Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  Rolf raked a hand through his black locks. "What I must," he said simply.

  "Mayhap. . . . "

  "Not tonight, brother. Sweet Jesu, not tonight." Rolf sliced him a glance that revealed to Bran that he wasn't quite as impervious to the lady's feelings as he pretended. Regret was evident in the green eyes of the Wolf of Killroone. Regret and respect.

  Bran clasped Rolf on the shoulder, his fingers conveying his warmth and understanding. "As you will, Rolf."

  Rolf's lips curved into a crooked smile. "If only I could be assured of that."

  Chapter 19

  She didn't know what was making her so restless. Or, she admitted, perhaps she did. Rolf. If she closed her eyes, she could recall the caress of his fingers as they stroked her hair, as they trailed across her back, as they held her waist, as they . . .

  Denial. Her thoughts turned to that word and all that it implied. She was denied her family, her friends, her estates, her freedom. All were stripped from her.

  But what of what she tried to deny? This bed that now she lay in held memories too vivid to banish successfully. Here her body had learned the ancient secrets of the blending of man and woman, of giving and receiving.

  Sybelle snuggled deeper into the warmth of the bed linens, hoping that the images stored in her brain would cease tormenting her. She would use denial to put aside the thoughts that pricked at her wakefulness like sharp daggers. Yet what of the physical ache which invaded her flesh, grasping and twisting until it became a real need churning inside her? What of that, indeed?

  She quit the bed, knowing what she must do, where she must go. She covered her nakedness with the velvet nightrobe, tying the braided belt securely around her waist. She lifted a single candlestick, hushing the dog when Lugh stirred.

  Opening the door to her chamber, she went in search of the force that she obeyed and refused to name. It beckoned. She responded.

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  No light save that from the small fire that blazed in the hearth was visible in Rolf's rooms. He craved the night now, embraced it as willingly as he would a woman, seeking there relief from the memories that trapped his mind and forced him to recall the sensual pleasures found in one particular woman's arms.

  He closed his eyes. His breathing quickened. In the sanctuary of his mind he could bring forth no clear solutions, only reawakened stirrings of the passion that engulfed him whenever she was near.

  Rolf's head cocked to one side as he heard the faint movement of the door to his apartments. His eyes opened wide, his mind came alert. No dogs were in his room this night, and at present he was without weapons. A figure entered and glided through the deep shadows that claimed his chamber. He remained seated, waiting.

  He half expected Branduff, come to talk about Derran's demands. Instead, the night rendered unto him the unmistakable form of a woman. Sybelle.

  As she approached him, he could see her eyes, clear and calm. She blinked once before she softly blew out the candle she carried. She dropped it to the floor, where it lay on the small patterned rug like a forgotten ally.

  Even though the darkness of the room almost engulfed her, Sybelle could still make out Rolf's lean frame as he sat sprawled in the hide chair. A fur rug was tossed over it to protect his naked flesh from the cold leather. She knelt, her hand resting on the warm skin that covered his thigh, feeling the contraction of the muscles there. Her palm slid boldly around his knee, tracing the strong bones. She moved her fingers up and down, splaying them across the soft hair that covered his skin. She rested her cheek, rubbing just slightly, where her hand had been.

  Rolf's breathing was becoming harder and harder to regulate as he allowed her to continue. Was this a trick of the night? Was he imagining that she was here, now, doing of her own free will what he had only dreamed of? The texture of her silky braid mixed with the velvet abraded his calf with the strangest of sensations. His body grew taut, his blood hot, his hopes high.

  Finally, he could take no more of this passive role and he stood, bracing himself against the chair, the golden bracelets he wore gleaming molten against his tanned wrists. Sybelle was at his feet, her head tilted back as she let her gaze rise slowly from his legs to his chest, to his slumberous eyes. Upon her lips played a smile, sweet and gentle. He reached out his hand, palm up, towards her. She placed her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet. With her free hand she unloosed the belt that held the robe together. Rolf finished pushing aside the garment, exposing the body underneath.

