Wolf's Embrace

by Gail Link

  "Shall we keep him from you?"

  Bran was still shocked at the depth, and the quickness, of the loyalty of his people. When he arrived, he had been recognized and accepted almost immediately, word of his coming having preceded him. This was not a rich estate in the sense that he was used to; its beauty, its intrinsic wealth, lay in its people and its natural loveliness. Lakes and rivers abounded in this part of Snowdonia, along with the deep lushness of the Gwydyr forest that surrounded them. Wars and petty squabbles were rare. It was simple, earthy, quiet. He still missed Ireland, and the home where he was born, but not with the same hunger he once had. This place had given him a sense of being reborn, of finding a part of himself that he hadn't known was lost.

  "My brother is to be given every courtesy."

  "Then I shall see to it myself, my prince." With that Owen made a slight movement of his head in Bran's direction and called a fond farewell to his sister, Morag, who was sharing the prince's house.

  Morag, a woman of twenty-five, was curious about the reaction on Bran's face since learning that his brother was about to descend on them. She slipped behind Bran and tightened her slender arms about his lean waist, her nails digging into the leather jerkin that he wore. She had been his woman since a week after his arrival. Others might have succumbed for the honor of bedding the prince, even had he been old and ugly. She, however, wanted the man when first she came upon him, bathing in one of the lakes; the fact that he was her overlord mattered little to her. She would have taken him to her bed had he been a beggar. Morag knew, wisely, acceptingly, that he did not feel for her the same as she felt for him, though in the night when he took her in his arms, and sheathed his hard, lithe body in hers, it concerned her little. The other woman, and she knew there was one though no words had been spoken, was far away, and she was here. "Bach," she whispered, the Welsh endearment a caress in her husky voice, "why does this visit disturb you?"

  "My brother and I did not part on the best of terms."

  "Still, he comes to you, does he not?"

  "For what purpose, I wonder?"

  "Mayhap to heal whatever wound lies open between you both."

  "I have thought much on that and hope that Rolf has finally forgiven."

  "This rift between you, 'twas over a woman, was it not?"

  Bran laughed softly. "'Tis a wise woman you are, Moragor could you be a witch?" He pulled her gently around into his arms, planting a deep, quick kiss on her vulnerable mouth. "Aye, 'twas over a woman, his woman, though the story is long."

  "When you want to tell me, I will listen." She turned and checked the meat in the pot which hung over the fire. "I hope 'tis enough to feed him also, for 'tis almost the hour for supper."

  Bran grinned. "'Tis sure I am that it will be enough."

  "What is he like, your brother?"

  "I will let you decide for yourself when he arrives." And he knew that he couldn't truthfully answer that question, for the gap had widened between them. Once it would have been easy to respond, now, he too awaited an answer.

  "Think you that we have some time before he arrives?"

  "Perhaps an hour or so by my reckoning, if he is with Davyfd."

  Morag advanced on him, pushing him gently backwards to the pelts of furs that lay strewn on the bed. "I suggest that we make the most of the time." With that they both tumbled down, arms wrapped about each other as their mouths fused in passion's demand.

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  Rolf strode through the darkness, the man beside him carrying a torch to light the way. There wasn't much light in this month of December, nor was there much in this dense forest. He followed the snow-covered path, his leather boots, which topped his knees and were covered in soft beaver fur, making no sound. He adjusted the heavy cape of wolf's fur more securely about him, occasionally brushing aside the snow that clung to his hair and to his eyelashes. Christmas in Wales. A time to make peace. He had come to realize that he still loved his brother deeply, and he understood Bran's side. He knew his brother would never deliberately hurt him if it could be avoided. They had shared too much, their bond was too strong for this to permanently break it. It had stretched; it had healed. Months without his flesh and blood had brought Rolf to that point.

  Loneliness had a way of forcing one to see things as they really were, and he had filled the hours that came after his hurt with thinking: about Sybelle, his brother, and Etain. And most importantly, with what he wanted. And he wanted reconciliation.

