Highland Wolf Pact

by Selena Kitt

  But her means of escape had, well, escaped. Both Winnie and Fian had disappeared down the path and she had no choice but to attempt her flight on foot. She turned to run, knowing she didn’t have long, but she was waylaid once again by the stranger’s bare chest. He had somehow sidestepped and appeared in front of her, even though she was now facing the opposite direction, heading deeper into the woods.

  “Tiugainn!” The man spoke Gaelic, a dialect she only remotely understood, but his meaning was clear enough in the way he took her by the elbow and steered her down the path. At least, Sibyl thought as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, they were headed in the right direction.

  “Let me go!” she cried, trying to shake out of his grip, but it was no use.

  The man’s enormous hand easily encircled her upper arm and the strength in it was surprising. He pulled her along and she stumbled after him, unable to yank herself free. The dark-haired stranger didn’t follow the path. He steered them to the right, through the trees, where the underbrush was thick and the hem of Sibyl’s dress caught on branches and made her falter. The sound of the stream grew louder as they traveled deeper into the forest.

  Sibyl felt a rage growing in her belly, now that the wolf was gone and she knew she wasn’t going to die—and least, not imminently—and they had vanished far enough down the path that Alistair’s voice had grown dim. She could no longer hear his men approaching on horseback, and the sound of the dogs was faint.

  Beside her, the half-naked Scotsman finally stopped, cocking his head and listening. His hair fell like a black waterfall over his broad, brown shoulders, eyes narrowing, shifting from side to side, a gesture she knew from years of being taught how to stay aware of her surroundings by her father. He was scanning, looking for movement, listening, perhaps, for anyone pursuing them, but Sibyl wasn’t going to stay around long enough to find out. She’d had enough of being pawed by one man or the other.

  “Let me go!” she insisted, taking advantage of his hesitation to finally wrench herself free.

  She began to stalk away from him, the satchel under her skirts heavy, weighing her down. Once she was away from this stranger, she would stop to unpin it. The longbow and quiver were still slung over her shoulder, and for that she was grateful. Once she had found a place to cross the stream and she’d left any trace of her scent behind, a certain dead end for the dogs Alistair would surely send after her, she would start looking for game.

  “Ow!” Sibyl complained when the stranger grabbed her again, and this time not just by the arm. He had her from behind, the way Alistair had held her against him in front of the wolf’s cage, but her reaction was far different on this occasion. The stranger’s body was big, muscular, his arms easily enveloping her small frame. “You big, dumb oaf! Let me go!”

  She had no idea if he understood her, but she thought she sensed his demeanor change at her words. Still, he didn’t loosen his hold and no matter how much she struggled, there was no way to break free.

  “If you don’t let me go, I’m going to scream!” Sibyl cried, wriggling in his arms. This only made the man tighten his grip, which left her gasping for breath.

  “Bidh sàmhach!” he growled in her ear. She didn’t know what that meant either but she could guess.

  The stream was visible ahead, rushing over crags and rocks, the current strong and steady. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the rushing water, but the man stood completely still. Something had drawn his attention, but she wasn’t sure what.

  “Could you… just… let me go…” Sibyl managed, drawing short, painful breaths, her ribcage aching from the way he held her so tightly. “I—”

  “Bidh sàmhach!” he insisted again, this time shaking her. She felt like a rag doll in his arms. Closing her eyes, she listened too, straining to hear what had captured his attention, but there was nothing but the water surging over the rocks.

  “Thank the Lord,” she muttered when the man’s arms loosened and she could breathe again. She rubbed her aching sides, scowling back at the giant brute. “I don’t know who you are, but I am perfectly capable of—”

  He frowned down at her, gaze sweeping over her muddied and torn dress. While it once would have fed a family in Moira’s village for a year, it was now suitable as little more than rags. She had lost her hat ages ago, somewhere back near the wolf cage, where she had left her betrothed pinned to a tree with an arrow.

  “What are you doing?” Sibyl protested, but barely had time to get the words out before the big man had divested her of her weapon and had thrown her over his shoulder and began carrying her downstream. “Stop! Let me go!”

