Bjorn, the broad-shouldered outlaw brute, rode on and outwardly appeared not to notice the cold or feel the sleet, rain, or snow. Proudly, he sat astride his mount, moving onward, pausing only once or twice to hunt some small forest beast or rob an unsuspecting traveler. Since leaving Dwyrain, Bjorn had stolen two blankets, food for themselves and the horses, and several weapons. He never asked for gold, silver, or jewelry, didn’t bother with anything more than they needed or could carry. Cayley had never actually seen him stalk his human prey; he’d done most of his thievery at night, and when she’d awakened, there had been a loaf of bread, a new thick blanket tossed over her, or a knife to keep in her boot. The horses had eaten well and Bjorn had refused to explain whom he’d had to threaten in order to survive.
’Twas thrilling, and had Cayley been a stronger woman, she would have insisted upon going with him on his nightly marauding. She thought he made camp close to his intended victims, for she knew that he would not leave her long alone in the woods with only a fire and her own small knives to protect her.
She’d imagined that she’d never sleep a wink, but each morning, ’twas Bjorn who placed a huge, callused hand on her shoulder and shook her awake. She’d slept without dreaming, her head resting on a root of a tree or a flat rock, her fingers curled over the hilt of her dagger.
“Holy Christ, Odell, what’ve ye done?” Bjorn muttered as the overgrown trail broke into a clearing near a river. The rushing sound of a waterfall greeted her ears; the grass and weeds of the small clearing had been trampled by horses, carts, and people.
From the tone of Bjorn’s voice, she knew that something was wrong—very wrong. Cayley clucked to her mount, reaching Bjorn’s side. “What?”
“They’ve moved.”
“Who—what?”
“Wolf’s band. The sorcerer told me that the band was ordered to stay here, but Odell, curse his flea-riddled hide, decided to move on.” He slid from his mount, and still breathing fire and swearing, he kicked at a circle of stones that had once been the rim of a campfire.
Cayley, too, dismounted, and for a second, her tired legs were unable to hold her, but she steadied herself, stretched, and viewed the night-darkened landscape. Aside from the fire pit, there was evidence that people had recently been here, the broken grass, wheel ruts, and discarded bones from meals still visible. A huge skeleton of a building, half standing, half in rubble, loomed near the river.
“Used to be a chapel,” Bjorn said tightly as if reading her mind. “We stayed here with your sister and Wolf told Odell not to move camp.” He spat loudly. “That slimy little cur!”
“Where would he go?”
“Good question.” He thought for a second. “Odell’s a bit of a coward. He talks much, acts as if he’s braver than the other men put together, but the truth of the matter is that he would do nothing to incite Wolf’s wrath.”
“So he was forced to move.”
“Mayhap.”
“What would cause him to leave?”
Bjorn rubbed the back of his neck. “Holt’s army,” he decided, and then, as if determining that they, too, might not be safe, said, “Come, lead your horse into the old chapel.”
“A beast in the house of God?” she said, shaking her head at the blasphemy of it. “Nay, I don’t think?
?”
“Hush, woman! ’Tis no longer a chapel and God will not care if one of his four-footed creatures stumbles upon the altar. Methinks all manner of beasts have already crept their way through the windows and open doors.” His patience was nearly gone—that much was obvious—and the argument that simmered between them, which was her forever doubting or second-guessing his orders, flared again. He’d told her once that he thought her nothing more than a pampered, rich pain in the backside, and she’d let him know that he was an uneducated criminal brute. They were at a stalemate, stuck with each other until they could find Wolf and Megan.
From what Cayley had gleaned, and it wasn’t much from this quiet, stubborn giant, Wolf and several of the men had fallen half in love with her sister.
“Come, m’lady,” he said as she crossed herself with practiced fingers. “If ye want to save yer pretty skin, you’ll do as I say and guide yer horse through the door!”
She had no choice and tugged on the reins, leading the animal through the icy mist to the shelter of the chapel. God forgive her, she had no choice but to depend upon this blond criminal to help her find Megan.
Tom and Robin’s job was to open the gates, Jack’s to guide Wolf to the dungeon where the sorcerer was held, and Jagger was to guard the door so that no one would surprise them as they made their quick escape. Wolf held his knife in his teeth and had one hand on his sword. The other trailed along the wall of the dank-smelling stairs that wound downward.
He had to fight his fear, for this was not the first time he’d been in a prison. Years before, he and his friend, Cadell, brother of Morgana of Wenlock, had been locked in the bowels of Abergwynn. ’Twas only through their quick wits and the guard’s stupidity that they were able to flee the castle walls, only to be chased down by enemy men. Wolf—Ware at the time—had watched in horror as his friend had pitched over the cliffs to the black sea. Then, rather than be captured and imprisoned yet again, he had followed Cadell, throwing himself over the edge. … Wolf shivered inwardly. He hated dungeons, detested confinement. Tight places with locked doors made his skin itch and his head pound.
The guard was awake and held a knife in his hand as if he expected someone to try to help the prisoner escape. “Who goes there?” he demanded.
“ ’Tis only me. Jack, the huntsman.”
“Oh, and what is it ye want, Jack?” the sentry, suddenly more at ease, wanted to know. While Wolf hung in the shadows, Jack, holding his candle high, approached the sentry.
“I’d like a word with ye. I saw yer son, Ian, in the forest the day before last. He was trackin’ a stag on the baron’s land without permission. Got off one good shot, but the deer sprinted away and the arrow missed its mark, landing in the trunk of an oak tree instead.”
“For the love of Jesus.” The guard made a hasty sign of the cross over his thick chest.
“I told Holt not.”