Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  Picking up his sword, Rolf walked to the door. He pulled the animal back from the entrance, listening for any sounds. He could hear nothing, yet the dog's agitated actions indicated someone was outside in the corridor.

  Slowly he eased the wide door open so as not to make an excess of noise. The hall outside was almost completely dark, except for the sputtering light afforded by the candles set in the wall sconces.

  His eyes adjusted quickly as he scanned for signs of movement. A quick flicker of light caught his eyethere on the stairs, slowly descending. The figure of a woman and a dog. He could barely make her out; she clung close to the shadows, the single candle glowing brightly.

  It was Sybelle, followed by Lugh. Did she think to leave the castle? Wasn't she aware she would never get past the guards? His eyes narrowed. From what he could ascertain she wasn't dressed for traveling, but for sleep. The long robe she wore trailed behind her, sweeping along the curved stairs. He waved the dog back into place with his hand, commanded its silence, and closed the door to his room, making his way along the corridor, watching her graceful steps.

  She headed for the smaller guest chamber on the lower floor, off the Great Hall. The bedchamber Armand was using, and probably sharing with Etain.

  What was the Lady Sybelle doing?

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  Armand had just begun to doze, his arms securely wrapped around the body of the lovely Irishwoman in his bed. Etain was the perfect mistress, a lover to treasure. Tonight he needed to hold the richness she provided close, savoring the delights as they played the game of love to its rich conclusion. On the morning tide he would sail to France.

  He heard the soft sound of the knock, just barely. He forced his eyes to open, and listened again. The sound returned, urgent and stronger.

  He eased himself from Etain's body, who woke with the movement. Her eyes focused quickly, saw the finger he held to his lips, indicating that he wished her to remain silent.

  He gathered a pair of discarded hose and pulled them on, adding a white shirt, which he left unlaced. The dagger that lay by the bed was in his hand. He pulled shut the drapes surrounding the bed, shutting Etain away from the visitor.

  Cautiously he walked to the door.

  "Captain duBerre, are you awake?"

  He recognized the low voice as that of the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald.

  Opening the door, he stood in the entrance. "What is it that you wish, my lady?"

  "Some of your time, captain," she responded in French. Sybelle glanced quickly to the right and the left. "May I enter? What I have to say must be done in private."

  Confused, Armand stepped aside as the woman and her ever-present, vigilant watchdog came into the room.

  "My lady," Armand began, thrusting the dagger into its sheath, placing it on a chest, "you should not be here."

  "Oui," she answered, walking around the room, her hands clenched tightly together. "I know." She paused, aware of just how bold was her stratagem, and what she was asking. Somehow the conviction that she was behaving in a manner that was contradictory to how she was taught no longer mattered. Escape from this dark dream must be foremost in her mind.

  "My father is the Earl of Derran."

  "Oui, my lady."

  "He is a man much favored by his king, rich, influential. Return me to him and you will be rewarded beyond your dreams." She faced him calmly, proposing her plan.

  "You wish me to betray my partner?"

  "With the favor of my father, you would have no need for a partner," she said, her voice persuasive. "Think of it. Derran will be generous, this I promise you." She angled her head, casting him a slicing glance. "Would you not want your own ship? Perhaps two? That can be arranged.''

  Armand paused, as if considering her proposition. "Are you certain that you can speak for your sire?"

  Sybelle faced him, her eyes challenging. "Monsieur, you have no reason to doubt my word. Whatever you request I can vouchsafe you that my father shall grant, if 'tis within his power. And his power is extensive. He will keep any promise that I make to you."

  Armand walked closer to her, glancing at the pale flesh he could see bared by the neckline of the robe. He stopped, stretching out his hand, lightly touching her slender throat. He wondered just how far this English lady was willing to go to free herself? Would she beg? Would she offer the ultimate price for her freedom?

  Etain, hidden behind the curtains of the bed, listened to the conversation. Her knowledge of French was limited, but she could follow the conversation enough to know that Sybelle was offering Armand a bribe. It was obvious to Etain that Sybelle had no real notion of the full extent of Armand's identity. She truly believed that she was making him an offer he could not afford to refuse.

