Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  No.

  It was over.

  Ended.

  He stopped her, his hands on her upper arms, forcing her still. "I have a gift for you, my lady."

  She turned her head. She saw the bag he was holding out to her. She accepted it with a wary look.

  "Open it. Do not be afraid," he whispered against her ear.

  Sybelle did so, bringing forth the contents of the velvet pouch. It was a bracelet. But not any bracelet. This was special, a match to the one he wore. The gold gleamed in the soft candlelight, as did the distinctive eyes of the wolf pictured there, tiny emeralds winked enticingly. It was exquisite. Her fingertips traced the head On closer inspection, she noted the difference between it and what he wore. This was not merely a band as was histhis was meant to be secured.

  "Hold out your arm," he said in a voice that was low and commanding, yet strangely soft.

  Sybelle obeyed her instinct, felt him clasp it onto her wrist and snap it shut. She stared at it as if it were a foreign body, not a part of her. Rolf still held her hand in his. He brought her palm to his mouth, lavished her hand with the salute of his lips before he released it as he staggered back against the bed. He fell across it, his body giving in to the need for sleep.

  She couldn't let him stay like that, so she shifted his heavy weight onto the bed proper. Pulling the soft kid boots from his feet and tossing them to the floor, Sybelle sat down beside him. Her hand strayed to his cheekbones and boldly caressed the flesh there. Her fingers moved downwards to his lips, touching, memorizing. She leaned over and put her mouth to his, giving freely a sweet kiss. Her tongue traced the cleft in his chin. She pushed aside the half-open shirt of deep green, feasting her eyes on the exposed flesh.

  She took one of his hands, held in both of hers, before placing it against her belly. "Our child," she whispered. "Your seed quickened, Rolf." She pressed his hand, laying hers atop it, bracelet to bracelet. "A warrior prince to be sure, with the blending of our bloodlines. He will be raised with pride and love. Our child deserves that. Trust me, my lord Rolf. Your babe will want for naught. On this you have the word of Sybelle Fitzgerald.''

  Sybelle lay down, cradling Rolf in her arms, his head on her breast. Her mouth caressed the thick black hair. Tears fell from her closed lids. "Farewell, grб," she said, speaking the Irish word for love.

  Chapter 24

  Sybelle was waiting for Etain as dawn broke the sky. She surveyed the room, emitting a deep sigh. Freedom was close at hand. She had opened the window, allowing the cool morning air, heaving with the smell of the sea, to envelop her. Now she stood at the bedside, watching the man. She leaned her head against the bedpost, silent and thoughtful. He didn't look quite so fierce, so remote, in sleep. A hint of a smile curved his wide mouth. Her hands went round the wood, hugging it as she couldn't him. His breathing was deep and even. She could see his large, expressive hand reach out in sleep, as if searching for something, or someone. He moved his fingers, as if stretching, covering, caressing.

  She gripped the post tighter, her body flush against it. The breath quickened in her throat. Sybelle dropped her hands to her side as a knock sounded on her door.

  Etain entered. She uttered a surprised gasp when she saw the sleeping figure of Rolf in Sybelle's bed.

  "What is Killroone doing here?"

  Sybelle ushered Etain into the privy room and explained. "He came to deliver a gift to me last evening." She held out her left hand, the bracelet gracing her slender wrist.

  Etain examined it, her hand tracing the detail of the workmanship. "'Tis beautiful."

  Sybelle nodded. "A work fit for a queen, I would judge."

  "'Tis true," Etain echoed. Or, she thought, choosing to keep her observations to herself, a Countess of Killroone, a princess of Ireland. This was no ordinary gift. It was a claim, a sign of ownership, a commitment. It was a symbol of himself that he was bestowing on the English lady. Now would not be the time to inform her of what this was and what it signified. The Lady Duvessa would see and recognize the mute proclamation.

  "Let me fix your hair into one braid so that no one notices the difference in color." Etain took her by the shoulders and spun her around, working quickly, forming the plait. "Done," she said, "now the clothes.'' She removed her cloak. Sybelle stripped off the nightdress and donned the simple wool gown Etain had brought with her. It was an odd fit, but Etain improvised with the hem by placing several jewelled pins at the waist to draw it up.

