Highland Wolf Pact (3 page)

“Let’s ride!” Donal yelled and all the horses’ ears pricked up.

“Stay wit’ me,” Alistair urged as the rest of the men took off, riding across the field of heather toward the line of trees in the distance. “Stay close.”

She did as she was told—she was starting to get used to that, a fact which disturbed her—riding at half the clip the other men were, keeping up only with Alistair.

“Are ye really not afeared, Lady Blackthorne?” Alistair asked as they neared the trees. The other men were already into the woods, heading down a well-worn path on their horses. “Of the wulvers?”

“I… don’t know.” It was a lie.

She knew they were all fooling, just putting her on, trying to get her to react in typical feminine fashion at some Scottish folk tale about men that turned into wolves or the other way around. And if they weren’t—if Alistair really believed in these strange, fantastical creatures—she had even less respect for him than she’d managed to muster already.

“I wanna show ye somethin’, if ye can be a brave lass.” He smiled at her, a secret smile that, this time, almost reached those cold gray eyes.

“Of course.” She gave him a nod as they entered the woods, the temperature dropping a good ten degrees just from the cover of trees. “I can be brave.”

Her father had taught her to be a brave girl, after all. She followed Alistair deeper and deeper into the woods, their horses side by side on a path they seemed familiar with. She heard the men whooping and hollering ahead of her and longed to be with them, riding astride instead of side-saddle, wearing a pair of breeches instead of this heavy velvet dress. Her father had taught her a lot of things, she realized, and most of them would be useless to her here, living with this man who wanted her to be something she wasn’t.

She had to smile at the thought of Alistair and Donal and his men believing she would be scared of an old wives’ tale. There were far more frightening things in the world, she was coming to realize, than what old women and men told youngsters around the fire to scare them into being good. She’d heard those tales herself as a child, stories of dragons and unicorns and griffins. Maybe they had scared her once, when she was what Moira would call a “wee bairn,” but not anymore.

She rode fearlessly into the forest, realizing she was far less afraid of wolves—or wulvers, whatever they were—than she was of marrying Alistair MacFalon.

Sibyl would have enjoyed the ride through the woods, if it hadn’t been for Alistair’s constant yammering. The man loved to hear himself talk and she had no idea how they were going to find anything to hunt with his constant chatter scaring away all the game. She listened with half an ear to his words—he was going on about some tournament he had won in England, a feat probably meant to impress her, since he was Scottish and she English—but she was paying far more attention to the woods around her.

Her father had taught her to track. Not just to hunt, which often involved tracking an injured, bleeding animal through the forest, if you were unskilled enough not to make the first shot a kill shot, but to actually track. He had taught her the difference between animal prints. She could even differentiate between a chipmunk and a squirrel print. Her father and his men had taught her the names of all the plants, their medicinal uses and their dangers. He had taught her how to care for herself out in the woods—how to build a shelter, make a fire.

She was thinking these things, and how they would come in handy when she escaped, paying attention to the sounds of the men in the distance—she could tell they were still on the hunt and hadn’t found any wolves, or wulvers, or anything else for that matter—the sound of a stream off to her right, the crackle of branches to the left, a small animal, a fox or perhaps a rabbit, when she heard something that made her pause and rein in her horse. It was a familiar sound, one she’d heard a hundred times—the sound of an injured animal.

“Lady Blackthorne?” Alistair reined in his horse, glancing back at her inert form with a frown.

Her ears were as attuned as the horse’s. She had heard something to their right, off in the direction of the stream, but the sound was gone now. Alistair spoke up again and she waved at him to be quiet. It wasn’t a gesture he was used to heeding and he bristled and blustered at her boldness, making it impossible to really listen.

“Please,” she insisted, holding up her hand for him to stop. “I thought I heard something.”

“Twas nothin’, surely.” Alistair winked. “Not a wulver, a’course. Wanna hop up ’ere wit’me, lass?”

He patted his bare thigh with a wink.

“No, thank you.” Sibyl shook her head, averting her eyes and frowning, still listening for the sound. She might be willing to bat her eyelashes to get her hands on a longbow, but she wasn’t willing to indulge this man’s fantasies that she was afraid of imaginary animals.

“Ye sure?” he offered again, leaning forward in his saddle so he was eye-to-eye with her. “I promise ye a good ride.”

Sibyl’s hand itched to smack him across the face and thanked God she was out of arm’s reach. Just seeing the smug, self-satisfied look on his face made her realize, even if she was chased, caught and killed by whatever roamed these woods at night—even the fantastical “wulvers”—she couldn’t marry this man. She preferred being eaten by wolves.

