The day before, Jagger had once questioned him about the ransom and Wolf had leaped to his feet, grabbed his dagger, and demanded to know if the big knight was asking for a fight. Jagger had held up his hands and backed away and Wolf, his jaw working in quiet fury, reminded everyone in the camp that he gave the orders.
Odell had been amused, Robin wide-eyed and frightened, Peter disgusted, and Bjorn ready to take on either man who became victor.
“This is your fault, ye know,” Odell had whispered to her later when they were alone. She had been adding chunks of wood to the fire and trying to avoid the smoke while Odell was skewering three skinned rabbits for the spit.
“Mine?”
“Aye. Wolf’s got a woman on his mind. Like as not, ’tis ye.”
“How can you tell?”
“ ’Tis easy. Wolf is usually a silent man who leads with a low voice and a strong fist. Of late, he’s been moody, growling at the men, expecting perfection, and there’s a dark look in his eyes all the time.” Carefully, Odell placed the crossbar over the forked sticks that held the meat over the flames. “Anyone who stumbles across the Wolf’s path is likely to get a tongue-lashing, if not more. ’E’s spoilin’ fer a fight, ’e is.”
“I don’t see how you can blame me.”
Odell made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, then spit into the fire. “Do you not see it?” Gray eyebrows lifted as flakes of snow drifted from the leaden sky. “The way ’e looks at ye, m’lady. I’ve been with Wolf a long time—years—and I’ve never seen his expression like this afore.” He lifted his hood over his head. “Tell me this, why do ye think ’e’s takin’ so long to ransom ye, eh? He puts the whole camp in danger—not that we care, mind ye—by keeping ye here, and yet he does nothin’ to change things. I’m tellin’ ye, it ain’t like Wolf.”
Now, she finished plucking the bird, then singed its skin in order to remove a few stubborn quills. The task was nearly finished when she heard the thunder of horses’ hooves resounding through the forest. Megan’s heart soared and she looked up to see Wolf’s steed galloping through the underbrush. But the smile on her face vanished when she realized that Wolf wasn’t alone and saw the blood on his face and hands. He was holding Robin’s slack body, and as the horse slid to a stop, Wolf, still carrying the lad, leaped to the ground.
“Boil more water. Hurry!” Megan ordered Odell as the men gathered around. “Find me some cloth—”
“Bring his pallet into the chapel,” Wolf yelled at Peter.
“Dear Lord, what happened?” Megan asked, her eyes settling on Robin’s pale face as they hurried into the old building.
“Robin nearly killed himself trying to slay a boar. The animal was wounded and had knocked Robin’s quiver to the ground when I came upon them.” Peter, hurrying, lay Robin’s pallet near the fire and gently, Wolf placed the boy on his bed. Robin gave a soft moan, but his eyes didn’t flutter open and he was white as death.
Not waiting for anyone’s approval, Megan bent over the boy and lifted his bloodstained tunic to reveal a jagged, bloody rip near the boy’s waist. The damage from the tusk, however, did not appear to have pierced his organs. Blood, sticky and hot, was smeared across his white skin. “Hand me that bag,” she ordered Peter as she motioned toward the sack wherein her white tunic was hidden. As Peter tossed her the bag, she sent up a prayer, then catching the sack, she opened it, withdrew the tunic, and began ripping it into strips. Peter and Heath built a fire in the chapel where the roof had given way and Odell carried in a pot of near-boiling water. Smoke curled upward through the opening in the rotting thatch and snowflakes drifted into the room, only to melt as they met the heat of the fire.
Please, don’t take this young one’s life, Megan silently prayed, remembering all the other times her prayers had gone unanswered.
“Now, Robin,” she said gently, “you just hold on. We’ll tend to you and see that you get better.”
Wishing she had the herbs Rue used, Megan soaked some of the strips of silk, then washed the blood away. “Find a needle and thread,” she said. “Dominic was mending earlier.” Within seconds, she was stitching the wound, hoping the torn flesh would hold, worrying about the blood that continued to flow. She wrapped his torso in the lengths of white silk, and prayed that they would not stain scarlet.
Wolf watched her work in silence, listening to her talk to the boy who could not hear her, noting that she tore up her wedding tunic as if it were already rags. She was efficient and calm, ordering the men as if she expected to be obeyed, stitching confidently, without qualm, offering all of herself for the boy’s life—just as Mary had given him his own life back so many years before. ’Twas funny, he thought, for after Mary had disappeared, he’d told himself he never again would care for another woman, never desire one as he had her.
Now, because of Megan, all of his promises to himself seemed foolish and so easily broken.
“Why in the name of the Virgin would ’e go after a boar alone?” Odell asked, scratching his head.
Wolf’s eyes trained on Megan. “Mayhap to impress someone.”
“Me?” she asked, her fingers never stopping their fluid movements.
“The lad was seeking the lady’s approval.”
“No!” Megan shook her head. “Why would he do anything so foolish?” she asked, but blushed, as if she heard the truth in his words and felt a sense of guilt that he might well be right.
“Because he is smitten with you, m’lady,” Wolf said, anger causing the blood to rush from his face, and he shot a furious glance at the outlaws gathered in the decrepit chapel. “As are half the men in this band.”
Several of the men visibly started at his accusation and Jagger appeared about to argue, but spying Wolf’s white-lipped fury, he had the good sense to keep whatever was on his mind to himself. Jagger cleared his throat. “Methinks you bring us ill luck, Megan of Dwyrain.”
“Ahh, then mayhap we’re even,” she shot back, though her eyes were fixed on Wolf. “You’ve been the curse of my existence for nearly a fortnight.”
“And you’ll be mine to the end of m
y days,” he muttered under his breath.