Risk Everything (4 page)

Today was not that day.

Rolf grasped for her. A subtle adjustment from her cued Storm to back up. When Rolf neared again, Storm sidled away.

Irritation tightened his face as he slid off his mount to come over to her. He released her hands and retied them in front of her. After checking the knots, he turned his back.

Meghan kneed Storm. The horse bolted ahead, tearing the reins from Rolf ’s hands. As they galloped away, she grasped Storm’s heavy mane and bent low over his neck. They crashed through the underbrush, gaining a good lead on him.

Branches seemed to swoop down. She dodged them. Bushes forced her to swerve around them. Rolf followed. With each breath, he came ever closer.

“Fly, Storm. Fly so fast the wind from our passin’ will knock the arrogant bastard off his mount.”

Storm’s stride lengthened as he charged onward.

The hoofbeats pounding behind her sounded like the devil pursued her. Branches grabbed at her long hair, scratched her face. Small limbs snagged in the chain mail, only to be ripped

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off the tree. Feeling his furious stare that bored into her, she felt the skin on her back crawl.

No man liked to be made the fool, this one in particular.

She glanced behind her and wished she had not. An icy rain of fear spread over her sweating body. Rolf ’s eyes were mere slits of determination; his lips snarled like a ravening beast. Hunger for vengeance crackled the air around him.

Never had a man looked so ready to throttle a woman.

Ah, she well knew this region. She jerked Storm to the left.

Hopefully Rolf was unfamiliar with the area. If an obstacle took Rolf unaware, she would have the time she needed to escape.

Soon after, she veered to the right at a fallen tree. Storm sailed over it without breaking his stride. Devil take it. She heard no comforting crash behind her.

Scant heartbeats later, she spotted a stream with water gushing over the smooth rocks. Storm shot over it and swerved to the left at the next sharp turn.

Rolf thundered closer. Dark curses rained over her body like scalding water.

He could not know of the deep furrow in the ground ahead.

To swerve right would see him in trees growing so close together he could not pass. Surely, this hazard would slow him.

It did not.

She streaked left and squeezed between two rowan trees to avoid a large boulder, but Rolf was still hot on Storm’s tail.

She groaned. The woods thinned, and he inched up alongside her. She wouldna allow him to seize Storm’s mane. By God’s grace, she wouldna.

’Twas not Storm’s mane but a fistful of her own that he captured as his horse drew abreast. He slowed his mount. She did the same, else he would jerk her off her saddle by her hair.

By the time they pulled to a stop, he had coiled it around and around his fist.

She panted for breath. Her heart raced and pounded in her ears. Muscles in her back and thighs burned, her legs quivered like a newborn pup. For but a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut as she relaxed her fingers in Storm’s mane.

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Rolf ’s breathing was as harsh. Was he as drained as she was? She bolstered her courage and stole a glance at him.

Heavens help her. He didna look weary. The hairs on her arms tingled as if lightning had struck nearby. His lips pressed together so tight they almost disappeared. Likely, his teeth would break if he ground them any tighter. His eyes were mere slits shooting pure rage.

Neither spoke. Be damned if she would be first to break the silence.

Finally, Rolf took in a great breath of air and let it out in a slow puff as his furious gaze studied her.

“Pray tell, what did this game of run-and-catch prove?” His voice held an ominous quality.

When she did not answer, he jerked his hand. Her head snapped back.

“Answer.”

“That I wouldna go easily.”

“Aye. You will. From this moment, you
will
come. Easily.”

Every bone in her body jarred as his arm lashed out and ripped her off Storm onto his lap. After unwinding her long tresses from his hand, he pinned her to him. Reaching for Storm’s discarded reins, he secured them around the pommel on her empty saddle. He kneed his horse to canter, and the riderless Storm trailed behind, docile and obedient.

He wasted no time. He galloped his horse down clear paths, and Storm kept the pace. Rolf seemed to have no care of her. Yet, when they descended a steep hill he steadied her against him. When his horse’s hooves skittered on stones near a cliff, his arm jerked, hauling her tight to his body.