A long, baying howl rose up around them and Sibyl sat up straight in her saddle, eyes wide, not from fear, but in surprise. That wasn’t just a wounded animal, it was a dangerous one. A coyote, a wild dog—or perhaps a wolf. She knew the sound of a pack call well enough. Her father had taught her about the way canine packs hunted. Often one would lure a victim down a path where the pack waited, and then an ambush would ensue. He’d warned her never to follow a lone canine anywhere, even if it pretended to be hurt.

“Surely you hear that!” she exclaimed hotly, meeting Alistair’s amused gaze.

Sibyl urged her mare onward, but Winnie didn’t move. She might have been old and slow, but she wasn’t stupid. The horse knew what she’d heard and so did Sibyl.

“Aye, I did,” he agreed. “Ye think it was a wulver, then?”

“No.” She scowled at his persistent attempt to try to scare her into his lap. “But it was a pack call. There’s an animal in trouble.”

“And how’d ye be knowin’ that, lass?” His fair eyebrows went up in surprise and Sibyl could have kicked herself for saying it. He liked his women beautiful and dumb, and so far she’d been perceptive enough to attempt both in his presence.

“I…” She swallowed, and was once again saved by another long, keening howl.

This one was closer, and the sound of it actually made goose flesh rise on her arms.

“Come.” Alistair smiled again, eyes narrowing as he guided his horse to the right.

Sibyl urged her horse forward and the mare reluctantly followed Alistair’s big, black steed through the trees. There was no worn path here, but horses had been through this way before nonetheless. The foliage was denser, the ground covered in bluebells. It was a lovely ride, to tell the truth, and Sibyl would have enjoyed it immensely if it hadn’t been for her companion, her damnable saddle and dress, and, alarmingly, the sound of that wounded animal.

“There it is again.” Sibyl stopped her horse, straining to hear. The men were off to the north, so it wasn’t a result of an arrow finding its mark. At least, not from any of MacFalon’s men. Mayhaps there were other hunters in these woods, she mused, or mayhaps trappers. Although, this was MacFalon land, and anyone setting traps would be seen as a poacher. It was a crime punishable by death in the Middle March, but Donal said you had to catch them first. The border was thick with thieves—reavers, they called them—always poised to steal from a laird.

“Come.” Alistair jerked his head forward, urging his horse on, and Sibyl sighed and obediently followed.

They were headed in the direction of the sound of the wounded animal. As the horses made their way through the trees, the cry grew louder. This wasn’t the wolf call she’d heard. This was the sound of an animal trapped, perhaps injured. Might be it was the wolf’s kill she was hearing? Surely Alistair had to hear it now? But she didn’t stop again, didn’t ask him. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. The path narrowed, the horses parading through the trees single file, dappled sunlight falling on the carpet of bluebells that scattered the forest floor.

“Are ye ready t’be brave, Lady Blackthorne?” he called over his shoulder, grinning back at her.

She’d never seen him smile so wide or look so delighted doing so. It gave her a chill and she slowed her already sluggish horse, letting Alistair pull even further ahead.

“Look ’ere.” Alistair stopped his horse, the big steed dancing sideways, perhaps surprised by the sudden maneuver.

Sibyl’s mare halted without her doing anything and the horse’s ears twitched. The old nag shook its head, shuddering Sibyl on its back, and she wondered at the motion. A fly in its ear mayhaps? But Winnie seemed jumpy all of a sudden, and for this horse, that was a miracle. Even Fian, Alistair’s war horse, was stomping and pawing at the dirt.

And then she saw it.

The animal was enormous, but the cage even bigger. Sibyl sat rooted in her saddle, staring at the white wolf pacing back and forth, round and round. It saw them and its hackles rose, teeth bared in a snarl. Its eyes were a bright, luminous blue, a color she didn’t even know existed in nature.

“A wolf!” she whispered, incredulous, sliding down from her horse—side-saddles did make for an easier dismount. She’d never seen one before. Coyotes, dogs, yes. Drawings and paintings of wolves, even a horribly, smelly wolf hide her father’s huntsman liked to wear, but never a real wolf.

Winnie nickered and tossed her head as Sibyl passed. The horse, divested of its rider, decided to back a safe distance away from the giant, iron cage. She wondered at the construction of the thing as she neared it, barely hearing Alistair’s cry of caution. Someone had dragged this monstrosity—the cage, not the wolf—down the path to this small clearing, had perhaps even created the spot itself, scattering underbrush to make way for it.

“Is it a trap?” she wondered aloud, glancing up as Alistair quickly dismounted and tethered his stallion to a nearby tree, urging her to stay back.

Even the seasoned war horse backed away from the pacing, snarling wolf, but Sibyl was too entranced to keep her distance. The wolf was snow white with silver streaks, the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but she wasn’t that foolish. Its canines were long and impossibly sharp, still bared at them as Alistair grabbed Sibyl by the elbow and pulled her safely back against him.