  Sybelle left the laces of the bodice loosely tied, as she was of a more generous frame in the bust than Etain. She turned around, slipping the cloak over herself. "Will I do?" she questioned. The cowl of the cape was trimmed in a band of golden fur, the cape itself of a deep, soft brown wool. "'Tis lovely, Etain," Sybelle said, her fingers fondling the texture.

  "A gift for you," Etain explained, embracing Sybelle. "Come, we must away now if we are to make this work." They left the privy room and passed again the silent figure on the bed.

  Sybelle approached him warily, fearful that he would somehow wake up and catch her in the act of fleeing from him. Tremulously, she eased her hand beneath the pillow for the almost forgotten note.

  Etain asked, "What have you there?"

  "A note for Killroone. I must leave it for him, where he may find it ere I've gone."

  "Give it to me. I shall place it in his apartments."

  Sybelle passed over the note. "Please, do not forget. He must read this." There was a sense of urgency to her tone.

  Etain patted her hand. "Have no fear, Lady Sybelle, it shall be as you request."

  "Then let us go now," she said, not looking back.

  Lugh whimpered as she went to shut the door, and Sybelle hesitated. She hunkered down on her knees and embraced the huge beast. He licked her face, almost knocking her over. Suddenly, Sybelle stood. "Lugh comes with me."

  "Are you mad? He cannot."

  "He must. There is a way," Sybelle insisted, outlining her idea.

  Etain thought her daft, yet she acquiesced. "As you will," she pronounced with a slight roll of her pale blue eyes.

  Bran was waiting on the outside stairs, taking a last look at the home he wouldn't see for some time, if ever. He ran his palms across the weathered stone, enjoying the tactile sensation. Would he like Wales? How long would he have to remain in exile? And what of when he delivered the Lady Sybelle to her father? His wisest course would be to drop anchor and send her ashore alone in Dorset. But he had promised to deliver her to Derran. He couldn't merely dump her on the shore like unwanted ballast and leave without seeing her safely to her family. 'Twould be the coward's way outand he was, after all, a son and brother to Killroone. O'Dalaighs stood their ground and did not quaver.

  And what of the Lady Clare, that special face he couldn't erase from his mind? She was most likely betrothed. A blossoming child-woman of such beauty and fortune would not be without suitors, and a contract for marriage was as good and binding as a true marriage.

  He shook his head, casting aside frivolous fantasies. Clare Fitzgerald was not within his reach. The Earl of Derran would see to that. More to the point, she probably hated him for his part in the abduction of her beloved sister. What he needed was to set his mind to the tasks ahead, bringing Sybelle to her family and restoring order in his birthright property in Wales. He would need all his cunning and wits about him. He closed his eyes, searched his memories, saw his mother, heard again her stories about life in her homeland, but he was yet a stranger to a heritage only vaguely recalled.

  Ireland would be a part of his past when he sailed today. Wales was his future. He must now stand alone, without the power of his name, without the guidance of his older brother. Mayhap that was for the best. Rolf cast a powerful shadow. Bran's own must be free to grow as large. The future must be free of the past.

  He regretted not being able to say a true farewell to his brother. It could not be helped, yet still it cut him deeply. He longed to explain why he must do what he was about to d
o.

  He heard the door behind him open, saw the approach of the two figures.

  "Are we ready?" he asked, anxious to be off.

  Sybelle and Etain again embraced. "Keep me in your heart," Sybelle whispered.

  Etain answered, "Be happy, Sybelle." She kissed her cheek. "Trust your heart. When the time is right, you must do that."

  Sybelle looked at her with curiosity. She linked arms with Bran, who bent to place a gentle kiss on Etain's lips. "Farewell, Etain."

  "May God grant you a life long and a fruitful one, my lord."

  "You also, sweetest Etain," he said, escorting Sybelle down the outside stairs.

  Etain hastened to the door that led back inside. She was to bring Lugh up here and let him go free when Sybelle had crossed through the gates.

