Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  "There is the widow of the late Lord Dormoth," Rolf said, resuming the focus of his speech. "He was much older than she, and even though there were no children of the union, I have reason to feel that 'twas not her fault." He paused. "She is but fifteen, and attractive, with a sweet nature."

  "Get her for your own," Bran shouted.

  "She's not what I want."

  "What, or should I say who, is?" Bran demanded. He picked up the skin for another drink of the water, wiping his lips with the back of his ungloved hand. "Describe to me what you seek in a woman who shall be your countess, Rolf."

  Rolf took the skin from Bran's hand and drank. He took a deep breath and said in a considered tone, "Pride. Intelligence. Spirit. A heritage worthy of the future Earl of Killroone." He rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "A woman of deep passions. When I have found such a rare gem, I shall be content."

  Branduff's mouth dropped open. Did his brother not realize that he had just described the Lady Sybelle? The wolf's perfect mate was now within his grasp.

  At that moment there was a shout from one of Rolf's men. "My lord, riders approach."

  Instantly Rolf was on his feet, a small dagger in his hand. Bran was similarly ready, and the men accompanying them drew bows.

  Over the crest of the hill came three riders. Rolf instantly recognized the burly form of the giant Auliffe and recognized the face of another of his retainers. Then his glance sharpened on the face of the third, and he sucked in his breath. Only one person had hair that shade of honey kissed by the sun, or a small nose and cheeks dusted with golden freckles. It was Sybelle.

  "The Lady Sybelle." Bran echoed his brother's thoughts.

  "'Twould appear so, indeed."

  The horses came to the spot where Rolf's party had stopped. A grin was on Auliffe's features. Sybelle was smiling and making a small bow of her head.

  Rolf sheathed his weapon, walking towards the heavy-breathing mare Sybelle rode. Grabbing the bridle, he held it in his hand as he stroked the neck of the animal.

  "What is this?" he asked, his eyes narrowed into green slits as he took in Sybelle's costume. He recognized the horse as belonging to his brother. Obviously the lady had raided his brother's apartments and made free with various items of clothing. The sturdy wool doublet that would have reached Bran's waist, was well below Sybelle's slender thighs. Her feet were encased in leather boots that reached past her calves. A snowy linen shirt was laced high, yet it couldn't prevent the lovely column of her throat from being exposed to his gaze.

  "I would have thought that 'twas obvious, even to you, my lord. I am for the hunt."

  Bran laughed out loud.

  Rolf shot him a contemptuous look.

  "Are you indeed?" Rolf asked.

  "Aye. I saw you and your brother this morn, and I decided that I wanted to join you. Since you didn't think to offer me the opportunity, I took it myself."

  Rolf looked at Auliffe, demanding an explanation.

  Auliffe cleared his throat, and spoke as the rest did, in English for her benefit. "My Lady Sybelle asked me to accompany her, my lord, as she knew that you wouldn't want her alone in such unfamiliar territory."

  Both Sybelle and Rolf swung a look in Auliffe's direction as he artfully phrased that small distortion of the truth.

  "Indeed," Rolf said, bringing his face back to Sybelle's. "As you wish, my lady."

  "Have you a bird for me?" Sybelle asked.

  "Here, my lady," Bran offered, "take mine." He took the long-tailed falcon from the boy who held him and placed him on Sybelle's gloved hand.

  She ran her hand over the bird's dark feathers, stroking softly. "Magnificent," she breathed.

  "Truly," Rolf said softly, his eyes not on the bird.

  Mounting Fergal, Rolf signaled for his own bird, a strong, short-tailed hawk. He removed the scrap of leather that closed off the bird's vision, and let it fly. Sybelle did the same to hers, and they were off in pursuit.

  Bran and Auliffe exchanged glances as they watched Rolf and Sybelle depart, the others following behind. Bran remounted his horse, a sleek black, and turned to question Auliffe in their native tongue. "What do you make of this?"

