Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  "Put away your pretense that this signifies nothing to you, Lady Sybelle," Rolf said softly, approaching her.

  Sybelle stood her ground, refusing to acknowledge that Rolf had seen uncannily into her heart. How? Was this accursed Irishman a wizard?

  His touch was feather light as he swept aside the long curtain of her hair which hid her body from his view. Slowly, she felt the power of his hand caressing her cheek, stealing a path along her throat to the place where her heart beat.

  Rolf backed away from her, eyes never breaking the contact he had with hers. Quickly he divested himself of the single garment that he wore, a robe, also of velvet, totally black, with no other color to mar its beauty.

  The breath caught painfully in her throat. Here was a man perfectly formed, a specimen that any bride would have welcomed joyfully into her marriage bed. She knew that he felt no shame standing before her now, exposed as God made him. No, the shame was in her, she understood, for she couldn't shut her eyes to the untamed display before her.

  The only ornamentation that he now wore was the ring, and something else, something not familiar to her world. On both his arms were wrist bands of solid gold. Pagan. As was he, Sybelle decided. It was evident in the hooded eyes that swept over her body, heating her skin. It was in his face, high cheekbones taut with control, a square jaw broken by a devil's slash. And those lips, curled in a feral grin. His thin, strong nose responded also, nostrils quivering slightly as if he scented her. She was being stalked, even if neither of them moved.

  The blood beat swiftly in her veins; she could hear the thunder of her heartbeat as he advanced towards her.

  Cold, she must remain cold, she repeated, until he felt secure, then she would unleash the anger she felt ready to explode inside her.

  Roll threw back the thick pelts that covered the bed, exposing the white linen piled high with pillows.

  Sybelle felt her body leave the ground, then she sank into the softness of the down as Rolf placed her on the bed, joining her. She sought to cover her nakedness with a pelt, but Roll pushed her hand aside. "No," was his growled response. Hating herself with the trembling she knew was winding its way through her body, Sybelle forced herself to lie as still as a woman ready for the last rites. Her lids were tightly closed, shutting off the fear that she thought might be evident in her eyes. 'Twas one thing to say she would face her ravisher without fear, another to do so.

  What was he waiting for? Did not men hurry through the act that was for their pleasure?

  Her eyes flew open. What was he doing?

  Rolf's mouth quirked in an odd smile, half bemused, half seductive. Instead of grabbing for her thighs and dragging them apart as she thought he would do, swiftly mounting her, Roll swept his mouth over her face, leaving soft kisses across her cheek and the bridge of her small nose, across her throat, where he paused to nibble at the sensitive spot behind her ear. His hands were not idle either, for they swept along her arms and then across her waist. Rolf skimmed the tops of her legs with tender strokes. His black head dipped to her breast, his mouth nipping along the full slope of tender skin, his tongue snaking out to lave the area with its burning brand of possession.

  An involuntary tingle of sensation infiltrated her nerves as Sybelle sought to resist what he was inflicting on her. Anger now on the rise, she lifted her arms from the bed, pushing futilely against the warm flesh of his chest. Within seconds, Sybelle found her wrists pinned above her head, captured in one of Rolf's strong hands. She resumed her struggle, squirming in an attempt to buck him off. He responded by throwing a powerfully muscled leg over hers to still her movements. Along her belly Sybelle could feel the foreign sensation of flesh. Resuming her struggles, she heard the soft mocking laughter from his lips as his fingers boldly touched the tangle of honey-brown curls at the apex of her closed thighs.

  "Irish whoreson," Sybelle hissed.

  Rolf froze momentarily, his eyes chilling her with the intensity she saw there. Where before his lips had coaxed, now they ground into hers with a force that took her breath away, bruising her with little care. He forced her legs to part, sliding between her splayed thighs, positioning himself for his assualt on her maidenhead.

  Pain splintered Sybelle's thoughts; Rolf's body was in full possession of hers. Again and again he claimed the territory he breached.

  Her hands now free, Sybelle launched her own attack. Her nails raked across his cheek, her mouth bit wherever she could find flesh. But the blows she pummeled him with were ineffectual; Rolf resisted her attacks and kept pressing his own until, finally, he completed his task, spilling himself into her body.