  She hurried back to her post, watching as Sybelle and Bran mounted their horses, Bran's bags having already been sent ahead.

  Bran lifted Sybelle onto Etain's horse, glad that most of the workers were already at their daily tasks and would not have leisure to look at them.

  "Let us be away," he said, settling onto his stead. "Open the gates," he shouted, and the guards hastened to obey. They called out their farewells and best wishes.

  As they crossed the threshold, Bran heard a voice bellow, "Etain!"

  Both Sybelle and Bran froze, halting their horses.

  Bran uttered a curse under his breath. 'Twas Auliffe.

  Bran spoke. "Etain rides to the ship with me."

  Auliffe, thinking that the other rider was indeed Etain, spoke in his native language, requesting that she return later that day, as his wife needed some herbal potions from Etain's supply.

  Sybelle nodded and urged her horse forward, hoping that she was correct in her action.

  "Where is the Wolf?" Auliffe asked, satisfied that Etain would honor his request.

  "We said our goodbyes last evening." Bran watched Sybelle gallop ahead, breathing a sigh of relief. "He was in the Lady Sybelle's chambers so I did not chose to disturb him. Nor should you," Bran said with a smile, not knowing that he spoke the truth.

  Auliffe grinned. "I understand. Godspeed on your journey." He reached up a hand to clasp Branduff's arm.

  Bran reluctantly let go and set his horse onto the path. He was joined briefly by Lugh, who ran excitedly around his animal, causing the horse to dance on his hind legs, before taking off on a run after Sybelle's mount.

  Bran brought his horse under control.

  "What the devil has gotten into that dog?" Auliffe wondered. "'Tis not like him to leave unless 'tis with Killroone or the lady."

  "Waste no time on the behavior of the creature, Auliffe. Sure you'll be seeing him return after he's had a long run,"

  Auliffe shook his head in agreement. "'Tis right that you are, Lord Branduff. Now off with you, lad. And be careful where you be planting your seed in Wales. I heard tales the women there can sap your strength as none other. 'Tis a lusty place, to be sure." He slapped the horse's rump as Bran rode swiftly towards the sea path.

  Sybelle was waiting for him along the beach. Her horse pawed the sand. She clenched and unclenched her hand.

  What was keeping him? Do hurry, Branduff, she said silently. She saw the ship at anchor, and the longboat which awaited them.

  She heard the sound of the dog and the horse. She pulled on the reins and headed back in their direction about a half-mile. Halting, she bade Lugh be still as Bran approached. He slunk to the sands, obeying her order.

  "I thought we were found out when Auliffe addressed you," Bran said in a hasty rush. "How did you know how to respond?"

  "'Twas a gamble. Only a few words of his speech did I comprehend."

  "Luck was with us. Let us not tarry longer, lest anyone else be suspicious. Remember, you are my guest when we board the ship. I will settle with the captain."

  "Will you tell him about the change in destination?"

  "Not till we are safely from Ireland. There is no need to inform him of the detour I have planned till then."

  About an hour later, they were standing on the deck as the ship cast anchor and made sail.

  As the captain gave his orders, Sybelle caught the dark look he threw in her direction. His earlier words to Bran as they boarded echoed in her ears.

  "Ye be bringing a woman with ye? I wasn't told," he said, speaking English, which surprised Sybelle.

  "You are being told now, so what difference does it make?" Bran questioned.

  "See that she stays away from my men," the captain said.

  At that Sybelle smiled, answering for herself. "I can promise you, captain, that your crew is safe from me."

  "Beggin' your pardon, my lady," he said. Hers was a voice of the nobility, not the village slut he expected. And she wasn't Irish.

  Bran pulled out a small sack of leather, tossing it to the captain.

  "For the lady's passage."

  "'Tis no charge, my lord. This be one of your brother's vessels."

  "Then take it as a gift. She is my guest. No questions asked," Bran said in a commanding tone. "Understood?"

  "As ye will, my lord." the captain agreed.

