Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (18 page)

“That’ll do.” Raghnall nodded, eyes narrowed, watching.

Griff watched, too, seeing the dark lines on her skin, the ones stretching like tree branches stretching toward her heart, starting to fade before his very eyes.

“It worked,” Griff breathed, the relief flooding his chest so palpable it felt as if someone had just lifted the weight of his horse from it. “Oh thank God, tis workin’!”

“Of course it is.” The old man rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Then, he turned to Griff and slapped one of the bandages on his upper arm, where the dark line appeared. That spot on his skin had gone oddly numb to the touch, and a few times, he’d felt strange, lightheaded, but other than that, he’d been uneffected. Not like Bridget.

“That should do for you, wulver.” Raghnall winked. “The Witch’s Kiss would have taken another month to kill you, I’d wager. Your species is quite strong.”

Griff shrugged. He didn’t care about his wound. All he cared about was that Bridget was opening her eyes. And this wasn’t the sort of half-awake state of being she’d been in for the past day or so. Her gaze was clear, eyes bright, with that delightful, grey-green sparkle he had come to seek whenever they were in the same room.

“Now, drink.” Raghnall lifted the chalice to Bridget’s lips as she sat up on the rock. Griff gave her a hand—she was still acting slightly tipsy, but oh, so much better than before. Coming back, instead of fading away. He could tell already.

Bridget drank readily, gulping down the hot liquid. Griff, on the other hand, turned his nose up when she offered it to him.

“Yer not invincible, wulver,” she snapped, and Griff had to grin at her tone. Oh yes, Bridget was back. “Now drink!”

Griff crinkled his nose in protest—the stuff smelled almost as bad as the bandage that had come off Bridget’s arm—but he drank it anyway. It made him gag.

“Such a lil bairn.” Bridget teased when he handed the now empty cup to Raghnall.

“That’s awful.” Griff shuddered.

“The bandage will dissolve over time.” Raghnall made sure Bridget’s was still affixed. It was like a second skin. “It will keep working until then against the poison.”

“That’s it?” Griff snorted, blinking as he looked between the two of them. “We sail all the way here for a new bandage and a tea party?”

Raghnall snickered. “Oh, I forgot to mention—you have to go outside and do a rain dance. Like the Mongols. Mayhaps you’d like to sacrifice a virgin? Or at least scare one, like the Norsemen?”

Bridget giggled, a sound that made Griff’s heart soar. She poked Griff in the shoulder—his uninjured one.

“Don’t mind ’im,” she said, still laughing. “He does’na trust magic... yet.”

“Doesn’t trust magic?” Raghnall huffed. “That’s like not believing you’ll get wet if you piss into the bloody wind!”

Griff snorted and rolled his eyes but he didn’t protest.

Mostly because Bridget was laughing, more bright-eyed and aware than she’d been in days. And the feeling had suddenly come back into his arm, where he could see that thick, dark line had begun to fade.

“Thank ye fer yer help,” Griff said to the old man. He’d been ready to put him through a wall when they first arrived, but now he just wanted to kiss him. Or, at least hug him. “Can ye tell me... there’s a lost wulver pack on this isle. D’ye know where tis?”

The man looked up from where he was gathering his things. Then he grinned, and Griff noted it was more toothless than not.

“Lost pack?” The old man chuckled. Then he laughed out loud. “Lost pack? Oh that’s rich!”

Griff and Bridget exchanged confused glances. But Griff was getting used to being confused around the old man.

“Aye, a lost pack of wulvers,” Griff explained slowly. “A den. They’d ’ave a den ’ere, somewhere on t’isle.”

“There’s no lost pack, son.” Raghnall smiled, picking up his teapot. “They know exactly where they are, and if they want you to find them, they’ll let you know. You being who you are, I’m sure they’ll find you, soon enough.”

Griff spread his fingers helplessly at Bridget. “This man talks in circles.”

“The world moves in circles.” The old man snorted, rotating his finger in the air near his temple. “Now, you two need to rest. That brew hasn’t really hit you yet, and when it does, you’d both best be lying down.”

“We need t’get back t’the ship.” Griff frowned, but Bridget was up—she was up and walking, following the old man!—and so he went after them.

“In here.” The old man nodded to a mattress. It looked big and soft compared to the one on the ship.

And suddenly, Griff was tired. Beyond. Exhausted.

“Come.” Bridget pulled him toward the bed.

“You two will be fine in here.” The old man gave a nod. “I’ll rustle up some food for later.”

“But...” Griff protested as Bridget pushed him onto the mattress. She was already pulling off his boots.

Raghnall licked his finger, holding it up, as if testing an invisible wind. “If we leave tomorrow, by noon, we’ll get back in time.”

“We? What?” Griff shook his head, confused, and the world tilted. Everything came unhinged. “What the hell?”

“Shhh.” Bridget thanked Raghnall—he heard that much—before shutting the door and coming back to the bed.

The last thing he saw was her slipping out of her plaid and sliding into bed with him. Her body was warm—but not as warm as it had been—as she stretched out on top of him, pulling the covers over. He felt the urge to take her, felt his cock rising between her thighs, but something else was taking over his body. The blood in his veins felt thick with it, a hot pulse that made everything hazy, blurry. It was like being drunk—only far, far worse.

