Worse yet, the old man wouldn’t die. Though he was being given poison in his wine, Ewan lingered on, floating in and out of consciousness, asking about Megan and conversing with his dead wife as if she were lying in the bed with him instead of rotting in her grave as she had been for nearly two years. Holt had tried to visit Ewan, hoping to aid his ill health along, but each time he’d stopped at the lord’s chambers, there were other guests, either the priest or the old hag Rue or sweet, young Cayley. ’Twas as if the old man had guardian angels posted and their vigilance was keeping him alive. Even the damned doctor had made it his practice to visit Ewan each day, checking his urine and telling all that the baron was not improving.
For that, Holt was thankful. Ye gods, if the man didn’t die soon, Holt would begin believing in miracles. He thought of visiting old Jovan again, but seeing the apothecary was dangerous. There were too many suspicious eyes in the castle, including those of Cayley, who had once seen him with the old man. He sighed. The baron’s second daughter had once trusted him, but now avoided crossing his path. Aye, if he hadn’t had other plans for her, he’d bed Cayley himself.
Women, they were difficult to understand, though he tried not. Long ago he’d decided they were put on this earth for only one purpose: to pleasure him.
Wolf drew in an unsteady breath as Megan smoothed the salve over his injured muscles. Outside, the wind howled around the old chapel, but within the decrepit building, it was warm. They sat by the fire, watching the flames throw golden shadows on the stone walls and listening to Robin’s even breathing. The boy had awakened but once today, eating only a few mouthfuls, moistening his lips, then drifting away again.
Megan’s fingers slid across Wolf’s back and over his shoulder. His body stiffened, though not from pain, but the sweet, gentle pressure of her hands. The ointment eased the burning of
his wounds, but her hands created another heat, one rising up from the center of him, and he shifted as his manhood swelled against the ties of his breeches. Such sweet, sweet torment.
Grinding his back teeth together, he ignored the desire throbbing through his veins and prayed noiselessly that it would soon end.
“Tell me of Holt, why you hate him so,” she said. “ ’Tis only right that I should know of him, since you’re planning to return me to him.”
Wolf’s jaw ached from clenching.
Her fingers were more persuasive. “Should I not know the man to whom I’m married?”
“You’re married not to a man, but a beast from hell,” Wolf said, and whether it was right or wrong, he told her all that he knew of Holt, of how Holt had ridden with Tadd of Prydd and how, while Wolf struggled with consciousness, he had held Mary down so that Tadd could rape her.
The fingers on his back stopped their fluid movements. “Why should I believe you?” she asked. “You are a criminal.”
“I only say what I know.”
“I believe you not.” But there was doubt in her voice.
Wolf whirled around and grabbed her hand before she could touch him any longer. “Believe what you want, woman. You asked and I told. ’Tis simple.” Angry with himself, with her, with the world in general, he snatched up his tunic and tossed it over his head. When he looked down at her, he saw the fear in her eyes, knew that he’d been its source, and silently damned himself. She was the root of all his confusion and malcontent, she was the reason he wasn’t thinking, she was the reason he felt the need to stay within the confines of the camp rather than to go out riding, and she was the reason he wasn’t following his plan and sending her back to Dwyrain where she belonged.
With her husband! He strode outside without his mantle. The breath of winter swept over the land, causing pieces of ice to gather in the stones by the river and dusting the forest floor with snow. He should have been freezing, but his skin was still warm from her touch. Christ Jesus, he’d been such a fool to let her into his heart, for, though he denied it to himself over and over again, she’d gained purchase deep in that locked chamber of his soul. A string of curses rolled off his lips as he crossed the campsite. Some of the men warmed their hands near the fire; others worked in their tents. The boar’s hide was stretched on poles, the meat cut away, the tusks saved for Robin when he awakened.
What was he going to do with the woman? What? He had no choice but to send her back to Holt, but his guts ached and his mind burned with foreboding at the thought. Angrily, he spit into the ferns growing near the river. He would have to kill Holt, he decided again, and make Megan a widow. Though she professed not to love her husband and Wolf believed her, killing him would be cold-blooded murder. Despite the fact that Holt had been a part of Mary’s rape, he was not wanted by the law; in fact, according to his spies, Holt might very well become the baron if Ewan were to die.
Which was another source of his irritation. Plucking his knife from its sheath, which was strapped to his waist, he squatted by the river and stared into its swiftly moving depths. The plan in which he’d found so much delight was now causing him only pain. Cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the blade, he argued with himself, but could find no solid reason, other than his own selfish lust, to keep her any longer. Her father was dying and he would not hold her prisoner when she might not see the old man again. Mayhap she could get her marriage annulled if she pleaded with Ewan of Dwyrain.
Ah, she was trouble. Sweet, tempting trouble. As Mary had, as Morgana had long ago, Megan touched his black soul.
Would he never learn? Years before, when he was known as Ware of Abergwynn, he was half in love with the woman who would become his brother’s wife and lady of the keep. That alone was a curse, but later, he’d lost Garrick’s castle to his enemy while left in charge.
Wolf slammed his knife into its sheath and kicked at the icy stones of the bank. He’d never forgiven himself for that mistake, and it wasn’t his last, oh, no. Then there was Mary … sweet, trusting Mary, turned into a pitiful, withdrawn half-brained woman after Tadd of Prydd had raped her. Closing his eyes, Wolf tried to block out the memory of a panting Tadd rutting on Mary while Holt helped hold the girl down. Her screams reverberated through his brain, haunting him. Once again, he’d been useless.
And now he found his sworn enemy’s wife attractive. More than attractive. If he cared not for Megan, he’d love to bed Holt’s bride and laugh about it, to send her back to her husband, defiled and dirty. He would never rape her, but he would seduce her. After she lost her heart and virginity to him, he’d toss her back to the man to whom she’d vowed everlasting love and fidelity.
But he couldn’t. Because of Megan and that blasted thread of nobility that bound his soul. Try as he might, he was never able to unwind it.
“Hell,” he muttered, damning himself again. He had no choice but to send her back.
Injustice gnawing on his guts, he spit again. ’Twas settled. Come morning, he’d send two messengers to ride to Dwyrain with ransom demands. This woman, like every other woman he’d been cursed to care for, would soon be out of his life forever.
Eight
ooh,” Robin moaned, wincing as he levered himself onto an elbow. “Where—what—ooh!” He flopped down on the bed, and Megan felt tears of relief star her lashes. The boy was alive! He was going to live. She whispered a quick prayer of thanks before taking his rough hand in hers.
“Robin?”
“Go ’way.”
“ ’Tis Megan.”