Highland Wolf Pact (18 page)

“But she was pregnant,” Sibyl mused aloud. “She couldn’t hide that for long.”

“Me father took the pack huntin’ for Henry’s crown,” he reminded her. “He was’na ’ere for me birth.”

“And when he returned?”

“I was raised by Beitris until me mother pupped Darrow. Then she finally told me father the truth.”

“But he didn’t go after Henry?” Sibyl wondered aloud.

“By then, Henry’d been crowned King of England. And me father’d seen the result of living peacefully ’ere in the mountain, wit’out constant threats from the MacFalon,” Raife explained. “Alistair’s father, Lachlan MacFalon, was a different sort of a man. He was enjoyin’ the new peace as much as me father and our pack.”

“Your poor mother…”

“She was a strong woman. And brave.” Raife lifted Sibyl’s chin, smiling into her eyes. “Like ye.”

“She obviously loved you and your father very much.” She kissed him softly, her lips wet not just from the hot springs water, but also from the tears slipping down her cheeks. The sacrifice Raife’s mother had made for her pack, for her mate, made her own look small in comparison. But she knew, she would do anything for Raife, even what Avril, his mother, had done.

“Me father would’ve done anythin’ for peace after Laina’s mother was killed and his own wife taken,” Raife said, speaking Sibyl’s thoughts aloud. “Sondra—Laina’s mother—was his brother’s own wife.”

“The MacFalons...” She said the name with such bitterness. “I wish I’d never heard of them.”

“The names matter naught, in th’end.”

“What do you mean?” She lifted her head to look at him.

“MacFalons, Blackthornes, Tudors… wulvers, Scots, English. Men should be ready to fight when they ’ave to—but far too many men wanna go t’war when there’s no real reason. Peace is possible. I think, when he made the wolf pact, Henry finally discovered a way to unite warrin’ factions that worked.”

“A piece of paper?” she scoffed. “The wolf pact?”

“Nuh, lass—the promise of a woman.”

“I don’t understand.” Sibyl wrinkled her nose, puzzled.

“The English and the Scots had a’ready been fightin’ for East March in the Anglo-Saxon wars. We Scots’re a hearty lot. They can’na beat us down fer long. Fightin’ the Scots was’na goin’ t’work and Henry knew it.”

“So he made you all sign a piece of paper?”

The wolf pact. As if a piece of paper could keep men from fighting, she thought. It had worked for a short time, but Alistair had broken it by caging and killing wulvers again. There was no piece of paper that could bind a man so completely…

And then, Sibyl realized—mayhaps there was.

A pact could be broken. Peace treaties were signed all the time, and men still went to war.

But a marriage contract? That was something altogether different. That was a holy covenant, sanctioned by God and the pope himself. It was undissolvable, or nearly so.

“What did Henry promise to give them, if the MacFalons and the wulvers fought for and won him the crown?” Sibyl swallowed, afraid of the answer.

“He promise ye to the MacFalons.” Raife said it, sounding so sad, and it hit her in the heart like an arrow. “A Blackthorne woman was the prize, the MacFalon’s spoils of war.”

“But I wasn’t even born!”

“Not quite,” he agreed. “T’would’ve been yer cousin promised then, by yer uncle. Yer family have long been Tudor supporters. Yer father and ’is brother?”

“Yes. Of course,” she agreed, her voice faint, even to her own ears. “The Blackthornes have always been favorites of the Tudors.”

“Yer uncle once had a young wife and a daughter, did he na?”

“Yes.” It had been before she was born, but she’d been told about it by both her mother and her father. Her uncle had never remarried. “But they both died of fever...”

“Aye. But that girl was promised ta the MacFalon,” Raife informed her, a fact Sibyl’s parents had both failed to mention. “Godfrey Blackthorne was ’ere with Henry in 1483 as one of the first members of the Yeomen of the Guard. He swore himself liege to the Tudors and promised his own daughter in marriage to a Scot in exchange for lands and a better title. He was the second son, ya ken?”