  In the clearing he saw a stone cottage. Actually, on closer inspection, it looked as if it were made more of boulders than stone. It was big. He could see smoke escaping from the stone roof. It certainly looked to provide more than adequate shelter from the elements, though somehow he expected a keep more along the lines of Killroone. He shrugged his broad shoulders and pressed forward.

  A man next to himthere were three in allmotioned for him to halt before entering. Owen opened the door to the cottage and called to Bran, who was hastily arranging his clothes.

  Owen signalled for Rolf to follow him.

  Rolf ducked his head as he entered.

  Bran stood there, waiting. He was leaner, stronger than when Rolf saw him last. And his hair was longer. Now it brushed past his shoulders, as did Rolf's. There was a difference to the gold eyes, too. They were sharper, keener. And could Rolf also glimpse traces of love there?

  While Rolf looked his fill in those seconds, so did Bran. Neither spoke, though somehow they connected, eyes to eyes, heart to heart. He saw in Rolf's green eyes the pain, the struggle, the love. It was there.

  ''Rolf?"

  "Bran?"

  No more words were needed as the brothers clasped each other in deep embrace, laughing away the months of separation. It was easier than either had expected.

  Morag shifted under the fur pelts, pulling the laces of her dress together over her small breasts, tugging her stockings of wool higher onto her legs. She'd decided that perhaps the brothers would be better served by time alone. Her experienced gaze ran over the elder and judged him another fine man. He was slightly taller than her man. There was about him a flavor of power, of inborn pride. A man, first, last, always, with a mouth created to make women delight in being female.

  Rolf saw the shadow of a woman from the corner of his eye. He looked full at the beautiful woman approaching his brother. Surprise registered automatically.

  Bran pulled Morag into his embrace for the introduction. He did so in Welsh, then Irish, for the benefit of both. He knew that Rolf's Welsh was probably as lax as his had been when he arrived.

  Rolf ran his gaze over the slim figure of the woman appreciatively and judged how his brother had been spending his time. He approved.

  "I shall leave you alone, bach."

  "You do not have to," Bran assured her.

  "Aye, but I do, my lord. I suspect that there is much that you and your brother wish to discuss." Morag found her own thick woolen cloak, which had been slung over a chair. As she went to pull it on, Bran was there, wrapping it around her shoulders. "My mother and father will be glad of the company, not to mention the extra hands at the farm." She kissed Bran full on the mouth, then exchanged a look with Rolf, warming to the intense force in those deep green eyes, and left the two men.

  "I see that you have sampled the local customs," Rolf remarked dryly.

  Bran indicated that Rolf was to take a seat at the heavy wooden table. Rolf did so, and his nose drank in the smell of food. "'Twould appear that she can cook, too."

  "Morag is very obliging," Bran said as he bent to dish out the victuals into smooth, wooden trenchers. "She is a delight."

  A slight smile curved Rolf's mouth, hinting at the long dimple in his cheek. "I can well imagine."

  "She is a good woman, Rolf."

  "I never said otherwise."

  "And she knows that I am very fond of her."

  "Not love?"

  Bran shook his head. "No." When he thought of lov
e, a golden-haired child-woman with eyes as dark as the deep blue Welsh lakes haunted him.

  They continued to eat in silence, each trying to avoid the talk that they knew they must share. Through an unspoken mutual understanding, they chose to avoid the topic even when they had finished eating. Rolf asked instead about how Bran found the land, the people, his new position.

  "They have been open with me, Rolf. They remember mother's family; we are the last." Bran stood up. He watched the heavy fall of snow from the window, saw the drifts as he closed the shutter with a snap. He produced another branch of candles and placed them on the table. Here candles were precious, not given to waste. Bran recalled the vast amount of light needed, and used, to keep the fortress at Killroone lit; here, in his stone sanctuary, he needed less. "It is not Killroone, though I am content. 'Tis glad I am that you desired me to come here. It has given me a sense of another side of myself, another part that I would have missed had I not come."