  Her words were lost in the rush of the water and he didn’t seem to hear her at all as he moved quickly—much faster and more nimbly than she expected of a man of his size—down the shoreline. She beat at his back with her fists, but he didn’t seem to notice that either, and before long, her hands ached. It was like hitting a slab of rock. When he stopped, she lifted her head to look around, noting their position, away from the protection of the tree line now.

  And then she heard it. Could he really have detected the sound, so far away? The dogs were barking again. On the hunt. She imagined Alistair telling the story to his men, making up something so he, of course, looked like the wounded hero. Perhaps he would tell them she had been kidnapped by the massive brute who now had her thrown over his shoulder—and really, was that far from the truth? She knew he wouldn’t tell them she had put an arrow through him. That much he would leave out, she was sure. She hoped.

  “They’re coming!” she hissed, beating at the human rock’s back again. She hit him in the side, eliciting a satisfying grunt from the man, and did it again, pleased when she heard his sharp intake of breath. “Let me go! They’re coming for me!”

  “Bidh modhail!” he snapped, his hand coming down hard on her behind. Sibyl hadn’t been spanked since she was a child and, while it really didn’t hurt, given how much padding she had on under her skirts, the humiliation of it reddened her cheeks and made her instantly quiet.

  And then they were flying.

  It wasn’t really flying, but it felt that way. He was so agile, so quick and light on his feet, it felt as if he had simply taken flight as they crossed the stream. Behind them, the dogs grew closer. They were onto a scent—likely her own and she cursed herself for not grabbing her hat, which would allow the dogs to pick up her trail—and pursued it with fervor. Sibyl bounced on the big man’s shoulder, squealing at one point, thinking surely he would fall and she would go tumbling head-first to her death onto the slippery, moss-covered rocks, but then they were across, heading into the cover of the woods on the other side.

  Once they were a sight distance from the tree line, the man upended her with a grunt, putting her back onto her feet. Sibyl pushed an already tangled mass of auburn hair away from her face and glared up at him. He didn’t smile, but his eyes danced, clearly amused at her stance—hands on her hips, face upturned—and the words that came tumbling out of her mouth.

  “You bumbling idiot! You could have killed us both!” she snapped. “I didn’t ask for your help. Do you understand me? I don’t want your help! No! Go! Away with you!”

  She shooed him away like an annoying fly but the man didn’t move. He just looked down at her with those devilish blue eyes.

  “Goodbye! Mar sin leibh!” She didn’t know many phrases in Scottish Gaelic, but she had learned a few from Moira. Hello, goodbye, please and thank you. So she said the words, hoping he would understand, and from the look on his face, it was clear he got her meaning. “I’m going! Mar sin leibh! Goodbye!”

  She turned and stalked off, getting as far as the nearest tree before he grabbed her again.

  “Will you stop that?” she cried, pushing at his arms as they encircled her and turned her to him. “No! Chan eil! Chan eil!”

  She repeated the Gaelic word for no, seeing the frown on his face at her protest.

  “Shh.” He touched a finge
r to her lips, shaking his head.

  “Chan eil,” she objected again, but this time, the word came out in a mere whisper. “No… please…”

  “Tha.” His thumb traced her jawline as he looked down at her, the sunlight dappled across his face and chest. She knew the word—tha. Yes. It meant “yes.” Sibyl felt her breath quicken as the stranger traced her lips with one finger, his gaze falling to her mouth, then to her throat, then further down still, to the way her breasts nearly overflowed the top of her disheveled dress.

  “Tha,” he said again, lifting his gaze to meet her eyes. So blue. His eyes were so blue. “Yes.”

  “You… you speak English?” she whispered, cocking her head at him in wonder. “Who… who are you?”

  A howl from deeper in the forest startled them both and the hair on the back of Sibyl’s neck stood up. Perhaps the animal’s howl was in response to the dogs, because they were barking across the river, sniffing up and down the shoreline, searching for their scent. The men weren’t far behind. They were closing in.

