Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (9 page)

“There
is
magic, Griff.”

He looked up when she said his name, his gaze moving slowly from her eyes to her mouth. She could almost feel his thumb there, the way he’d rubbed her lips. That made her feel even warmer.

“Can ye prove it?” A smile played on his lips.

“Magic’s jus’ nature doin’ what it does naturally.”

“So
e’erything
is magic?” he scoffed. His thumb moved over her collarbone, lightly stroking. Her nipples were so hard they hurt. He was looking at them, and that just made them ache even more.

“Aye.” She bit her lip when his fingertips trailed down the V of her robe, but she didn’t protest, didn’t stop him. “When nature’s left t’divine direction, instead of bein’ controlled by men—or women—that’s magic.”

“Wha’ happens when men—or women—try t’control it?” He didn’t open her robe. He just traced that V, down between her breasts, then up again. Over and over.

“That’s dark magic,” she told him, shivering. “And that has its costs.”

“The dragon?” Griff’s gaze moved up again, to meet hers, questioning. “Was that dark magic?”

“No.” She shook her head, vehement. “The Dragon’s t’masculine. The lady’s t’feminine. All of nature fits together this way—mated.”

Fated.

She thought this, but didn’t say it. She saw the way he looked at her, the desire in his eyes, and wondered if he saw hers too. There were things in the world that were just meant to fit together.

“Male’n’female,” she went on. “Tis like t’guardian’n’handmaiden of this temple. Or Ardis’n’Asher. They were true mates.”

Griff shook his head, like he was clearing it. “But I do’na b’lieve in—”

“True mates. Aye.” She smiled. “But all matin’s magical. Magic only helps nature. It can’na do anythin’ that nature doesn’t intend. That’s why all truly
is
as it should be.”

“If all is as it should be, then…” He looked at her, a sly smile spreading on his face. “Then I was meant t’best ye this afternoon in our swordplay.”

He was trying to bait her, goad her.

“Aye, wulver.” Bridget smiled, nodding. “I s’pose that’s so.”

“If all is as it should be, then I was meant t’come ’ere. An’ ye—” He grinned. “Were meant to be kneelin’ beside this tub, scrubbing m’back clean.”

“A priestess lives t’serve.” She wasn’t going to let this man win, she decided. Not in this arena, anyway. “The handmaiden offers her gift t’those who’re worthy. An’ a guardian knows when t’fight… an’ when t’yield.”

He chuckled, handing her his empty cup. “Ye’ve a hard time yieldin’, lass.”

“I’m still learnin’.” She smiled, getting up to put their cups and the bottle of wine on the table.

“Mayhaps ye need a new teacher?” Griff grinned when she whirled to glare at him.

“Alaric’s been the best teacher’n’father I could’ve asked fer.” She had told herself she wasn’t going to let him get to her, but he did. He got under her skin in a way she’d never known before. She didn’t understand it.

“I’m sure he has,” Griff agreed, picking up the soap and sliding it over his skin. “But e’ery daughter mus’ someday leave ’er home fer a mate.”

“But I’ll never leave this place.” She sat on the stool again, watching as the big man stood in the tub, water sheeting off his body, running down his skin in rivulets. He washed himself with big, soapy hands. She tried to avert her eyes, but she was too transfixed by the man’s body. She was surprised she had a voice at all when she murmured, “I’ve been trained to be the handmaiden’n’guardian, both. Tis m’destiny…”

A destiny she had never questioned before. She’d never had reason to question it. So why did this man, and his ideas, make her doubt?

But he did.

“Tis that what ye want, Bridget?” Griff’s hands moved down between his legs, and her gaze went there, too. She flushed, feeling shame at her inability to turn her head, but she could not look away. He held his erection like a sword at the ready, soapy hand moving idly up and down the shaft. She found herself face-to-face with his stiff length. Something that had seemed so small and soft, like a coiled snake, had risen to more than twice that size.

She knew what men did with it—what men and women were meant to do, how they fit together. That thought made the pulse between her own legs throb, hot, insistent.

“I’ve ne’er questioned it,” she breathed.

