Compromising Positions (15 page)

“I love ye, Donal,” she whispered, leaning her head back against his shoulder, seeing their vision in the looking glass, her expression of pleasure crossed with pained surprise when he impaled her on his length, settling her deep in the saddle of his hips.

“And I love ye,” he murmured, kissing her lips as he began to move. He rocked into her from behind, keeping her caught against him, completely contained, her arms crossed over her breasts, his hands cupping them, restraining her from any movement.

She could thrash and writhe and squirm, but to no avail. She was his.

“Donal,” she cried, feeling him throbbing inside of her, filling every available bit of space. “Oh Donal, m’love, aye, aye...”

“Tell me,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, hips moving, their bodies slapping together. “Tell me yer mine.”

“Aye,” she panted, surrendering, knowing it was truer than he might ever know. Even if she had to be parted from him, she would belong to him, always. “Aye, Donal, aye, I’m yers, always, always...”

Her words made him drive in deeper, the wet sound of their bodies moving together filling the room. Donal kneaded the flesh of her breasts in his big hands, pinching her nipples, making them pucker and ache.

“Please,” she pleaded with him, the sensation between her legs almost unbearable, something coiled tight in her belly, waiting to snap. She couldn’t stand much more. “Oh Donal, I beg ye, please, please...”

“What do ye want, m’love?” he asked softly, his teeth capturing her earlobe, biting down gently, making her cry out. “Tell me what ye want.”

“I want ye,” she cried, writhing in his arms on the bed, undulating her hips, trying to take more of him, all of him, swallow every bit of him up. “Och, please, I want ye, I want to feel ye fill me. I want yer seed. I need it, please, give it t’me!”

She felt his body tense, both of his hands sliding down from her breasts, over her belly, reaching between her legs to cup her mound. Kirstin gasped when he rolled to his back, taking her with him, parting her legs as he thrust up from underneath. She saw the four posters of the bed, the high ceiling above, as he drove her upwards toward it, his fingers playing between the wet, swollen lips of her sex.

“Ahhhh! God!” She shuddered as he made fast, furious circles against the sensitive button at the top of her crevice, sending shooting stars through her body.

“Give it t’me,” he growled, bucking his hips up fast and hard, pounding into her, an impossible rhythm. “It’s mine, Kirstin. Yer mine. Give it t’me.”

“Aye!” She howled and shuddered, arching on top of him as her climax overtook her. Her body shook on top of his, both of them slick and slippery with sweat, her sex clamping down hard around his throbbing shaft.

“Och, lass, yer cunny!” he gasped, and she cried out again when he rolled her once more, this time all the way over to her belly, crushing her with his weight as he spread her velvety thighs with the hard, muscled press of his own, opening her completely to the incessant, aching pound of his cock.

“Donal!” she gasped, breathless, unable to say anything else as he grabbed her shoulders, giving two last, hard thrusts and then collapsed on her completely with the force of his trembling weight. His seed burst deep and hot in her belly, white, pulsing rivers of the stuff, so much it spilled out of her. She could feel it sliding down her slit, soaking the bedding beneath them. The maids would know what had happened there, she knew.

And she didn’t care.

“Yer mine.” Donal wrapped himself around her, still stroking his half-hard member in and out of her slick slit, as if he couldn’t stop the primal motion. “I will’na let ye go. I will’na e’er accept another woman in m’life, as m’wife. I can’na.”

She nodded, closing her eyes, feeling tears slip down her cheeks onto the mattress coverlet. He eased himself slowly off, a moment she lamented, every time, before pulling her close against him again, spooning her. She saw their reflection in the mirror, Donal’s leg over both of hers, thick arms cradling her, making her seem small in them, as if he might be able to hide her, keep her from the world.

But it was out there, just past the locked door. They couldn’t deny it forever.

That made her remember Sibyl and Raife and she chuckled to herself at Donal’s simple solution. Why had they not done it before?

“Do ye think they’re still locked in yer chancery?” Kirstin asked, knowing he’d understand who she meant.

“Probably.” Donal grinned, brushing her hair away from her face and kissing her flushed cheek. “Not that they’ll care. I’ll likely have t’send in Aiden and Angus t’drag ’em out in the mornin’.”