  “The wolf,” she gasped, stepping instinctively closer to the stranger, and he encircled her with one arm, pulling her close against his big frame. She lifted frightened eyes to his, knowing the animal was wounded, that it might attack them, even now. And Alistair’s men were close—too close. “It’s the wolf!”

  “Nuh.” He said the word in English, but his brogue was thick as he met her eyes. “A wulver.”

  “A… wulver.” She swallowed, trembling in his arms, and before she knew it, the stranger once again had her thrown over his shoulder, carrying her deep into the forest, but this time, Sibyl didn’t speak a word of protest.

  Chapter Three

  She bounced around on his shoulder as he made his way deeper into the woods but Sibyl was far less concerned about the bruises she was going to have all over her body than she was about the sound of dogs at their back and the howl of the wolf that grew louder with every step. He was taking her away from one threat, but they were heading straight into another. The stranger, however, didn’t seem very concerned about that.

  Sibyl was starting to get nauseous, traveling upside down, with only a view of the forest floor and her captor’s tartan plaid. She clutched that garment for dear life, amazed at how fast the man could travel, with little sign of exhaustion or even slowing. And then, he stopped. It was so sudden, she clutched at him, afraid of what might have immobilized him so quickly. She couldn’t see around him.

  “Laina.” He said the word, but Sibyl didn’t know what it meant. She looked up at him, puzzled, when he set her on her feet. The upending made her dizzy and she clung to him again, just to keep from collapsing, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her up easily, without a second thought.

  The sudden howl that filled the forest sent goose flesh up and down her arms and Sibyl turned her head slowly, eyes wide, following the big man’s gaze. The white wolf stood a stone’s throw away, staring at them through the trees. Her fur was matted with blood, like a red bib down her front, where Alistair had cut her. She was still just as beautiful—and just as dangerous—as the last time Sibyl had seen her.

  “Wait!” Sibyl cried, but it was too late.

  The man approached the animal without even a modicum of caution and Sibyl, still dizzy from her upside-down ride through the forest, hung onto a tree, cheek against the rough bark. Her captor didn’t appear at all afraid and neither did the wolf. Sibyl watched in disbelief as the wolf sank down until her belly rested in the dirt, head bowed as the man advanced.

  “No!” Sibyl protested when the man unslung the bow and quiver. “Chan eil!”

  He didn’t heed her, but he didn’t pull the bow as she thought he would. Instead, he set it aside as he knelt before the wounded wolf. She’d never seen a man so fearless. Even her father’s huntsman, who had taught her bird calls, who had shown her how to silently, patiently trap small game, had advocated caution with even the smallest of forest creatures. Animals were notoriously unpredictable.

  “Laina,” he said again, reaching his hand out, and Sibyl cringed, expecting the wolf to bite him as she had Alistair.

  But the wolf accepted the man’s attention, whining softly as he inspected her wound. It was almost as if the animal understood that he meant her no harm. Sibyl watched in disbelief as the man’s hand moved through the wolf’s fur, one hand scratching lightly behind her ear as he examined the wound with the other. Sibyl’s curiosity got the better of her and she approached cautiously, fascinated by the animal.

  “She’s hurt,” Sibyl said softly, nearing the two of them. “Alistair, he… he cut her with his dirk, after I got her free.”

  “She will’na die.” The man looked up to meet Sibyl’s eyes. She noticed, for the first time, that they weren’t just blue—they were the same, incredibly bright blue as the wolf’s. It was startling. “But she thanks ye fer yer kindness.”

  “You do speak English.” She stared at him, incredulous, still not quite comprehending his words, even though they were in her native language. “Who are you?”

  “Aye, though I haven’t spoken yer tongue in some time.” He gave a small nod, a brief smile flashing across his face. His voice was deep and rich, his brogue was thick. “I’m called Raife.”

  “My name is Sibyl.” She looked from him to the wolf, who whined and panted, her side heaving with effort. The poor thing must be badly hurt, she thought.

  Sibyl sank to the ground next to the man called Raife, reaching out tentatively to touch the wolf’s fur. The animal acknowledged her touch, glancing at Sibyl as she ran a hand over the wolf’s thick coat, but didn’t seem to mind. Sibyl glanced at the stranger, wondering if he was some sort of animal trainer. A man had come to her father’s castle once with a big bear who had sat at his feet. He had fed it scraps and led it around on a leash.