  He bent his head, his mouth seeking hers in the lightest of touches, his tongue tracing the contours of her lips, licking, nibbling.

  His arms pulled her close as he deepened the melding of their mouths, seeking the free range of expression. He was quick-snatching, foraging, exploring, teaching, learning, discovering the delights to be found in such a kiss.

  For Sybelle, too, it was a journey, a reaching into the deepest parts of her body. She craved the joy he gave her in this exchange, thrilled to the way she felt in this merging of flesh, a foreshadow of an even closer assimilation. There was no holding back, no reservation.

  Sweeping her up into his muscled arms, Rolf carried her to the wide bed that awaited them.

  Master and mistress, jailor and captive, ceased to exist as the shackles of passion both constricted and released them. It was at once dream and reality, dark and light, obsession and freedom.

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  When he woke he was alone.

  Rolf closed his eyes to shut out the feeling of bereavement. In his mind he was still with her, still enjoying the pleasures found and discovered. She had touched him, not just in the physical sense, but with the depth of her response to his lovemaking. Her pure delight, mixed with the wonderment he saw in her luminescent eyes, thrilled him past reason. Reciprocating love with her made him feel more male, more virile than he had known. He was transported, as if he were immortal, as if he were indeed under the spell of a magic so powerful as not to be believed. It was this power, this magic, that he wished never to lose.

  And he would not lose it, or her.

  Derran would have his answer.

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  There was a treasured piece of Venetian glass that served as a mirror. Sybelle stared at herself in it. Her fingers traced the swollen contours of her kiss-bruised lips. It was her face that was reflected there, and yet it wasn't. Something was radically different. Her skin felt the same; the glow she saw gave her a flush of color. Her eyes seemed possessed of a secret knowledge that lent them an inner fire, a deeper recess of sensation.

  Her body felt aching and energized at the same time.

  She put down the mirror and walked to the window, drawing her arms about herself, her thoughts focused inward. What was she to do? The evening past had been at her instigation. No blame could be placed on her lord captor. She had sought him out, driven by a need so powerful that it defied logic. This unnamed, untapped part of herself was frightening. This craving to be unified in flesh with Rolf was growing stronger and stronger. Just to leave his bed this morn took almost more strength than she possessed. She wanted to linger, to repeat the shared intimacies that captured her and made her body sing with abandon.

  Tears fell down her cheeks. This bond, this connection between them, was feeding on her will. It compelled her, motivated her to seek solace. Aye, she had found the hard-won power to leave his room, that sanctuary of the night. What would happen to her when she returned again and found that the Wolf's embrace was too powerful to relinquish?

  Confusion tore at her heart. She must leave before it was too late. She must escape before she discovered that she couldn't; before she found that she didn't even wish to; before she could unwittingly reveal her secret.

  Chapter 20

  ''Sybelle Fitzgerald is dead."

  Bran listened in shocked surprise. Had his elder brother taken leave of his senses? "Rolf
, you know those words to be false."

  A slanting, green-eyed look was directed at Bran. "Of course I know that. Derran, however, does not."

  "Rolf, have you forgotten his emissary?"

  Rolf turned his eyes towards the surging surf of the Atlantic. The waters were choppy this morning, pounding against the shore with a particular vengeance. It was this sight that had given him the idea that would be a way out of his dilemma. A way to keep the Lady Sybelle at his castle, and to satisfy her father's demands. He could see the incredulity in Bran's eyes; mirrored there was also astonishment at what he was suggesting. Hadn't he also thought the plan mad? Lack of sleep and too vivid memories forced his hand. Desperation tugged at his heart. "He will take a message that I must think over the offer that Derran has rendered, and I will send my reply in a month's time."

  "What about our cousin, the reason for this act in the beginning?"

  "I have not forgotten Duvessa."

  "Then what do you plan to do when Derran hears this wild tale that his daughter has died? Have you given thought to what his reaction will be? Have you considered what he might do to Duvessa?" Bran asked, agitated, pacing back and forth along the stone barrier.

