Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  "'Tis pleased I am that you have met my family, Lady Sybelle," Auliffe grinned, his hand around his wife's shoulders.

  Lady Sybelle's face betrayed her surprise.

  Auliffe looked at his wife, placing his son on the floor. "Grania, did you not tell the Lady Sybelle who you were?"

  "I . . . " Sybelle interrupted. "Your wife had not the chance to tell me."

  "Aye, Auliffe. The Lady Sybelle has been here but a few minutes," Grania said, her eyes briming with love, "before your daughter made her demands for food known."

  Auliffe beamed proudly at the infant who lay asleep in her mother's arm. He ruffled his son's hair. "This is my son Niall; my daughter is Sinead." A deep smile was reserved for the woman he called Grania. Sybelle could see the obvious gap in their ages made no difference to the couple. Auliffe was old enough to be the woman's father, mayhap even grand-sire. Yet it seemed of no consequence to the couple.

  Auliffe remembered he was to deliver a message. "Etain is looking for you, my lady."

  "Where is she?"

  "She awaits you outside."

  Sybelle said her goodbyes and left the couple who, unbeknownst to her, exchanged meaningful glances. When she emerged, the sun was hidden behind gathering clouds, and the air was chillier. She saw Etain talking to the woman who had carried the milk earlier, giving her something from a soft leather pouch at her waist, heard her instructing the woman as to its use.

  "Auliffe said you sought me?" Sybelle addressed Etain when she was free.

  "Aye, my lady. How fare you?"

  Sybelle smiled. Her blue eyes remained shadowed, as if protecting her from revealing too much. "I am as well as can be, Etain."

  Etain drew her arm through Sybelle's. "Will you join me for a meal?"

  Sybelle cast a hurried glance around the bailey, searching for Etain's residence. She saw only the stable area, the cookhouses, the storerooms, the Auliffes' cottage, a small pen that housed pigs, and chickens scratching for food. She saw also the knights' room and a sheep pen that bordered the stables.

  "I live beyond the wall."

  Sybelle said stiffly, "Then I fear I must decline."

  Etain saw the disappointment on Sybelle's face and ascertained the reason for it. "My lord has given his permission."

  "Does he not think that I will try to escape?"

  Etain indicated two horses and, waiting beside the palfreys two men, both armed.

  "An escort?" Sybelle asked.

  "He thought it for the best."

  "Indeed," Sybelle mused. "Where is Killroone?"

  "With Captain duBerre."

  Sybelle ran her hand along the horse's flanks, then rubbed her fingers across the mare's nose. She had a fondness for horseflesh, and judged Killroone's stable to be superior, especially if these animals were examples. Their chestnut coats gleamed, even on such a cloudy day.

  Sybelle and Etain were helped onto their horses and, along with their escort, rode out the gates of the keep, Lugh still trailing alongside.

  "What business has he with the Frenchman?"

  Etain spoke softly. "They are partners, as were my lord's father and Captain duBerre's."

  "Partners?"

  "Aye, in trade."

  "Trade?" Sybelle echoed, then recalled Siobhan's words about the late earl. Members of the nobility did not engage in trade. That was left to the merchant class.

  Lugh's barking alerted them to the presence of others. They halted to let a wagon loaded with wool pass them by, making for the bumpy road that lead to the beach. Sybelle could see the large vessel anchored off-shore. Men were waiting on the sand for the smaller boats to arrive on shore to pick up their cargo. Several horses were being led to the beach, along with a crate containing birds.

  "May we ride below?"

  Etain debated the wisdom of such a move. "Aye," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "We can reach my cottage from there," she said, urging her mount forward, following the wagon down the slope. When they cleared the wagon, both women pressed their animals onward, the sand spraying under their hooves as they galloped across the beach. Lugh barked excitedly, joining in the fun, prompting the men who were working to cease their activity and watch the sight of the two women racing their quality horseflesh.

