Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (19 page)

“I wish ye’d both stop sayin’ that.” Griff grimaced. “Ye want me t’just ride into a trap?”

“Tis not a trap.” Bridget, still wearing her silver robe and riding sidesaddle in front of him, spoke up. “Those are wulver ships.”

“There’s no such thing as a—” Griff frowned as the wind shifted, and he lifted his nose in the air. Wulvers. She was right. He could smell them, even this far off.

“Wulvers are warriors, not sailors,” Griff protested, but thoughts of the lost packs spurred him on.

He couldn’t get to the shoreline fast enough—and the old man and his mules slowed them way down. By the time they reached the shoreline, Captain Blackburn was on the deck with a spyglass, awaiting their arrival. Clearly, he’d been in contact with the other ships. Whatever it meant, Griff didn’t like it. He really didn’t like it when a dozen men appeared from behind the rocks as they approached. Griff already had his sword drawn, but he knew, even though they weren’t shifted, that they were all wulvers.

“No! Wait!” Griff called, but Raghnall had broken away, his mule moving faster than it had the whole trip as he rode forward to speak to the men. “Stupid ol’ man.”

Then the wulvers drew their swords. He had visions of the old man being slaughtered by a dozen wulvers as he leapt off his horse, leaving Bridget safely behind as he advanced, sword raised, ready to take them all on at once. He felt the heat in his own eyes, saw it reflected in the eyes of the men who looked at him as he approached.

“Easy, warrior.” Raghnall gave him a toothless grin.

And then, one by one, each wulver sank to one knee, driving their swords into the sand, hands on the hilts as they bowed their heads before him.

Griff stared, looking first at the grinning Raghnall, then back at the kneeling wulvers.

“Do’na leave me again!” Bridget snapped as she rode up behind him, reining in the horse. Then she stopped, staring at the kneeling wulver men.

“What?” Raghnall chuckled. “You two have never seen wulvers offer their swords and fealty before?”

Griff looked at Bridget, feeling a lump growing in his throat, and then back at the men who knelt before him.

“You can’t leave them down there all night, son,” Raghnall whispered, nudging him.

Griff cleared his throat. “Rise.”

He blinked as they all got to their feet. The biggest one, a wulver warrior with long, thick blonde hair—Griff knew he’d be a giant, white wolf when he shifted—stepped forward, holding out a gloved hand.

“Lars.” The blonde said his name in a heavy, Scandanavian accent.

“Griff.” He took the other wulver’s hand and shook it, feeling the power in the man’s grip.

“We are ready to sail and fight for you,” Lars told him. “You are the red wulver. You are our king.”

“Thank ye.” Griff cleared his throat—it wasn’t easy talking around the lump in it. “I’m proud t’have yer service. I’m grateful for all of ye who’ve come t’serve me.”

He spoke this last to all of the wulvers gathered on the beach.

Bridget had slipped off the horse and came to stand beside Griff. He glanced down, seeing the part down the center of her red head as she looked out at all the wulvers who had come to serve him.

Then, one by one, they lined up to bow in front of Bridget, all of them reaching out to touch her hand or kiss it, murmuring the words, “My queen.”

When Bridget looked up at him, her green eyes were round and sparkling with tears. She accepted each one of them with the grace of a queen. She was, already, as far as he was concerned. She had been, since the first time he’d met her. Even wearing armor.

“Griff,” she whispered, turning her face up to him. “Is this one of t’lost packs?”

He nodded, sure of it, even though they hadn’t said. One of the places Aleesa had given him was across the sea, and he was sure these wulvers were Vikings of some sort. He’d never seen them before, but they were all ready to lay down their lives for him.

And, he had a feeling, as they got ready to sail back to Skara Brae, he was going to need them.

“Trust the magic yet?” Bridget whispered, putting her arms around him.

“Aye, lass.” He smiled into her hair, watching the men—
his men
—returning to their ships.

Did he have a choice anymore? He wondered. Had he ever?

They got into one of the wulver rowboats and headed toward the Sea Wolf where Captain Blackburn was waiting for them. The two wulver oarsmen helped them out of the boat and onto the ship.

“Next time yer sendin’ a wulver welcome party, lemme know, eh?” Captain Blackburn called as Griff approached. The big sea captain was grinning from ear to ear.

