Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (13 page)

And then, something happened.

One moment she was trembling all over, crying out as if in pain—because whatever he was doing with his mouth and tongue down there was pure, blissful torture—and then, she flew, or jumped, or mayhaps was pushed, over a shuddering, delicious precipice.

Her hips bucked up off the mattress, her hands reached for something to hold onto, sure she was tumbling, falling, flying, and Griff let her grab his hands. Squeezing them hard, she felt her sex contracting, squeezing too, again and again, quivering waves crashing through her, an ocean of them, all at once.

“What was that?” she asked in wonder, and Griff came up to kiss her.

He tasted strange, musky, and she realized that was how she must taste.

“This may hurt, lass,” he whispered, and she felt him at her entrance, pressing slowly.

Oh, it was big!

Bridget cried out as her sex opened to him, the first painful stretch, a slight burn. She put her arms around his neck, clinging to him, and he held her, holding still, waiting. He was inside her now, she felt him, completely filling her. He kissed her, soft, slow. His mouth was entrancing, drawing her out, drawing her against him.

She felt herself untensing, her body unfurling, opening to him.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

“Oh! Griff!” His movements were easy, practiced. She had a moment to wonder if he’d done this before—how many times, with how many other women—but when she looked up into his eyes and saw the light there, she didn’t care anymore.

He was hers. In that moment, he was hers. That was all that mattered.

“Och, Bridget,” he cried, hips moving faster, rocking into her pelvis, the two of them moving together, like water, flowing over one another.

“Aye,” she breathed, meeting him. It was like a dance, a beautiful, perfect dance. “Aye, Griff, oh, aye! Do’na stop!”

He groaned at that, driving her into the mattress with such fury she could scarce draw a breath, not that she cared. Bridget felt it again, that delicious tickle building up to a glorious climax. His shaft created such heat, such friction, everything between them was on fire.

“Look a’me, lass,” he whispered, holding himself above her as he thrust. His eyes were pure fire and she cried out as the feeling washed through her again, her sex clamping down on his length. “Och! Bridget!”

He gave one last, hard, thrust, burying himself deep in her womb, and she felt the first wave of his pleasure flowing into her. She clasped him to her, and they rolled, breathless, on the bed, until they were wrapped up together in the coverlet.

When he asked if she regretted what they’d done, she laughed.

“I won’t e’er regret that,” she murmured against his neck. “Not if I died t’morrow.”

“Come wit’ me,” he asked her again.

But she knew she couldn’t. They had this, now, and that was all.

“Ye can’na stay?” she asked him. Griff sighed, and she knew.

They had to follow their paths, each their own.

She didn’t know how many times they made love. She lost count. And still, she clung to him, wanting more. If this was all they had, this one night, then she wanted it to last a lifetime in her memory.

But they didn’t just make love. They talked. They laughed. They fed each other fruit and drank wine and told each other stories. Bridget told him about the time Alaric thought she’d drowned in the sacred pool—when she’d really been hiding among the rocks. Griff told her about the time his aunt, Laina—Darrow’s mate—had turned into she-wolf form and had nearly eaten him when he crept up on her while she was sleeping.

“Surely she would n’have hurt ye?” Bridgit asked, shocked at the thought.

“Wulver women can’na control their cycles.” Griff sighed. “E’en their own bairns aren’t always safe ’round ’em during their moon time. T’other wulver women take the bairns, and they go somewhere during their moon blood, away from t’pack.”

“That’s… terrible.” Bridgit shuddered. She knew her own mother and father locked themselves in their room—this very room, in fact—during Aleesa’s moon cycle. Now she knew why. She couldn’t imagine not being in control of your own body in that way. As a human woman, bleeding once a month was bad enough. But turning into a wolf, and not being able to turn back until your moon time was over? Not knowing if you might do something to someone you cared about?

“T’be fair, I should’na been where I was,” Griff replied with a shrug. “T’would’ve been m’own fault if she’d torn m’throat out.”