  Directing the loading of the wool, Rolf stood next to a man of his who checked each bundle against the figures in a tally-book. Everything must be strictly accounted for, as he shipped not only his own merchandise, but that of the free tenants on his land, as well as the goods of other lords. No man had cause to doubt the accuracy of the Earl of Killroone's record-keeping. His accounts were scrupulous and fair. He knew the importance of the goods he shipped, and how much in demand were the items Ireland could provide. Irish wool and linen were hungrily grabbed by Italian and Flemish merchants alike; high value was placed on Irish horses and hawks.

  The Irish goods would be exchanged for what his people needed: corn, salt, iron, even wine; the spices which enhanced and preserved their foodstuffs; the silks which clothed the wealthy; the various furs which provided warmth; the jewels that gave happiness or were used to flaunt wealth. Trade gave Ireland the edge it needed to retain its freedom.

  The bark of the dog and the pounding of the approaching hoofbeats stole Rolf's attention from his task. An involuntary tightening of his loins occurred when he recognized one of the riders as Sybelle. Since that evening meal he'd avoided her, choosing to throw himself into work that demanded his attention. Each night he went to his chamber exhausted. Each night the haunting dreams returned, torturing his sleep, fracturing the night into shards of uneven time.

  Christ, he swore softly. She had no right to look so lovely, so proud. She rode astride, as did Etain, sure and confident. A thick fur-trimmed cloak hid her hair and body from his eyes. Lugh scrambled across the sand, eager to greet his master.

  Sybelle observed the man and the dog. Roll bent, placing a knee upon the sand, his fingers stroking the dog's coat, his voice low and husky as he talked to the animal. Then he raised his lashes, and she felt the force of the icy gray-green gaze.

  Would he speak? she wondered, her own tongue silent. She held tightly to the reins as her horse pawed the sand.

  When he spoke, his words were directed to Etain, in Gaelic, excluding Sybelle. Even though she didn't understand, she could tell by his tone that he wasn't happy she was there.

  Etain listened solemnly until Sybelle broke in. "My lord, the blame is mine. I insisted that Etain bring me here."

  "Did you?" he asked, arching a thick brow.

  Her chin raised higher. "Aye."

  Green eyes locked with blue, each assessing the other, neither giving way.

  "Tiarna," the man at Rolf's side spoke, anxious to get back to the business at hand.

  Rolf gave his attention to the clerk. Raking a hand through his windswept black hair, he turned his back on the ladies, indicating to them that the meeting was at an end.

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  Sybelle examined the stone cottage that overlooked the ocean. It was clean, comfortable, furnished quite well with various luxuries. She examined a fluted decanter of wine. The bed was adorned with soft linen instead of coarse homespun. Across a chair was flung a cloak of white velvet, lined with beaver.

  "Do you like it?" Etain asked, pouring wine for Sybelle, a mug of ale for herself.

  Sybelle nodded. "'Tis exquisite."

  "A gift from Armand."

  "Captain duBerre?"

  "Aye. 'Tis his wine you'll be drinking," she said with a smile.

  "His choice is excellent."

  "Armand has a fondness for it. Myself, I'd rather have ale."

  "Actually," Sybelle confided, "so would I."

  Etain laughed, a full, rich sound. "My lady, you are full of surprises."

  Sybelle sipped her wine and ate the meal Etain provided, savoring the taste of trout flavored with almonds and cream. She felt, with an instinct she trusted, a closeness to this Irishwoman. Et
ain possessed a quiet strength, as did the Lady Duvessa. It was this that made Sybelle feel free to ask, "Is the French captain a good friend?"

  "Very close, you may say, my lady," Etain answered. "He is my lover."

  Sybelle lowered her eyes, considering the woman's words. Mayhap he couldn't afford to wed Etain, and would have need of money. She would see to it that her father was generous.

  Yet, she thought, suppose they were not planning on being wed? How could she bring up the subject?

  "What troubles you, Sybelle?" Etain asked, dispensing with the more formal mode of address.

  Sybelle lifted her head, blue eyes alight with curiosity. "Are you and the captain planning to marry?"

  Etain considered this for a moment. "There has been no talk of such," she admitted.

  "But what if he leaves you?"

