Read Online What A Scoundrel Wants by Carrie Lofty - Free Book Online Page B

distracted smirk to judge the remaining moments of opportunity.
    A wind blustered through the trees, sending a scatter of autumn gold into the assembly. Bowing her head, Meg tipped an ear to the ground and angled the other to the thinning canopy of leaves lining the sky. Listening, perhaps. Divining the wind.
    From that odd pose, she addressed the group. “I seek Hugo.”
    A ripple of tense murmurs crossed the peasantry. From here, from there, whispers moved over the glade.
    Mad Meg. Mad Meg.
    Will’s heart shuddered, skipping its usual rhythm in favor of one that loped and hesitated. He flinched when Dryden’s hands joined his, back to back and tugging the rawhide bindings. He glanced over his shoulder and raised a questioning eyebrow.
    “I’ve no intention of dying here,” Dryden whispered.
    Beneath the haze of overcast clouds and dancing tree limbs, the man’s face shone unnaturally red, either from anger or a lack of air. He appeared unusually young without his helmet. Not even his dark, closely trimmed beard added clout to his smooth features. Across his brow, sweat collected like dew on grass. Lacking armaments, in the midst of a situation he could not control, Dryden appeared… frightened.
    “I’m waiting, Hugo.” Meg raised her hands, a witch casting a spell, and confronted the gathering with an utterly blank gaze. Those who had not yet receded stepped back. Two women crossed themselves.
    Parting the sea of anticipating faces, Hugo strode forth. His swagger spoke of authority, and on his face he wore an expression of loathing. Although Will did not savor finding anything in common with the man who would be his executioner, he shared that antagonism toward Meg.
    “How good to—well, to see you, Meg.”
    She lifted her eyes, almost where she would have met his gaze. “Release them.”
    “You always did have a curious sense of humor.”
    “With you, I have none. Let them go.”
    Will flexed his freed hands, urging sensation into deadened fingertips. At last, a slow trickle of warmth banished the numbness. He eased from the left foot to the right, minutely, in a cadence with his mounting anxiety. He held his body ready atop the log, unsure of what to do. No. Surrounded, without weapons, he was simply out of choices. Whatever game Meg set in motion, he had no choice but to let her play.
    She closed the distance separating her from Hugo, smacking him on the shin. He kicked the walking stick away, but she shifted her weight and pulled it near. Her poise never faltered. They moved in a dance, as if they had rehearsed the meeting long before. Whatever their connection, they shared a long history—that much was clear. The entire glade held its breath.
    “You defend Will Scarlet?”
    Her answering hesitation revealed the smallest flicker of emotion. “’Tis Dryden I want. When he claimed to be the Earl of Whitstowe’s son, he spoke truthfully.”
    “They are ours to do with as we please. What would please me is a pair of hangings, and one fewer witch in our midst.”
    “Are you ready to challenge me on this?”
    Energy and expectation crackled between them. Hugo traced the length of her jaw with a forefinger, from ear to chin and around to the other ear. The caress was intimate, like that of a lover, but she remained a statue. Will looked for any indication that she even felt the man’s touch, but he found only resolve, as unmoving as rock.
    “I dare,” Hugo said.
    She stepped back and snapped the walking stick across her knee. The wood split into ragged halves. She flung the fractured pieces toward the hanging birch. The gigantic mastiff at the young man’s feet sprang in pursuit, barking, bounding with long, powerful strides.
    A tremendous crack threw the peasants into confusion. Grizzled faces and wide eyes whipped back to Meg. Among a haze of smoke, she flung a handful of tiny white bundles at a nearby boulder, birthing another jagged crash of sound. Screams and terrified prayers climbed through the