“And then she died…” Sibyl remembered the way her uncle had treated her after her father’s death, how he had treated her mother too. They were little more than property to him. A means to an end. Would he have treated his own daughter the same way? She had often wondered that, but now she knew the answer.

“Aye. Twas lucky fer yer uncle that ye’re a girl and could be promised ta the MacFalon’s son.” Raife shook his dark head, kissing the top of hers.

“Lucky I was a girl…” she whispered.

She’d never expected to hear that phrase in her whole life.

All that time her father had spent lamenting she wasn’t a boy! She had heard the arguments about who she would and would not marry her whole life. In the end, while her mother capitulated and often agreed with Sibyl’s uncle, her father had put his foot down.

Until her father had died and her uncle had married her mother and suddenly had final say in who she married…

“King Henry promised the MacFalons an English bride, a highborn lady, and everythin’ that came wit’it,” Raife told her. “All the riches, the land, the titles. Henry had no daughters at the time, but he promised the MacFalon his son would marry a Blackthorne, the daughter of his verra own right hand man.”

“Godfrey Blackthorne.” She couldn’t believe it. Sibyl’s uncle had planned it all along. “You knew this story? About the Blackthornes and the MacFalons?”

“Aye.” Raife sighed. “I knew who ye were, Sibyl Blackthorne—and why ye were bein’ traded t’Alistair MacFalon.”

“I guess everyone knew but me.” Sibyl frowned, thinking of her uncle and his long-ago agreement. He’d promised his own daughter in marriage, and when he couldn’t manage that, he’d promised Sibyl instead. But she wasn’t his to give! Not until…

“I knew then, ye belonged t’me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I heard ye yellin’ at one of the MacFalon men, something about pig offal and a pot to piss in?”

“What?” Sibyl turned to him, blinking in surprise.

She vaguely remembered the altercation. Gregor, the worst of Alistair’s men, had confronted her while she was taking out a horse to ride early one morning. Only a week or so after her arrival, it had been long before the castle was awake, the sun not even quite cresting the horizon, and she was sure she could sneak out for a short time just to ride through the woods on the path. That was all she had in mind then—although a plan of escape was just starting to form, the more time she spent with her betrothed—but Gregor had foiled even that. She’d been furious, she remembered, and had cursed at him as he caught the reins of her horse to take her back to the castle.

“I’d heard ye’d come t’da MacFalon keep.” Raife shrugged, looking sheepish. “Darrow said he’d seen ye. Said ye had hair like fire and a temper to match.”

“So you were watching me?” She stared at him. “From the woods?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “That’s when I knew.”

“Just by looking at me?” She snorted, rolling her eyes.

“Well, I did watch ye handle the horse.” He grinned. “And I saw ye kick Alistair’s man in the shin when he tried to pull ye onto ’is mount.”

She flushed, remembering that, too.

“I knew ye were plannin’ t’escape.” He smiled. “So I waited.”

“You… waited?” She gaped at him. How could he have known? She hadn’t even known, then, that she was going to run away.

“I had ta have ye, Sibyl.” He crushed her to him, so hard it hurt her ribs. “Ye did’na belong ta the MacFalons. Ye belong wit’ me. Ye chose me. And I chose ye.”

She remembered him asking her, giving her a choice in the woods. To go with him or to stay. She had chosen him. And he, in turn, had chosen her. It was an act far more powerful than contracts. She would have rankled at the idea of belonging to a man, once upon a time, she realized. She would have railed about men and their belief that women were nothing but property to be owned. Now it just made her feel warm, and safe, and very, very loved. Maybe it was because she’d finally found the man she really did belong with. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, belonging to a man, if it was the right one.

“My uncle didn’t care about me.” Sibyl said this out loud to someone for the first time. She’d thought it, even believed it, but she’d never spoken of it. “He didn’t care who I loved, if I loved… if I was loved.”

“Aye.” Raife’s eyes darkened. “All yer uncle cared ’bout was workin’ out a way t’keep his favor wit’ the king.”

It was true.