  "He will."

  "No," Sybelle clarified, "I do not mean for just the span of a sea voyage."

  "Armand is free to come and go as he choses, as I am free to tell him to stay or to leave."

  "Do you love him?"

  "Armand holds a close spot in my heart; he always will. Yet I do not feel the love for him that would make me ache endlessly should he never return."

  "Does he love you?"

  "In his own way, aye, he does. As I love him. We are close; still, we have not exchanged souls."

  Sybelle's perplexed expression made Etain grin. "An exchange of souls?" she asked.

  "To be that much a part of another's life, so that you understand him completely. 'Tis rare, Sybelle. Only a few attain that level of love." She poured another tankard of ale, enjoying the cold taste. "Armand and I share our bodies, our pleasure. For us that is enough."

  Sybelle spoke what was on her mind. "Your words are strange to hear from the lips of a woman."

  "Because I speak frankly?"

  "Aye. You do not pretend, Etain. Your honesty is too much a part of you."

  "So my mother often says." She smiled. "I sense that my words disturb you."

  "'Tis just that the women I know do not speak so of carnal matters."

  "It may be they have never experienced the pleasure of a man's embrace."

  "Two of my ladies are wed."

  "Did they tell you, prepare you, for your first mating?"

  Mating, Sybelle thought. What a curious way to phrase the act. "Dame Judith instructed me when I was fourteen and first betrothed."

  "Betrothed?" Etain questioned in surprise. "Are you still?"

  "No," Sybelle answered her quietly, fondly recalling the young man who was to have been her husband.

  "What happened?"

  "He died."

  "How?"

  "A sword thrust meant for the king's younger brother, Richard, found its mark instead in Piers's body.''

  "Had you known your betrothed?" Etain was aware of the custom of the nobility to make marriage arrangements without the boy and girl involved having met.

  "Piers was the son of my father's cousin." A sad-sweet smile curved her lips as she recalled the younger man. "He was fostered to my father's care. I was very fond of him, as he was of me. We would have had a good marriage, of that I am sure." She could still remember the sharp blow dealt to her when the Earl of Derran sent word of the tragic, albeit heroic death of Piers de Marvain. His gently teasing ways had ended. No more would she look forward to his quiet wit, or to sharing his dreams and hopes. As for Etain's wordsthere had been no sharing of souls. Still, she believed that they would have made each other happy. She would have been content. Wasn't that the function of a marriage in her world? A blending of interests surely outweighed such romantic notions as souls. Souls were for God alone.

  "How old were you when you lost him?"

  "Sixteen. We were to be wed in three months."

  "You are the daughter of a wealthy, influential man. Were there no other marriage contracts arranged?"

  A smile tugged at Sybelle's mouth. "Indeed. My father thought it best to put forth another match. This time 'twas to a Scottish lord."

  "What happened?"

  Her smile turned wry; her words were laced with ironic amusement. "'Twould seem he neglected to tell my father about an obstacle standing in his wayhis mistress." Sybelle's eyes sparkled. "She was a widow under his protection who had already given him a child and was about to present him with another. When her brothers heard about his discussions with my lord father, they objected strenuously. He decided that perhaps it would be better if he wed his mistress." She laughed. "It was either that or her brothers would have cut him into little pieces and fed him to their dogs. He wisely made the most expedient choice in the circumstances.''

  Etain joined Sybelle in laughing, but then paused, reaching out her hand to enclose Sybelle's. "'Tis no luck you've had."

  "No, perhaps not. Yet I have turned it to my best interest," Sybelle said in a pragmatic tone.

  "How so?"

  "By negotiating with my father that I shall be allowed to choose my own husband," she said proudly. "If I must be wed, then I would it were to a man of my own selection."

  "You were granted that?"

  "Aye."

  "Derran must hold you in high regard."

  "My father trusts me. He knows I will pick a man best suited to me, and to my responsibilities."

  "What of passion?"

  "What of it?"

  "Is there no place in your life for that?"

  "Of what use is that to me?" Sybelle asked, a contemptuous tone echoing her words.