  Sybelle lay exhausted; the sweat from his body mingled with hers, as the blood that stained her sore thighs mixed with the essence of him.

  She felt the bed give as he left it. Turning her head, she watched him belt the robe, pick up a tankard of ale left by Siobhan on a nearby table, and drain the contents.

  "Mayhap with practice you'll make a fair whore, madame. Perhaps you can even increase your family's holdings by spreading your legs for the Sunne himself. 'Tis widely known that the English king is generous to his favorites, if not particularly discriminating in his bedpartners." He paused, his tone as cold as the winter winds. Stroking his hand along his face, he came away with traces of blood. "'Twould seem we've both drawn blood, my lady." With those words he spun on his heel and left the chamber.

  Forcing herself to sit up, she struggled to swing her legs to the floor. Pain jarred her as she bit on her already swollen lip. Shakily, she tried to stand, swaying for a moment before regaining her equilibrium.

  The sheets seemed to mock her as her eyes beheld them. Angrily, she tore them from the bed, throwing them to the floor, where she tore them into strips in her fury and shame. If only she could have torn Rolf's hide from his body; if only she could have rent his actions from her memory as easily as she ripped the material!

  But she could not. Her dishonor was complete. It was in evidence on the remnants of the linen that she held in her hands. How far she'd come in a matter of days! Lady Sybelle Elizabeth Fitzgerald, heiress to estates, wealthy, educatedhumbled and tumbled by an Irish barbarian in a feud not of her own making. But he's not bested me, Sybelle swore. By Jesu, I'll not allow him to win.

  «»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

  The hall was empty except for the young man who sat in a corner, fingers strumming a plaintive tune on a large harp. His skillful hands coaxed the music from the instrument; his voice sang softly, sweetly, of a love lost, an honor betrayed.

  "Sweet Jesu, must I listen to you and your melancholy humor?"

  Bran's fingers stilled at his brother's harsh voice. Rolf offered him a goblet of wine, downing his own in one long swallow. Bran accepted the beverage, drinking carefully, observing Rolf all the while. He noted the dark circles that rimmed his brother's eyes as Rolf focused his attention on the flames that burned low in the huge fireplace.

  "'Tis done," he said wearily, turning his back on the warmth of the flames.

  There was no joy in the words, Bran noted; instead there was a sadness in his brother's voice that he'd never heard before. The confidence of earlier that evening had vanished, replaced with a strange sorrow.

  Noticing that Rolf was again refilling his goblet, and that the wine jug was empty, he asked, "Do you want me to fetch more?"

  Rolf nodded his head, not looking at Branduff. He seemed to be somewhere else, away from this room, away from himself even.

  "Rolf, if you've a need to talk . . . "

  The eyes that focused on him were angry, the voice curt. "I need no father confessor tonight, lad. Leave me alone." With that, Rolf turned his head away again, but not before Bran caught the long red welt that ran along the side of his face. Obviously the Englishwoman had not yielded to his brother calmly. He'd entertained hopes that Rolf would change his mind, but the morose man slumped into a chair wasn't what Bran expected to see tonight. If truth be told, he hadn't a notion what to
expect from Rolf after his bedding of the Lady Sybelle. Triumph? Joy? Pleasure? Justification? None of these feelings was evident to him on his brother's harsh features.

  Bran's hands convulsed into fists as he felt the hot sting of tears behind his lids. Whatever comfort he could offer his brother would be rejected, he knew. To the Lady Sybelle he must remain aloof, knowing that his blood-tie would not allow her to accept any overtures of friendship now.

  Prudently he left Rolf alone, stilling the hand that ached to reach out and clasp his brother's shoulder.

  Minutes passed before a servant, hastily awakened, brought the jug of wine that Bran ordered.

  "My lord, your wine," the servant murmured, waiting for further instructions, which were not long in coming.

  "Get out."

  Recognizing that Lord Rolf's tone brooked no disobedience, the servant hastened to do his lord's bidding.

