Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (4 page)

“I seek entrance t’the Temple of Asher’n’Ardis!” The man’s voice carried to her easily. It was a pleasant sound, and she sensed no fear in it. No evil either. Just a little annoyance and impatience. This was a man who was used to gaining entry, wherever he went. That much was clear. Not royalty though. Not that kind of entitlement. She sensed more of a... confidence about him. Mayhaps a little arrogance?

Bridget swallowed, lubricating her throat, before lowering her voice and booming her own reply, “Who seeks entrance?”

The horse startled, giving a low whinny and pawing the dirt. The man handled the horse with ease, turning the animal toward the rocks.

“Now we’re getting’ somewhere,” he muttered, calling back, “My name’s Griffith.”

Just Griffith? No surname? No title? She cocked her head, frowning at that. A simple man, then? But he did not look simple. The man was big, well-muscled. This man trained, and he trained hard. 

“An’ what d’ye seek, Griffith?” Bridget called, making sure she kept her voice an octave lower than usual. Funny, how his name felt in her mouth. Familiar, somehow, although she’d never heard it called. 

“Knowledge.”

Her heart sank. Not healing, then. A seeker who was true, who sought anything other than healing, would have to force the guardian to yield in combat if they wanted entrance. The guardian could, on rare occasion, choose to yield without a fight, but it hardly ever happened. Had never happened, in her lifetime, or Alaric’s either, he’d told her. 

“Are ye there?” Griff called. Impatient. She’d have to remember that. 

She wasn’t relishing fighting this man, who was twice her size at least. Were Alaric and Aleesa watching in the pool? They would be, of course. It would be her first real combat with an entrant, and she didn’t want to disappoint her father. Especially after her loss to him that afternoon. 

“Ye mus’ prove yerself worthy, seeker,” she called, managing to keep the tremble from her voice. It was both excitement, and, mayhaps, a little fear. “By bestin’ me in combat.”

“Then come out an’ meet me, stranger.” Griff straightened in his saddle, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“I’m t’guardian of t’temple.” Bridget stepped toward the rocks, putting her face plate down, and her hand on the hilt of her sword. “And ye shall not pass ’til ye best me an’force me t’yield.”

“I can’na best ye unless I can see ye.” Griff stared at the rocks, blinking in surprise when Bridget appeared from behind them. She’d never used the secret entrance before, but it worked just like Alaric said it would.

“I can’na fight a boy.” Griff snorted as he slid off his horse. She saw him searching the rocks with his eyes, wondering where in the world she’d come from. “T’would nuh be right.”

“I’m not a boy.” Bridget raised her sword, feeling anger burning in her chest at the man’s words. A boy, indeed! Not only wasn’t she a boy—and what a surprise he’d get when he was bested by a girl!—she was a warrior, trained by one of the best warriors in all of Scotland.

She might not have been quite good enough to beat Alaric, but she could beat this man—even if he was twice her size.

“I do’na wanna fight ye, lad.” Griff sighed, shaking his head as he unsheathed his sword.

“Ye’ve no choice, seeker.” Bridget straightened her spine to give herself full height, but the top of her head still barely reached his shoulder. “If ye wan’ entry t’the temple, ye mus’ force t’guardian t’yield.”

“I do’na hafta kill ye?” Griff frowned. “I’d hate t’hafta kill ye.”

“Tis not to the death.” Bridget rolled her eyes behind her face plate. “But ye’ll be lucky if I do’na kill
ye,
seeker.”

“Let’s get this over wit’, lad.” Griff stepped away from his horse with another deep sigh, moving quickly into fighting stance, sword up.

“I’m not a lad!” she snapped gruffly as she swung, their swords clashing with the ring of steel in the afternoon sunlight.

She was still a little tired, muscles sore, from her training with Alaric, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. The big man blocked her blow easily, taking a graceful step back and sighing again, like it was quite taxing to be forced to fight her. Bridget felt anger rising and tried to swallow it down. Her father had trained her to stay calm and cool-headed in a fight and normally, she didn’t have any problem with that. But for some reason, seeing this giant, broad-shouldered man smirking, even chuckling as she advanced, made her furious. 

Griff’s sword blocked another one of her blows and Bridget swung again, more quickly this time, driving him backward. The horse pawed the ground a few feet away, as if objecting to his master’s sudden predicament. It didn’t take Bridget long to push the big man back toward the other side of the crossroads, going after him relentlessly, swing after swing of her heavy long sword. 

