“Then are you not his wife?”
“Yes!” The horrid word echoed through the forest.
Instead of being pleased, Wolf was vexed, his mouth blade-thin, his lips flat against his teeth. “ ’Tis a pity,” he said, “for this husband of yours will do naught but give you pain.”
“You know not,” she accused, but his eyes were dark as the black waters at the bottom of a well. “Tell me,” she whispered. “What is it you know of him?”
Wolf stared at her as if about to say more, then changed his mind. He glanced at the sky, black and starless. “Come,” he said gruffly. “ ’Tis time for sleep.”
“You know something of my husband.”
“Many things.”
“Yet you will not tell me.”
“Ask Holt,” Wolf said angrily, “about Tadd of Prydd and the fisherman’s daughter.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Peter. Come, woman, you tire me.” His skin was stretched so tightly over his face that his jawbone showed white and his eyes had darkened to an evil, murky color that warned her she was wading too far into treacherous waters.
Even so, she could not hold her wayward tongue. “But I needs know—”
“When the time is right,” he bit out, fury rolling from him in waves.
She begged him to tell her more, but he refused and took hold of her hand, pulling her behind him, dragging her toward his tent. Several men working around the campsite sent curious glances her way as she argued with him. There were whispers and laughter and she imagined she was the subject of their ribald jokes and meaningful knowing glances. Her cheeks burned with color as he pushed her into his tent then closed the flap behind them.
The space was small, but in the light from the campfire she saw not only the pallet in the center, but also a chest and two sacks, one she recognized as holding her wedding dress. Several tools were stacked near the doorway and she spied a hand ax and a coil of thick rope.
Whirling upon her, he planted his hands firmly on his hips and stood between her and the doorway. “Never!” he said, his voice without compromise, his nostrils flared. “Never again defy me in front of my men.”
“Why not?”
“It shows a lack of respect.”
“But stealing a bride on her wedding day does not?”
Muttering a curse, he yanked on her hand and twirled her against him. Before she could break free, both of his arms held her in a grip that threatened the air in her lungs. “Do not challenge me, Megan.” His voice was low, his lips nearly brushing her temple as he gave her a tiny shake. She could barely breathe, and as the light from the campfire seeped through the walls, she met his hard glare with a mutinous stare of her own.
“Do not order me about like some addled scullery maid.”
“I have treated you well.”
“You—you have treated me with only contempt.”
His eyes drifted to her lips and she quivered in anticipation. They were alone in the dark, standing near the edge of a single pallet covered with thick furs. Megan counted her heartbeats and watched as his throat moved.
“You—you promised that I would sleep alone,” she said, suddenly mindful of her virtue.
“Aye, and I keep my word,” he said as her breasts rose and fell against the hard wall of his chest.
Her pulse was pounding in her head and when she licked her dry lips, he groaned then dropped his arms from her quickly, stepping back. “Mother of God,” he whispered, running both his hands through his black hair. “What kind of woman are ye?”
“A captive,” she said, her voice breathless.
“If I’m not here with you, what’s to prevent you from sneaking away?”
“I would not—”