  "Aye, I have given it great thought. You must trust me in this."

  "How will you explain this sudden, and fortuitous, death?"

  Rolf looked again at the surf. "Accidents happen," he said unflinchingly. "The lady was despondent; she sought refuge in death. He need never know the truth."

  "What about the Lady Sybelle?"

  "She shall remain here."

  "Rolf, release her," Bran advised. "Do it before you regret this action."

  "You do not understand, Bran. For me there is no release."

  "You love this woman that much?"

  Rolf brushed aside the strands of hair from his eyes and put his back to the barricade of the wall. "Love? I know not. But want, desire, need. All these I feel for her."

  "And what of the woman? Will you not consider her sentiments? She has others who matter in her life. Or do you seek to make her your cetmuinter?"

  Rolf considered his brother's words. Marriage. To Sybelle, with her as his chief wife. The eldest daughter of the English Earl of Derran for his countess? While his cousin was kept as a whore? No, justice must be served first.

  But what of pleasure? He couldn't deny that was now a factor in his decision to keep the woman with him.

  The Earl of Killroone shot a penetrating glance at his younger brother. Bran was allowing himself to become too upset over this matter. Rolf needed no scolding from that quarter. Aye, now was the time to send him to take care of that matter in Wales. Perhaps a taste of the Welsh countryside would be good for him.

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  The messenger from Derran was standing with his horse at the stable, watching the signs of activity around him. He noted the placement of the guards, the strength of their numbers. He could add nothing to Sir John's map, save for details he had memorized from the interior. There was no way in or out lest the master of this keep willed it so. This was indeed a fortress strong and true.

  He heard some noise at the front gate. The huge oaken doors were swung open; obviously the reply to the gatekeeper's question had been an affirmative one. He watched as the party entered the courtyard, and his brown eyes widened in surprise. He recognized the lady and her escort.

  Robin stepped back into the shadow of the stables, pulling his horse with him, making as if to check the shoe of his mount while surreptitiously watching the woman as she dismounted. She was greeted by Auliffe, and welcomed in a most familiar manner.

  'Twas Yseult, personal lady to the Countess of Derran. Sir John, who was awaiting him at Castle Derran, had escorted the woman to the O'Neill estate at the request of the countess. Being homesick for her own kind was the reason given as to why she was returning to Ireland, but Robin thought it odd that she should show up here, at Killroone's castle at this particular time.

  "What brings you to this place?" Auliffe was saying.

  "I bring my lord the Earl of Killroone a message from his most worthy cousin, the Lady Duvessa O'Neill. It is for his eyes alone." Yseult spoke the words and took a deep breath. "'Twas a long journey and I am quite tired. May I see the earl now so that I may deliver the greeting of his cousin?"

  "Follow me, and I shall make haste to find the earl. He will be most anxious to hear what the lady has to say. Is she well?" Auliffe looked a trifle worried as to what the lady's answer would be, lest he learn his lord's cousin fared poorly.

  "She is in excellent spirits."

  Auliffe nodded. "She has the courage of her family behind her and she will not fail them."

  "Come, let us inside."

  Robin couldn't make out what was being said, since they spoke in that odd collection of sounds that he perceived to be Gaelic. He did manage to make out the name of the countess and Killroone. Now he was in a hurry to be off so that he could reach Sir John with the information as soon as possible. A system of fast horses had been set up so that he could complete his ride without having to slow down or stop. He tapped the leather bag at his side. In it was the reply handed to him that morn by the giant Auliffe. He had been told some of what it contained. He pulled on his gloves and leapt upon the animal's back. There was no time to waste now.

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  Yseult was shown into the room that served as the library. Tadgh was seated at his desk reading from an illuminated manuscript hundreds of years old. He had raised his head at her entrance and smiled briefly before resuming his studies. She seated herself on a small tapestry chair, her eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. The door opened and Yseult expected to see the tall, imposing figure of the handsome Wolf of Killroone. Instead, a woman of medium height, wearing a dress that was slightly outdated, but showed off the curves of her slim figure to great emphasis, entered.