“Well, lad, ye take yer job seriously, that much is clear.” Griff panted as he rallied, getting his bearings and whirling on her, his sword blow coming so hard and fast, it actually knocked her off her feet. 

Her pride was hurt more than her bottom as she struggled to stand.

“Ye’ll right, lad?” Griff frowned, reaching down a hand to help her up, and that’s when something inside Bridget snapped.

She was up in an instant, running at him like a bull, her helmet hitting him hard in the gut. She heard the air go out of him and he grunted. Her fast action had surprised him, caught him off guard, and he stumbled. Unfortunately, he didn’t go down as she planned. It took him just two strides to regain his footing and he gave a low growl, whirling on her, sword at the ready.

“I’m endin’ this now.” Griff snarled, coming at her so fast and furious, she could barely see his sword flashing. She had to repel him only on instinct, which she managed, but it took her breath away. “Someone needs t’teach ye a lesson.”

Bridget winced as the big man’s sword slid against hers and she found herself pinned against the rock—how they’d managed to get so far, she didn’t know. He crushed her against the stone with his weight until she couldn’t breathe at all, even in her armor. Her breastplate dug into her skin, compressing the air from her lungs. She tried to move, but there was no possible way. He covered her completely, his arm across her chest and shoulders, heavy as a log, his thigh between hers, so thick it felt like she was straddling a tree.

Bridget struggled, trying to lift her sword, but he had that trapped too, with the heavy weight of his boot. The anger rising in her blurred her vision. She could only see a slit of him through her face plate. His breath was hot and heavy, but not unpleasant. He ducked his head so he could see her eyes—his were the strangest color she’d ever seen, a sort of amber, and for a moment, she was transfixed. The man searched her eyes with his, far too much amusement in them at having bested her, but there was an empathy there too, that bothered her even more.

He let up just a little as he asked, voice soft, “D’ye yield?”

Bridget thought of Alaric, watching her in the clear surface of the scrying pool—or mayhaps he was standing even now on the other side of the rock wall, watching via the reflective metal she’d used to spy on the approaching warrior. She wouldn’t yield—couldn’t let him down.

She shook her head, glaring at him, and wheezed, “No.”

“Yield, lad,” he said gently. “I
will
best ye, and if ye yield now, t’will mean far less bruisin’ fer ye—an’ yer pride.”

Bridget snarled, throwing all her weight at him—not that it made that much of a difference. How could Alaric have handed over this task to her? How could he have believed she could best someone twice her size? But he had charged her with this task. He believed in her. He thought she could do this, had trained her to be better than this.

“Get off me, ye fat oaf,” she snapped, hearing him chuckle, then sigh and shake his head as he eased back.

“So ye yield then?”

“No!” She grunted, bringing her knee up between his—it wasn’t exactly fair, but she knew it would work. Luckily the man was a Scot, and like her, he wore a plaid to keep his legs free for running and climbing. She’d accidentally kneed Alaric this way on a few occasions and had completely incapacitated him for a while.

But the big man was too fast. He stepped back, just barely avoiding the knee to his crotch. That gave her the opportunity to go after him again, and she did, with everything she had. They danced and swung, metal clashing. It was exhausting, but Bridget didn’t give up. This smug man wasn’t going to enter her temple, not if she could prevent it. He wasn’t worthy.

“Yield!” Bridget yelled, swinging her sword hard over her head at the dark-haired beast but he blocked her blow. She was satisfied to see the surprise in his eyes, though, at her onslaught.

It was that brief moment of patting herself on the back that was her undoing. That and the feint he made, untangling his sword from hers and jabbing at her. The sword went under her arm and Bridget took an instinctive step back, but it was too late.

He used his sword as a lever, pushing her forward, toward him. Their bodies jarred together and Bridget felt her teeth rattle in her head. Running into the man’s chest was like running into a stone wall. She gasped, all her breath gone from her lungs as the man tripped her, hooking a foot around her calf and tipping her into the dirt.

“Yer finished, lad.” Griff planted his sword in the dirt right beside her head and Bridget winced. “Now, take me t’the temple, a’fore I really hafta hurt ye.”