  "By the sweet saints, lad, I don't know," he said, pausing to rub his hand reflectively over his thick beard. "When I was summoned and told that the Lady Sybelle wanted to go hawking, 'twas a surprise to me. And, when she appeared wearing what I make are your clothes, well, 'twas a bit difficult to understand. She was determined to do it. Nothing I could have said would have persuaded her different." He cast an odd look Bran's way. "The situation that exists between your lord brother and the lady is somewhat hard to comprehend. I feel as though she is the lady of the keep, and as such, I should respect and grant her wishes if 'tis within my power."

  "What do you think would be the reaction of our people should she ever become the countess?"

  "Do you think 'tis a possibility?"

  Bran's golden eyes glowed with an inner consideration. "Aye, Auliffe, that I do. What say you?"

  "Your brother is well-loved by his people, my lord, as are you, and as such, they want only that you both are content, and that the line of your ancestors continue as it has for more years than recorded history. They wish for you both the legendary love that existed between your parents. For myself, I know that I would welcome the Lady Sybelle, even though she is Norman and foreign to our ways, if she made my lord Rolf happy."

  "Would you encourage this mating?"

  Bran leaned over to pat the neck of his restive horse. "Aye, I would. And I shall." He pulled back on his reins, forcing his animal to rear. "Let us join them and see what this day has accomplished."

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  She felt alive, vibrant, happy. Odd that she could use those precise words to describe how she was feeling right now. But it was true. She heard her own laughter ring out spontaneously as Rolf made a witty remark about his own bird and her luck. In the two hours since Sybelle joined the hunt, the bags holding the kill bulged. Across the back of one of the attendants' horses was slung a hart, brought down with a single arrow by Rolf's quick hand.

  "A rest, my lord," she said.

  Rolf pulled his horse up. He noted the glowing color in Sybelle's cheeks, the look of keen pleasure that lit her misty-blue eyes. He admired the length of her flanks covered by the material that clung to them. He found himself wishing that her legs, which clung tenaciously to her mount's sides, clung to his own limbs instead. The doublet parted as she took in a deep breath, giving him a glimpse of the form beneath. The cream linen clung to her shape, revealing the fullness of one breast. Memories of her skin next to his infused his brain, making him ache with longing. Never before had a woman so turned him this way and that with her feminine charms. Previously, he had been able to find the temporary tranquility that eased his flesh, forgetting easily after the act was completed. This searing heat that demanded more of what it fed on was new to him.

  Rolf listened as she questioned Auliffe about a particular animal. He found even the quality of her voice soothing. There was no idle prattle to her speech.

  Less than three-quarters of an hour passed before they called the hunt over. Rolf and Sybelle rode side by side, their horses trotting at a sedate pace. They came to the outskirts of a village.

  "I wish to rest our horses for a few moments. Perhaps we can also find something stronger than water to quench our own thirsts." And, in a gesture that surprised Sybelle, Rolf asked, "Do you have any objections?"

  She blinked. "None, my Lord Killroone."

  "Then we shall tarry here awhile. Auliffe."

  "Aye, my lord?" he asked, riding closer to Rolf.

  "Hasten to the village and tell them we wish to stop."

  "As you bid, my lord," he answered, riding ahead.

  Within minutes the small community was lined with people.

  Sybelle watched as Rolf was approached by some of the villagers who made their living on this
land. She took note of the genuinely pleased looks as Rolf's people surrounded him, some begging for his attention as he dismounted. Several women presented their children for his inspection, giving quizzical glances towards Sybelle, chattering away in Gaelic. One or two of the women pointed in her direction. Rolf smiled broadly. She wondered just what it was they had to say. Her eyes scanned the terrain quickly. Their small cottages of stone looked well cared for; they themselves were clean, obviously well-fed. Bran joined her as she continued to watch Rolf and the entourage that enfolded him.

  "Your brother appears much loved by his people."

  "That surprises you?" Bran queried, dismounting to accept the cup of ale that he was being offered.