  Rising from the leather chair, Rolf walked to the table. He poured a long measure of the ruby liquid into his goblet, swallowing a hearty amount.

  When the glass was empty, he slammed his fist onto the wooden table, shouting, "God damn her!"

  Hours later, as the hall began to fill with servants eager to begin their daily routines, Rolf decided that a retreat was in his best interests, not to mention that of his servants, who were cautiously trying to tip-toe around their lord. Because Rolf had not yet sought his own chamber did not mean that others in his household had not; those waking would expect something to break their fast. Some would be bold enough to make known their thoughts on what had occurred last evening. Already Rolf could hear the faint whisperings from the servants. By the end of the day the incident would have spread through the surrounding village. It would not be malicious, Rolf conceded; it was simply that, in his position as earl, what he did affected all, even something so personal as his choice of bedpartneror a matter of revenge.

  Rolf could hear the sighs of relief as he left the hall, saw the curious looks cast his way as he took to the stairs leading to the upper floor and his private apartments.

  Splashing water into a bowl, he rinsed his face, gazing into the mirror that lay on the small table. Dark traces of beard were heavy on his jaw and his green eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and a surfeit of drink. He'd lost count of the pitchers of wine he'd consumed. A river of the stuff still wouldn't make him forget that he'd never taken a woman by force before.

  The sounds of activity from the bailey below alerted Rolf that his men were aleady practicing arms. He could hear Branduff issuing orders and listened to the noise of sword clashing against sword.

  At that moment, the gentle rapping on his door focused his errant thoughts back.

  He swung around as the door opened, admitting a woman of three and thirty. In her wake entered a servant bearing a tray containing a jug of cold milk and a loaf of dark bread, an earthenware jar of honey, anti a heap of butter on a trencher of day-old bread. The servant placed the meal on a table near the massive bed, smiled, murmured a blessing upon the Lord Rolf, and silently backed out the door, leaving the woman and Rolf alone.

  ''What brings you to my chambers this morning, Etain?" Rolf inquired, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  "A night amongst the wine cups does not become you, my lord wolf," she said softly. "'Tis no need you have to vent your anger towards me. Come, eat ere you start to feel ill."

  "The role of nursemaid does not suit you, Etain."

  Her smile held genuine affection for the man. "My lord, you need no nursemaid, but I think you could use a friend. Will you not eat something?"

  The gently coaxing worked. Rolf relaxed upon the bed, allowing Etain to hand him a thick slice of bread dripping with honey.

  Her mother, Siobhah, had urged her to make this visit, thinking that perhaps she could offer him some comfort. This Etain was ready to do, whatever he needed. She had not lied. She was his friend and would always be so.

  "If my lord would permit, may I play the role of barber? Yours is no face to inflict on gentle folk this early in the day."

  Rolf laughedat least the sound coming from his throat resembled a laugh. Taking Etain's hand in his, he kissed it gently. "'Tis one you've seen this way on more than a few morns, if I may be so bold to recall?"

  She laughed with him. "Aye, my lord, but then, I never said I was gentle folk, did I?" Her mind skipped back in time to hours spent in Rolf's bed, her skin reddened by the very same growth of beard he now sported.

  Rolf thought how good it would feel to lie with a woman now. The need was great within him. He could take the opportunity before him. Wasn't that why Siobhan had asked her child to come? Etain didn't have to tell him so; he knew the older woman, knew the way her mind worked, Etain's was a body he was familiar with; she was a woman who enjoyed the comforts of a mutually satisfying coupling.

  He watched her heat water for shaving. His mind recalled her slender form beneath him in a bed, yet over her features were painted those of another. Instead of hair the color of sunshine, he saw golden-brown; instead of long limbs, he beheld a woman of smaller stature; instead of eyes of pale blue, he remembered a mixture of gray and blue, blended into a stormy, haughty look. Sybelle's haunting memory refused to fade.

  Rolf remained silent throughout Etain's ministrations; her heart knew that she couldn't reach him.

  «»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

  Siobhan spied her daughter leaving Rolf's bedchamber.

  "How fares my lord?" she asked.

  "Uneasy, mother. He has built a wall around himself and he refuses entrance to anyone. Little could I do to break his mood. Faith, I've never seen him like this before."