“Aye.” She swallowed her pride, along with a cloud full of dust, struggling to stand. She ignored the hand the man offered, making her way slowly to her feet and trying to find her balance. She leaned against the outcropping, ashamed that Alaric would be seeing this. “O’er there. See t’rock?”

Her voice was hoarse.

“Aye.” Griff gave a brief nod, lifting a hand to shade his eyes in the afternoon sun.

“We’ll meet ye by t’rock.” She waved him on, limping toward the secret entrance.

“We?” The big man frowned. “Were d’ya think yer goin’, lad? I did’na come all this way t—”

To lick my wounds.

A hand grabbed her elbow and she shook it off, snarling.

“Let go’a me!”

“Are ye hurt?” Griff asked, concerned. She bristled at his tone. It only made the hurt, real and imagined, worse.

“T’rock!” she snapped, pointing. “Go!”

“I’m n’accustomed t’taking orders from boys,” the man snorted, and the arrogance in his voice broke her.

“I’m not a boy!” she snapped again, whirling toward him and flipping her faceplate up to glare at him. He stared at her for a moment, confused, as if trying to figure something out.

She could still scarce breathe and, in one swift motion, pulled her helmet off her head, letting her long, auburn hair spill like a rain of fire over the silver breastplate.

The look on his face was priceless.

His mouth dropped open, his strange-colored eyes going wide.

“Yer a lass?” he choked, blinking fast.

“Aye.” She stared at him, drawing herself up as tall as she could, pointing again to the rock where Alaric would take the man and his horse into the temple. “Ye bested a woman. I hope yer proud o’yerself. Now, if ye wanna enter the temple, I suggest ye go t’the rock.”

She didn’t bother to stay and see what he would do. Bridget went straight to the secret entrance in the rock outcropping and slipped inside. She managed to walk upright, in a straight line, until she was out of his sight line.

Only then did she allow the tears that threatened to flow, and she went to her knees, sword and helmet forgotten in the grass, as she wept like she hadn’t since she was a little girl.

Griff stood at the rock face feeling like a complete fool. Not only had he just nearly killed a woman—what kind of temple used a woman dressed in armor as a guardian anyway?—but now he’d walked Uri down the road to yet another rock, and he stood waiting for someone to appear and allow him entrance to a place that, up until half an hour ago, he wasn’t quite sure actually existed. Mayhaps it was all a ruse, he thought, glowering at the rock. It was almost as tall as he was and he saw no door, no way in or out of any temple.

Of course, the guardian—
the woman
, his mind corrected, and he felt another twinge of guilt at what he’d done—had appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. Mayhaps this rock was the same. Or mayhaps they were all just bandits, a ring of reavers working together with the pirates who had given him passage and had told him where to go, how to find his way to this strange island, to this particular crossroads and rock outcropping. Mayhaps the woman was just a distraction, and even now, there were men hidden somewhere with arrows pointed at his head.

Although if they were hidden somewhere, he didn’t know where.

There were no trees on these rolling green hills, nothing from here until the sea.

Griff lifted his nose and sniffed the air, but caught nothing except the scent of his horse, the salt of the sea, and the green of the grass mixed with a carpet of heather. And the woman. He scented her still, something he’d noticed during their encounter, but had dismissed. He’d thought it was just the smell of a youngster, a pup. He’d realized the smaller figure in armor was just a lad right off, but why hadn’t he realized she was a woman? He chastised himself again, squinting at the sun overhead, remembering the way she’d pulled off her helmet, the fire that flashed in her grey-green eyes.

He’d been more than surprised, truth be told. The lad—the figure in armor he was sure was just a young boy—had put up a good fight. He... er,
she
... had been taught well. If she’d been comparable in size, mayhaps she would have stood a chance. He’d started to feel a little bad for her, before he found out she was actually a girl. Now... he wasn’t sure what he felt. Whatever it was, it was strange. He’d felt something when he first met her eyes, just peering into the slit in her faceplate.

But when she’d yanked off her helmet and glared at him, and he watched a cascade of red fire roll over her shoulders, it hit him with the force of a herd of horses. It had literally taken his breath away. At first, he thought it was just the fact that she was a woman, that he had spilled a woman into the dirt and threatened her bodily harm. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else, something about her. He wondered if she’d felt it, too.

Then he remembered the way she’d glared at him, how her spine had straightened, her pride clearly bruised, maybe even more than her body, and chuckled to himself.