  Sybelle found her voice. When she spoke it was husky. "What say you?"

  Armand stood in front of her, very close. He put his hand to his chin, stroking the hair of his beard, as if in consideration. "Is that all you have to offer?"

  Sybelle's head rose a fraction; her voice got colder, firmer. "Isn't that enough?"

  Armand's brown eyes twinkled. He was beginning to enjoy the game. "Haven't you forgotten something important?"

  "What other demands do you have for your services?"

  "Surely it is more than services required, my lady? It is the selling of my friendship."

  "And I perceive it to be an exchange of influential patrons. My lord father can do more for you than can Killroone. England is a larger trading partner. Also, I have my own estates, in this country. Your services would not come cheaply."

  "Neither does my loyalty," Armand said softly.

  "What else do you require?"

  "Suppose I said your soft body in my bed for the remainder of this night, cherie?" he whispered into her ear, pushing aside the unbound hair.

  She stiffened. "Remove your hand," she commanded. Armand complied. Sybelle turned to face him, her palm contacting quickly with his skin.

  "I am no one's whore, monsieur."

  "Neither am I, my lady," he said, grabbing her arm as she made to leave. He released it only when he heard the wolfhound's growl.

  "I did not" she said.

  Interrupting her, he countered with, "You would have me sell my loyalty to my partner for some paltry coin, for a few kindly spoken words on my behalf?" A sneer transposed his face. "You Anglais, everything is reduced to money, n'est-ce pas? Even your king is for sale," he said with a hint of condemnation. "Well I am not, ma chиre. Rolf O'Dalaigh is my friend. I do not barter my affections. Nor would I if he and I were partners in business only. Sacrй mиre, my ancestors would spit on me."

  "Forgive me," she said simply and, with her dog, left the room.

  Etain parted the curtains; a sheet of linen was draped around her body. "What would you have done if she had given in to your last request?"

  Armand smiled as he walked to the bed, dispensing with his clothes. Leaning over, he placed a kiss on her parted lips, tumbling her backwards onto the bed. "There was no chance of the Lady Sybelle doing that, ma coeur." He gathered Etain close in his embrace. "She would bargain with whatever she could to be free, but not with her pride."

  "I agree," Etain said, her voice a softly uttered whisper. "Sybelle Fitzgerald will pay a price for her freedom, but it will be on her terms. Bartering her body would not be acceptable."

  "Would you?" he asked, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

  "Only if my freedom were already assured," she answered practically. "Otherwise, one could give and get nothing in return." She leathered her palms across his smooth chest, following with her lips. "She would not, even then. Nor would Roll, if the situations were reversed."

  Armand chuckled at that thought. "How correct you are, cherie." He related an incident to her that occurred when he and Rolf were students. "And when the comtesse said that she would pay handsomely for his continued services, Roll quit her bed abruptly." He shrugged his shoulders. "But enough of them, ma ch
иre. There are only a few hours left to us. Let us use them wisely."

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  Rolf waited until Sybelle entered her chamber, following her in the shadows. She hadn't stayed long, he noted, feeling an unanticipated sense of anger and jealousy. He assumed she was trying to purchase her way out of his care by offering Armand something to help her flee. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. He was sure she'd failed, else her face would have worn a happier look. Instead he saw resignation, and a trace of pain. He fought against the urge to comfort, for in that path lay surrenderhis, not hers. She must not know that he . . . that he what? Wanted to draw her into his arms, caress that strong face, and kiss that captivating mouth?

  Abruptly, Rolf slammed his open palms backwards into the cool wall of stone. He inhaled several deep, slow breaths. His lips thinned, his jaw clenched. Damn her for the English vixen that she was. Once again he must show her whose will was stronger.

  A smile of expected satisfaction curved his mouth. Before he was done, she would learn the word maistir, for indeed, in his establishment, there could only be one masterRolf O'Dalaigh.