Bridget shook her head, sighing. Even so, she couldn’t imagine. Poor Laina—what if such a thing had happened, and she came back knowing she’d done something so awful?

“So, d’ye still think e’erythin’s always as it should be?” Griff asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I can’na explain t’terrible things that ’appen in t’world,” she admitted. “I do’na know t’reason fer ’em. But sometimes ye jus’ have t’accept what is.”

Griff snorted. “Ye sound like m’father.”

“He’s a wise man.”

Griff snorted at that, too, rolling her over to spank her bottom, just once, making her cry out and laugh at him.

“Ye can’na spank t’truth out,” she teased.

“No?” His eyes flashed red as he leapt for her, pouncing, making her giggle and thrash underneath him. “Mayhaps I can do somethin’ else t’ye ’til ye forget…”

His hand reached between them to cup her sex and she moaned. She was sore there, they’d been together so many times, but she rocked up against him anyway.

She realized, when he slid inside her again, that although they only had this one night to be together, she’d never get enough of him.

Even if they had a lifetime.

“I thought we might find ye ’ere.” Aleesa knelt down beside Bridget at the scrying pool.

“I jus’ wanted to watch him go...” Bridget kept the tremble from her voice and was proud of herself for doing it.

She didn’t want to tell them they’d already said goodbye. Watching Griff ride away to the south, she felt as if she was watching her future get smaller and smaller in the distance.

“He’s a mighty warrior.” Aleesa stroked her daughter’s hair. “I b’lieve he’ll lead t’packs, like t’prophecy says.”

Bridget said nothing, just hugged her knees to her chest and rocked, watching him disappear from her life. The scrying pool could only see up to the horizon, and Griff was almost out of sight.

“Aleesa...!” Alaric said his mate’s name with alarm, staring into the pool at the other end.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning.

“Riders from t’north.” The gray-haired wulver pointed into the pool, peering more closely. “Wulvers… I think… tis Raife.”

“Raife?” Bridget’s head came up at the sound of Griff’s father’s name. The man had come after his son? How had he known he would be there?

“I’ll saddle up an’ go meet ’em.” Alaric was already heading toward the exit.

“I wanna come!” Bridget called, jumping up, thinking of meeting Griff’s father.

Any way to stay connected with him…

Then a sudden motion in the pool at her feet caught her eye and she stopped, staring at the sight unfolding before her. Bridget cried out, dropping to her knees, peering into the pool, her nose so close, it almost touched the water.

“What is it?” Aleesa looked over the edge and saw, too, her eyes going wide with alarm.

“Griff!” Bridget cried, and then Alaric was there beside her, all three of them watching the events unfold in the scrying pool, unable to do anything but witness the scene.

Griff had been intercepted by a massive band of both men and wulvers.

Not the party approaching from the north, but another one coming in from the south. They were being led by a man—not a wulver, at least, not that Bridget could tell—who yelled orders to men and wulver alike as they surrounded Griff on his horse. They could hear no words, of course—they could only watch.

“No,” Bridget whispered, her heart dropping to her toes as she saw how outnumbered he was. What in the world could they want of him?

Suddenly, Griff’s horse bolted. He urged it forward, through the mass of wulvers and men, and just as suddenly as it had happened, it was over. They were out of sight of the scrying pool’s reach. The water was clear again.

“I’ll go after ’im.” Alaric’s voice was hoarse as he turned to go, but Bridget was up again in a flash, grabbing her father’s arm.

“No, I’ll go,” she insisted. “You mus’ ride out an’ meet t’wulvers coming from t’north. They know who ye are, they’ll trust ye an’ follow ye. Ye must bring ’em t’help Griff.”

“Aye.” Alaric hesitated, brow knit, torn. “But I do’na wan’ ye t’ go anywhere, lass. Ye stay ’ere wit’ yer mother.”