He was so lost in thought, he almost didn’t see it happen.

Griff frowned, seeing the rock move out of the corner of his eye, an effect that startled his horse. Uri whinnied and stepped sideways, shaking his head, and Griff grabbed hold of his reins to keep the big animal from bolting.

“Ye’ve bested our guardian, and so’ve earned entrance t’the Temple of Asher’n’Ardis.” The voice made Griff whirl around and he stared at the man who stood at the cave entrance. It had been quite hidden by the rock, and Griff frowned, wondering how the man had moved the giant thing. “Follow me.”

“M’horse,” Griff said, but the man was already moving back underground, into the cave.

“Bring ’im,” the man called over his shoulder.

Griff urged Uri forward, but the horse fought him. The animal didn’t like the idea of going underground, not knowing what was down there in the dark, and Griff didn’t blame him. But he hadn’t traveled all this way to stop now. He tugged the horse’s reins, making a gruff noise in his throat, and Uri reluctantly followed.

“Is the... uh...” Griff realized he didn’t know the woman’s name. “The lass... the guardian... is she hurt?”

The man snorted. “Only ’er pride.”

Griff grinned at that. “I did’na know she was a lass.”

“She’ll be glad t’hear it.” The man stopped, pressing something on the wall, and behind them, the rock moved again, blocking out the light.

Griff glanced back, checking to make sure his sword was still in his sheath, just in case. The other man lit a fire in a bowl, mumbling something, a prayer perhaps. Griff sighed with impatience. He’d traveled a long way to find this place, and he had a lot of questions he hoped someone here had the answers to.

The fire bowl lit the underground cavern. This place would provide protection, Griff realized, from both the weather and the sea. And, of course, enemies. Much like their den at home, he thought, studying the big man who turned back toward him, the fire lighting his lined face.

The man was as tall as Griff, steel gray hair falling to his shoulders, a thick beard covering his face. It was only when he turned toward him and Griff caught his scent that they recognized each other—not as men who knew each other, but as wulvers.

“Yer like me.” Griff blinked at the man, incredulous.

He’d never seen another wulver outside of his own den.

“Aye.” The man wrinkled his nose, almost a snarl—it was a gesture Griff was used to. The man was scenting him. “Ye’ve come a long way, lad.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I seek answers.”

“C’mon, then.”

The big man led him further into the cavern, and Griff pulled his horse along. They came to a turn, and the man led him left, showing him a place where he could tie Uri in a stall and leave him beside two other horses.

“D’ye ’ave anyone t’tend him?” Griff asked, glancing around the cavern.

“I’m ’fraid not.” The old man shook his head. “There’re jus’ a few of us.”

“Can ye wait fer me t’do so?”

“Aye.”

Griff took the time to rub the horse down. The animal hadn’t liked traveling on the ship he’d taken to the island. It had been quite an adventure so far, for both of them. There were two other horses in the stalls, fine looking animals, and Griff admired them. He gave Uri a feed bag and tossed straw down for him before following the other man throug
h the tunnels of the cavern.

“Where’d ye hear ’bout our temple?” The man held the fire bowl aloft as he walked, far too slow for Griff, but he accommodated the man’s pace. The other wulver was an older man, but by no means ancient. Griff guessed that he was mayhaps twenty years older than Griff’s own father.

“The healers in m’den.” Griff followed the man around a corner, light coming from the end of the tunnel.

“Leave yer weapons ’ere.” The older man unsheathed a sword, leaving it on a rack built into the cavern wall, glancing back at Griff, who did the same. “No weapons’re allowed in t’sanctuary. Ye may ’ave it back when ye go.”

“But weapons’re required t’enter?” Griff’s brows went up, and he smirked.

“Nuh, n’required.” The man balanced the fire bowl in his hands as he walked. They were entering the main part of the temple, exiting the cavernous tunnels. “Those who seek healin’ here, receive it wit’out challenge. But ye’re not in need of such healin’. Ye’re seekin’ somethin’ else.”

That much was true. Griff didn’t know how the man knew. But mayhaps it was just a guess, and he knew nothing. How could he? Griff himself had only a vague idea of what it was he sought here in the temple of his ancestors. The lost packs. Mayhaps there was something he was meant to do, some greater destiny out there in the world for him, but whatever it was, there were wulvers out there who needed a leader.