  Chapter 13

  Sybelle sat staring into the flames of the fire, trying to fight the oppressive air of dejection she felt creeping upon her like a devouring cloud. Armand had rejected her offer. Tears formed in her eyes, hot and stinging; she brushed them aside as they fell. Her shoulders were slumped forward. The mournful, keening sound of the wind and rain seemed to echo her mood.

  What did the future hold for her once she was freed from this prison of despair? What life awaited her? She searched for an answer. All she saw were questions.

  She heard the latch of the huge door being slid back. Startled, she stood, her breath catching in her throat. Armand had changed his mind.

  The hope, the look of anticipation, faded from her features, replaced by a chill dread. Standing before her was Rolf, not Armand. Lugh rose from his position at her feet, obeying his master's gesture.

  Rolf quietly closed the door, leaving them alone. He leaned against it, his green eyes narrowed as he drank in the sight of Sybelle outlined by the fire, her gown of ivory lawn and lace boldly displaying her exquisite form lighted from the back by the flames. She seemed unaware of just what she looked like, what was revealed by her action. The deep rise and fall of her chest with every breath forced his attention to the lush curve of her breasts. Her hair, gilded into a fiery halo of light, shimmered.

  He knew, she surmised. Somehow, he knew. Her eyelashes fanned down, hiding her eyes from him.

  "Sybelle." Her name was spoken in a husky whisper, reaching across the chamber, touching her.

  Her lashes raised; her gaze connected with his. She expected to see anger in the depths of his cool green eyes. When it wasn't there, she was at a loss. What should she do? There was nowhere to run. And what would it accomplish if she did run? He would only hunt her down and drag her back. There was no escape.

  Calmly, she sought his eyes again, satisfiedno, that wasn't the correct wordaccepting the inevitability of her position.

  "Sybelle. Bend to me," he said, approaching her with careful, considered steps. Slowly he circled her, assessing. She could feel the gentle caress of his palm as he glided it from the crown of her head along the waving tendrils of her hair, until his hand cupped the slight curve of her bottom beneath the honey strands. She quivered involuntarily. Next, she felt the graze of his fingers on the linen that clung to her legs. The brush of his hand sliding from her waist to her knee sent a warming pulse in that area to beat more erratically.

  Sybelle clenched her teeth. She must force her mind away from the deed, for only by focusing on something else could she be free. A claiming of her body was one thing, a claiming of her mind another. Vainly she fought to direct her thoughts onto mundane mattersthe year's harvest; what price wool would bring; what repairs would be needed at her estate. Her sistershow fared the twins? Clare. Audrey. Concentrate, she berated herself silently. Dismiss the ministrations of his fingers as they undid the silken ties that held the gown, exposing the flesh beneath. Movement ceased and her eyes, closed, fluttered open. He was behind her again, his strong hands on her shoulders, murmuring words into her ear in Gaelic, rough whisperings that belonged to the night, to the darkness enfolding them as the fire grew dim.

  Her hair was brushed to one side, her neck and shoulder exposed. She heard his deeply indrawn breath, and a soft gasp escape her own mouth as she felt his warm lips on her flesh. The gown was pushed further down her arms, momentarily imprisoning her in its soft embrace, before he did away with it completely. His hands spanned her waist as he lingered on the journey from her shoulders to her spine. Soft kisses feathered across the blades of her back and worked along her backbone, ending in an intimate caress as he fell to one knee, touching his mouth to the pale globes of both cheeks. One hand extended, Rolf let his index finger stroke a sweet path from her knee to the back of her foot, encircling her ankle gently.

  He rose. His robe joined the nightdress on the floor. Skin to skin they stood. Warmth from his larger frame permeated hers. The black hair of his chest rubbed against her shoulder; the hard muscles of his thighs and the growing proof of his passions were hot on her flesh. His hands slid around her stomach, reaching upwards until each wide palm cradled her tender skin. The rhythm of his thumbs across her nipples caused her to bite her lips to stifle the moan she felt moving through her. "Succumb, Sybelle," he urged in her ear, nibbling softly on the lobe, before drawing his tongue across the same spot.