“I did’na know,” Griff confessed, shaking the captain’s outstretched hand.

“If they’d been enemies, t’Sea Wolf woulda been at t’bottom of t’bay by now.” Blackburn snorted, looking behind them at the big, wulver oarsmen as they boarded, but his gaze kept returning to Bridget.

“Aren’t ye gonna ask who t’woman is?” Griff put an arm around Bridget, pulling her close.

“Ye think we’ve ne’er seen a woman disguised as a man for passage on a ship before?” The captain snorted. “She ne’er passed, e’en when ye carried her on wrapped in her plaid. That hair alone…”

“Aye.” Griff looked down at her, smiling. “I could’na bear t’cut it.”

“Would’ve been a terrible sacrifice,” the captain agreed with a shake of his salt and pepper head. “Right
Bryce
—and
Busby
.”

Griff laughed. “It’s Griff.”

The captain gave a knowing nod, looking at Bridget, while Griff made the introductions.

“Busby played by the beautiful Bridget. This old gentleman is Raghnall. And this…” Griff turned to the two Scandanavian wulvers with a questioning look.

“Thorvel,” said one, and, “Skald,” said the other.

“Yer takin’ this rather well,” Griff remarked to the captain.

“Well, we did ’ave a message of warnin’ an’ promise of payment.” Blackburn laughed. Just then, Raghnall’s owl flew down from the mast above, landing lightly on the old man’s shoulder. “MacMoran almos’ shot ’im fer dinner before we realized he was carryin’ a message.”

Griff caught the old man’s eye—Raghnall’s toothless grin gave him away.

“Will ye be boardin’ yer ship, then?” Griff asked Thorvel and Skald, but the two wulvers insisted on staying with Griff, which meant more to him than he could possibly say.

The room he stayed in with Bridget as they sailed toward Skara Brae was far better than the one they’d occupied on the way to the Isle of the Dragon. Not that Griff and Bridget saw much of the room. Of course, they didn’t see much more than the room, either.

Thorvel and Skald took turns standing guard outside, but the door only opened a few times to admit trays of food and drink to keep up their energy.

Which was just the way Griff intended it.

Because once he got Bridget out of that stunning silver and white robe, he knew he wasn’t going to let her put it back on again—until he had to.

“I’m not stayin’, Griff, and that’s final!” Bridget stomped her foot on the rocky shoreline. Not that stamping her foot in soft slippers under her silvery robes had the same effect as doing so when she wore armor and boots. “Besides, Raghnall told me—”

“Bridget, this is war, not magic!” Griff roared. “You’re stayin’ here where ye’ll be safe, and that’s final!”

“Tis mos’ certainly not final!” she snapped. “Tis m’kin, too, ye big oaf!”

“Bridget, I swear by all that is holy, if ye defy me...”

“Griff.” Darrow rode up on his big war horse, reining it in when he saw Bridget. “T’men are ready, as y’ordered.”

“Thank ye,” Griff replied, surveying the encampment. Bridget could almost see his mind working.

They’d landed on the east side of the isle, hoping that Uldred was still camped on the west side, and their gamble had been correct. Bridget frowned up at Darrow. They’d been introduced, and she knew the man was Raife’s brother. He’d been one of the few who hadn’t been captured inside the temple.

The thought of that sick, twisted monster and his witch of a mother holding her family hostage made Bridget crazy with rage. She wanted to storm in there, sword drawn, but she knew that wasn’t what needed to happen. Raghnall had been very clear on that point. They’d talked long, while Griff slept off the poison cure. The poor man had been through so much worrying about Bridget’s wounds, he hadn’t even realized how effected he’d been by the stuff. Until he passed out and slept for a good thirty hours!

“Griff, I wan’ ye t’think this through,” Darrow cautioned, leaning over the neck of his horse to talk to his nephew. “Remember what yer father taught ye—about doin’ somethin’ yerself that could get ye killed.”

“Aye, I know.” Griff waved this away, like he’d waved Bridget’s protests away. “Like m’father send someone else into the temple, instead of goin’ in ’imself?”

Darrow sighed, straightening in his saddle. “Alaric rode out t’meet ’im, I told ye. How were we t’know Uldred’s men had entered the temple while Aleesa was alone.”

