Outlaw

  Holt had been dancing with the scandalous Lady Peony, elderly wife of Baron Griffin, when he’d noticed the stranger in black—a tall man who caused more than one pretty female head to turn.

  Within seconds, the stranger with the fierce countenance had taken Megan as his partner, twirled her about the floor, then as suddenly as he’d appeared, vanished with Holt’s new wife, leaving Holt alone in the middle of his own wedding celebration.

  Holt had thought at first his mind was playing tricks with him, for his greatest fear had been that Megan would refuse to marry him, but after the ceremony when the ring was securely around her finger, he’d let down his guard, actually enjoyed the feast and music. Only later, when he’d finally understood that Megan had been abducted, he’d shouted out and then he’d heard the gasps, whispers, and titters of the guests.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Lady Peony had asked, her eyebrows lifting in delight.

  “I know not,” Holt had grumbled and she’d thrown back her head and laughed, an ugly braying sound not unlike that of a donkey.

  “What? What happened?” Ewan had searched the great hall with his pathetic blind eyes. “Where’s Megan?”

  “She’s been stolen away,” Baron Griffin had surmised.

  “What?” Ewan had leaned heavily on his cane.

  “Holt’s bride has disappeared.” Sir Mallory had eyed each guest with suspicion.

  “Disappeared? You mean she left, don’t you? But with whom?” another woman, whom Holt did not recognize, had asked. Her mouth had rounded in delighted horror.

  “The stranger in black, did you not see him? Those eyes, so blue, and his visage … oh, my.” Cayley had looked to the doorway as if hoping to see the cur again.

  “Like the very image of Lucifer!” Father Timothy had proclaimed. “He must be brought back!”

  “How thoroughly and utterly romantic!” Cayley had said with a sigh, and Holt’s men had all laughed and made jokes about his first night as a husband with no wife. Speculation had run high that the man was Megan’s lover, that she’d expected him, that even now they were off in a private hideaway. His blood curdled to think of how he’d run outside into the rain, hearing the fading clatter of hoofbeats as he yelled to his lazy men to give chase.

  Now, hours later, he still felt the sting of humiliation on his cheeks, the hard bite of betrayal. Guests and servants alike had gossiped and laughed at his expense and his wrath was greater than he ever could have imagined.

  When at last his soldiers returned, they came with the bad news that the outlaw had evaded them deep in the forest.

  “So you found her not?” Holt said, cutting through the litany of excuses made by his knights—Dwyrain’s best men—for returning to the castle without his wife or her abductor. What a pitiful lot!

  “Aye, we lost them,” Sir Mallory admitted, his moustache dripping with rain and mud, defeat evident in his eyes as he tried and failed to meet Holt’s stare. He was holding the reins of his horse when a page came by and gathered them, leading the sweating, lathered beast away.

  “How?”

  “We followed their trail,” the soldier admitted, opening his palm to show a few wilted and dried blooms. Another soldier handed Megan’s bridal veil to Holt. “Hoofprints and flowers from m’lady’s hair. They took the fork that leads to Prydd, but … there were many tracks because of all the guests traveling through the rain. We found only the lady’s horse, grazing alone in a meadow at the edge of the forest by St. Peter’s Abbey.”

  “Did you search the surrounding woods?”

  “Aye,” Mallory said, “and the abbey itself, though the abbot was not pleased. We searched until our torches failed and the fog rolled in.”

  “And what of the dogs?” Holt asked, barely holding on to his temper. He should have ignored his guests and taken off after his wife himself. As it was, he looked like a fool, yet again trusting these thickheaded farmers who called themselves soldiers.

  Mallory shook his head. “The hounds were useless. Once they found the horse, they knew not what we wanted.”

  “God’s blood, you’re fools! The whole lot of you!” Holt’s voice resounded in the gatehouse and he threw down the muddy wedding veil in disgust. This was to have been his wedding night, when finally he would not only bed the woman who had teased his mind for years and caused his cock to become stiff as granite, but, being married to Ewan’s oldest daughter, he would by rights inherit all that was Dwyrain. Taking off one glove, he slapped it against his hand, thinking hard, trying to understand the way of the outlaw’s mind. “Have you any thought as to who the rogue was?”

