Hagan’s jaw tightened. “There will be no marriage, brother, until it is certain that Leah does not carry your child.”
“What if she does?”
“Then you shall marry her and give the babe his birthright.” Hagan noticed the whitening of his brother’s skin.
“Suppose Leah is not with child and I convince Sorcha that she and I should be wed.”
“She hates you,” Hagan replied, but knew of his brother’s power over women. There were several bastards already toddling around the castle, the result of Darton’s seductions. Two kitchen wenches, a laundress, and the armorer’s daughter had borne Darton babes that he didn’t recognize as his own. When called to claim the children, he’d laughed. “Those wenches have lain with half the soldiers in this castle, brother.” His smile had turned wicked. “Do not blame me for their births. Asides, could the babes not be from your own seed?”
Hagan hadn’t bothered to reply, but he was certain the children were Darton’s.
Now his brother seemed unconcerned about Sorcha’s feelings for him. “There are ways around hatred, brother.” Darton straightened his tunic.
“Be careful, Darton, she is not a woman to anger.”
“I have no intention of angering her, brother, but I do plan to lie with her.”
Hagan’s temper exploded. He grabbed Darton by the scruff of his neck and carried him back into the room. His blood was boiling, and jealousy, a new and hated emotion, flexed every muscle in his body. Suddenly he wanted to snap his twin’s foul neck. “Stay away from Sorcha,” he ordered, his eyes thinning upon his brother. “You have caused enough trouble as it is.”
Darton reached for his sword, and Hagan dropped him onto the floor. Hagan swung out of the room before he did further damage as Darton stood watching his retreating back.
The scent of sizzling meat drifted upward in a cloud from the spit where the rabbits were roasting. Several of the outlaw band had taken cover in the dense foliage, wrapping their fur coverlets and thick cloaks around them. Mead was passed from one man to the other from a heavy jug. There was laughter and bawdy jokes, but Wolf, the leader of this ragged group, kept his distance, sitting upon a log, his thoughts dark and far away. He’d been in his own private hell for years—an exile he’d imposed upon himself—and yet none of the men knew his Christian name. ’Twas best that way. As his band had grown, he’d taken in strangers, not asking more from a man than a single name. He cared not what crime any man had committed; his only demand was each man’s complete loyalty.
There were n
o questions about families. No curiosity about the lives that his men had led before they became outcasts and scavengers of the forest. A man pledged his loyalty and became part of the band. There were no women, no children, no ties of any kind.
Wolf licked his knife and felt the cold December fog cling to his skin. Through the rising mist came the sound of hoofbeats and snapping twigs, brush being slapped aside. A horse was running as if the devil himself were on his tail. The men scrambled for their swords and bows. Wolf leaped to his feet, his instincts wary, his fingers curling over the hilt of his own weapon.
“Don’t shoot! ’Tis only me: Odell,” a high-pitched, wheezy voice proclaimed, and a ghost of a smile curved Wolf’s cynical mouth. “Put down yer bloody weapons! God’s teeth, Jagger, it’s me!”
“Hey, Wolf. He’s got a bloody prisoner with him,” Jagger called through the dark forest.
Wolf shoved his sword back into its sheath. The men knew they were to bring no captives to their camp. Even though this spot was only a temporary resting place, Wolf planned to use it again. That would prove impossible now. Damn Odell and his headstrong ways.
Odell, riding his old brown hack, emerged from the shadows. Both horse and rider were splattered with mud. Smiling as if he’d won the war against the Scots single-handedly, Odell held the reins of a handsome animal, a gray courser who balked at the sight of the fire, rearing and nearly losing his rider. Astride the stolen horse was a huge man with his wrists bound behind him and a hood over his head. He was muttering and cursing and attempting to stay astride. “Down, you bloody beast,” Odell ordered.
“What nonsense is this?” Wolf demanded as Odell dropped to the ground, his boots sinking into the mud near the fire.
“ ’Tis not nonsense. This one—” he tugged on the prisoner’s arms, and the captive fell hard to the ground “—is worth much ransom.”
“I’ll kill ye, I will,” the prisoner snarled from behind his blind.
“Ah, sure ye will, and I’m shakin’ in me boots.” Odell landed a swift kick to the man’s back, and the captive fell forward, face-first into the dirt.
“Stop! No prisoner is beaten!” Wolf ordered, standing between Odell and the man struggling to his feet.
“Who are you?” the prisoner demanded.
Odell spat on the ground. “Ah, shut up,” he commanded before turning to Wolf. “This here’s a messenger from Erbyn, one of the baron’s most trusted men.” Odell smiled at his captive. “Isn’t that right, piggy?” He made hoglike grunts, and the rest of the men laughed.
“You dirty cur, I’ll kill ye with me bare hands!” the prisoner yelled.
“ ’Cept yer hands are bound now, piggy, ain’t they?” Odell chortled, pleased with himself.
“Enough,” Wolf ordered. “From Erbyn, are you?”
The messenger turned toward Wolf’s voice. “Aye. Mindin’ my own business, on my way to Prydd, when this old man at the side of the road begs for my help—says his horse is crippled.”