Bridget cringed at this. The thought of Uldred’s men storming into the temple while Aleesa was left, defenseless, made her stomach turn. When Raife and his men—and, it turned out, women, because Sibyl, Laina and Kirstin had insisted on coming with them—had been out meeting with Alaric, one of Uldred’s men had feigned need of healing at the temple. Without Alaric there as guardian, Aleesa had unknowingly let him in. That was all the opening they needed. When Alaric returned with Raife and the rest of the wulver party, the temple had already been infiltrated.

Bridget couldn’t believe the women had come too, but apparently, after Rory MacFalon had been captured—the same day Griff had left to go to Skara Brae, it turned out—Raife and Donal MacFalon had made plans to go find their sons. They’d assumed they’d run off together, some young pup’s idea of sowing their wild oats perhaps, but the truth had been much darker than that.

Darrow said they’d pried it out of Moira and Beitrus, how they’d fed Griff information about the lost packs on Skara Brae, and they assumed he’d taken Rory with him. It was only after Raife and everyone had gone into the temple—and the scouts rode back to tell Darrow, who had stayed back on the beach with several of the men on Raife’s orders, of the encampment on the other side of the island—that they knew Rory had been captured by Uldred’s men.

Bridget still felt horribly guilty about leaving him behind. They’d intended to rescue him, but the witch’s poison blade had put an end to that. Thankfully, Darrow and the few wulvers who had been left behind had raided Uldred’s camp and rescued Rory MacFalon. He was, right then, recovering from his many wounds in a tent not too far from where they were talking.

“Do’na sacrifice yerself,” Darrow said, trying one last time to convince his nephew not to follow through with this plan.

“I hafta.” Griff shook his dark head. “It has t’be me. The prophecy...”

“T’hell wit’ the prophecy!” Darrow roared, rolling his eyes. “This isn’t magic, this is war!”

Bridget smirked, seeing the look of surprise on Griff’s face. Hadn’t he just yelled that at her, when she told him she had to accompany him to the temple?

“Bridget.” Griff turned to her with a soft sigh. “Ye’ll ride wit’ me.”

“Yer takin’ a woman!” Darrow groaned.

But Bridget’s heart soared. She knew, then, that he believed. At least to some degree. Enough to acknowledge that he needed her, not just because she knew where all the secret entrances to the temple were, but because she was part of this. They needed to go to the sacred pool together, during the eclipse, or everything would fall apart. Everything they’d done, everything they’d worked for, everything that had, so far, fallen in place, if not perfectly, then with some semblance of order and balance—all of that would disintegrate into nothing.

“I hafta.” Griff sighed again, turning toward the tent. “Rory! Garaith! I need ye!”

And so their small little band was set. Rory, Garaith, Griff and Bridget would ride, alone, to the temple.

They would sneak in the back, secret entrance.

Griff, of course, thought they were going to simply surprise Uldred and his men, slay them, and free the wulver prisoners they’d taken.

Bridget knew better. The eclipse was coming, and with it, Griff’s destiny. She caught Raghnall’s eye across the beach, saw him watching, as always. He didn’t always speak—and when he did, he often sounded mad, or addled—but he knew the truth, as well as she did. Things had fallen just the way they were supposed to. Everything, including her own near-death, had done nothing but propel them to this moment in time.

The thought made her tremble with both excitement and fear.

All is as it should be.

Mayhaps, if she kept repeating that to herself, it truly would be.

She hoped so.

Because she’d never been more terrified in her life.

She’d only known about the secret temple entrance for a few years. As a child, she thought it was magical when Alaric would appear during one of their rituals at the scrying pool. And it was, to some degree. The entrance was enchanted, made to appear as solid rock from one side, but a cavernous opening from the other. Alaric had shown it to her after the first time she’d bested him during training. It had been a wonderful reward, and Bridget enjoyed surprising Aleesa by showing up for rituals that way afterward. Until Aleesa got used to her using it, of course, and it became old hat.

Still, it always tended to be a shock, when someone appeared to walk through a solid rock wall.

“Yer sure they can’na hear us,” Rory whispered. His words were slurred. His mouth was still healing. Uldred’s men had made quite a sport of torturing the lad. Daily. Sometimes several times a day, since he had such enormous healing capacity. It was the cruelest thing she could imagine. If there’d been some score to settle that Uldred had been playing out with The MacFalon’s only son, they were now more than even.