“They’re leavin’ in the morning.” Kirstin’s heart ached at the thought. Her family was going home, back to the den. Her pack would be complete again. Except she wouldn’t be with them. It felt as if she were being split in two.

“Aye.” His hand played in her hair, taking a strand between his fingers and twirling it idly around her nipple. “Are ye sad yer not goin’ wit’em?”

“No.” It wasn’t quite true—she was sad, but not regretful, and the latter was what he was really asking about. She didn’t regret her decision to stay, even not knowing what would happen.

“I’m expectin’ a dispensation from King Henry wit’in a fortnight.” He kissed her shoulder, rubbing his stubble there, making her shiver.

“Yer also expectin’ yer bride t’arrive wit’in a fortnight,” she reminded him softly. “Will’t be a race t’see which gets ’ere first?”

“She’s n’bride o’mine,” he growled, brow knitted. “I did’na choose ’er. I chose ye.”

“She did’na get t’choose either,” she murmured, thinking of Sibyl, who had come to Scotland to find herself betrothed to a cruel tyrant. “Remember, she’s an Englishwoman, comin’ into a strange land, to marry a man she does’na know.”

“You’ve an awful lotta sympathy fer a woman who wants t’take yer place?”

Kirstin shrugged. “We do’na know what she wants.”

“Well I know what I want.” He moved a hand down to cup her mound and she let out a soft sigh of pleasure, turning her face to his and snaking an arm behind his head to pull his mouth to her.

This man was hers. She didn’t know if it would be forever, or just for now, but however long it lasted, she intended to make the most of every single moment.

“She’s goin’t’need a shave!” Giggles ensued, the high-pitched sort of laughter shared by women whose intentions were both wicked and cruel. “Wanna bring ’er a blade?”

“Hush!” Moira waved the young maidservants out of the room, closing the door behind them after ushering them through. Gayle give Kirstin a wicked, gap-tooth grin before the door slammed shut.

Kirstin didn’t move from her place by the fire, still rolled in her plaid, staring into the flames. The room was warm, but she shivered, as if from fever. She knew the signs. Her time was coming, and soon. She would change then. She had no choice. The giggling maidservants who had laughed and poked fun weren’t wrong, after all. She was abhorrent, a monster, something sick and twisted and wrong.

She couldn’t blame the girls for being disgusted by her.

She wouldn’t blame Donal for not wanting her.

What man would?

“Pay’em n’mind, lass.” Moira picked up a poker to stoke the fire. “D’ye need anythin’?”

“Nuh.” Kirstin sat, pulling the ends of her plaid up around her shoulders and glancing out the window at the setting sun. The moon would rise soon, full and beautiful—and she would be trapped. Trapped by her body, by her own nature. Trapped into her life as a wulver woman.

She should just return home, as Sibyl had begged her to before she left, and find a wulver warrior to settle with, to love and raise pups with—even if no other man besides Donal could ever be her one true mate.

But she knew, there was no wulver warrior who could make her feel the way Donal did. She didn’t understand it, nor did she question it. Her nature might have been at odds with her heart’s desire, but she trusted her instincts, and every fiber of her being told her that Donal was the man she was meant to be with. It was the only reason she had stayed here in this castle with the MacFalons, willing to withstand all the whispers and jibes.

To be with Donal, her one true mate, her only true love.

She’d said a tearful goodbye not too long ago once Darrow was ready to travel. Sibyl hadn’t yet told Raife her secret, even though he’d stopped being a stubborn fool and had finally forgiven her. Too many things could go wrong before she started to show, Sibyl insisted. She’d wait until Raife noticed the physical changes in her body before telling him she was expecting his bairn.

“You’ll come to me, when it’s my time?” Sibyl had whispered to Kirstin as they hugged goodbye.

“A’course,
banrighinn
,” Kirstin assured her, not knowing if she would be able to make it to the den to attend the birth of the wulver heir or not. She didn’t know anything for sure—except that she was going to change, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“I have the book.” Sibyl kept her voice low. “Laina’s excited about something Moira told us about the silvermoon. I have some of it transplanted in a pot, and a gathered a great deal of it to take home and dry. Mayhaps the book will give us the key to the change...”

