“Be still. You are with friends.”
What friends? It seemed as if no one could be trusted. His mind spun with memories. Sorcha. What had happened to her? Was she, too, in this camp? Her beautiful face swam before his eyes, and he nearly smiled at the thought of her tangled raven hair and mischievous blue eyes. Her lips, so sweet and turned into a little pout … Oh, Jesus, where was she? His guts coiled and he nearly retched at the thought that he had failed her. Even now she could be in enemy hands … beaten, raped, tortured … He slammed the door shut on those painful thoughts and forced the words over his tongue. “There … there is a woman.”
“Sorcha of Prydd,” the old crone said with sorrow deep in her voice, a sorrow he felt to his bones. “I know.”
“How?”
“I was her nursemaid.”
Sorcha’s woman servant? Here in the forest? With a band of men whose voices and laughter drifted into the tent? Hagan tried to disguise his doubts. “What is your name?”
“Isolde,” she said.
The name was familiar.
“I raised the lady from a babe, I did,” the woman said, and a trace of fondness lingered in her voice.
“She is here?”
The hands stopped moving for a minute. “She was not with you when the scouts found you in the forest.”
“Scouts,” he repeated. “Whose scouts?”
“Ours,” she answered, and he knew she would say no more. He felt as if she wanted to tell him something more, to ask him questions, but she remained silent for a while, and fear began to drip slowly into his heart.
“Where is Sorcha?”
“We know not.”
“She is in grave danger,” Hagan insisted, and rolled upon his side to gaze at the old crone. Her wrinkled skin was weathered from hours in the wind and rain and sun. Her mouth was without lips, and her eyes were sunken deep but kind. She looked ancient. He grabbed at her hands. “I must find her!”
She glanced anxiously at the flap of the tent. “Our leader, Wolf, will want to talk to you.”
“Wolf?” So he was with the outlaws.
“Aye, I will tell him you have awakened,” she said quietly. Again he moved, but pain stayed him, and he cursed under his breath as the old woman ducked beneath the flap and disappeared.
Sorcha. What had happened to her? He thought they’d been beset by outlaws, Wolf’s band or another company of cutthroats, and yet here he was, alive, being tended to. His head pounded, but the pain in his back and leg seemed to lessen as if the old woman’s remedies had begun to help. He reached for his sword and found it missing. His quiver and arrows, too, were gone. Mayhap he would be ransomed, and that thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. How foolish he would appear to his men—to be set upon by outlaws. Never again would his pride be the same, and yet he found it didn’t matter. Nay, all he cared about now was Sorcha and her safety.
He heard footsteps and a rush of wind as the flap was opened yet again. A tall man with broad shoulders and a savage, rough-hewn face walked inside. Carrying a torch, the light of which played eerily across his bladed features, he strode to the pallet where Hagan lay. “So the mighty Hagan of Erbyn finally awakes.”
Hagan’s jaw tightened.
“My men found you in the forest, near death.” He shook his head, and raven black hair brushed his shoulders. “This is no way for a ruler of Erbyn to act.”
“You did not try to kill me?” Hagan doubted the rogue.
“If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
Hagan had no choice but to believe him. “What is it you want, Wolf? Name it.”
The leader smiled, a twisted grin that held not a glimmer of humor. “You know,” he said, placing the torch on a stand near the pallet and crossing his arms in front of his chest, “I thought a nobleman might sleep for weeks.”
“What do you want?”
Wolf leered. His face had probably once been handsome. But his nose had been broken and grew slightly crooked, and one of his dark brows bore the scar of a sword or knife. His lips were thin and cruel, his eyes as cold and blue as the sea. Dressed in black, his hair the same raven color, he seemed evil and sinister.
“Did you bring me here to ransom me?”