The Wolf and the Highlander (Highland Wishes) (24 page)

She closed her eyes, leaning into his kiss, making his chest puff up.

“You did what a good soldier would have done,” he murmured a
gainst her cheek. “You fought. You saved my life.”

She nipped her lower lip between her teeth. He couldn’t help himself. He moved his mouth to hers and kissed those lush lips. Sweet. So damn sweet.

Her fists curled in his shirt at his back. She clung to him.

He rocked his lips over hers the way he knew she liked.

She whimpered, a sound of helpless abandon. It heated him from head to toe, that little sound.

Then he did another thing he couldn’t help. He thrust his tongue between her lips, between her teeth. He licked deep into her mouth as his lips sealed them together.

She gripped him even tighter and rubbed her tongue over his. That spicy scent of hers plowed over him. Pleasure tightened his stomach, made his blood sing with need.

The ground seemed to tilt under his feet. He thought it was the wonder of kissing Anya so intimately, but when a rush of blackness clouded his vision, he knew better. He’d lost too much blood. The wound in his side must be worse than he’d thought. He had just enough time to disengage from her before he felt himself go down and remembered no more.

* * * *

“Stupid bloody man.”

Anya scrubbed the tears off her cheeks as she stared down at a wolf-man in danger of bleeding to death on the coarse sand of a riverbank. He’d made her believe the stab wound in his side was nothing to fash over. Typical thick-skulled warrior, thinking himself invincible.

She’d almost believed him invincible, given all he’d withstood since they’d met. But he looked far from it now, sprawled on his back with his clothing tattered, his skin pale, blood staining his shirt.

Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Why couldn’t he be invincible?

“You’ll die tonight over my dead body,” she informed him.

Her lips still tingled from his passionate kiss. Her body still thrummed with desire. She ignored it all as she threw more logs on the woodpile to stoke the blaze brighter. Doctoring a wounded man in daylight would have been her preference, but if she had to do it at night, she needed better light than that of a dying fire.

Happy at last with the bright, leaping flames, she found a healing kit in the saddlebag that had belonged to Gord. Her gaze wanted to go to where his body lay near the tree line.
No. Don’t look.

Bloody difficult not to look upon a dead man—or tread upon one—when they littered the camp. She kept glimpsing a booted foot here, a dropped weapon by a too-still hand there. Each glimpse made her stomach contract with sickness.

“You did what a good soldier would have done. You saved my life.”

She had
nothing to regret. No reason to fash.

Putting it behind her, she hobbled to Riggs’s side with the healing kit. She pulled his shirt from his trews and inspected the worst of his wounds. His torso was firm with muscle and thickly furred toward the center. Any other time, she would have longed to smooth her hands over that luxurious coat. Tonight her grisly task was to wash blood out of it so she could see what they were dealing with.

Using a clean rag and water from a skin, she uncovered a red gash about as long as her palm was wide. It cut diagonally through his hide where the hair began to thin at his flank. Blood dribbled from it freely, suggesting ’twas too deep to safely sew closed. She’d seen healers insert a hot iron into such wounds to stop the bleeding. Even if she had such a thing to heat in the fire, she doubted she possessed the courage to stick it into Riggs’s body. The best she could do would be to dress it to staunch the bleeding. She hoped it would be enough.

After washing the wound with whisky she’d found in the trackers’ saddlebags and binding it with poultice-covered bandages, she turned her attention to the slice across his forearm. This
she could sew.

A few more logs on the fire gave her sufficient light to thread a needle and mend Riggs’s skin. Done with that, she inspected his face. He had an eye swollen shut and a wee cut over his red-hot cheek. His thick beard covered his jaw, but she felt the heat of blooming bruises through the coarse hair. His complexion would be darker than a stormy sky tomorrow, but none of these wounds were serious.

She fashed more about how pale he looked and how his eyes appeared sunken in his sockets. He looked like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. Mayhap the last thing he’d had to eat was the measly meal of ferrets from the inn in Valeworth. And he’d traveled leagues since then, and fought hard. He needed food, but he couldn’t eat while he was unconscious.

She’d make sure he had food close at hand when he woke—he
would
wake. She’d not tolerate him dying in the night. Death couldn’t have him. He was hers.

The possessive thought came out of nowhere. But once she’d had it, she couldn’t shake it away. No matter how ridiculous it was.

She understood that more than ever. There was no safe place for a woman outside Chroina. And she’d not endanger Riggs further by suggesting different.

Gathering up what was left of the cooked boar piglets, which was a substantial amount given her lack of appetite, she wrapped it and set it by Riggs. He preferred his meat raw, but if he was hungry enough, he’d be thankful for meat any way he could get it. Beside the meat, she put a full water skin and a flask of whisky, the latter in case he woke in much pain. She’d seen rounds of hard bread in the trackers
’ bags while searching for other supplies. She put some of those by Riggs as well, in case he refused the meat.

There. She’d done all she could.

The fire faded, allowing the cold night to close in. She’d not have Riggs freezing to death while his body worked to heal his wounds. She untied Lance’s bedroll and unfurled it, skin-side down beside Riggs. Unceremoniously, she rolled him onto the soft fur lining, an event that left her exhausted enough to sleep for a week.

Before climbing in to share her warmth with him, she surveyed the camp. Four horses tied on a rope and resting by the tree line. Four dead bodies littered hither and yon. One unconscious wolf-man.

May he be well enough to ride for Chroina in the morn.

She wasn’t sure to whom she prayed. The good Lord? Danu? Was anyone listening?

Likely not, considering Riggs’s people had gotten to a state where their best chance at survival depended upon the barren womb of a crippled whore.