“Mayhaps,” Kirstin had agreed, hugging Laina too, who was anxious to get back to her bairn. She truly hoped Sibyl would be able to translate the book they’d found in the first den well enough to find something useful, something that would allow wulver women to gain some modicum of control over their bodies during estrus and birthing, but she couldn’t count on it.

Her own change was coming, and she would have to deal with it.

“’Tis almos’time.” Moira said, sounding reluctant to mention it, and Kirstin knew she was. This wasn’t the first time they’d had an unpredictable wulver woman in their midst.

“Aye.” Kirstin sighed and stood, tucking her plaid into her belt as a knock came on the door.

“I’m ’ere fer t’she-wolf.” Gregor stood in the doorway, sneering at Kirstin as she straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a brave, public face, prepared to face this horrible humiliation. He took a leery step back as Kirstin approached and she almost laughed. It was true, she could have torn the man’s throat out in an instant, the moment she turned.

“Nuh, I’ll take ’er down.” Moira insisted, linking her arm with Kirstin’s and leading her out of the room. “T’isn’t fer t’likes’o’ye.”

“Lock ’er up good!” Gregor called after the women as they made their way down the hallway. “We a’ready lost one laird—not gonna lose another!”

As if Kirstin ever would have hurt Donal, in any form, human or wolf. But she didn’t say anything as she and Moira made their way down the stairs. She expected to be led to the dungeon—where else would she be locked up? But Moira turned and led her down the hall, stopping outside the door of Donal’s chancery.

“He wanted t’see ye... a’fore t’change...” Moira knocked softly on the door and Kirstin’s heart broke when Donal opened it.

“Nuh, I can’na...” Kirstin took a step back, but Donal already had her in his arms, pulling her into the room and locking the door, shutting Moira out.

“Aye, lass, ye can and ye will...” Donal buried his face and hands in Kirstin’s long, dark hair. “I want ye, I
need
ye...”

“Aye,” she whispered, knowing just how he felt, unable to hide her own feelings, not here, in his arms. “Time’s almos’up, ye ken?”

“Aye.” He lifted his face to look into her eyes, searching there for some answer, some solution to their strange dilemma. “Lemme look at ye.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes, swallowing around a lump in her throat. “I wish I was someone else fer ye, some
thin’
else...”

“Nuh, lass. Do’na say’t.” Donal groaned, wrapping thick, strong arms around her waist, pulling her body in tight to his. “Ye’re e’rythin’ I’ve e’er wanted.”

Kirstin shook her head, but her throat was closed with pain and heartache—and her impending change. She couldn’t speak. She would lose the ability entirely soon.

“You’re m’only love, and if I can’na’ave ye...”

“Shhh.” Kirstin couldn’t stand any more words and she was grateful when Donal’s mouth found hers. This was a language she understood. Her arms went around his neck, fingers playing in the hair curling at the nape, his big hands moving over her tunic and plaid as if he could memorize her with his palms.

She wanted him, was desperate for him. If only he would take her and make her his own, mark her—marry her. She was a wulver, and wanted his claim, more than anything, but she knew it was the one thing she might never have.

Kirstin knew she should have listened to Sibyl’s sensible advice. If anyone knew what it was like to be caught between two worlds, it was Sibyl. Donal was laird of his clan, and now he was promised to another—Cecilia Witcombe, a highborn, English lady, a woman who would arrive this week, a “gift” from King Henry VII.

The contract, arranged by the English king so he could secure the border, was binding. Even if Donal had not signed it, his brother had already agreed to give part of his lands to the English king in exchange for an English bride. So it was an English bride Donal would have.

The king’s logic was sound—if the Scots married the English, it seemed reasonable they’d stop killing each other in the borderlands. It was a plan that had been set in motion when Sibyl had come to Scotland to marry Alistair, and one King Henry seemed determined to carry through with. The woman he chose seemed to matter not as all, as long as she was an English lady. It was a perfectly rational solution—but the heart didn’t always follow the logical plans set forth by the mind, even the mind of a king.