“Are ye scared, lass?” He had trapped her in his arms. She struggled against his hold, but he had her held quite fast, and his grip only grew tighter as she squirmed to get free. The truth was, she wasn’t afraid of it—she was in awe. “Ye know, wolves’re ferocious animals. Man-eaters.”

She stopped wriggling in his arms, listening to him speak, her gaze locked with the wolf. It was such a beautiful creature and, looking into its eyes, she saw a sadness there that was quite human. It knew it was trapped, doomed to die, and was desperate to escape. The animal had stopped pacing. It stood facing them, head lowered, eyes fixed on them, black lips lifted to reveal two rows of sharp incisors and pink gums. A thick, low growl came from its throat.

“How did it get here?” she asked softly, although she had a feeling she already knew.

“Our huntsman baits ’em.” His hands moved over her dress, no longer holding her arms clasped against her middle. They moved slowly down her hips as he talked. “Makes ’em groggy enough t’move ’em. If he finds a wolf afore the hunt, he pens it up ’ere fer ’is laird.”

“Do you release it then?” She stiffened, breath caught, as she felt him slowly hiking up her dress in front. The satchel, heavy against her thigh, was still pinned there. “For the hunt?”

“Nuh, lass. Did ye forget, I’m laird?” He chuckled. She’d never heard him quite so smug. There was something gleeful and almost sinister in his voice. “Tis
my
kill.
My
conquest.”

“Your… conquest?” She swallowed as she felt the cool forest air against her shins, her garters and hose little protection. He had lifted her skirt to her knees now. Her heart hammered hard in her chest. She was far more afraid of Alistair finding her satchel than she was of the enormous wolf baring its teeth at them. “You mean to kill it now, like this? In a cage?”

“Aye.” He hiked her skirt up a little higher, making Sibyl gasp aloud. The wolf snarled, snapping at the air, shaking its big white head from side to side, spraying her legs with froth. “And drag it out behind me horse.”

“But… she’s with pup,” Sibyl whispered with dawning horror. The animal’s belly was swollen and distended. It wasn’t just horrifying that his men would lock up an animal, let him shoot it in a cage, and then pretend their laird had done something courageous by “hunting” it—but that they would do so while it was breeding? That was beyond the pale.

“Aye, she is.” Alistair chuckled. “We’ll rid the woods of more than one wolf today.”

Sibyl felt her cheeks flush hot with rage. Her heart had previously been filled to the brim with disdain for this man, but now it overflowed completely. She couldn’t hide her derision and was glad he couldn’t see the contemptuous look burning in her eyes. The wolf, who had been growling and pawing at the bottom of the cage as if it could manipulate the latch, suddenly stopped, cocking its head to the side like it was listening for something.

Alistair, of course, hadn’t noticed. He was too interested in getting under Sibyl’s dress to pay any attention to the animal he had imprisoned, and Sibyl trembled, terrified he might actually discover what was beneath the cover of her skirts. He mistook her quivering for excitement, exhaling hot against her neck with breath that reeked of alcohol and tobacco, slobbering against her ear and panting harder than the dog he held captive.

“I’ll teach ye,” he said, his voice low and thick with lust. Sibyl felt her heart flutter like a wild bird looking to escape her ribcage. She wasn’t only afraid of being discovered now. Alistair’s intentions were becoming clearer every moment. “Would ye like t’learn how t’pull the bow, m’lady?”

She’d almost forgotten it, still slung over her shoulder. His hand moved, his rough palm stroking her right thigh over her silk chemise. He was inches from the satchel. Moments away from discovering her secret. Sibyl shuddered to think what he might do, if he found she planned to escape. A low moan escaped her throat at the thought, and she saw the wolf looking at her, head still cocked, blue eyes bright with such a profoundly sad, almost human-like understanding, it was almost painful.

Sibyl recognized the desperation in the animal’s eyes. They were both trapped in a cage with no way out. The animal had paced and pawed and sniffed in every corner, frantically looking for escape, but it was futile. They were both railing against a force neither of them could overcome, throwing themselves against bars that would never break.

“My arrow aims true, lass,” Alistair growled into her ear, fingers digging deep into the flesh of her thigh, pulling her back against him so hard it jarred her teeth and nearly made her bite her tongue. There was something like steel against her backside, another bar of her cage, and she couldn’t bear it, not for another moment.

“Noooo!” she wailed, the cry coming from her throat unbidden as she twisted in his arms. Her protest was joined by another, keening wail, this one came from the wolf in the cage, who lifted its big, snowy head and howled, its nose touching the top bar. They were both crying in unison, she and this white wolf, eyes turned skyward, begging for their freedom.

“Ye’ll not deny me!” Alistair snarled, gripping her thigh so hard she knew he must be leaving marks. Her eyes never left the wolf. Its hackles were up, a low rumble coming from its throat. “Ye’re mine! Ya ken?”