  "Killroone is always there should you wish to return."

  It was said so quietly that Bran almost thought he had imagined the sound, the words. "You have forgiven?"

  "I have learned the value of forgiveness," Rolf explained. He stood, retrieving something from the packet he brought with him. He dug out a velvet pouch and gave it to his brother.

  Bran accepted the gift, unwrapping the fine, soft material. He held it in both hands, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On a thick chain of woven gold hung a carved raven, wings outspread.

  "It was to be a gift for your birthday. 'Tis late, but. . . . "

  "'Tis magnificient, Rolf." Bran slipped it over his shirt, fingers stroking the metal. He knew the significance of the bird: it was found here in this region, and it was a translation of his name, his symbol.

  From the sack Rolf produced another surprise, a jug of Irish whiskey. "Shall we?" he said with an engaging grin, breaking the seal on the top and taking a deep swallow.

  Bran took the jug and tipped it, the warmth of the whiskey sliding down his throat. He pushed the jug back to Rolf. A concentrated look passed between them; each reached out a hand to clutch the other's, arm to arm, their rebonding complete.

  "'Tis glad I am for your visit, Rolf, though you haven't picked the best time for it. Winter, as I've learnt, can be quite harsh here."

  "I can but spare a few weeks from what I must do."

  "Which is?"

  "To reclaim what is mine." Rolf took a long drink from the jug. "Tб sй ndбn dom." It is my fate.

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  It was snowing in Dorset also that Christmas, Sybelle sat before the blazing log, surrounded by her thoughts and the frequent kicks that her child visited upon her. She put her hand over her very swollen belly. Her feet were resting on a tapestry stool, for she was very tired after the visit to the village church that day. She had not planned on going with her family. Hugh, however, had other ideas. "We go as a family," he stated simply. He would brook no insubordination. She understood what he was implying. Fitzgeralds did not act the cowards, no matter what the circumstances. It was only for her father and Duvessa that she would have forgone this Christmas celebration. She cared not for what others thought of her. She could endure. But she refused to bring hurt to those whom she loved if she could avoid it.

  And Sybelle keenly observed the various looks on the faces of the villagers as she took her place, heard the hushed whispers. Pity had been prominent on several faces; others shone bright with condemnation. Some averted their eyes, as if contact with her would contaminate them.

  Another thump to her stomach made her gasp. This child was certainly eager for life. And big. A frown crossed her features. She was much larger than Duvessa and they were due about the same time. The midwife had no explanation for it. She only suggested that the Lady Sybelle get as much rest as possible, for surely delivery would be hard. She wished that she could contact Etain, for she knew that she would feel better in her care, and she knew that Etain would care for the babe. She dared not take the risk that somehow any message that she sent to Etain would be intercepted by Rolf. And she wasn't ready for . . . for what? To think of him? A sardonic smile etched her mouth. He was never far from her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, whether she was awake or asleep. He ambushed her dreams now, invading the kingdom of sleep, where she thought that she would find refuge.

  He was no phantom, for she remembered the hard touch of his hands on her arms, his strong mouth on hers, the strength of his lean body against the softness of hers.

  Her only words were curses against the power he exacted without his knowledge, without her consent.

  Damn you for the demon of the night that you are, she raged silently. And damn me, for I cannot forget.

  I tried so hard, truly I did, she thought. She had fought to make her mind a blank sheet of paper where Killroone was concerned. She busied herself with tasks, pushing aside any rebellious thoughts. Then something would trigger a memory, or she would feel the child and she was forced to recall that it had a father, deny that as she might. Duvessa coached her in the Irish tongue, remarking that Sybelle was a quick pupil. She wanted to learn so that her child would know, and it was a link of sorts to him.

  Her heart ached with a new kind of loneliness. She now felt an incompleteness, as if part of her soul were missing.

  She touched the bracelet that she wore as a talisman. Perhaps she should have removed it when she returned home. If she had, would her memories be less sharp?