“Bridget,” he whispered against her lips, so soft and plump. She was smiling.

“Shhhh,” she urged, tucking her head under his chin, resting her cheek on his chest. “Sleep.”

And he did.

When he woke, Bridget was gone. At first, he didn’t know where he was, but then he saw a clean plaid and tunic beside him on the bureau. His sword was still there. He dressed quickly, sheathing his sword, and headed out to look for her.

He couldn’t believe how good he felt. For days, since his altercation with Uldred on Skara Brae, he’d been worried sick about Bridget, and when he wasn’t caring for and fretting over her, he’d been consumed with thoughts of his pack. He’d been so concerned with other things, he hadn’t noticed his own declining health. He was a wulver, so he was from hearty stock. Even big wounds often wouldn’t kill a wulver. His uncle, Darrow, had once been run through with a long sword and survived.

But the poison had clearly affected him more than he realized. The world looked brighter, clearer, as he stepped into the temple hallway and glanced around. The open-air stadium below was quiet. But he heard talking to his right. Bridget’s laugh. The sound made him smile and he headed toward it.

“Yes, that’s just right,” Raghnall said, smiling over his cluttered table at Bridget. “You’d make a fine priestess.”

“She’ll make a fine wife,” Griff growled, shuffling through the books and papers on the floor to put an arm around her from behind.

Bridget smiled back at him, and he couldn’t believe the transformation in her. She was dressed like a queen, in a white and silver robe, with silver combs in her thick, red hair. It tumbled down her shoulders, washed and brushed, shining like fire in the light that came in from the high windows above. It made him want to take her straight back to bed. But he knew better. There was an incredible urgency in him, flowing through his blood, now that he was awake. More fully awake than he’d been in days, to be sure.

“Guardian, priestess, wife, mother, she is all of those things.” Raghnall nodded. “Now that you’re awake, warrior, it’s time for us to break bread and be on our way.”

“Our?” Griff frowned at the old mage. “You’re coming with us?”

“Of course.” The mage laughed. “Why do you think destiny sent you here, young prince who would be king?”

“Destiny again.” Griff snorted, and when he did, he caught a whiff of roast meat. His stomach growled. “Destiny and prophecy and magic. You can counteract some witch’s cursed blade but you can’t tell me where the lost packs are on the isle?”

“They’ve already found you.” Raghnall chuckled and Griff bristled in response.

“Where?” He glanced around, as if a pack of wulvers might be coming through the door.

“As Dragon King, you’ll have to learn to read the energy of magic,” the old man informed him. “You’ll have to trust it. Like you read the weather. Or like learning to trust a woman.”

“What do you know of women, old man?” Griff snorted.

“Enough to live alone,” the old man retorted, and then cackled. Griff couldn’t help grinning, even when Bridget elbowed him in the side.

“Everything around us, everything we can touch, taste, feel—it’s all a woman.” Raghnall dropped him a wink. “And it’s all magic.”

“It’s flowin’ around us all the time.” Bridget turned in his arms. “Like the wind. Like love.”

“But I do’na trust it...” Griff frowned.

“Ye trust me,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, bringing him in to kiss her.

He nodded as they parted, confessing hoarsely, “Aye.”

“You’re learning, wulver...” Raghnall chuckled.

Bridget went to the chair, pulling out a new pair of soft, silver and white boots and putting them on. Clearly a gift from the mage. Then he watched her slip a silver dirk into them under her new robes.

“Do they all look like angels an’ fight like devils?” Griff wondered aloud.

“No.” Raghnall grinned. “Some look like devils and fight like angels.”

Griff laughed at that.

“Now let’s eat so we can start our journey,” Raghnall said, getting up from the table.

“I do’na mind ye taggin’ along,” Griff said as they followed the old man out. “But... why’re ye comin’ wit’ us?”

“Would you like me to talk more about destiny?” Raghnall asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“No.” Griff snorted.

“Let’s just say… I’ll be stopping off on Skara Brae before I take a journey with some old friends.”

Could the old man be any more cryptic?
Griff wondered.

He caught Bridget around the waist before they followed Raghnall in toward the delicious smell of food. “You’ll hafta change outta that before we reach t’ship… more’s the pity.”

“D’ye like it?” Bridget smiled, putting her arms around his neck. “I do’na think t’will be necessary.”

Griff frowned. “But t’pirates think yer a lad—and I’d like to keep ’em thinkin’ that, t’tell t’truth!”

“Trust the magic, son.” Raghnall just grinned that toothless old grin when Griff scowled in his direction.

But he didn’t think about it overlong, because the food smelled amazing—and he was starving.

The Sea Wolf was there waiting for them to return, but it was surrounded by more than a dozen massive warships. They were huge, Viking by the looks of them, with wolf heads on the prow.

“Slow up.” Griff reined in the horse when they were a half-mile away, assessing the situation.

“Trust the magic,” Raghnall said from the saddle of his mule. He was leading another behind him, loaded with a very full trunk. The old man chortled and winked, taking far too much pleasure in being cryptic, as far as Griff was concerned.