  "You felt no fire pass between you and your Piers?" Etain asked.

  Sybelle paused for thought. "We were suited well. Besides, is not passion a thing for men?"

  "No, 'tis not."

  Sybelle felt a touch of awkwardness. "Do you feel this passion when you share your bed?"

  "Indeed," Etain stated proudly, "else I would not do so. The sharing of passion is a gift. If it is not given freely on both sides, it loses its flavor." Etain watched the play of emotions on Sybelle's face. The younger woman was digesting her words, she knew, and finding them at odds with the way she had been instructed.

  "Come," Etain said, gathering up her cloak. "We must return to the keep." From a tiny window she saw the darkening sky. Another storm was due.

  Chapter 12

  The evening's meal had ended; the hour was late and most had sought their rooms for the night as strong winds and fierce rain buffeted the walls of the castle.

  Sybelle paced slowly around the confines of her room. There had been no opportunity at the meal to talk to Armand duBerre alone. Etain's company kept him occupied or Rolf directed a substantial portion of his conversation to him.

  He must help her. She would explain to him that she was a captiveone who could make him rich if he were to aid her in escaping. A way must be found.

  She stood before the blazing fire, placing a small log onto the flames. Her flesh was chilled. Fear skittered along her nerves as she held out her hands to the warmth, and she took a deep calming breath. The night was more than half over. She must do something now, else all would be lost.

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  Roll found that he couldn't sleep, so instead of remaining a prisoner of his bed, he chose work. He sat at a small writing table in his chamber, reviewing the accounts of the voyage. Everything was in order, a tally ready for Armand and a copy to be kept for his own records. A handsome profit should be netted on this voyage. It had been a hard winter, and money was needed to sustain his people, to make repairs and buy goods necessary to their continued survival. He picked up another thick record book. His personal household expenses. He was thankful his days as a student at the University in Paris were not completely wasted. His father's dictum of responsibility was ingrained into him"one should never be careless about the lives or estates entrusted to one's custody," the old earl had taught. Roll took his obligations seriously, and he knew some thought him overly cautious. It was in his nature to take command, to make sure that he
was getting what he paid for, to have the ultimate control. Too many lords gave only a cursory glance at their accounts, ceeding that right to a clerk or baliff, as long as they had what they needed.

  Rolf trusted his menhe simply never ceased to forget who was responsible for the welfare of his family and people. He was Killroone.

  He finished scanning another document and reached for a thin stick of wax, which he set alight, dripping it over the paper. He closed his hand into a fist and turned it to affix the seal on his ring to the parchment. The wolf's head stared back at him, along with the word around its throat: Glacaim. "I takeI accept."

  The last group of papers he read had to do with his mother's property in Wales. Her brothers had both died, along with their children. The small keep was now in his care. It would require a personal inspection soon. Perhaps Bran would be his emissary.

  Thoughts of his brother pushed their way into his brain. He knew Bran did not like what he had done. Bran's heart was of a gentler nature than his; this Rolf accepted. And he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. His feelings of protectiveness for his younger brother stemmed from Rolf's own pain at the ugly things he'd been forced to see in his lifetime. As long as he lived he would never forget the carnage of that horrific day when he'd discovered the bodies of his parents.

  Rolf shuddered, forcing his mind to focus on something else. Angiallthe hostage. Somehow she was never far from his thoughts. He massaged the bridge of his sharp-bladed nose. He could see her sitting astride the horse, looking as haughty as Queen Maeve of legend; or at the table where they shared supper, the hint of sadness in her eyes making him think of the sorrowful Deidre. When he thought about her now, it was, always with a keen hunger. He closed his eyes, letting the fantasy block out the dark truth of the night. She stood before him, the wind whirling her hair gently around her body, a smile soft and tender upon her mouth, her eyes dark and deep. She stood, waiting, anticipating his approach, her face glowing with a radiant ecstasy. He had only to reach out his hand. . . .

  And what? Grasp the air?

  The low growl of one of the dogs forced his mind back to reality. He saw it scratch and sniff at the door. What ailed it?