“Maybe ye should.” His hand moved down to cup those sensitive stones men had, the sack underneath taut, soaping them up.

“Why?” She shook her head, heard the pain in her own voice. She didn’t like the way he made her think about things. Before he’d come, life had been very simple. Why had he come to complicate things?

“Why not?” he called as she stood, feeling wobbly on her own legs, not sure if it was the wine or the discussion, heading to the fire to get the last rinse bucket.

“Because…” She gulped, lifting the bucket. “Tis all as it should be.”

When she turned, seeing him standing in the tub, soap suds sliding down his skin into the bath water, he took her breath away. She didn’t understand it. Why should the sight of a naked man make her feel so woozy and warm? Her insides felt soft and gooey, like she was melting. It was the strangest thing she’d ever felt.

Griff met her eyes as she approached, and she wondered if he saw the confusion on her face. He looked at her like he was wondering what she was feeling. She was wondering herself. Slowly, she climbed onto the stool, so they stood face to face, Bridget holding the rinse bucket.

“Tell me, Bridget…” His voice was soft, his gaze too. “If… if somethin’, some circumstance, some person… made it impossible for ye to stay ’ere, in this temple…”

She could barely breathe, standing so close to him, and part of her hated him for making her think of these things. The thought of leaving the temple made her stomach clench and her eyes sting. She loved her parents, she loved her home. And this was home. It always would be.

So why was she suddenly filled with such longing?

“If tha’ happened…” Griff said. “Then is that as it should be, as well?”

“Ye make m’head hurt.” Bridget lifted the bucket and poured it over his head.

Griff sputtered, laughing, rubbing his face clear so he could look at her.

“Too much thinkin’?” he asked, grinning as she climbed down off the stool, setting the bucket aside.

“No, I enjoy thinkin’,” she protested, going over to get one of the dry bath sheets warming by the fire. “I play chess wit’ Alaric. But tis folly t’question what is. T’would be like askin’ yerself why y’er a wulver… and I’m a woman.”

“I’m askin’ myself that,” he said, his gaze skipping down once more to the wet front of her robe. “Righ’ this very moment.”

“Noticin’ an’ askin’ why’re two very different things.” She smirked, shaking her head as she unfolded the bath sheet.

“Aye, they are.” He agreed, waiting patiently as she untangled the sheet. “Yer wet.”

“Pardon?” She blinked at him.

“Yer shift.” He nodded, his gaze heavy-lidded. “It’s wet. Are ye cold?”

“The fire’s warm.” It was—but so were her cheeks, and those weren’t facing the flame.

“Yer goin’ t’need a bath after me.” He chuckled as she shook the sheet, holding it out for him.

“I’ll be fine.” But she wasn’t fine. She felt quite strange. Her knees shook.

“Bridget?” Griff tilted his head, frowning, and her face flushed even more.

“I’m fine.” She felt it happening, the room spinning, her balance gone.

Griff reached out to grab her by the elbows and she gave a little shriek as she slipped, the stool going out from under her as she fell forward into him, both of them splashing together into the tub. There was nothing else to do, nowhere else to go.

Griff didn’t say anything, but he caught her, keeping her head from hitting the other edge of the tub, but unable to keep her from sinking into the water. With both of them in it, the water overflowed the tub’s edge, spilling onto the floor in waves.

“Are ye’ll righ’, lass?” Griff asked, holding her to him as she sputtered and blinked at him in surprise. She found herself stretched out against his naked body in the tub, and when she looked down, she noticed her robe had come untied entirely. Like any Scot, she wore nothing under her plaid—and nothing under her temple robes either.

Griff’s eyes flashed as he glimpsed her nude form. Bridget saw them, for just a moment, go from that strange amber to red, the hands gripping her shoulders sliding slowly down her arms as they rocked together in the sloshing water. She didn’t need to look down to know what was rubbing up against her hip, hot and hard as steel.

She half expected him to grab her, force himself inside of her—she was a virgin, still, of course, just as she’d told him. There had never been a man, or wulver, here to take her maidenhead. That flash of red in his eyes, and the way his gaze raked her now nude body, his hands moving over her skin, sliding the thin, wet, completely see-through material of her robe down her shoulders, all told her what he wanted.

