Page 4 of An Outlaw’s Desire

The carriage door closed, plunging her into near darkness.

Men called to one another outside, and the carriage jostled and started forward. Blythe fell on her side and wept.

Chapter One

The Town of Clipston

Warwickshire, England

Early August, 1192

“Oy. Rutherford.”

On duty inside the small gaol, Pitt ignored the chained man standing in the nearby cell with floor-to-ceiling iron bars. Pitt, his back to the stone wall, stared straight ahead at the empty cell opposite.

Lord Edric Sherborne, the gaol’s only prisoner, was not to be trusted—one reason why the sheriff had not only locked him in a cell but restrained him with manacles at his wrists and ankles. Harsh treatment for the man who had served as Lord Montgomery’s squire at the same time as Pitt; the trained warrior Pitt had once considered a colleague; the lord who until recently had ruled Wallensford Keep and the lands surrounding the town of Clipston.

Days ago, after a sword fight in the local tavern, the sheriff had arrested Sherborne for a number of crimes, including abducting Lady Rosetta Montgomery, trying to force her to wed him, and the murder of his own father.

Once officials in the City of London had received the sheriff’s missive detailing Sherborne’s treachery, his lordship would be taken there to await trial and be punished for his villainy. ’Twould be a fine day, indeed, when the bastard was hauled away and no longer Pitt’s responsibility.

“Rutherford.”

Pitt’s jaw clenched. Until days ago, he hadn’t seen Sherborne in years—and he had no interest in rekindling any kind of association with him. Hopefully, Pitt’s fellow guard, who’d gone for a piss and to feed the sheriff’s horses in the nearby stable, would return shortly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Pitt saw movement. Chains clinked. His gaze flicked to Sherborne. The disheveled lord, close in age to Pitt’s twenty-one years, raked his fingers through his snarled, light brown hair and winced. Earlier, the local healer had come to tend the wound at the back of his head and the other scrapes and bruises he’d gotten in the fight that had ended in his capture. The herbal smell of ointment still lingered in the air.

Before Sherborne could catch his gaze, Pitt glanced away. The bastard deserved every ache, pain, and indignity he suffered. Men like Sherborne—knights who had fought with Richard the Lionhearted in Eastern lands—should be heroes not just on Crusade, but back in England as well. They should serve as examples of noble honor and chivalric duty and be an inspiration, like the warriors of the tales told time and again in firelit great halls; they should not return to English soil and commit heinous crimes.

Sherborne and his ilk ruined things for all the other Crusaders who’d returned home. While some were granted castles by the crown or entitled to inheritances, many like Pitt struggled to find steady work and earn enough for food, drink, and lodging.

“I know you can hear me, Pitt.”

That doesn’t mean I must heed you.

“We were friends, once. Remember?”

Friends of a sort. Not close friends, by any means.

The sound of murmured voices came from outside. One could be the other guard’s. How Pitt wished he could have been the one to feed the horses so he could stretch his legs and breathe in some fresh air, but the other guard had worked for the sheriff longer than Pitt and his wishes had taken precedence.

“You are a fool to ignore me.”

A muscle ticked in Pitt’s cheek, for he was no fool. He’d earned knighthood on the battlefield and had fought well for the king. Many months ago, he’d looked forward to returning to his childhood home in Oxfordshire; to continuing to serve his sovereign by ruling the small estate he’d been due to inherit.

With excitement and pride burning in his heart, he’d arrived at the castle gates…and had been denied entry.

“Why?” he’d demanded of the captain of the guard.

“Your sire committed treason.”

Pitt had seen some of the damning documents, authenticated by official seals and signatures. But, his sire’s treachery had made no sense. His father had loathed John Lackland, the king’s manipulative younger brother, who wanted to claim the English throne. With both of Pitt’s parents deceased, his two brothers’ whereabouts unknown, and no proof to challenge the evidence, Pitt’d had no choice but to accept he’d lost everything.

With the Rutherford name tainted by dishonor, with his father’s allies reluctant to offer him help, he’d been grateful for whatever work he could get.

Sherborne’d had it all—respect, riches, a fortress—and yet, he’d triumphed selfishness and greed over justice and honor.

“Look,” his lordship said, “I need—”