  “He claimed he was Kelvin of Hawarth.”

  “Kelvin of Hawarth?”

  “Aye, younger brother to the baron, Osric McBrayne.”

  Holt squeezed his eyes closed and counted slowly to 10. Ewan saw these men as dedicated, good-hearted, and loyal, but in Holt’s estimation, they were lazy mental midgets and cowards. Not a brave, smart one in the lot. “The man was not McBrayne’s brother. He’s an outlaw, I’m certain of it.” The sky opened up, and rain sliced to the ground in heavy curtains of water. Holt, already chilled to his bones, saw no reason to stand outside. “Come to my chamber,” he ordered, striding swiftly away.

  In the great hall, he came upon a page and ordered wine to be sent to his room, but his thoughts lingered on the man who had so baldly stolen his wife. The criminal’s face had been vaguely familiar when Holt had spied the man in black dancing with his wife. Tall and dark-haired, he’d twirled Megan on her feet until she was breathless. Holt had been about to reclaim his bride’s attention when he’d noticed the stranger and Megan slip into the shadows and then quickly away.

  His anger burned savagely within him.

  Megan might have helped hatch the plot to humiliate Holt, for she’d made it plain that she married him unwillingly. Would she go to such lengths as to plan a false abduction just to avoid his bed?

  ’Twas possible. Earlier in the week, Holt had come across her in the hallway after one of her visits to her father’s chamber. Holt had tried to touch her and she’d shrunk away as if he were poison. “Leave me be,” she’d ordered, anger flaring in her eyes.

  “Ah, Megan, I cannot. Asides, we’ll be wed soon and—”

  “And I’ll be your wife in name only,” she’d said proudly, her chin mutinous, her eyes blazing with a fire that brought his damned cock to attention. He couldn’t wait to tame her, to force her to open her legs and mouth to him, to make her want him as much as he wanted her. He’d make her beg for him, tie her to the bed and touch her all over with feathers, allow some of his men to watch her surrender. But no one else would have her. Nay, they could look at her long-legged body, see the pink nipples of her high breasts, lust over the thatch of curls where her legs met, watch as their bodies joined, but only he could press his skin to hers and spill his seed in her unwilling body.

  “You’ll want me so badly you’ll beg me to bed you,” he’d told her in that hallway, and she’d slapped him. Her palm had burned an imprint on his skin and he’d grabbed her arm. “Rough ye want it, lass?” he’d growled into her ear. “Then rough ’twill be.”

  “You’ll rot in hell before you touch me!” She’d pulled her arm away and run down the hallway. He’d been so hard with wanting that he’d slid into a dark alcove and slipped his hand into his breeches to ease the ache. No one had seen him gasping there, imagining entering her body, seeing her mouth wet with desire as she kissed and touched him. He’d bit down hard at his release but he’d been unable to stop from whispering her name in a desperate voice he barely recognized as belonging to him.

  No, he would not be denied.

  The page brought in a pitcher of wine and several wooden mazers, which he left on a tray near the hearth. As his men shuffled in, looking like whipped pups, Holt wondered what kind of soldiers they were. He glared at the sodden lot of them, spineless men warming their backsides at the fire, causing steam to rise from their filthy clothes. ??
?No one steals my wife,” he said slowly as he unsheathed his sword and stared at the firelight gleaming against the sharp-edged blade. “No one steals my wife and lives to tell about it. Find out who the bastard is and hunt him down. Kill him if you have to, but my wife’s safety and her virtue will not be compromised!”

  His gaze roved from one sad soldier to the next, and he smelled their fear. They were frightened of him, which was good. He could use their trepidation to his advantage. Holt ran a finger along his blade, pressing hard enough that a drop of blood showed on his skin. He spread it slowly over the steel and saw each man swallow a sudden knot in his throat. With a smile meant to be cruel, he said, “Do not fail me, lads.”