She ought to tell Riggs she couldn’t be the one to save his people. But if she told him the truth, he’d never look at her again with fondness.

She’d nearly lost him. She couldn’t bear to lose what affection he had for her, even if ’twas based upon lies. No sense spoiling their remaining time together by telling him things that would upset him. He’d bring her to Chroina, and when he returned to his cabin, he’d do it with hope in his heart. That hope would be her final gift to him.

Sighing, she lifted the flap of the bedroll and lay down beside him. Weariness dragged her to sleep the second she tucked the flap snug around them.

Hunger woke Riggs with vicious gnawing at his stomach. He opened his eyes to the blue light of early dawn. The scents of forest, river, charred wood, and Larnian brought back the memories of last night in a blinding rush.

The trackers. The battle. The teapot. Anya on his lap. Anya kissing him, clinging to him.
Anya.

Her scent was there too, flowers and hyssop and woman. He turned onto his side to find her soundly sleeping, pressed up against him in a bedroll that must have belonged to the commander, considering how the fur reeked of the man.

He ignored the unwanted scent and buried his nose in Anya’s shining hair. She smelled sweet, smoky from the fire, and a little salty from perspiration. He couldn’t keep from rubbing his cheek over her head, taking some of her scent, giving her some of his.

This is how he should wake up every morning, with his lady by his side.

No. Not his. He kept forgetting.

He made himself stop marking her.

His nuzzling hadn’t woken her, but when he stopped, she shifted in her sleep, scooting tighter against him. Her slender arm went around his waist, drawing his attention to the bandages wrapped uncomfortably but effectively tight around him there. He reached up a hand to stroke her hair and noticed bandages on his arm too. His wounds ached, but with healing. He’d be all right. They’d be all right.

Thanks to Anya.

She slid her knee between his legs and burrowed her nose against his neck. Her breath heated his already overly warm skin. The hunger gripping his stomach transformed to a darker, more ravenous hunger. He felt weak as a newborn pup, but that didn’t stop his body from rousing to the feel of this woman in his arms.

She nipped at his throat with her lips.

He closed his eyes against a wave of need. “Anya.” He whispered her name to wake her.

“Riggs,” she sighed, but her tone was breathy. Her eyes were closed. She was still asleep. But her body was rousing as surely as his. Her feminine musk thickened with that spice that drove him wild.

Shite.

She kissed his neck and moaned softly.

Another minute of this and he’d have her naked and joined with him no matter how weak and hungry he was, no matter how disloyal it would be to his king.

“Anya.”

She started. “Hm?” She opened her eyes, blinked twice while focusing on his face, then smiled. Her smile was like the sun rising after months of darkness. She laid a gentle hand on his beard. “My wolf-man,” she said, her voice as soft as he’d ever heard it.

Hers. Yes. He was hers. But he could not let his heart believe
she belonged to him, no matter how badly he longed for it to be true.

“
You came for me,” she said.

He held her hand on his cheek then kissed her palm. That kiss would be the last he ever gave her. It had to be. Because it wasn’t his place to give this remarkable lady affection. It was King Magnus’s place. No other’s.

Among all women she would be unique. She would belong to one man. He refused to sully that by insinuating himself where he didn’t belong.

He memorized the way her eyes sparkled with trust, the way her pillowy lips curled up in an almost feline smile. Her beauty stole his breath.

He was about to wipe away the tender affection on her face. It had to be done.

He cleared his throat. “Of course I came for you. You’re my responsibility until I turn you over to King Magnus.”

Her eyes dulled. She slipped her hand off his face and climbed out of the bedroll, slowly. Her legs always pained her in the morning. He didn’t help her even though his hands clenched to do so.

Once she was on her feet, she said, “How do
you feel?” All softness was gone from her voice. She wouldn’t look at him as she dug a water skin out of a saddlebag and limped to the river.

It was better this way. They were traveling companions, nothing more.

He climbed out after her and found a full water skin, a flask, and a meal of cooked boar and bread beside the bedroll. She must have prepared all this for him last night. Of course she wouldn’t have been able to hunt fresh meat for him, but she’d saved some of her own meat for him instead. Had she gone hungry to make sure he had something to eat for breakfast? His heart squeezed.

He washed down the lump in his throat with the contents of the water skin. So good, water, after being so thirsty. “Good enough to ride,” he answered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He unwrapped the meat. She’d peeled away the charred skin, leaving him meat that was cooked, but still smelled of blood, deep in the center. He ripped into it, too ravenous to mind the dryness and changed flavor.

While he ate, he noticed Anya glancing sidelong at him as she knelt at the bank to fill her water skin upriver from where she’d tossed the teapot. He devoured every last morsel. It pleased him to show her his appreciation by consuming her gift. Also, he would have made a pitiful hunter this morning with his side zinging him at the slightest movement. Once again, Anya had helped him.

Now that he’d fed, it was time for him to make himself useful. He stood up and surveyed the camp. The body of the commander lay on one side of the charred spot where the fire had been. There was another body near the fire and two more near the horses.

“What do we do about the trackers?” Anya’s voice brought his attention to her. She stood hands on hips, surveying the camp with a frown. She looked ready to work. He’d let her. Today, he needed the help. But he’d not let either one of them waste energy on burying Larnians.

“I’ll drag them into the forest. Beyond that, the wild animals can have them.”

She nodded and began searching the bodies. “No sense wasting anything of use. Will we take all four horses?”

“No. We’ll travel light and ride hard to Chroina. Neil and King Magnus have to hear about those women. This could start a new war.”

Anya stilled. She blew out a breath. “We need to help them. I doona ken how many there might be, but more than one, I’m cert.”