  Sybelle watched Ireland fade into the mist. She was truly free. She shoved back the cloak, letting the soft current of air touch her face. As she did, Bran noted the bracelet on her wrist.

  "Rolf gave you this?" he demanded quietly.

  "Aye," she answered, "he did."

  They remained in silence for almost another quarter of an hour. "I shall not forget the wild beauty of your land, Branduff. See how it fades into the mist as if out of some realm of fantasy?"

  A dark dream of the soul, Sybelle thought. A conjurer's trick come to life, both compelling in its majesty and dangerous. Far from gentle. Years from kind. Yet in the little time she had spent in this area, it had captured a piece of her heart. Unwelcome tears filled her blue-gray eyes.

  The plaintive cry of a sea bird sounded overhead.

  Why do I feel as though a part of me still resides in the land beyond the mist?

  England. I must think of England. I'm for Dorset and my family. Home. Strange how that word tasted almost acrid as she said it aloud, "Home."

  «»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

  When Rolf awoke he was confused, groggy. Pushing himself into a sitting position against the carved headboard, he soon realized that he was not in his own room; he was in Sybelle's. And he was fully dressed. He thrust the hair back from his face with both hands, attempting to remember what he was doing there.

  And where was Sybelle?

  The sun high overhead told him that he had slept most of the morning away, that it was probably well into the afternoon. Sweet Jesu, he hadn't slept this deeply for a long time. Why last night?

  Branduff. His brother was to set sail early this day with the tide. He had missed that. Damnation. He should have been there to see him safe off.

  Getting off the bed he spied the basin filled with water. He splashed his face, reaching for the soft linen next to the jug. He looked back to the bed, wondering where the Lady Sybelle had slept. He couldn't remember anything except for putting the bracelet on her pale wrist. Only blackness, except for a strange dream. Fragments of that he could recall. Sybelle held him in her arms, spoke softly to him of love, and cried. He wanted to speak, to break through the darkness to offer comfort and warmth, yet no words could he utter. Silence held him a prisoner of the blackness.

  Sorrow at having missed his brother's leavetaking came over him. What he needed was a ride to clear his head and alleviate the dolor which threatened his mood. He would find Sybelle and they would take the horses and the dogs for a long run. Mayhap he would fill a large leather pouch with some items of foodstuffs so they could eat a meal away from the confines of the castle.

  Shoes. He could go nowhere without them. He looked around for his boots and saw them at the foot of the bed.

  The memory of the dream caught him unawares. It brought him to a discovery, to a rev
elation. Through the aching void when he tried to speak and couldn't, he could hear the words forming silently in his brain, needing to be set free. He was unable to say them before, but the images of the dream forced him to come to terms with what was in his heart. An examination of his deepest emotions while trapped in the hell of silence compelled him to express what he'd discovered.

  He loved the Lady Sybelle. He had realized it only when he thought that she was lost to him. He thought of being near her and unable to grasp her close, to truly see her, experience again and again the exquisite joy that was his own private heaven as he joined his flesh to hers, shattered his cool composure. He could feel the loss, and resolved not to allow it to happen. Memories alone were too cold to contemplate.

  Let Hugh Fitzgerald and all the armies England could muster come to his door. He wouldn't surrender her to anyone. She would cleave to him, and he to her.

  The words he'd spoken to her at the beach were all too true.

  For now.

  Forever.

  She was his. There was no going back to the way of life either had before. Their destinies were intertwined. She wouldn't be merely his ceminter, his chief wife; no, Sybelle would be the comthigerna. Rarely was such an honor paid to a woman. The Brehon custom of an equal marriage, with the wife as co-lord, had fallen into disuse since the Norman encroachment into his land. He would revive the ceremony. Aye, his people would know in what esteem he held his countess.

  Eager to find Sybelle, Rolf left the room, searching through the keep for her. After an hour, he still hadn't located her. His temper was beginning to surface as he found himself chasing the chimera that was Sybelle. His patience was approaching an end as no one claimed to have seen the lady this day. Empty answers greeted him.

  "Auliffe." He called out as he watched the big man give a lesson in the use of weapons.

  "Aye, my lord?"