“Aye,” Bridget replied, but she kept her voice down anyway. She’d tested it hundreds of times, yelling her mother’s name—she could see Aleesa during these little sessions but Aleesa, of course, couldn’t see her—and there’d never been any indication that she could see or hear anything until Bridget stepped across the threshold.

“Garaith, Rory.” Griff unsheathed his sword. “Use the manacles I gave ye and chain Bridget over there.”

“What?” Bridget gasped as Rory, looking quite guilty about it, and Garaith, who was nearly as tall and handsome as Griff, but not quite, took her, one at each elbow.

“I’m sorry.” Griff sighed. “I needed ye to get us in ’ere, but Bridget... I can’na risk ye. Trust me.”

“No!” she wailed, as Rory locked a manacle on one of her wrists, Garaith the other. It happened too fast, and she was too stunned to draw her sword and parry. “Griff, listen t’me! Ye do’na understand! Ye need me!”

“Aye.” He sighed, surveying the gathering at the scrying pool. It was nearing noon. Nearing the eclipse.

Uldred and his witch-mother, Moraga, were talking by the edge of the pool. Across from them, all of the wulvers were chained, like an audience, to the stone monoliths. Seeing her mother and father chained was like a sharp stab to the heart. She didn’t recognize any of the others, but she knew they were Griff’s kin who had come to look for him.

“Griff!” Bridget cried, and he turned, coming over to her, shouldering Rory and Garaith out of the way. He pulled her to him one-armed—he held his sword in the other—and kissed her.

She knew he was kissing her goodbye. She knew, if he walked through that opening and left her behind, it would be a true goodbye. She’d never see him again. Things would fall apart, would succumb to the dark forces that had been working against them all along. And she couldn’t let that happen.

“I need t’keep ye safe,” Griff whispered against her ear as they parted. She was breathless with his desperate, aching kiss, heart racing in her chest. “Please, m’love, stay ’ere. I can’na bear t’lose ye.”

“Look at me.” She lifted her manacled hands, the chain that one of the other wulvers had locked to a ring in the wall, clinking loudly as she cupped his face in her palms. “Griff... I love ye.”

She saw his face fall at her words, saw how they pierced his heart.

“An’ I know ye love me.”

“Aye,” he agreed hoarsely. “I do love ye, lass. More than m’own life.”

“Then trust me,” she whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes. She sensed Rory and Garaith watching this exchange. They hung back, waiting. “Trust t’magic. Can ye do that? Fer me? Please?”

“Bridget...” He croaked her name, shaking his head, the pain in his eyes breaking her heart. “Do’na ask this o’me...”

“I hafta.” She kissed his lips, tasting the salt of her tears. “Ye mus’ take me wit’ ye. Ye mus’! If ye do’na, this ends ’ere. It all—e’erything—ends. Right ’ere.”

Griff closed his eyes for a moment, sighing again. Then he took a long, slow, shuddering breath, and turned to go.

“Griff!” Bridget wailed, watching him walk toward the pool, toward the secret entrance. “Please! Trust me!”

He stopped, and she saw past him, into the cavern beyond. She saw Moraga pointing, whispering something to her son, whose eyes narrowed as he glanced toward the wall. It seemed as if he was looking straight at her and Bridget shrank back.

Griff looked over his shoulder, meeting her eyes. There was so much pain in them. And they were blood red.

“Unchain her,” he whispered hoarsely, glancing at his friends.

“But... ye said—” Garaith frowned, looking at Rory.

“Unchain her!” Griff snapped.

Bridget fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face, holding her hands up to Rory as he came over with the key.

“Oh good, one of them’s already chained up.” Uldred’s voice filled the cavern, but it was coming from the other side of the pool.

Bridget looked up, seeing the witch, her mouth moving, incanting, and she understood what had happened. She didn’t know how, but the witch had discovered them, and had revealed their hiding place. She heard a woman scream, and saw a redhead across the way, one of the women chained to the rock. Griff’s mother, she guessed. He’d told her they were both redheads. She called her son’s name as his sword swung, clashing with Uldred’s.

Rory and Garaith came out swinging, too, and Bridget reached for her own sword, realizing she didn’t have one—Rory and Garaith had taken it—but she had her dirk. She slipped it out of her boot, ready to defend her family, when she heard Uldred yell at them all to, “Stop!”