His stomach tightened as he recognized the coat of arms emblazoned upon a banner—the colors of Nelson Rowley. Rowley climbed off his mud-spattered destrier. A short, stout man with a fringe of gray hair and a thick beard, he waited for his wife to dismount. Astelle, Nelson’s wife, was helped to the rain-washed ground. A stately woman who stood three inches taller than her husband, she was slender and seemed to forever wear a smile.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Sorcha said, ready to take her leave. “I must see to Bjorn—”
“You’ll go nowhere.”
“But—”
His fingers dug deep into the muscles of her arm.
“There you are!” Rowley spied him, and Hagan realized that he was still gripping Sorcha’s arm as if he intended to break it.
“Welcome, Nelson … Astelle.”
Darton, limping painfully, joined them. His face was white, the skin across his nose and cheekbones stretched tight. “Nelson,” he said through a grimace. “I was hoping you’d be here for the revels.”
“We wouldn’t have stayed at home, now, would we have?” Nelson clapped Darton on the back. “What happened to you?”
“Trouble with a horse.” Darton’s eyes flicked toward Sorcha for just a second, and Hagan felt the unlikely urge to protect the damned woman who had been the bane of his existence from the moment she’d stepped into his chamber. “ ’Tis over now.”
“Good to see you, Lord Hagan,” Astelle said with a soft smile.
“This is Sorcha of Prydd,” he said. “Nelson Rowley, the Baron of Pennick, and his wife, Astelle.”
“The devil you say!” Nelson whispered.
“Glad to meet you.” Astelle offered her a smile.
“I, as well,” she said, but shot Hagan a look begging for him to release her. Even now Bjorn might need her.
“Perhaps we should go inside.” Astelle’s gaze slid down Sorcha’s muddy tunic.
“Yes, inside …” Hagan said, motioning to guards to help with the horses.
“Just made our way through a hell of a storm,” Nelson muttered. “Came up out of nowhere. Lightning and thunder, the wind whistling as if Satan himself were screaming.” He shuddered and frowned as he stared at Sorcha. “Near scared the horses to death.”
“Frightful,” Astelle agreed, and Hagan shot Sorcha a hard glare.
“Please, Lord Hagan, if you would but let me attend to Bjorn,” she said again as they walked toward the great hall.
“Hush!” he growled out of the side of his mouth. “Your precious stableboy will live.”
“But—”
“In time!”
They started up the steps of the keep and Sorcha said, “Other than the storm, I trust your trip was safe.”
“Aye, though we expected to be set upon by outlaws at any moment. My scouts told me that there’s a particularly nasty band that haunts the road between here and Castle Hawarth.”
Sorcha half listened to the conversation, and though she stared straight ahead, she thought of Bjorn and her escape. She sent up a prayer for the noble stableboy and watched Hagan from the corner of her eye.
Her heart turned to stone at the thought of leaving him and she silently told herself that she was being foolish. It had been barely a week since she’d been captured. Outlaws had changed her life, outlaws whom she’d thought had been paid by the treasures of Erbyn. But now old Rowley was discussing the band of thugs as if they had nothing to do with Erbyn.
Hagan opened the door to the great hall, and they walked into the interior and out of the damp rain.
Sorcha told herself she couldn’t think of the outlaws now; she had other worries. Bjorn was injured, perhaps mortally, and wouldn’t be able to help with her escape. McBannon would probably be considered a wild animal and kept separate from the other horses, and Hagan’s messenger to Prydd was nowhere to be seen.
A chill as cold as the sea settled in her heart, and she shivered as Hagan handed his guests to his brother. Darton, still limping, helped Astelle to a bench near the fire. Without any notice, Hagan turned on Sorcha and dragged her into an alcove that led to the chapel. “Meet me in your chamber,” he ordered through gritted teeth.