“But—”
“Because your sister’s life depends upon it.”
Sorcha bit her tongue.
“Because you love Hagan and tomorrow you are to wed Darton.” Anne’s fingers coiled anxiously in her hair. “Please, Sorcha, listen to me. For Hagan’s sake. I have an idea, a way to help you escape, but I’ll need your help, for I know not the ways of the old ones,” Anne said, though in truth, she shuddered as she thought of it. Again she gave the pie tin to Sorcha. “Eat … eat … in case Sir Patton returns.”
“This is no trick?”
“I, too, wish for Hagan’s return, though I fear … Oh, God, if Darton has had him killed …” Anne’s voice caught and her brown eyes filled with tears. Sorcha realized the horrid truth: Anne was right, she had no choice but to put her faith in Hagan’s sister.
She took a large bite from the pie. “What do you needs know?” she asked around a bite of the succulent eel.
Anne’s shoulders relaxed a little. With one eye trained toward the door, Anne reached up beneath her skirt and withdrew not one, but two small daggers. The very knives that Isolde had given Sorcha oh, so long ago. “This one is yours,” Anne said, handing her the knife with a curved blade.
“And the other?”
“Is for me.” Anne shifted her gaze to the dying fire and said a quiet prayer for strength. “I think I have found a way for you to escape to your freedom, but we must work fast. Tonight. If I am to help you, I need you to swear on all that you hold holy that you will find Hagan or proof of his body.”
Seventeen
bergwynn,” Wolf said, his voice barely a whisper.
From inside, as if in answer, a wolf or dog howled, and Hagan felt a finger of ice draw down his spine. The small band of thugs pulled up their horses at the edge of the forest, but Hagan rode forward, staring at the castle.
Like towering giants the battlements of Abergwynn rose in the dusk, and Hagan admired the sturdy stone walls. If only the baron was as strong as his castle, there might be a chance that he could rescue Sorcha. For the first time in his life, Hagan felt powerless, and all of his possessions and wealth meant nothing to him. Darton could have it all.
Except for Sorcha. The thought that Darton was marrying her was a weight upon his shoulders Hagan couldn’t dislodge. Why had he been such a blind fool—trusting a brother who had always begrudged him? Now, because of his stupid pride, because he wouldn’t see Darton for the traitor he was, Sorcha and all of Erbyn would suffer at his brother’s cruel hand.
His teeth gnashed together in his impatience. A sentry shouted and a horn blared, signaling their arrival. Hagan knew only a little of Garrick of Abergwynn, and yet he was trusting his life and the fate of those he loved to an outlaw and a baron he’d never before met. He glanced at the rogue, a man named Wolf with cold blue eyes and a savage grimace. Hagan didn’t know what ties bound Wolf to Abergwynn, but he guessed that the baron owed the outlaw a favor—perhaps in payment for some murderous deed Wolf had done under the cover of darkness.
Though not a God-fearing man, Hagan sent up a prayer for Sorcha’s safety and resigned himself to the fact that the meeting with Garrick was necessary, though time seemed to be running out.
Wolf felt Hagan’s impatience, and in truth, he, too, was anxious, for at last, Tadd of Prydd would be his. Tadd would finally pay. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he stared at the massive curtained walls of the keep. It had been ten years since he’d been in the castle. He’d left when he was but a boy. He’d been foolish and young and thought himself a man at the time, but he’d been proved wrong.
Hot injustice, banked for years, simmered to the surface of his blood. Inside his gloves, his fingers clenched tightly around the reins. It had been so long. Memories of his youth flitted through his brain, and he found it hard to believe that he’d been gone for so many years. Would they remember? Or did they believe him dead?
He smiled coldly, for it would do his heart good to think that he might scare the living hell out of his brother. There had always been a rivalry between them, and the one time he’d tried to prove his manhood, Wolf had let Garrick down. He’d vowed never to return, but here he was, ready to beg a favor. He was anxious and sweat began to dampen his spine, but he showed no outward sign of emotion. He’d grown into a man in the past ten years, seen the hell that life could be, and he’d learned to keep his feelings deep in his soul, hidden away from anyone else’s eyes. ’Twas weak to show emotion, and Wolf wanted his men, aye, and his brother, too, to believe him strong.
“Who goes there?” a guard yelled from the tower. A young man whom Wolf didn’t recognize glared at the ragged company of riders. The guard’s gaze narrowed in suspicion and his bow and arrow were at ready.
“I’m here to see the baron,” Wolf said, ignoring the fact that the sentry’s weapon was aimed at his heart. He remembered another time when he’d stood outside this very keep, a knife pressed to his throat.
“That doesn’t answer me question,” the sentry said. “Who are you?”
Wolf leaned forward on the saddle, and his gaze was fierce as he stared up at the man blocking his entry. There was a guard at ground level, too, a wary lad with a long sword. Wolf thought about knocking the sword from the younger man’s hands and grabbing the sentry by the front of his tunic, then hauling him off his feet and scaring the devil out of him, but he couldn’t. For if he made a swift move, a dozen arrows would be showered upon his men. “Tell him Wolf from the forests near Erbyn has come. I bring with me Baron Hagan, and we have a request for Lord Garrick.”
The guard’s gaze moved to Hagan, his eyes slitting a bit as if he didn’t believe a grand lord would look so pale and weak. “Is this true?”
Hagan stiffened and his own gaze turned to stone. “Aye. I’m Hagan.”
“Come in then,” the guard said, waving them through the portcullis, “but just you two.” He blocked the way of the rest of the outlaws, and though Cormick and Odell grumbled loudly at being mistreated, Wolf did not argue with the guard.
“Baron Hagan’s wounded,” Wolf said. “We seek but a few hours’ rest and an audience with—” He saw her then. Through the opening in the gate, he watched her dash across the bailey. As slender as he remembered and even more beautiful, she ran with four girls chasing after her, all with the same wild black hair and small white faces as their mother. Behind the last girl a dog—nay, a wolf—loped with an uneven gait.
She was hurrying from the new chapel, a small church that hadn’t been built when Wolf ha
d last seen Abergwynn. As if she’d heard him speak, though he hadn’t uttered a word, she turned and noticed him. The temperature of the air in the bailey seemed to drop ten degrees. She gasped, her hand flying to her throat. The wolf sniffed the air and growled. “Merciful God,” she cried. Her eyes locked with Wolf’s before she smiled widely and picked up her skirts, running forward and leaving her dazed daughters to stare after their mother. The dog followed his mistress, his tired old eyes trained in Wolf’s direction.