of the crenel, then opened them again. “ ’Tis time.”

  Odell scratched his head. “Time fer what—to open the gates of hell?”

  Wolf chuckled and checked the knife he’d slid into his boot. “The marriage ceremony is about to begin.” A hard smile crept over his lips as the sound of church bells peeled throughout the valley. “I wouldn’t want to be late.”

  “For the wedding?” Odell asked, rolling his eyes a
s if he was certain his leader was daft. “ ’Twill be hours before ye get there.”

  “I care not for the wedding.” Wolf’s smile faded and determination clenched his jaw. “But the kidnapping can’t start without me.”

  Wolf entered the gates of Dwyrain easily. No one questioned a well-dressed nobleman on a swift mud-spattered destrier. He appeared tired, as if from a long journey, and rode across the drawbridge and beneath the great portcullis that was raised in the gatehouse. Through the outer bailey without so much as a question from the sentries, he followed others and trailed behind a lumbering team of horses pulling a hay cart. A boy he recognized as Jack, a young hunter for the castle, glanced his way, then went back to sharpening the blade of his knife. Though neither acknowledged the other, Wolf and Jack had met before when poachers had tried to steal from Dwyrain’s forests and had nearly killed Jack to silence him. It had been Wolf’s sword that had convinced them to take their dead stag and leave the boy alone.

  Now, three years later, Jack sheathed his knife, met Wolf’s gaze again briefly, then grabbed the reins of Wolf’s mount before leading the stallion away.

  The chapel bells had rung hours before, announcing that the marriage ceremony itself and the nuptial Mass following the ceremony had ended. Good. ’Twas important that Holt be married. Wolf only hoped Holt loved Ewan’s daughter with all his black heart. She was the older of the baron’s daughters, and some, including his allies within the castle walls, blamed her for their troubles, claiming she’d brought a curse upon the keep. They were only too eager to help him with his plot and be rid of Megan.

  As if he had every right to enter, he half ran up the steps of the great hall and ignored a guard posted at the door, but he was stopped by a tall, lanky soldier with a scraggly red beard and a scar running down one side of his face.

  “Excuse me, sir, but have you an invitation?”

  Wolf paused and let a small, amused smile play upon his lips, the kind of knowing grin that one of superior birth rains on an underling. “Pardon me?”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “An invite, sir.”

  The knife in his boot rubbed against his leg and he wondered if he’d have to use the weapon. “Aye, from the baron himself.”

  “Yer name, sir?” the sentry persisted, glancing nervously about. No doubt he didn’t want to offend any of Baron Ewan’s friends.

  “Do you not recognize Kelvin of Castle Hawarth?” another soldier, Sir Reginald, a man who owed Wolf his life, asked. Reginald, big and burly, looked Wolf straight in the eye and lowered his head a bit. “How be ye, sir?”

  “Hawarth?” the sentry repeated, dully.

  Wolf’s gut tightened. “Aye.”

  “That’s right, Wendall, Hawarth. Are you dense as a stone?”

  Scarface’s eyebrows drew into one thick line of concentration. “But I thought the baron was Osric.”

  “Aye, ’tis so. And his younger brother—?” Reginald prompted while he sent Wolf a glance that silently told him he’d gladly run scarface through with his sword if needs be.

  “Lord Osric sends his best to Sir Holt and Lady Megan,” Wolf said, though he nearly choked on the words.

  Wendall scowled for a second and then, as if some dim thoughts appeared in his cloudy mind, he nodded slowly. “Kelvin of Hawarth,” he repeated, “kindly pass. I’m afraid ye’ve missed the ceremony and the feast.”

  “ ’Tis of no matter—just as long as I can give Sir Holt and his bride my gift.”

  Reginald’s smile was as stiff as a dead dog’s leg. Wolf slipped inside to mingle with the invited guests. The smells from the meal lingered, rising above the smoke and chatter, and Wolf’s stomach growled at the scents of cooked salmon, venison, and pheasant. It had been years since he’d lived in a castle and the feasts he’d taken for granted as a youth were far distant.

  Servants had cleared the room of tables and musicians tuned their lyres, viols, and lutes. Guests in silk, velvet, and fur gathered in groups filled with good wishes for the bride and groom.

  Wolf’s heart burned with a silent fury and he climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing for a better view of the newlyweds. A loud tapping interrupted the noise. Instruments stopped. Laughter and voices stilled.

  On the dais, an old man pounded his cane. He was a tall man, now stooped, with a white beard and hair that had once been red. He smiled widely, though with effort, it appeared. “Please, please …” he said, his voice raspy. “Thank you all for coming to this, the celebration of my daughter’s wedding. Please welcome Sir Holt, who has been like a son to me and now is truly part of my family.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he added, “I only hope their union is blessed with many children and I live to see them. After I am gone, Holt will become the baron of Dwyrain!”