  Sybelle faced the fact that she didn't want to part with the golden band. It would be for her child, she said stubbornly. A piece of his heritage. Duvessa insisted that it was more than a mere ornament for decoration. It was a gift from the heart, a gift for marriage. In the O'Dalaigh clan it was a symbol of power shared, of love embraced.

  Marriage. That thought took Sybelle's mind on a backwards journey to an incident that occurred months past when she and Duvessa had been to the village. Both had walked for the exercise and chanced upon the latest wife of Sir Rosewell Charles. She was emerging from the town's Guildhall when she saw Sybelle and Duvessa. Sybelle had been surprised that the woman approached them. She appeared shy, and Sybelle recalled that this was the woman whose husband used to curry favor with the king. Her tiny voice was hesitant as she said, "Good morrow, my ladies."

  Duvessa responded in a similar manner, and perforce, so did Sybelle. What amazed Sybelle even more was Lady Charles' prompt invitation to have supper at her estate the following week. Sybelle and Duvessa shared a look, each wanting to refuse, but at the desperate, pleading glance in the woman's brown eyes, they both gave their consent.

  Looking back, Sybelle could see that the lady had been forced to make the invitation at her husband's insistence. When they spoke to Hugh later that day about the invitation, he was reluctant to have a meal at the house of a man he so disliked.

  "Perhaps he has changed?" Duvessa suggested.

  Hugh exchanged a skeptical look with Sybelle. "That I doubt," he said flatly.

  "Then shall we rescind our acceptance?" Duvessa asked.

  "Father," Sybelle said, her eyes alight with a suggestive gleam, "mayhaps we had better keep the promise to see what this man is about. Lady Charles appeared quite afraid should we reject her offer."

  "Then we shall go. Since I trust him not, I want to find out what scheme he is plotting. He does nothing unless there is gain for him in it." Hugh spoke the last words in a contemptuous tone, leaving his wife and daughter no pretense as to how little he valued a man who would barter his own wife like a common bawd for favors.

  Sybelle became aware of the reason for the invitation soon after they entered Sir Rosewell's small fortified keep that he saw as a grand castle. She saw the open stares of the servants as they scurried to and fro from the kitchens. Fear was on their faces. With good reason, Sybelle noted, as one made a mistake, a minor incident, nothing to punish a person for. The servant was disciplined
with a back-handed slap to the face which sent the young boy staggering into the wall, spilling what remained of the wine he carried, and splitting his lip.

  Sybelle was upset at the treatment doled out to the lad, and more so when she saw the terrified look that a girl, barely thirteen, wore when she approached the eldest son of their host. Her sad eyes were downcast, and she trembled visiblywith good reason, Sybelle noted when she was witness to his hand snaking out as the girl bent over to place a roast partridge on his plate. He pinched her behind, and she jerked upright, her face flaming. Sybelle heard his whisper of "Tonight," and blanched. She would speak to her father about finding the girl a position at their estate, or perhaps her own in Ireland. Perhaps Alyce, newly come from Castle Derran, could train the girl as a lady's maid.

  The meal was a trial, with Sir Rosewell dropping the names of as many distinguished people as he could, all the time crediting himself with marvelous fortune.

  When at last the repast was finally over, Sybelle pleaded a slight headache, which was no lie, and asked to be excused from the entertainment to be provided. Sir Rosewell insisted that a walk outside the keep would be beneficial and instructed his eldest son to accompany her. Sybelle gave in gracefully and permitted him to lead her out. She tried to ignore him, but Humphrey Charles would not allow that. He spoke loudly, with his harsh voice, of his father's grand ideas for this estate, how important he would be when he took over his father's land, and how very important it was to find the proper wife for a man like him.

  Sybelle shuddered as his cold, clammy hands reached for her. She endeavored to push him away as he tried to pursue her mouth, and a stray thought struck her. Why not allow him to kiss her? Would she not then see that Rolf's kisses were perhaps not all that special? One man's were the same as another's, after all.

  She relaxed for an instant, and Humphrey decided that now was the time to press his advantage.