  Wolf was beginning to wonder if his plan to humiliate Holt was as clever as he’d first thought. When he’d heard that his enemy was planning to wed the daughter of Baron Ewan, Wolf had finally decided that fate had smiled on him, giving him an opportunity to belittle and disgrace the man he’d hated for so long. He’d thought only of the kidnapping, and then of the ransom, giving not too much consideration to the woman herself. He had heard that she was headstrong and that she’d been blamed for much of the pain in the house of Dwyrain, but he cared not and decided she was the pampered daughter of a rich man, a woman stupid enough to marry one of the vilest snakes in all of Wales. In his estimation, Megan of Dwyrain deserved her fate.

  He hadn’t expected to see a beauty and pride in her that appealed to him, nor had he thought that holding her so closely to him while astride the horse would cause him any worry. As it was, he was distracted by the warm, female scents of her and the feel of her skin so close to his. Her hair tickled his nose and his arm felt the soft, supple weight of her breasts. Despite himself, that male part of him that was always giving him trouble responded, and to his disgust his member started to swell.

  “We’ll stop here,” he said gruffly, when the evidence of his desire could no longer be hidden.

  “Here? Why?” she asked as he slid to the ground, sinking into thick mud. The sleet had stopped, but the forest was chilled and shimmering in raindrops. Only a few stars dared wink behind a thick bank of clouds.

  “ ’Tis as good a place as any.” He helped her from the saddle, then reached into his boot, withdrew his small dagger, and sliced through the ropes that bound her wrists.

  She gasped at the sight of the blade flashing silver in the night, then swallowed hard. “Where are we?” she asked, rubbing her wrists and stretching her fingers.

  “Not far from the camp.”

  “Why have we stopped?”

  He eyed her in the darkness, her white tunic nearly glowing. Even with dirt smudged on the fine fabric, she was beautiful, too beautiful. “ ’Tis a wonder we weren’t seen,” he said, gruffly, noticing the long column of her throat and the proud point of her little chin. Angry with himself, he motioned to her dress. “But there was no time. Now, before we get to the camp, you needs wear something more … more common.”

  “Such as?” she asked, clearly uncertain of his reasoning.

  “Such as these.” Reaching upward for the bag he’d tucked behind his saddle, he untied the straps that had held it securely, then tossed the sack to her.

  She caught it easily and loosened the drawstring.

  “The clothes will be too big, but they will have to do.”

  She slid one hand into the open sack and withdrew plain men’s clothes, brown leather breeches and long tunic, the colors of which weren’t visible in the night.

  Hesitating, she lifted her curious eyes to his. “Why?”

  “Your dress is like a beacon, white as the moon on a dark night!”

  “But we outran the guards.”

  “It matters not,” he said, eager to be off again. Being alone with her was dangerous. “Just be quick about it.”

  Stubbornly, she shook her head. “I cannot!”

  “Aye, you can and you will, m’lady,” he said, watching her lips purse in mulish denial. “Or I will do it myself.”

  “You wouldn’t dare—” she said, and he took a menacing step forward.

  But instead of skittering away, she stood her ground, and when he brought up a hand to untie the ribbons at her throat, she didn’t flinch.

  “Do not touch me,” she whispered, but her breath was as ragged as the night, her pulse fluttering wildly below her ear.

  His own heart beat a desperate, tremulous rhythm.

  “Then undress yourself.”

  Silently she defied him.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered and instead of loosening the ribbons, he slit them through.

  The fabric gaped and Megan’s hands fluttered nervously. “Leave me be.”

  “Put on the men’s clothes.”

  “I won’t be ordered about like some kitchen wench who—oh!” He cut the ties again, pieces of the ribbons floating to the ground, and the thick velvet fabric parted farther to expose the swell of her breasts, white in the slight moonglow, heaving in mute fury. Ah, they were beautiful, soft and round and large enough to fill his palm, but he didn’t let his eyes rest on their plump, unwitting invitation too long. Instead he lay the blade of his weapon between them to the next set of ribbons. “Shall I go on?” he asked, his voice but a rasp.

  “Nay!” she whispered, and when his gaze reached hers again, he saw her rage, but there was more in her indignant stare, more than ire and mutiny. Unless he was mistaken, he recognized desire, hot and wanton, steal fleetingly across her face. “You’re a true bastard of the lowest order.”