“That’s not what ye trained me fer.” Bridgit drew herself up to her full height, eyes flashing. “I’ll follow an’ track ’em. I promise, I will’na get t’close.”

“Jus’ track ’em, lass,” he warned, shaking a finger at her. “Leave a trail fer us t’follow.”

“Aye, I will.” She nodded, her heart already beating hard in her throat.

Aleesa put her arms around her daughter and Bridget let herself take comfort, for just a moment.

“Mother...” she whispered, thinking of Griff, of him in danger, and couldn’t bear it.

“T’prophecy says days’ll be dark before t’Blood Reign of t’Red Wulver.” Aleesa kissed her daughter’s forehead softly. “Nothing’s certain. Fate’ll ’ave its way.”

“All is as it should be?” Bridget whispered.

Aleesa nodded, but her eyes were cloudy. “I hope so...”

If he hadn’t been thinking so much about leaving Bridget, he might have seen them coming. He should have at least smelled them—a few hundred wulvers and men—but he was lost in thought. He cursed himself for it later, of course, being just as moony as Rory over Maire or Garaith over Eilis. He’d never been one to moon about over some female, but instead of tearing over the hills of Skara Brae to meet the ship that would take him to the mainland, he was plodding along, heart heavy. The further he got from the temple, the slower he seemed to go. Uri, impatient with his master’s pace, had tried several times to pick it up, but Griff had reined him in.

It was as if there was an invisible string tied from him to the temple—nay, to the lass, Bridget—and it grew more and more taut as he distanced himself. He had to admit, he was daydreaming. He was remembering the press of her full body against his, the creamy expanse of her thighs, the soft press of her lips. Not to mention how quickly lightning flashed in those sea-green eyes. The memory of the way she’d fought him as the guardian, how she’d rallied and come back again and again, made him smile. Little spitfire.

He had left his den to find the lost packs, had traveled to the temple with only that goal in mind. He had been ready for talk of prophecy and magic—he’d lived with it his whole life—but what he hadn’t expected was Bridget. All the hoopla about fate and destiny had always seemed silly to him. He didn’t like to think of God like some puppet master pulling strings above their heads, making them dance to an old man’s tune. Then Bridget’s words, “It is all as it should be,” kept echoing in his head.

Why had he left his den and come here? Had it been to find the lost packs? Or had the divine had a larger purpose in mind? Had he really traveled all this way just to find his one true mate? To find the red-haired, bright-eyed, saucy little Bridget?

I don’t believe in true mates,
he reminded himself, glancing back over his shoulder. He could barely see the crossroads and the outcropping where the temple lay. He’d come that far, too far.
I don’t believe in true mates, or prophecies, or destiny.

But how could he say that now, having seen everything Bridget had shown him behind the temple walls? Moonlight and magic, dragons and ladies, had any of it been real? Certainly the way she’d fallen into his arms that night in the tub had been real. And then, when they’d been together the night before... He imagined he could still taste her lips, feel her breath in his ear, smell the sweet, light scent of her skin.

He was lost in his own thoughts when he reached the top of the last hill as he neared the sea. He was distracted, consumed by his own fears and doubts, and they had surrounded him before he knew what was happening. There were a dozen, at least, not just humans, but wulvers as well—wulvers he’d never seen before. They were no kin he knew. The sight startled him even more than the attack itself—wulver warriors he didn’t recognize circling him and his horse, mixed with human men wearing armor and carrying swords.

Griff assessed the situation, scanning the line of soldiers, finding its leader—a man wearing dark armor, face plate up, shouting orders to men and wulver alike—and finding its weakness. There was a small break in their line. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough. If he was fast.

Years of training took over. Griff made a noise in his throat, digging the heels of his boots into Uri’s side, and the horse practically sighed with relief, taking off from a standstill to a run so fast, Griff had to choke up on the reins to keep from being thrown. Uri fled, letting Griff guide him, just as he’d planned, through the small break in his attackers’ line. The horse, who had been clearly annoyed with Griff’s plodding pace, was relieved to be running again. He had a great deal of pent-up energy, after spending too much time down in the cavern, penned up, and Griff used that to his advantage.

