“Well enough,” he said gruffly, then ordered his men to bring his pallet, rugs, and bags to a corner room with a small window and a spot where another fire had been lit. The floor was stone, the walls solid, the ceiling appearing steady.
Through the window, she saw sparks from the fire drifting toward the sky and she realized how alone she was with this man. Oh, she’d been in his tent with him each night, but the walls were only thin cloth and she’d not felt so distant from the rest of the men. But here, in a chamber, they were more removed from the outlaws who gathered in their tents around the fire.
“You’re not pleased.”
“I hate being a prisoner.”
“Is it so bad? Have you been mistreated?” She heard him stake out a place near the door. “ ’Twill not be forever,” he said, and she thought she heard a smidgen of regret in his voice, but it could have been her mind playing tricks on her. “Soon enough I will return you to the arms of your beloved Holt.”
“When?”
“Shortly I will send a note for your ransom, then you will be returned safely to Dwyrain.”
Her stomach clenched at the thought of facing Holt, but she held her tongue and slid out of her boots.
A yawn escaped him, and in the darkness she saw him wrap a fur rug around himself and prop his head against the bag holding her clothes. “Now that he has tasted of bitter disappointment, I’ll only too gladly give him back his wife in exchange for gold.”
Her insides froze. “Gold? So that’s what this is about. Money.” She said the word as if it tasted bad. “You’re nothing more than a common thief.”
“Not so common, m’lady,” he retorted sarcastically, his hooded eyes trained on her, his smile as dangerous as the predatory beast for which he named himself. “But, aye, I am a thief.”
Holt took aim at the stag’s chest and the great heart beating within, pulled back on his bow, and watched as his arrow, usually true, veered away from its target, thwacking hard as it landed in the soft white bark of a birch. The startled buck fled, leaping high over a hedge of brush and disappearing through the forest.
None of his men said a word. What they thought didn’t spring to their lips. As the best archer in all of Dwyrain, Holt should not have missed so clear a shot, but he was bothered, his mind elsewhere than on game. He’d sworn he wouldn’t return to the castle empty-handed, but he had no choice. Out of supplies and without new information as to where the rogues had fled, spending more time in the forest was useless. And he had to return to the castle for fear Wolf’s intentions were to take over the keep.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, seething inside to think he’d been bested by a cunning criminal who had stolen his wife and no doubt bedded her as well. As a painful reminder of her faithlessness, he wore her wedding ring on his fifth finger.
Kelvin and Connor had convinced him to return to Dwyrain and wait for word of ransom. The winter air was tinged with ice, frost lay on the ground, and the outlaws’ trail was as cold as death. The Christmas revels were soon upon them, and Connor believed that each day away from Dwyrain was another day for the outlaw to take over the castle. Connor … an odd one. Deadly. A man who would be brutal to Cayley.
As the stag disappeared into a thicket, Holt motioned for his men to move on. He’d leave Connor with a few men to keep looking in the forests and towns, ever searching for the elusive outlaw and stolen bride. Holt would return to Dwyrain and become baron, for certainly the poison he’d had Nell slip into Ewan’s wine would be taking its toll, and the old man, already ill, would be perilously near death, if not dead already.
Half the men continued on their quest. The other half, some of whom would later return to the search party with more supplies, returned to Dwyrain with Holt, but as the horses drew nearer to the castle, Holt’s fury mounted.
Megan’s ring burned against the skin of his finger and he argued with himself. Whether she was with him or not, he would inherit the castle. He was her husband, and though he suffered a few insults and raised eyebrows and unkind jokes, he would still be baron. Those who opposed him would be silenced forever. If he never saw Megan again, ’twould not matter.
Except that she had escaped him. He’d waited for months to have her serve him, to see her naked on her knees, to force her to do his bidding. He’d savored thoughts of the wedding night and dreamed of how it would feel not just to mount her but see her surrender to his power. For nearly a year she had avoided him, argued with her father about his courtship, defied him at every turn, and he’d waited, somewhat impatiently, because he’d known in the end he would win.
And he’d been thwarted. By a scar-faced outlaw who acted as if he delighted in Holt’s humiliation. Why else had there been no demand of ransom?
They plodded on for hours, and at the final bend in the road, the trees parted and Holt caught his first view of Dwyrain in nearly a week. Tall and proud, a giant that swelled from the very earth on which it was built, the castle was one of the finest Holt had ever seen. When he’d left Prydd years ago and come into Ewan’s service, he’d silently vowed that someday the keep would be his. He’d started by being of service to the old man, proving himself worthy, using his brains, brawn, and skill to gain Ewan’s trust.
And then there was Megan, beautiful, haughty first daughter of the baron, second in line to inherit the castle. Only Bevan stood in Megan’s way of inheriting all that was Dwyrain. Fate had cast Holt a great favor in the form of the sorcerer’s prediction. Even now as he rode through the brittle-cold afternoon to the gates of Dwyrain, Holt smiled. The prophet’s words, foretelling that so many would die, that there would be great pain and loss, destruction and deceit within the castle walls, that Megan would be blamed, had all been too good to be true. Aye, the prophecy had come to pass, but Holt had felt no qualms about hurrying it along a bit.
Bevan’s reckless nature had given Holt an opportunity to poison the lad before he could recuperate from his near-drowning. By killing Bevan, Holt had removed Ewan’s son as the final obstacle to Megan’s inheritance, and from there it was only a matter of convincing the old man that no one would want to marry her. By the gods, it looked as if that pathetic cripple had been right, and had cursed her.
It took little to persuade some of the servants and a few of the more superstitious knights that she was the reason for the illness that swept through the castle. Had not it been foretold? And when any misfortune befell the castle or those who worked there, it was a simple matter to remind the victim or his family that there was a curse on the keep.
The only part of the prediction that worried him was the piece concerning the marriage being cursed and something about restoring Megan’s honor only through true love or some such pig dung. Not that Holt believed in the prophecy; it was just a convenient ploy to use against the simple minds in the c
astle.
He heard the sentry’s shout and the blast of a trumpet announcing his return. Soldiers scurried over the wall walks and Holt smiled to himself. Let the little people hurry to serve him. ’Twas his destiny.
First, he’d show his respect, visit Ewan, eat a hot meal, drink wine, and then find himself a willing wench who would take his mind off Megan. At least for the night.
“You found her not?” the old man asked from his bed. Unable to rise, he hardly moved, but sighed loudly, disappointment etched across his brow. He was ill; the herbs were working their magic and Holt could barely suppress a smile. He was so close to becoming baron, he could feel it; the promise of death hung heavy in the air.
“Nay, the outlaw eluded me.” Holt crossed the room and sat on a bench near the fire, warming his backside as he silently willed Ewan of Dwyrain to die. “I left Connor with some men and will send others with supplies to join them soon. But I did not want to stay away from the castle too long in case there was a demand for ransom or …” He let his voice drift away.