  The even tenor of his breathing was changing. She could feel the deep expulsion of air as his chest expanded, could hear the slight raspy quality of the sound. "Yield . . . to me," he said, his voice a growl of animal intensity.

  Sybelle's own breath came in short pants when Rolf made bold with his next touch, a long caress of his left hand from the underside of her breast across her soft belly until he delicately fondled the golden-brown hair at the juncture of her thighs.

  Her knees began to buckle slightly as Rolf's palm glided across the curls, not yet seeking entrance.

  He grasped her right hand in his, turning, backing slowly toward the raised bed, leading her. "Come," he whispered, "now."

  Sybelle followed. She was entranced; relinquishing control of herself, she slid across the bed. She blinked, waited for him to make the next move.

  He remained standing by the bed, his gaze traveling along her body, warming her.

  She watched the slow, sensual movements of his hands as they raked the hair back from his face, and then, as he brought them back down again, deliberately, across his shoulders and chest, ending at his thighs.

  He joined her, entwining his fingers through hers, placing a kiss on her wrist. He echoed that with a foray to the inner circle of her elbow, his tongue snaking out to lave it with a few quick strokes. His mouth was against hers, coaxing, persuading hers to give in to the feelings he evoked. His kiss deepened, widened, intensified. He raised his head. Clutching a handful of his thick, shoulder-length mane, she forced his lips back to hers, needing, however dangerous, the contact, the compelling force he provided.

  Sybelle could feel her body getting warmer, even though the room was chillier, now that the fire burned low. What was he doing to her? She shouldn't allow it to happen, yet what was her course? It seemed to Sybelle as if Rolf's hands and mouth were everywhere on her body, leaving her bereft of air. Sensations overrode her reason. She was floating on each new experience, as if she no longer had control. There were hills to climb, valleys to plumb. Her head fell back against the pillow as she let the sensory impressions wash over her, like crashing waves against the rocky shore. Then, when she thought she could endure no more, another burst of light erupted when Rolf's body thrust explosively into hers, draining her energy.

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  Darkness hid the triumphant smile that curved Rolf's mouth. Ecstasy was a sweet brew, once tasted,
always savored. Tonight she was his, completely, her surrender accomplished.

  But, a small voice nagged at himwhat of your surrender? Rolf ignored the sharp prick of his errant thoughts, concentrating instead on the texture of her skin, soft and supple, as he skated his hand across the gentle curve of her spine, splaying his fingers along her delicate hipbone.

  He felt her flinch in reaction, pulling away from his touch.

  Sybelle shuddered with distaste. Oh, sweet Jesu, she thought, how could I have abandoned myself to a man, to him, especially, like that? It was as if a spell had been placed on her, blinding her to her own true ways, making her follow where before she would have scorned to go. His skillful hands and mouth wove spells of indescribable beauty upon her susceptible flesh, as his voice penetrated her mind, seducing her with its potent charm.

  Yet she couldn't deny, in her honest heart, that there had been the pleasure Etain spoke of. A feeling of sensation so powerful Sybelle thought she had died momentarily and been reborn. He held that power over her, and the knowledge was a bitter taste in her mouth.

  She hoped that he was asleep, that his movements were unconscious, so that she could make her way from the bed, this place that held memories of her shame. The first time forced against her will; the second, a succumbing to the sorcerer's magic, forgetting that he was her jailer, the keeper of her freedom. What she hadn't been able to contemplate doing in cold blood, she found herself experiencing with the hot-blooded blade of desire searing her vitals. Had her father encountered the same conflagration, so intense as to brand one's soul?

  That thought shocked and scared her. Her father was a man in his prime, a widower, settled with his life, as she was with hers. This aberrant surrender to the folly of carnal lust was momentary, something she would wipe from her mind, from her life. Hugh Fitzgerald was too rational, too experienced a man, a battle-scarred soldier, to allow himself to be swayed by a lapse into the forbidden realm. And she was her father's daughter, fighting a different campaign. Her will must be firm, or else she would be forever lost.