  "Excuse me, I did not know that Tadgh was occupied," she said in English. Sybelle looked to Tadgh to translate her words into Irish for the woman she believed could not understand her.

  "I am waiting for Killroone, my lady," Yseult answered in English.

  Sybelle looked more carefully at the woman speaking. She was dressed in a simple style, without the excess of court dress. She wore a welltailored wool gown of a becoming shade of burgundy, and matching slippers. Her hair was hidden under an elaborate hat, which covered her skull. Recognition struck Sybelle. This young woman was from Duvessa's household. She'd seen her once at the O'Neill stronghold, and mayhap at the Castle Derran. What was she doing here?

  "Are you not one of the ladies that serve the Lady Duvessa O'Neill?"

  Yseult nodded her head, saying nothing.

  Tadgh watched in silence, noting the curious glance that Sybelle gave to the woman. Within the English lady the need to ask her questions was being well harnessed.

  Sybelle had come for her lesson in Gaelic. She was proving an apt pupil, with her eagerness to learn the Irish tongue and the ways that were foreign to her. A little parcel of each day was spent in this room going over texts, practicing words so that the inflection was correct, reading and translating manuscripts. She asked questions and made Tadgh smile with her quickness. He instructed her as he would any pupil, yet there was something special about her which made him exceedingly fond of her. He wanted to see her succeed. She reminded him in some ways of the Lady Brianna. Not in looks or manner, just a vague notion that he couldn't put a name to. Perhaps an intenseness of spirit. And a giving heart.

  "I suggest we take our lesson into the Great Hall, my lady. This woman has business with the earl."

  "As you wish," Sybelle said. She turned to the woman and addressed her question to her. "How fares the Lady Duvessa?"

  Not quite sure what to say, Yseult responded, "She is as well as can be, my lady."

  Sybelle twisted her hands, wringing them in frustration at this simple, direct answer. "Is she with my . . . the
Earl of Derran?"

  Yseult looked deeply into the troubled eyes. "Aye."

  For some reason unknown to her, this woman would volunteer no additional information to Sybelle. A quick sideways glance told her that Tadgh was standing by the open doorway, waiting.

  Sybelle resisted the urge to demand that the woman tell her all she knew, for she felt sure it would have been an exercise in futility. This lady was determined to remain silent regarding what she was about.

  As she turned to leave, Sybelle saw the tall figure of a man standing in the doorway of the room. Tadgh had disappeared, replaced by the Earl of Killroone. Her lips parted in surprise; her tongue wet her dry mouth. A warm flush tinged her cheeks and her stomach as she remembered the taste of him on her tongue. Her lids closed for a moment as she composed herself. She mustered all her reserves of calm and deportment as befitted the daughter of a powerful noble. Lifting her head, her chin held proudly, she left the room, ignoring the sweet seduction of those devilish green eyes, those powerful hands, that lean hard body so ably masked in ordinary garb. She found that another thing she liked about him. He had no need to flaunt his position by his manner of dress. Unlike other nobles who glittered and bedazzled, no matter what the occasion, Rolf was off-hand in his dress. Yet there would be no mistaking him for who he was.

  She joined Tadgh, yet was unable to resist stealing another glance in the direction from which she came. He wasn't there. All she could see was the closed door. A deep sigh left her mouth. Was it such a great sin to want this much? To ache for the forbidden fruit? To hunger for the taste of the knowledge that lead only to heartbreak? She realized that the only manacles she wore now were in her mind, and that they would soon be impossible to break unless she did something, and soon. Her only hope was Bran. She had detected a sign of concern on his face. He had to help her.

  Yseult stood up at the entrance into the room of the formidable Wolf of Killroone. He was everything she could ever have imagined a prince of Ireland to look like. Would that she were a prisoner of one such as he! She wouldn't care if anyone ever ransomed her.