  Sybelle colored at this remark. She raised her chin. "I had no way to know how well received he was by his own."

  Bran murmured something in Gaelic to the lad who held the cup, and he quickly fled to do Bran's bidding, returning with a cup of sweet honey-mead for Sybelle.

  She took the proffered drink, saying her thanks as best she could recall in the boy's language, and saw his face break into a wide grin, revealing a missing front tooth. She sat silent for several minutes, merely observing Rolf and the villagers. There was no bitter gall of servitude in their looks, nor were they afraid. They were as God made themmen and women, not cowed creatures who feared their lord and master. Killroone walked among them unafraid, confident. Sybelle was aware that all too often people who lived on a lord's land were not so well cared for. Some were starved for their crops, others were treated little better than unmindful beasts of burden; and she knew that some lords followed the old Norman custom of the droit de seigneur, the taking of the village virgins to the lord's bed so that he could have the joy of initating them to womanhood, whether they were willing or not. Their feelings were given little consideration.

  What sort of man was he that he inspired such a deep affection in his retainers and his people?

  Rolf's next action took her by surprise.

  He removed one of the bags containing birds and a few choice rabbits. He instructed Auliffe to bring forth the slain deer. He presented them to an old man, saying a few words in Gaelic. He made a sweep of his hand that Sybelle saw was meant to include her also. The old man kissed his lord's hand, and leaning heavily on his carved walking stick, he approached Sybelle.

  He spoke in a soft voice, barely above a whisper. Sybelle looked to Bran for translation.

  "He says that he thanks you for his family and the others in this humble village," Bran explained, waiting till the man finished speaking again: "He wants you to know that you will be in the prayers of the village for your generosity." Bran saw her puzzled look and explained. "The food. Rolf wants his people to have it to supplement their foodstuffs, especially the hart."

  The realization of the gift of the deer dawned on her.

  "They are forbidden to hunt the animal?"

  "No, not forbidden," Bran answered. "'Tis custom, and they respect it. Killroone would never allow his people to starve, yet they see the hart as the property of their earl." He smiled, and in that small gesture Sybelle could see another face, more carefree and less cynical. "'Tis always understood that whenever possible a Killroone deer is given. We have no problem with poachers in these lands."

  Sybelle responded, "Please, tell him that they are welcome to the food." She felt the old man's wrinkled lips on her smooth hand. She heard him chuckle and murmur words in a low voice to Bran, who tried hard to contain his laughter.

  "What did he say?" Sybelle demanded.

  "I don't think you wish to hear his words, my lady."

  "Tell me."

  Bran tried to his his smile. "He said that you and Killroone will have splendid children. From gods do gods come. Some of Rolf's people worried needlessly about the future. You are surely ben charrthach, the loved woman."

  Sybelle was taken aback by the old man's words. "Please tell him that he is wrong," she instructed.

  "Are you sure about that?"

  Her face was implacable. "Without doubt."

  He spoke to the old man, relaying Sybelle's words. The man raised his eyes and stared deeply into Sybelle's face. She returned his sharp glance. He said something to Bran before he turned and walked stiffly away.

  "He does not believe you, my lady. His mother had the sight. At times he is blessed with it."

  The sight. In England, to have made that claim would have resulted in a charge of heresy or witchcraft. Sybelle admitted to herself that here, in this roughly beautiful place, it seemed to belong. This was another world from hers, where myths took precedence over reality, where strict church doctrines were blended with an older religion that embraced the forces of nature and accepted some things as truth that couldn't be proved.

  With her practical turn of mind, she shrugged away the old man's claim instead of blessing herself needlessly. Sight be damned, she scoffed. "He is wrong."

  "As you say," Bran agreed, silently taking stock of all that the old man had spoken.

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  A hot bath was awaiting her when she returned. Siobhan was waiting also.

  "My lady, I see your plan worked. Was it all that you hoped for?"

  "Aye."