  “Aye, m’lady. Now, at last, we understand each other.”

  Muttering under her breath, she snatched up his bag of clothes, stalked off to a nearby tree, and started to disappear behind its thick trunk.

  “Come back here,” he ordered.

  “But you asked me to change.”

  “How am I to know you won’t run off?”

  “To where?”

  “I’ll not be spending the rest of the night chasing you down.”

  “I swear I won’t.”

  “I dare not take the chance.” Silently, he followed her until he could see her beneath the empty branches. She was working feverishly, quickly removing her mantle, surcoat, and tunic, stripping off the white velvet, standing in only her chemise. His gaze fastened on the cleft of her breasts, dark and dusky and deep, and his blood heated as she bent over to step into his breeches and pull them over long, supple legs. Tying the length of twine about her small waist, she was able to keep the breeches from falling to the ground, and then she struggled into his tunic, the shoulders far too wide, the sleeves and hem much too long.

  “Better,” he said, and her head snapped up.

  “You watched me!” she cried.

  “Aye.”

  Tossing her hair off her face, she advanced upon him. Lightning crackled in her eyes. “You have no right to do this,” she accused.

  “I touched you not.”

  “Only with your eyes.”

  “No harm came to you.”

  “Yet.” Dark hair spilled over her skin, and he felt a tug on his heart, a tug that he could not afford.

  “As long as you are with me, Megan of Dwyrain, you are safe.” He sighed and looked into her eyes. “This I pledge you.”

  She nearly laughed. “So now you’re the noble outlaw, are you?”

  He reached forward and strong fingers curled over her tiny fist. “Make no mistake, woman, I am not noble. My intentions for you are far from pure. That you are married to Holt would not stop me from bedding you if I so wanted and you agreed.”

  “Agreed?” she sputtered, her breath catching. “I would never—oh, for the love of Saint Peter! When my father catches you, he will skin you alive and then lay hot coals on your bare flesh.”

  “And your husband, what will he do?”

  She stopped suddenly and stared at him as if pondering a puzzle she had not yet considered. “He will come after you,” she said finally, her voice flat, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. ?
??And, I believe, Sir Kelvin or whoever you be, he will kill you.”

  Cayley’s knees and back ached as she knelt on the cold stones of the chapel floor. Through the open window she heard the sound of the soldiers returning and the creak of wheels as guests left the castle.

  Upon Megan’s disappearance, her father had collapsed and had to be carried to his chamber. Cayley had stayed at his bedside until the doctor had arrived, then Father Timothy had asked her to join him in prayer for her father’s health and her sister’s safe return. Cayley, who would rather have been riding with the soldiers searching for Megan, had spent the past few hours on her knees, whispering prayer after prayer.

  Candles burned around the altar, their flickering flames reflecting on the portraits of Christ and the Virgin as the priest walked softly around the chapel, his prayer book open in one hand, a rosary clicking in his pockets.

  Guests came and went, stopping long enough to cross themselves and whisper their own quick requests to God, but every time Cayley climbed to her feet, Father Timothy laid a patient hand upon her shoulder and searched her face with soulful eyes. “Let us not give up so easily, my child,” he’d said, and she’d resumed her position, wondering how much pain she had to endure. “God is listening.” Cayley wished He’d listen a little harder.

  Cold, tired, and worried, Cayley wanted desperately for her father to awaken in good health. She also needed to know what had become of her sister and why neither Holt nor his soldiers had been able to find Megan and the scoundrel who had abducted her. Cayley had caught a glimpse of the man in black, his bearing resembling that of a devil, and a handsome one at that. Biting her lip, she said another quick prayer and chastised herself for her wanton thoughts, for the truth be known, she thought the stranger far more interesting than Sir Holt or her own beloved Gwayne of Cysgod, the man she’d sworn she would marry years before.

  There was something about this ruffian that suggested he could make a woman’s legs go weak and her heart pound in a strange and heady cadence. Aye, the outlaw was Satan incarnate; Cayley crossed herself with renewed conviction and prayed.