by Selena Kitt
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?”
“No!” Sibyl roared, yanking herself forward, out of his arms, and stumbled toward the cage. Her motion forced Alistair backward and she heard him trip and fall and she had a brief, fleeting hope he would hit his head on a rock and bloody himself to death.
The wolf gave a short, sharp bark, so near her ear it made her head ring with the sound, but she was already reaching for the latch, had already decided that dying here in this forest in the jaws of this beautiful animal was far preferable than being pawed by the creature behind her who called himself a man.
The bolt stuck. It had been in this place a long time, this cage, the latch rained on and rusted, and for a moment, she thought it wasn’t going to come open, and she would be the one undone here on the forest floor in a crush of bluebells, devastated under her betrothed’s rutting, animal lust.
She panted with the effort, the wolf pawing at the bottom of the cage, turning in circles in excitement, whining softly, and she heard Alistair swearing in Gaelic behind her, picking himself up from the forest floor and dusting himself off.
“This isn’t hunting!” She scowled as she pushed and pulled, and with one, final crack, the bolt shot back. “This is murder!”
Sibyl knew it was the end. She dropped to the forest floor and covered her head with her arms, knowing what was coming, preparing herself for it as best she could. She thought of her father, saw his face, the way he had beamed at her the first time she’d hit her mark with a longbow, the pride and delight there. He would have been proud of her today, defying her uncle’s plan for her, standing up to Alistair, setting the wolf free, even if it meant it would cost her everything. Even her life. An honorable death was preferable to being attached to the shameful excuse of a man she had been sold to.
But none of that meant she wasn’t terrified.
Sibyl’s whole body shook as she asked God for a quick death, whispering the words of a prayer over and over into the dirt, as if it could protect her from the bone-crunching, agonizing pain that was coming. The snarl of the wolf grew louder and she heard Alistair yell behind her, no words, just a short, sharp sound, as the wolf leaped out of its prison, clearing Sibyl’s huddled form in one bound. She felt the thud of its paws behind her and knew it was free.
“Get back!” Alistair warned and Sibyl heard the fear in his voice. It was trembling.
She forced herself to look, to glance behind her at the wolf, standing tall outside its cage now. If she had been standing, the top of the wolf’s head would have easily cleared her shoulder, maybe even higher. Alistair looked tiny in comparison as he crouched back against a tree. He had drawn a knife from his boot and was brandishing it at the wolf.
“Stay back!” he insisted in a strangled voice, looking over at Sibyl with wide eyes. “Yer bow! Throw me the bow!”
Sibyl had forgotten it again. The bow and quiver had slipped from her shoulder and rested on the forest floor. She snatched up the longbow, quickly pulling an arrow from the quiver, cocking it, drawing the string, and taking aim.
“Shoot it!” Alistair howled, still waving his dirk at the animal.
The wolf’s shoulders were hunched, head down, teeth bared, but it didn’t attack. Nor did it run. Sibyl wondered at this as the animal turned its head to look back at her. Those blue eyes shifted from hers to the bow she held in her hands, as if it understood she was holding a weapon, and what that meant.
“Sibyl! Shoot it!” Alistair insisted, lashing out at the wolf with his knife, slicing the animal’s hide across its chest. Blood bloomed in stark contrast to its white fur.
The wolf howled, reacting instantly, its teeth sinking into Alistair’s forearm and shaking the dagger loose. It sailed some distance away, landing at the feet of Fian. The big, black steed had backed as far away as was possible on his tether and Sibyl noted that Winnie was gone altogether, back down the forest path, presumably headed toward home. That meant she had no horse upon which to escape and cursed herself for her thoughtlessness in not tying the animal up. She would just have to take Alistair’s, she decided.
Sibyl stood, bow still drawn taut, taking careful aim. This was her one chance and she wasn’t going to waste it.
A shout to her right, coming from the direction of the stream, startled her, making her heart leap up high into her throat, but it didn’t sway her aim. She knew it was likely one of Alistair’s men but she didn’t care. She would be on Fian and away before they caught her.
Sibyl’s arrow found its mark.
The wolf howled, bounding off, and Alistair screamed, a high-pitched sound that echoed in the quiet woods, making the horse behind her whinny and yank at his tether.
Sibyl lowered her bow, staring into her betrothed’s wide, pained eyes.
“Ye shot me,” Alistair croaked, staring at her in disbelief and then looking over to see his forearm pinned to the tree on his right, an arrow sunk clean through his flesh and deep into the tree’s bark.
“My arrow aims true, too, ya ken?” Sibyl kept the tremble from her voice, eyes blazing. She didn’t take her gaze off him as she
picked up the quiver and slung it and the bow across her shoulder. “I could have killed you. Remember that.”
She turned to grab Fian’s reins and ran into the bare chest of a man with thick, dark hair almost as long as her own. Sibyl barely reached his shoulder and she looked up, up, into the man’s face, into his bright blue eyes, her breath catching in her throat. He was a Scot, but he was not one of Alistair’s men, of that she was sure. He wore only a Scot’s tartan plaid, wrapped and belted at his waist, part of it pulled like a sash across his broad, bare chest.
“I… I must…” Sibyl struggled to find her voice, wrestled her mind for words that would make sense when strung together all in a row. The man’s presence was disarming enough, but the look in those bright blue eyes made her knees feel wobbly under her skirts. “Be… be away.”
The man didn’t speak, but his look pinned her to the spot. She was mindful of her surroundings—of Alistair’s cries for help, of the big, black horse that had pulled free from his tether and had turned to gallop back up the forest path, of the sound of men and dogs and horses in the distance—but she was far more aware of her own body than she’d ever been before in her life. Her blood rushed through her veins, her heart its hot, thudding pump, lungs pulling in breath in fast, cooling gulps, limbs tingling, torso a burning inferno, as if the man’s look alone had caused her body to catch fire.
“Ye’ll pay for this!” Alistair roared, writhing in pain on the ground. He was trying to work the arrow out of the tree with his other hand, but it was buried halfway in. The trees in these woods were yielding, their trunks soft with the dampness that permeated this land, and Sibyl knew just from looking at it, the arrow would have to be clipped.
“I must be away,” she whispered, hearing the sounds of the men, dogs and horses growing nearer, knowing the repercussions for what she had done would be severe if she was caught here in these woods still wielding the longbow that had impaled her future husband through his forearm.