  "Did you enjoy yourself?" Siobhan asked. She could only imagine what the sight of the Lady Sybelle dressed in Bran's old clothes did to the Lord Rolf.

  "Indeed I did; perhaps for the first time in a long time."

  "Yet something troubles you, my lady?" Siobhan asked, noting the slight furrow on Sybelle's brow.

  Sybelle pulled her braid to a knot above her head, pushing in a gold pin to anchor the mass there. "Aye. 'Tis what I saw today and what I have been told, the discrepancy of what I believed and what is truth."

  Siobhan looked at her. "And what is that, my lady?"

  She was interrupted in answering by the soft rapping upon the door. Sybelle saw Siobhah was already to the task of opening it when a large dog pushed past her, making for Sybelle. It was Lugh, who'd been confined to another part of the castle when she rode out.

  He barked excitedly. Sybelle was almost knocked over by the force of his greeting as he stood up to lick her face.

  A tug on his collar by Siobhan forced him down. "So, you missed me, eh, brute?" Sybelle teased, fondling the dog's thick neck. "Did you think I had forgotten you?" she chided softly, reaching tor a linen bag she'd brought with her. Opening the sack, she produced a joint of meat, which she set on the stone before the fire.

  "Eat now," she commanded in a gentle tone, watching as Lugh followed her bidding.

  She turned to Siobhan. "I fear the cook may be missing this, but I thought of poor Lugh confined inside the castle and thought that he deserved a special treat."

  Siobhan produced a hint of a smile. If she could love the beast, could she not love the master?

  Sybelle returned to the question Siobhan had asked. "I had been told that in this part of Ireland, out of reach of the king's authority, life was hard, unrelenting; that poverty abounded, and that the people were treated harshly. I did not see that in evidence today. Truth be known, Killroone's lands are more favored than many in England. His people appear well and content."

  Siobhan helped her strip off the mannish clothes she wore. "Were the people who lived on your estate maltreated?"

  "Of course not," Sybelle declared.

  "Then why would you assume, my lady, that the Irish would treat their own ill?" Siobhan gave her a penetrating glance. "Or would it have been easier to hate him if you thought he was a monster?"

  Sybelle inhaled deeply. "I do not know what you mean."

  "Be that as you wish," Siobhan responded. She gave Sybelle a penetrating stare. "He is a man, my lady, much as you are a woman. No more, no less." She gathered the clothes and left the room.

  Sybelle eased her sore muscles into the warm water, enjoying the feel of it sliding over her flesh.

  She soaped her skin and recalled the sight of him
at the village. Much as she wanted to, she found that she couldn't forcibly shut out the mental images. She forced herself to think on anything else, but soon found her wayward thoughts returning to him, again and again, like dreams powerful and potent. Siobhan's words echoed silently in her brain. It would indeed have been easier to hate him if he were a monster. Yet how could she deny the reality of what she saw with her own eyes? He was capable of warmth, of kindness, of compassion. How did that balance with the man she knew could hate with such depth, who could be cold and calculating, capable of lust and dark passions?

  Shades of memories formed in her head of him with a child tucked high in his arms; of his long fingers stroking the flanks of her horse; of the soft sunlight glinting off his eyes, making them sparkle with the sheen of cut jewels.

  And then, if she closed her eyes, she could see him again on his large gray, riding and shouting orders, at one with the animal, bent low over the neck of the powerful beast as they jumped a high outcrop of rock, soaring high. A shaft of pure pleasure stabbed at her vitals as she recalled her emotions then. It shamed Sybelle to think that at that precise moment she would have eagerly followed wherever he lead.

  Damn him! she said silently. Why couldn't he have been a simple creature from Hades? why did she have to see him as a man with many faces? It wasn't fair.

  Nor, she deemed, was her captivity. She couldn't allow herself the luxury of seeing him as anything other than what he was when first she met himher captor, her possessor. No matter what he did, she must not forget his sins, for danger lay in pushing aside what had happened and seeing him as he was. What had Siobhan said? Man to her woman?