If he’d been home, if it had been their forest, escape wouldn’t have been a question. Griff would have easily avoided the attackers at home, but this was Skara Brae, and he didn’t know enough about the land and the terrain to lose them. He realized this as he found himself on the rocky beach, the horse struggling in the sand and rocks. A dead end. They could go no further, and there was no ship here to meet them and likely wouldn’t be for another hour, mayhaps two. He had left early because if he hadn’t left, he knew he would have stayed.

But there was another ship here, and Griff narrowed his eyes at it, seeing the mark on the side, along with a dragon’s head. Is this what had carried the men and horses who were after him?

Griff turned Uri so they were galloping along the shoreline, leaning over the neck of his horse, a plan formulating in his head. If he could double back, get to the temple, mayhaps...

Uri tripped. It wasn’t the horse’s fault. He was used to running in the forest, over the rolling, green hills of home, not on this craggy, rocky beach. His hoof sank into an unseen hole in the sand, and he went down with a shrill, horrible scream.

His leg, it’s his leg.
The thought of having to put Uri down made Griff far sicker to his stomach than the sound of the approaching horsemen.

They were surrounded again. Griff’s side ached—he was wearing full gear again, but the horse had thrown him a good three feet, and his face had been scraped on the rock, along with the rest of him. He tasted blood in his throat as he rolled, reaching for his blade, but it was too late. Three wulver warriors, fully turned, were already off their horses, on him with a net and ropes. Griff shifted. With a shake of his dark head, he shifted, growling and snapping at his attackers. But they were wulvers. They knew exactly what to look out for. The first thing they did was snap on a muzzle, which just made Griff struggle and fight harder.

He almost freed himself, even though it was now six—three men, three wulvers—against one, but then they bound his arms behind his back and chained him.

The only good thing about the entire situation was that Uri’s fall hadn’t seemed to break anything. The big animal was back up, and one of the wulvers had corralled him, grabbing his reins to lead the horse over the rocks. Griff howled—still in wulver form—when they slung him over the saddle of his horse. His arms were still bound behind him as they lashed him to the saddle and pulled the horse along the beach. Griff struggled, but his kidnappers had tied him well.

They led the horse back up the hill, away from the sea. Griff turned his head, trying to identify any of his kind. He scanned each man, looking for their leader—he remembered the dark knight who had been screaming orders at his men, all of them involving capturing Griff. But why?

“So this is the one.” A smooth voice spoke from near the front of the horse, followed by a low, amused chuckle. Griff felt Uri pull instinctively away, the horse giving a nervous whinny, and Griff knew how he felt. His hackles rose at the sound of the man’s voice, and he knew, even without seeing him, that this was the man in charge of this little venture. This man, whoever he was, had a purpose in capturing Griff, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

I won’t lead them to the temple.
It was the only thing he could imagine they might be searching for. Mayhaps they had already attempted entrance, but had been turned away as unworthy. Bridget had told him, it had happened before. Only certain seekers were even entertained for entrance. Some were judged too dangerous or just plain unworthy, and their cries for entrance went unanswered. Mayhaps these men and wulvers—he couldn’t understand how or why his brothers, his kin, for they had to be, if they were his kind, could do this—had already been turned away from the temple, and they had captured him in the hopes he could lead them in.

“I’m not impressed.” The man sneered and Griff lifted his wolf head to see the dark knight approaching. He wasn’t a Scot. At least, he didn’t speak as one. And his armor was definitely English. So what was this shasennach doing with wulvers Griff had never seen before? “Are you sure he’s the one?”

“He’s wulver,” one of the other wulvers confirmed. “And he was comin’ from the temple.”