Meghan did not attempt speech with him now. Whatever his plan, his purpose was clear. He gave her but one clue when she had asked what was more precious than gold.

Vengeance
.

She mulled the word over in her mind. She tried to fit bits and pieces together from what she had heard over the years.

One date was vivid in her memory, 1069, when she had heard

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Rolf had unexpectedly married a young woman, a kin to Hereward the Wake.

Three years later, Damron and Connor had been at Abernethy on the Tay to support King Malcolm of Scotland, when William of England forced Malcolm to recognize him as his feudal lord. ’Twas there William demanded they meld a great Scottish family with one of England’s. By his orders, Damron, the Morgan of Blackthorn, married the conqueror’s ward, Brianna of Sinclair. A proxy stood in for Brianna.

Damron was furious but he obeyed. When he went to collect his bride, he did not find an easy time of it.

Meghan chuckled. Brianna was a kindred spirit. One who got into more trouble than she herself did.

“What sparks your humor?” Rolf ’s deep voice brought her attention back to him.

“What do ye mean?”

“Are you so daft you laugh for no reason?” He sounded irritated.

“Nay. ’Twas but an unexpected thought.”

When she said no more, he did not press her.

Dusk crept over the trees, vanquishing the sun. By the time the next night fell, they would reach his castle at the northern tip of Loch Rimsdale. By then, she had to understand him.

Why did the man she had once loved, who in days past had tender feelings for her, now show naught but hate?

Peddlers had told them of rumors that while Rolf rode with Hereward the Wake, the lady of Rimsdale had died. None knew how or why. Was it also after this when Rolf became marked as the Lord of Vengeance? Did it relate to his warring with Hereward? And why had he raided ever closer to her home? The men of Blackthorn had been reluctant to speak Rolf ’s name in her presence. Had they always known her feelings? Now, no doubt lingered in her mind that those
Look to
yer own
messages had come from him.

These thoughts gave her no clue why hatred surrounded Rolf like a rank fog on a summer morn.

He moved about, restless, as if seeking a more comfortable

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position. His left arm was clamped around her waist. It was well of him not to trust her. She would escape given the slightest opening. His harsh breath stirred the hair atop her head. She blinked and shivered at this enforced closeness but refused to look up at him.

Instead, she studied his fingers holding the reins. White scars crisscrossed his knuckles and the top of his hand amongst the fine brown hairs there. Had those hands been as rough with his wife as they were with her? She felt a pang of sorrow, for she doubted it.

His harshness was unlike the man he used to be.

Did he intend to ride through the night? She was thankful for the mail that covered her. At least she could not feel his firm, heated flesh as much as she would have without it.

Bad enough his scent surrounded her, tormented her. It did strange things to her. Things she did not favor, for they made her heartbeat surge like waves beating against a cliff. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“We will stop soon.” His voice was close to her ear.

She sighed with relief. She was bone weary. Hardier than most women, still she had carried the extra weight of the mail and had ridden hard most of the day. Not to mention the strain of eluding him, of her capture, then of her escape, only to be seized again. Blessed heaven! Even a man would tire after all that.

“Dinna stop on my account, churl. I can sleep as well sitting here as stretched out on the forest floor.”

“Well now, I would be glad to ride farther, but the horses need rest.” His arm loosened around her for the first time.

Thank the saints he did not force her bluff.

“To have Meghan of Blackthorn sprawled on a bed of soft leaves is an appealing idea.” His voice held a sinister promise.

“Ahead lies the spot I have in mind. We will spend a memo-rable night under the heavens. Be that to your likin’? Hmm?”

She gasped and lurched forward.

Oh, how she wished he
had
forced her bluff.

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He jerked her back against him. She could not mistake that hard ridge felt even through her chain mail.

A deep rumble rose from his chest and ended with an evil chuckle.

Both were sounds of anticipation.

Chapter 4

Showers of ice flowed over Meghan, soon replaced by simmering heat. ’Twas better to pretend she mistook the implied threat in his words than to acknowledge it. Mayhap he meant other than what she thought by his forced in-timacy and suggestions.