And she wanted it too.

Her thighs gripped him, hips rocking all on their own. Griff gasped when he felt her shift in his lap, the seam of her sex rubbing against his erection. Bridget gave a little cry, biting her lip, the feel of her breasts flattened hard into his chest reminding her of their sparring that afternoon. This was sparring too, of sorts, wasn’t it?

She swiped a strand of wet hair out of her face, trying to regain her composure, which was simply impossible in this situation.

“Well, lass…” Griff’s face spread into a grin, hands settling on her hips. “I s’pose all is as it should be now, eh?”

“Yer insufferable.” She rolled her eyes, putting her hands against his chest and pushing hard. She would have been too fast for him, if the weight of her wet robe, and the bath sheet that had tangled around her legs, hadn’t restrained her. Griff managed to wrap his big arms around her waist, trapping her against him.

“Y’were meant t’fall into m’arms like this, lass,” he teased. “It’s fate. Destiny, y’ken?”

“M’knee in yer stones is goin’ t’be yer destiny in a moment,” she snapped and he laughed. But he let her go, and Bridget climbed slowly out of the tub, taking her wet robe and the soaking wet bath sheet with her. The whole room was a mess, water all over the floor.

She shivered, digging another bath sheet out of the bureau and wrapping herself in it. It wasn’t fire-warm, but it would do.

“D’ye ’ave another one of those, lass?” Griff called, climbing out of the tub too.

“’Ere…” She tossed it over her shoulder at him, not caring if it fell into all the water on the floor.

“Thank ye.” He chuckled.

Bridget glanced back at Griff. He clearly had no qualms about being naked around her, even with an erection the size of Stonehenge. She watched him dry himself in the light of the fire, his back to her, to give her privacy. She found another robe tucked way in the back of the bureau, one of her mother’s, and dropped the bath sheet to the floor, slipping the dry robe on and cinching it closed.

Watching Griff dry off—he was far less concerned about exposing himself, and water ran down his back and sides in rivulets as he toweled his long, dark hair—she found herself fascinated by his body. How different from her own. He was lean and muscled, a truly stunning sight. And the way he felt, pressed against her…

Finally, Griff wrapped the sheet around his waist, tucking the material into itself, and asked, “Are ye decent, lass?”

“Aye.” She was shivering now, although she didn’t feel cold at all. “I did’na mean t’fall in.”

“No, I don’t expect ye did.” He chuckled, surveying the wet floor. “Yer a’righ’?”

“Aye. But I should go change.” She sighed, looking at the mess. “I’ll come back t’clean up.”

“Do’na worry ’bout it, lass.” He half-sat on the mattress.

“Are ye sure?” She frowned, nodding at the bed. “Aleesa left ye a tunic t’wear, and a plaid—one of Alaric’s. I’ll take yer clothes an’ we’ll wash ‘em.”

“Ye do’na hafta do that,” he said, watching as she made her way through the water. It was already starting to dry in patches, from the heat of the fire. She reached down and picked up her robe, wringing it out over the tub.

“I hafta wash these, anyway,” she said with a sigh, wringing out the wet bath sheets too.

“Well, thank ye.” He glanced back at the mattress he was leaning against. “T’will be nice t’sleep in a bed tonight.”

“Tis Alaric and Aleesa’s,” she told him, regretting it the moment she said so, seeing the startled look on his face. “They wanted ye t’have it. Because… yer t’red wulver.”

He frowned. “But where’ll they sleep?”

“We’ve a room for guests.” She smiled as she passed him. “Do’na worry. Sleep well, red wulver.”

Griff grabbed her elbow and Bridget gasped. Her feet were still wet and she nearly slipped on the stone floor. Once again, he caught her.

“Will ye stay wit’ me, lass?” His eyes searched hers, his voice low and soft, gripping her upper arm. “Keep a man warm?”

“Yer not a man, yer a wulver. And… tis not m’job t’warm yer bed.” She glanced down at where he held onto her arm. His whole hand could encircle it. “If I wanted t’share it, ye’d know.”