So it was the temple, then. Griff felt his limbs go cold at the thought of this band of assailants invading the Temple of Ardis and Asher. He might not believe in the divine and sacred in the same way as the guardians and priestesses who resided there, but he had respect for it. Besides, he would take the information to the grave, if it meant protecting Alaric, Aleesa, and especially Bridget.

Bridget...
The young woman’s face swam before his eyes. All the blood was rushing to his head at this angle and he lifted it, taking in great gulps of air, determined now to find a way out of this. Not even for himself, or his family, or the lost packs. He just wanted to make sure Bridget remained safe, now and forever.

“Take him down,” the man in dark armor instructed. “Off the horse.”

The wulvers turned Griff around to the knight, who had taken off his helmet and held it lightly under one arm, his sword in the other. The man was handsome, well-groomed, young—probably Griff’s age—and from his accent, quite English. Griff tried to place him. Someone who had visited Castle MacFalon mayhaps? If he could figure out who the man was, he might be able to figure out why the man wanted him.

“You have no earthly idea who I am, do you?” The other man chuckled, flashing a brilliant smile. His blonde hair fell over one eye as he dipped his head to look at Griff, searching his eyes behind the muzzle. “Hm. Where are those fabled red eyes of yours, wulver? Show me.”

So that was it, then. The man knew he was the red wulver. Griff just glared at him, working hard not to show him the color of his eyes, because anger rose in him like a coming storm. He shook his head, changing back to human form in an instant, knowing it would be easier to control his emotions this way.

“No?” The man frowned, angry at Griff’s resistance, but curious now that he’d changed back into human form. “Mayhaps this will change your mind, then...”

The armored man brought his sword hilt up against the underside of Griff’s chin. The blow knocked his head back and he groaned, feeling his teeth rattle in his head as he went to his knees. He gagged, feeling light headed and nauseous, knowing he’d be lucky if he could talk at all for a while after that hit—luckily, he was a wulver and could heal relatively quickly.

“How about now?” the man asked gently, squatting down beside him and lifting Griff’s head by the hair.

He snarled at the man, but didn’t speak. Griff wasn’t about to tell him anything.

“I have a secret to tell you.” The other man’s eyes were blue—dancing, dazzling blue. “You’re not who you think you are.”

Griff didn’t answer him. He didn’t care who this man thought he was. All he could think of was how he could protect Bridget from these marauders. If that meant letting them take him, then that’s what he’d have to do. The thought of killing all of them was certainly his first choice, though.

“Should I introduce myself, little doggie?” The man’s cruel slice of a mouth spread into a grin. “My name is Uldred Lothienne. Does that sound familiar to you?”

It did, although at first, Griff couldn’t think why. He could hardly think at all, the way his ears were still ringing. But then he remembered the story his mother and aunts had told him when he was a pup.

“Ah, I see you have heard of me. Or, at least, my father before me.” Uldred laughed, an overloud sound that brought light, nervous chuckles from his men. “Can you guess who my mother is, little pup? I’ll give you three.”

Griff wasn’t playing games. He focused on trying to breathe—and in the midst of basic bodily functions, to think. Eldred Lothienne’s son. King Henry VII’s royal huntsman had always hated wulvers, had made it his mission to kill them all—after his consort, the witch Moraga, had used her magic to enslave the wulver warriors to do his bidding. Which, of course, had involved usurping the English king’s throne.

He’d heard the story a hundred times, from Donal MacFalon himself, who had slain Lord Lothienne and thwarted his plan to become king of all England. And he knew, too, that the witch Moraga was the reason that no wulver could ever go back to their mountain den. She’d gone missing after being captured—according to rumor, she’d been locked in a cell, but had simply disappeared.

Darrow, just as skeptical as Griff, believed someone had let the evil woman go, and he had a tendency to believe this, more than he believed the witch had said some magic words and spirited herself away. As far as he knew, the woman hadn’t been heard from again—both his father, Raife, and Donal MacFalon, had sent many men out to find her over the years—and most assumed her dead.