  “She was caught and put into a cage,” Sibyl went on, amazed at how the wolf let them touch her, with not even a growl of warning. She must be tame, like the old man’s bear, she thought. “My… that man… he…”

  “Aye, lass, I ken.” Raife wiped at the wolf’s blood with the end of his plaid. He had unwrapped the part that went over his shoulder to do so, and was now kneeling completely bare-chested on the ground. “I was sent for ’er.”

  “Sent… for her…?” Sibyl repeated the words, but they still made no sense at all, no matter what language they were in. “Does she belong to you?”

  “Chan eil… er, nuh.” He shook his head, using his plaid to stem any further flow of blood. “Mo bràithair… ah… me brother.”

  “Ohhh,” she breathed, nodding. “He’s an animal trainer, your brother? He tames wild animals?”

  Raife stared at her for a moment, those blue eyes dancing again. Then he let out a laugh, loud and long, shaking his dark head. The wolf shook its white head too, whining softly, and then began to pant again. Raife turned his attention back to the animal, his big hand moving along her side, petting her gently.

  “Easy, easy,” he murmured, frowning, eyes troubled. “She canna change like this, when she’s so close to pup.”

  “Change?” Sibyl’s head came up, hearing something else. It wasn’t just the wolf she heard whining. Through the woods came the sound of dogs barking. They were still on the hunt, although this time, they weren’t hunting for wolves—or some imaginary half-man, half-dog the Scots called wulvers—they were hunting for her.

  “Do you mean… is she giving birth?” She stared at him with wide eyes.

  “I have t’get ’er back.” He cocked his head, frowning, and Sibyl knew he heard the same thing she did. The sound of men, shouting to one another. It was Alistair’s men. They had crossed the stream and had picked the scent back up again. “Laina, can ye move? Can ye get up?”

  “Laina…” Sibyl said the word and the wolf glanced at her, whining but struggling slowly to her feet. “Her name is Laina? The wolf?”

  “Wulver,” Raife corrected, taking the wolf’s giant head in his big han
ds. The animal looked into his eyes, whimpering, and he nodded sympathetically, petting her behind the ears. “Tha mi duilich.”

  Raife stood and the wolf looked up at him expectantly. Sibyl did too. She had no idea what came next. Without this man and his strange pet, she was alone in these woods with no horse and a posse of men at her heels. She knew she had to run, if she had any chance of escape, as far and as fast as she could. She’d already lost too much time.

  “The men’re close.” Raife seemed to read her mind. “They’ll find ye.”

  She nodded, heart thudding in her chest as she heard a clear shout, “This way!” and could have sworn it was Donal’s voice. Perhaps it was too late after all. Alistair’s men would find her and then what? She tried to imagine the consequences he would mete out for her actions and shuddered at the thought. But when she looked at the wolf and thought of her pups, she couldn’t for a moment regret her decision.

  “Ye choose.” Raife’s eyes lifted, scanning the woods and Sibyl knew what he’d seen before she even turned her head. She saw it in the momentary flash of anger in his eyes. Alistair’s men were in sight now. “Stay ’ere or come wit’ me.”

  She nodded, glancing through the trees, seeing the dogs running ahead. Was there a choice, really? The decision was a simple one. Raife, whoever he was, had been protective and, if a bit rough, kindhearted. His caring for the wolf had shown her that much. Alistair, on the other hand…

  “Ye must hold on tight,” Raife said over his shoulder, loosening the plaid around his waist and pulling the fabric free.

  “Sir, you mustn’t!” Sibyl gasped, covering her face with her hands, glimpsing far too much of his backside before she could turn away from him as he disrobed.

  “Climb on and hold tight!” He told her and she gasped when she felt him behind her, his mouth right next to her ear. “I do’na wanna leave ye here.”

  “Please,” she whispered as he stepped away from her, not daring to open her eyes. “Cover yourself. I don’t—”