  Siobhan nodded her head. "Neither, daughter, have I. 'Tis why I thought that perhaps you could comfort him." Siobhan turned her head towards the long corridor. "Mayhap you can be of some service to the lady instead."

  "Lady?" Siobhan quickly explained the situation to her daughter, whose pale blue eyes widened in surprise.

  "I thought it best to allow her some private time ere I brought her something to eat, should she be of a mind for food. She may have need of your healing arts, daughter. If you cannot help the wolf, perhaps you can aid his prey."

  "I shall do what I can, Mother. Do not hope for more than that, for it may be nothing." Etain looked her mother deeply in the eyes, questioning her mother's interest in the woman. "What concern 'tis it of yours that my Lord Rolf's captive be cared for?"

  Siobhan smiled; the action removed years from her features. "'Tis the prisoner who possesses the key to free her jailer."

  With that enigmatic pronouncement Siobhan ushered Etain down the hall to the room set aside for Sybelle's use.

  Chapter 5

  "Fetch me Fergal," Rolf ordered in a deadly quiet voice to one of his grooms, who ran to do his biding.

  Branduff, his training momentarily halted, approached Rolf. "Would you like company?" he asked, removing his helmet. His hair was sweat-plastered to his head.

  With an imperious snap of his fingers, Rolf summoned one of the squires, instructing him to fetch water for his brother. Branduff drank deeply of the cold liquid, splashing some across his neck and face. He repeated his inquiry.

  "The dogs need a run, as does Fergal. I need no company."

  Bran remained silent, not saying that the dogs could be exercised in the keep just as well and that their long ride the day before should have been enough of an outing for the spirited mount his brother rode.

  "A game of chess would please me later," Rolf said, mounting his big gray stallion and motioning for the dogs.

  "Aye, 'twould please me also, brother. I await your pleasure then, till anon."

  Wheeling the horse about, Rolf dug in his heels. The beast seemed to grow wings as he dashed through the gates, the two mastiffs close behind.

  "Do not worry about him, lad," said Auliffe, his voice gruff and hearty. "Lord Rolf knows what he's about." Then he added, as if to himself, "Even if we don't."

&nb
sp; «»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

  A fine mist hung over the shore. Not quite a drizzle, it was soft, moist, and persistent. The sky was gray; the waters of the Atlantic choppy and restless, echoing Rolf's mood.

  He sat on the shore, booted feet planted on the sand, his chair a large rock. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the wide expanse of ocean before him, ignoring the weather, which dampened his long black hair. With a careless gesture, he swept one hand through the tangle on his forehead. His wide mouth thinned as he reflected on the woman he held captive.

  His purpose had been clear last evening when he walked into the room. He would enjoy her body, reaping the physical rewards of his well-planned revenge. Aye, that had been his intentuntil he stood on the threshold and beheld her. The candle-glow cast a soft light on her hair, warming her skin to the color of rich cream. When she became aware of his presence, he silently observed the wariness battling with pride in her eyes. Surely he had been wrong to imagine he perceived a sadness in her for the young man he'd once been, who'd been forced to extract his own form of revenge for his parents' murder. Nay, he must have mistaken her look, for Rolf couldn't forget the blazing fury of icy-hot eyes turned on him then, bitter denunciation clear.

  The set of her soft shoulders as she dropped her only form of clothing touched him unexpectedly. It was then that he knew he couldn't merely slake the raging lust he felt for her lushly curved body without giving her pleasure also. Her defiant eyes met his; Rolf understood what he must do. Revenge would be even sweeter if he could induce the maid to relinquish the self-control she so prided herself upon. Yes, he reasoned, that would be another measure of his taming of Fitzgerald's daughter, her willing acquiescence to her own seduction.

  Rolf's long-lashed green eyes closed as he brought back to his mind a clear picture of the room and the maid who faced him. A waist he could circumvent with his hands; breasts high and full, nipples peaking from between strands of long brown hair; legs curving and strong. A horsewoman, he judged. A body fashioned for loving, for the comfort of a man, to give back the strength received.