The lost packs that Beitrus and Moira had spoken of must be part of whatever destiny awaited him. He was almost certain of that fact. To his knowledge, there was no other place where he could find out about the lost packs except for this fabled temple. Now he knew it was not the stuff of legend, but it actually existed. That was, at least, a step in the right direction.

The older man led him into a large, cavernous room. It was warm and inviting and felt very much like back home in his den. He didn’t wonder at it too much—they were, after all, underground, and that’s where all wulver dens were located, and for good reason. He supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the Temple of Asher and Ardis, the first wulvers, was also underground.

“Ye’ve bested our Guardian, seeker,” the older man told him, as they neared the light at the end of the tunnel. “Ye’re welcome in the Temple of Ardis’n’Asher, the first wulvers, and as Guardian meself, I’ll do what I can t’help ye find what ye seek. Our temple priestess, Aleesa, is also at yer disposal, seeker.”

“Thank ye.” Griff looked up as they stepped into the warm, inviting room. There was a fireplace on one wall, with a fire lit in it. The smell of roasting meat made his stomach rumble. It reminded him of their big kitchen back home, in miniscule version.

The older man put the fire bowl in the middle of a wooden table. Griff looked at the bowl closely for the first time. He could not see how or what was burning in it. It was too close to magic for his comfort.

“Is this our seeker, then?” A woman, older as well, with long, dark, plaited hair shot with streaks of gray, entered the room from the other side. She smiled at Griff in welcome, holding out her hands to him as she approached. She was still a stunningly beautiful woman, with full, red lips, a curvy, voluptuous figure under her priestess robe, and a smile that lit up the entire room. “I’m Aleesa, the high priestess of t’temple.”

“M’name’s Griff.” He took both of her outstretched hands in his, raising one of them to his lips to kiss it. “And I’m, indeed, a seeker. I do hope that yer other temple guardian’s doin’ a’righ’?”

“Bridget?” Aleesa glanced over her shoulder at the entrance she had come through. “She’s a tough ’un.”

“I told ’im ’er pride’s bruised more’n ’er body.” The older man chuckled. Aleesa gave him a knowing smile.

“So ye’re wulver as well?” Griff asked Aleesa as she bade him to sit down at the table where the fire bowl still burned.

“Aye, a’course.” Aleesa waved the older man into a seat beside her. “What else did y’expect at the Temple of Asher’n’Ardis?”

“I s’pose.” Griff gave a rueful laugh. “I’ve jus’ ne’er known any other wulvers outside of m’own den. I did’na know any others existed.”

“But ye clearly do’na believe that.” The older man raised his craggy eyebrows. “Ye’re here seekin’ others.”

“How d’ye know that?” Griff’s own eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ve n’spoken of that which I seek.”

“We see much.” Aleesa folded her hands in her lap and looked at Griff expectantly. “But we’d hear yer request. And as guardian and priestess of the temple, we’ll do our best t’accommodate ye.”

“I hafta tell ye, I do’na b’lieve in magic.” Griff bristled at the smile the dark-haired woman gave him when he said this. To Griff, things beyond comprehension only seemed unexplainable. Like his uncle, Darrow, he was very much a skeptic when it came to magic spells and potions.

Granted, he knew his own mother, Sibyl, had concocted the “cure” for the wulver woman’s monthly curse, and at least two wulver women, Beitrus and Kirstin, had taken that “cure,” and both of them seemed unable to change to wolf form now, but Griff still had his doubts. Even as he looked into the flame of the bowl burning in front of him, he doubted.

Even seeing wasn’t always believing.

He remembered the way the armored guardian had appeared from the rock outcropping, and wondered how such an illusion had been accomplished. But he still didn’t believe it was magic. Tricks, certainly. Those were commonplace and could be explained. He had lived with healers his whole life, women many would call witches, but he knew their “magic” had far more to do with the natural world than anything beyond it.

Remembering the guardian, the woman who had revealed herself to him in one glorious unveiling, he glanced around the room, wondering why this pair of temple guardians would have allowed her to go out and meet him, instead of sending the bigger, older man out to fight.

Certainly, the man was no longer a young pup, but he was a man, and a wulver, which Griff was sure the young redhead was not. The man and woman at the table with him were wulvers—he could smell it on them. The man was, like Griff, a wulver warrior. He could transform into half-man, half-wolf, at his choosing.