It had surprised her that King Henry had simply chosen another Englishwoman to take Sibyl’s place, rather than forcing her to marry Donal instead of his brother, Alistair. But mayhaps he knew it would bring the wrath of the wulvers down on the crown, because Sibyl was Raife’s, and their pack leader wasn’t about to let anyone separate them, whether he was the King of England or the Pope.

Now that he’d finally stopped being angry with her for risking life and limb, at any rate.

While Clan MacFalon had welcomed Alistair’s younger brother, Donal, as their new laird, and King Henry had made him warden of the Middle March—that responsibility came with more than just a title, she knew. Sibyl’s heart had led her astray, from the life of a lady to living in a wolf’s den, and her advice to Kirstin before they’d departed had been sensible, even if they both knew it was useless to argue with what the heart wanted.

“Come back with us,” Sibyl had pleaded. “Find a wulver to love. They are all good, strong men. Any of them would make a good mate for you. Lorien has eyes for you.”

Kirstin had nodded her agreement. In her head, she knew it was true. She should find a nice, wulver warrior and settle down, like the rest of the wulver women. Lorien was a fine wulver, and they’d been together a few times, before she’d left the den, before she’d met The MacFalon. She could return to the den and make a family with him. Every wulver had a true mate—but not all wulvers found them. Sometimes, Sibyl had told her, you had to settle for something else. That “something else” would be a mate that wasn’t true.

She knew wulver women who had done just that. They lived comfortable, if a bit bland, lives. Other women, like Beitrus, had refused to settle. She had never found her true mate. An old woman now, she was unlikely to ever find him. So Kirstin knew she had choices. She could leave Castle MacFalon, try to find happiness with a wulver like Lorien, or some other wulver warrior.

There was just one problem with that.

None of them were Donal.

None of them were her one, true mate.

The man had found his way into her heart and she couldn’t stop her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. She’d thrown herself into caring after Darrow—the reason she’d come to the MacFalon castle in the first place—until they’d gone back to the den. Then, she’d thrown herself into helping Moira and the rest of the servants, learning the daily workings of the castle. This is what she’d done at home, after all, and came naturally to her.

But none of it had distracted her from Donal.

He was everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, that devilish smile and those dancing eyes. She told herself—often—that the man was, well, just a man. He wasn’t a wulver. He wasn’t her kind. He would never be able to understand, let alone tolerate, her ways. Kirstin didn’t have a choice, not like the wulver men. They could change at will, could even transform into half-man, half-wolf, but wulver women didn’t have that luxury.

Wulver women’s bodies were tied inextricably to their moon cycles. When they went into heat, they changed into their full wolf form, and when they did, they were unpredictable. Kirstin’s life had always been ruled by the moon. Unlike Laina, who had hated that fact and tried her best to find a way to change it, Kirstin had always accepted her lot in life as a wulver.

Until now.

“We are what we are,” that’s what Raife always said, and it was true. You couldn’t spend your life wishing you were someone, or something, else. It was a recipe for heartache.

But that was just what she’d done, Kirstin realized, clinging to Donal, wishing she could stop what was coming. She wanted to blame him, for being so kind, so generous, so damned handsome and irresistible, but she knew better. It wasn’t Donal’s fault. The man hadn’t done anything untoward, hadn’t made any advances. He had been honorable—until she practically attacked him at the spring in the first den.

It was, shamefully, all on her. It was her own wild heart that had betrayed her.

Now she was tied to him, utterly in love with him, and she knew it was hopeless. Kirstin knew Sibyl’s logical advice would have been easier to follow a month ago, before she’d let herself fall for this man. Kirstin should have returned to the wulvers’ den with her family. She should have ignored the calling of her heart to his, should have denied her feelings, should have turned and walked away.

Kirstin remembered her home fondly, with some measure of homesickness, but she knew, in her heart, she would miss this man more. But when Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon, he had, in turn, assumed his brother’s responsibility to “marry the border.” To join the English and the Scots, as King Henry VII had instructed him to.

Even if Donal was in love with another woman.

Or, another wulver.

That clearly didn’t matter to the heads of state.

What the heart wanted had to be second to what the crown wanted.