She reined in her emotions as they entered a heavily wooded area on the northern finger of Loch Naver. In the deepening dusk, little light seeped through a canopy of oaks.

She spied the dark water of the inlet, but it looked far too cold, even for her.

Soft breezes cooled her face as she studied the tranquil scene opening in front of her. No spiny gorse grew here. Instead, graceful birch trees surrounded by crowberry shrubs, some sporting small purplish flowers together with black berrylike fruit, lined an intimate clearing.

She sighed, tired and conscious of the weight she carried on her body and in her mind.

His shrill whistle next to her ear startled her. Simple, who had followed above throughout the day, circled and came to rest on a birch tree nearby. Such a faithful sparrowhawk.

’Twas a shame the sweet little bird appeared to fancy Rolf.

His arm had fallen away. When? How long had they stopped?

“If you have had your fill of gawking at the sunset, ’tis time to give my mount a rest. The poor beast will be pleased to see the last of your weight atop his back.”

Rolf’s feet were on the ground before he finished speaking.

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“Whose stubborn will forced him to carry me? If ye have forgotten, Storm’s saddle was empty through no choice of my—”

He swept her off the horse and dropped her on her already aching bottom. Would she have permanent marks from that dratted mail marring her flesh?

“Umpf! Thank ye for being so gentle.”

At her mocking words, his brows met above near-closed eyes, stabbing a warning at her. She huffed and scowled back.

Ignoring her now, he turned to his horse and loosened a double-headed battle axe and propped it against a stalwart tree.

Never had she seen such a wicked weapon, for the axe had a shaft near as long as her legs and a grip of blackened leather wrapped with wire. One side of the axe head was a blade, its span more than a hand, gleaming sharp and evil. The armorer had plated the other side with bronze and shaped it like the face of a beast, its hair flowing onto the opposite blade. From its open mouth jutted a tongue with razor-sharp edges.

Rolf looked at her, his lips a mere slash in his face. “Lead your horse to drink, and be quick about it.”

Though awkward still, ’twas easier for her to rise now with her hands afore her.

Ah. Would he give her another chance to escape?

“Dinna think to try it. I willna leave your side.”

Drat the man! Could he read other people’s thoughts like her cousin Mereck? Rolf walked his mount beside her, keeping so close that no more than a breath of air slipped between them. Storm drank his fill as she rubbed her face against his sleek neck, crooning to him all the while.

“Enough, woman. ’Tis a horse, not a man you are soothin’.”

Rolf tossed his head, freeing his face of his brown hair blowing across it. Dark ragged locks streamed out behind him.

“Are your women so unskilled ye canna trust them to trim yer hair?” Meghan eyed his unkept mane with distaste. “Give me a dirk and I will have it tamed in scant moments.”

The baleful look he cast her way impaled her. She swallowed and fought for her usual confidence.

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He secured the horses and dug through a large leather pouch, much like a lassie hunting colored ribbons. Meghan grinned, imagining Rolf, the Lord of Vengeance, sporting a silky red ribbon tied in a big bow. Instead, he brought forth a thick rope.

Still wearing a scowl, he untied her.

“Take off the mail. It ill-becomes a lass to dress in iron.”

Arms folded across his chest, he waited.

She flexed her red and chafed wrists, reached down and grasped the bound links at the bottom. ’Twas even harder to lift than it was this morn. Determined, she raised them but halfway up her thigh and could go no farther. Her wrists refused to hold firm.

Sucking his teeth, Rolf brushed aside her hands and lifted the heavy mail to her chin. When the links came near her face, he slipped his hands beneath them to protect the tender skin of her cheeks. Her brows rose at this nicety.

Damp air seeped through her clothing, making Meghan clamp her thighs together. She had to use a force of will not to grasp herself like a child two years of age. She flushed when he eyed her, knowing her problem.

“Come.” His steel-hard fingers closed around her arm to lead her a few feet into the line of trees, then released her.

He stood there. Waiting.

“Tend your needs.” Curt orders.

Was he daft? “I canna.”