Growing up, Sibyl had been so close to her father, it seemed strange to her not to have a champion around when he was gone. Her life had turned completely upside down after his sudden death, and in her grief, while she had questioned her uncle’s precipitous marriage to her mother and his control over their fortune, she hadn’t paid enough attention. Not nearly enough.

She had been sheltered by her father, protected more than she knew. Once her uncle was involved in deciding her future, her world had crumbled around her. Her father had often said, “Sibyl will marry for love, not fortune,” when her mother pressed the point that Sibyl was growing older, into her marriageable years.

It was her uncle who had been there all along, working behind the scenes, orchestrating a match that would benefit himself, as well as king and country. Sibyl would be given in marriage to Alistair MacFalon as their reward, the spoils of war. A contract that couldn’t be broken, once it was made, one that solidified the bond between the English and Scottish far greater than any peace treaty.

But he never could have done so if Sibyl’s father had been around to protest it.

That realization made her stomach turn over.

She remembered her father in his last days. He had taken suddenly ill after dinner one night, and no amount of medicine would make him better. She had, with their local apothecary, tried everything, but he could hold nothing down. It all ran through him, until there was nothing left. It was days from the onset of the illness until his death, just days, and she had barely had time to grieve his loss before her uncle had begun petitioning the king to marry his brother’s wife.

It was an arrangement that required not only the king’s blessing, but the pope’s as well, because while not blood related, marrying your brother’s widow was frowned upon. Of course, Godfrey Blackthorne had the king’s ear and could get what he liked. Her uncle always seemed to manage to get what he wanted, no matter the cost.

Sibyl let Raife pull her close, his arms around her comforting, as she closed her eyes and remembered who had just happened to be visiting the night her father had taken ill. Would his own brother have done something so horrible, so heinous? She couldn’t imagine it, didn’t want to, but her uncle’s motivations had suddenly become clear.

Had her uncle killed her father—poisoned him, mayhaps? With Sibyl’s father gone, he could not only honor the king’s wishes and provide the MacFalons with a highborn daughter to marry, he could also inherit all of his brother’s lands, his title—even his wife. Because a marriage contract, that was a covenant that could not be broken. Once her uncle was married to his brother’s widow, he would inherit everything. And once Sibyl was married to Alistair MacFalon…

“Marriage.” She spoke the word softly, feeling it tighten around her neck like a hand. How close she had been to marrying a man she not only didn’t love, but one that would have spent a lifetime treating her like his property. She wondered, now, what her father’s motivation had been, treating his girl like a boy. Mayhaps he had hoped to protect her from his brother’s plan, and in the end, he had—even though his trust in his family had cost him his life.

It was the strength he had instilled in her that had given her the courage to escape.

Without that, she never would have met Raife.

“Are ye proposin’, lass?” Raife grinned, running a wet hand over her hip.

“I’m already yours,” she reminded him with a smile. “I just realized… what you said. It’s marriage. That’s how the king seeks to end the border wars.”

“Aye,” Raife agreed. “He’s now promised ’is own daughter, Lady Margaret, ta James IV. Henry finally found what works t’keep the peace. Join two warrin’ factions by marriage. Men are hotheaded, tis true. Look at Darrow. But wives and mothers’ll not stand by and watch their sons slaughtered, their daughters widowed.”

“Yes,
Darrow
is the hot-headed one,” she teased, remembering Raife’s reaction when his brother had taken her out into the woods alone.

“I’m not hot-headed,” he protested. “I’ve worked hard t’keep the peace. D’ye know how long I waited t’claim ye? I wanted ye, lass, but I had t’do what was right fer e’eryone.”

“Is this right?” She tilted her face up to him, really questioning. “For everyone?”

“I do’na care anymore,” he confessed, burying his face against her neck, holding her close with trembling arms. “I love ye. I need ye. I will’na give ye up, not ever.”

“You’re risking everything for me.” She swallowed, knowing it was true. “To mate with me.”

“Ye’re mine, Sibyl Blackthorne.” Those blue eyes of his darkened, her body fitted to his like hand in glove. “Ye’re me chosen. Me mate. I will’na let ’im ’ave ye.”