“I fear nothing,” Bjorn whispered, but, in truth, his heart was thundering loudly, his face and back throbbing in pain, and it took most of his courage to walk the few steps to the rusted bars separating his quarters from the sorcerer. Not long ago, he’d been nearly killed by a rampaging horse and Sorcha of Prydd had used some of the spells from the old ones to heal him. He’d been brought back to life from the brink of death. But this man—this cripple who could not heal himself—was different. Oddly reassuring and yet … By the gods, what did he have to lose? He was in prison, sure to be tortured again, probably killed. He had no choice but to place his trust and his life in the strange fellow’s hands. Squaring his inflamed shoulders, he shot his hands through the bars, and the sorcerer, who appeared to move without sound, placed his soothing fingers on Bjorn’s torn flesh.
“So, Lady Megan, you’ve traveled a great distance to see me,” Sorcha of Erbyn said as Megan slid to the muddy ground within the gates of the largest castle she’d ever seen. Thrice the size of Dwyrain, Erbyn rose like a great yellow-gray dragon from the very cliffs on which it stood. The battlements were high and wide, the towers strong, the keep massive. Servants, pages, and peasants scurried through the bailey; carts pulled by old workhorses and travelers on swifter palfreys and jennets passed through the gatehouse. Chickens clucked and squawked, cattle bawled, and children ran through the few flakes of snow that fell from thick, slate-colored clouds.
Sorcha held a forest-green cloak around her. The hood was trimmed in rabbit fur and the hem flapped loudly in the wind. “Come into the keep and have a cup of wine by the fire. You, too, sister. ’Tis much too cold a day for travel.”
Leah slid down from her spotted mare and embraced her sister. “So good to see you.”
“Aye, and you.” Sorcha held her sister at arm’s length and studied her face, as if searching for traces of unhappiness.
“How is my niece?” Leah asked.
Sorcha laughed, the sound ringing over the pounding of a carpenter’s hammer, the creak of the windmill’s sails, and the cursing of the master mason who was unhappy with one of the freemasons’ cuts of stone. “Bryanna is as beautiful as her aunt and mean-tempered as her father.”
“I heard that!” A big man with sharp eyes the color of ale, thick brows, and a vexed expression approached. By his dress and manner—that of pride and arrogance—Megan guessed him to be the baron, Lord Hagan of Erbyn. “You’re ever a sharp tongue, Sorcha.”
“And you’d not have it any other way,” she teased, clasping his hand. “Lady Megan of Dwyrain, please meet my husband, the ogre.”
Laughing, he placed an arm possessively around Sorcha’s small waist. “Forgive my wife; she sometimes forgets her manners.” He caught a page’s eye. “Have rooms prepared and tell the cook we have guests!”
The lad with straw-blond hair and crooked teeth nodded heartily, anxious to please. “Aye, m’lord.” He turned and ran toward the keep, while another boy of eight or nine appeared and, without a word, took the reins of their mounts and led the tired horses toward the stables.
The big man with tawny eyes smiled. “Now, Leah … so good to see you again.”
“And you, Lord Hagan.”
A pang of loneliness tore through Megan when she thought of her own family, so small now, but so close. Her father near death, or so she’d been led to believe, and her sister, fair and giddy, never thinking about the morrow—how did they fare? It had been weeks since she’d seen them and though she’d often fought with Cayley, now she wished to be able to sit down and talk to her, to confide in her.
Great snowflakes fell from the sky in earnest. Scowling at the dark clouds, Hagan shepherded them into the great hall. Once seated near the fire and drinking wine, pleasantries aside, Megan explained her reasons for riding to Erbyn. She told of marrying Holt and being kidnapped by an outlaw who, he claimed, was Ware of Abergwynn.
With the three sets of eyes steadily upon her, Megan barely touched her wine as she spoke. “ … I am worried that my father and I have been deceived by the man I married, a man I do not love. If it be true that he rode with your brother, Lady Sorcha, if he lied to my father, if, indeed, he committed the horrid crimes that Wolf claims, then Dwyrain is in jeopardy and … and I would want my marriage annulled. I need to know the truth and return to Dwyrain.” And to Wolf, she thought miserably, knowing that he would never again touch her, never speak to her, as she’d deceived him by lying with him, feigning sleep, then stealing his horses and leaving him stranded. That thought brought with it a deep ache in her heart, and her hands shook slightly as she took a long sip of wine.
“Everything Ware has told you is true,” Sorcha assured her with a thoughtful frown. “Leah knows.” The sisters’ gazes touched and they shared a silent painful moment before Sorcha looked at Megan again. “My brother was a cruel man with no thought but of his own wants. He cared not for Prydd, nor his family, nor the servants or peasants who lived within the castle walls.” She swallowed and stared at her hands before squaring her shoulders and tossing a mane of wild black hair over her shoulders. “Aye, Tadd raped Mary, the fisherman’s daughter. She was not his first, nor his last. On that day, there were several soldiers with him. Holt was there.”
“You remember him?”
“A bit.” Sorcha shivered. “ ’Twas a bad time in our lives.” She glanced at her sister.
“Aye. Our darkest hour.” Leah made a swift sign of the cross over her chest and blinked for a few seconds.
Relief that Wolf hadn’t lied came to her but the truth was damning, for she was married to this monster of a man. Leah said, “Megan has traveled a long distance and was ill when she was found by a local farmer who brought her to us. Now that she knows the truth, I think she should rest.”
“Nay, I must return to Dwyrain. My father—”
“Would want you to be well. Let us eat and rest. Tomorrow we can talk of traveling to Dwyrain,” Hagan interjected, his face a mask of hard determination.
But each day so far from home—away from Wolf—was an eternity to Megan. Since she knew the truth, she was eager to return, to face the man who had lied to become her husband.
“When you are strong enough to leave Erbyn, my best men will ride with you,” Hagan decided aloud. Though he stared at the fire, his eyes were trained on a far distance o
nly he could see. “I have waited long to purge the land of anyone who rode with Tadd or my brother Darton. I, too, will ride to Dwyrain.” A cold smile crossed his square jaw. “ ’Twill be a pleasure.”
A piercing cry rang from the rafters. Megan jumped.
“Ah,” Sorcha said with a smile. “The lady Bryanna is hungry. If you’ll excuse me.”
An ancient woman with gray hair descended the steps. Smiling and wizened, lines of age etching her skin, she was carrying a small, howling bundle. “I’ve never seen a babe with such lungs in her.”
“ ’Tis a sign for strength of character, Isolde,” Sorcha said as she took the crying infant from the old crone’s arms, and the nursemaid cackled affectionately. One little fist had escaped from the blankets and a head of black curls was visible as the babe let out another lusty cry. “Come, little one,” Sorcha cooed, kissing the child’s soft crown. “ ’Twill be only a minute. I know … I know.”