  A bad taste rose in the back of Wolf’s throat while everyone else in attendance clapped, laughed, and shouted congratulations. Holt beamed and his wife lost some of her color. As she held her husband’s hand, no smile curved her lips, despair rounded her eyes, and Wolf was struck by her as he’d been when he’d seen her before. Though she was not as beautiful as the golden-haired one who was her sister, there was a spark to this woman that none other in the great hall held. So why did she appear unhappy? Was she already regretting her marriage vows?

  “Now, musicians, play!” the old man commanded.

  Immediately, music filled the great hall and the crowd parted. In the middle of the floor, Holt bowed to his bride, his eyes never leaving her face as he began to dance.

  She was smaller than Wolf remembered, dressed in white, her dark hair braided with flowers and covered with a fine veil captured about her head with a thin gold band. Her eyes, when she looked at her groom, were filled with a quiet, seething fire that Wolf guessed was more than a hint of her spirit.

  So this was the woman who was supposed to love Holt. Wolf had caught glimpses of her riding on horseback either coming or going to the castle these past few months, but never had he stared at her full in the face and never had he guessed her so prideful and gloriously beautiful. Her skin was pale but smooth, her eyes wide and warm gold with thick curling lashes and finely arched brows. White and gold ribbons were wound in her hair and small flowers framed a face far too lovely for the wife of Holt.

  Wolf’s fists clenched.

  Holt was with his new bride. His gaze never left her face, his smile seductive and full of promise.

  In his mind’s eye, Wolf saw them coupling, Holt naked and dark, mounting this small, white-skinned lady . . .

  For the love of Christ, what was he thinking? Cursing under his breath, he stared at the woman. What did it matter how Holt bedded this woman—his wife? As long as the mating didn’t happen before Wolf had kidnapped and ransomed her, it was none of Wolf’s concern. Slowly, he opened his hands and started down to the dance floor. ’Twas time to meet Megan of Dwyrain.

  It’s over. I am Holt’s wife. For now until eternity. Megan danced on leaden legs, allowing her new husband to twirl her around the great hall. He laughed and whispered into her ear, reminding her of everything he intended to do to her later that night. She shivered, not in eager anticipation, but in disgust.

  “Ah, yes, my love,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “You will dance with me alone tonight and show me what kind of woman you are.”

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t think of lying with him, of having his hands touch her skin, of letting him pierce her maidenhead to spill his seed into her body. Her stomach clenched and she nearly retched as the musicians played on, the notes of their songs rising like the mist in the morning. Dear God, help me.

  There was ever the chance of escape. Should she decide that she could not lie with this cur, she could run away, humiliate her father, and … and go where?

  She felt Holt’s lips on her neck, and her skin crawled. “Come, love, at least pretend you’re having a good time,” he cajoled. “I wouldn’t want to get angry,” he said, his eyes locking with hers, his fingers gripping her m
ore tightly. “I have a nasty temper when I’m crossed, or don’t you know?”

  “I remember,” she said, tilting up her chin. “I saw you kill the bear cub.”

  The corners of Holt’s mouth cinched tight. “We needed his mother for the entertainment.”

  Megan had never considered bear-baiting entertainment.

  “The cub didn’t need to die.”

  “Of course he did, my sweet. He was distracting his mother. And he suffered not.”

  Megan closed her eyes, remembering Holt’s orders and the mace that came down fast and hard, crushing the mewling, frightened animal’s skull. She also remembered the furious roar of the mother bear, how the enraged beast had lunged despite the shackles on her back legs. The chains had slipped and the bear swept forward through the crowd in the outer bailey, swiping her powerful claws and leaving one soldier with deep gashes on the side of his face and severing the arm of the miller’s son just below his elbow.

  “Now, now, you hunt,” Holt reminded her. “I’ve seen you with the carcasses of pheasant, stag, and boar.”

  She lifted her chin. “I kill not the young, nor the mothers of the young.”

  “So noble,” he mocked. His chuckle was deep and throaty. “I’m going to enjoy you, Megan,” he said, his eyes sliding down her body. “In every way.”

  “And I will detest you forever.”

  “Ah, ah, ah. Be careful what you say,” he said, his eyes gleaming malevolently. “I wouldn’t want to have to punish you tonight, on our wedding night.” But the smile that curved his lips suggested otherwise, as if the anticipation of hurting her was somehow exciting and pleasured him.

  A shiver of fear slid down her spine and she saw her father, smiling proudly, lifting his hands, asking the guests to join them in their wedding dance. Within minutes, the hall was filled with other couples who jostled and swayed, some laughing, others more serious—men and women dressed in finery, celebrating what should have been the happiest day of her life.