by Moira Rogers
He dropped to a crouch, and in the dim glow spilling from her suite she saw his hands twist into claws. Not the easy change that came when she called the magic within her, but a cursed shift that crept over him as he snarled. “It won’t fade until the moon sets. You need to leave. Now.”
The roar jolted her back against the rough stone wall. She could argue, remind him that running would likely only incite a chase, but the truth was that she couldn’t go. Not now, not like this, and leave him in pain and uncertainty.
It would be all right.
He would still know her.
She shook her head and prayed she was right. “I’m not going.”
Chapter Seven
Assuming the form of a wolf was a joyous experience.
At least, it should have been.
Farran had succumbed to the curse more than once in his life, but he’d never had so much reason to fight it. Iloria’s stubborn words echoed in his ears long after he lost his capacity for human speech. It wouldn’t have done him much good in any case, as his sweet young wife looked as unmovable as stone.
That didn’t make her any less fragile, and that knowledge kept him battling the curse. It only brought more pain as the change took him in fits and starts, warping his limbs and twisting his body in an agonizing mockery of what usually brought such peace.
She knelt before him, tears tracking wet paths down her cheeks as she reached for him. “How—how do I help?”
Oh, the rage. It bubbled up, whispered to maul, to claw and strike, to protect. He growled and scrambled back on newly formed paws, and the rest of the transformation smashed into him in that moment of inattention.
Ciar’s voice drifted into his head, riding the bond that the High Lord had with all of his generals. I’m on my way.
Words that made no sense to the beast, who clawed at the stone floor and bared its teeth. Farran clung to reason enough to remember the spell, the one that Ciar’s witch had conjured, the power to tell him when his First Warlord fell victim to the lunacy in his blood.
Yes. Ciar would save Iloria, and then Farran could give in.
“You—” Her voice broke on a sob. “You’re in pain.”
Her pulse throbbed in his ears. He could almost taste it—flesh and hot, coppery blood. The last time he’d given in to the curse had been on a battlefield.
Three dozen men had fallen under his fury before the rest broke and fled.
The image of her torn, savaged body gave him strength enough to push the beast back two more steps. His claws clicked against stone, and he focused on that sound to drown out the bloodlust.
The door at the end of the hall flung open with a thud. “Farran, where—” Ciar stopped, his jaw set at the sight of Iloria crying on the floor, and of Farran himself.
“The moonlight,” she whispered. “The curse. Tell me how to help him, Ciar.”
He crept forward two more steps before answering. “You cannot, my lady. Only time can do that.”
Another few paces and Ciar would snatch Iloria up and carry her to safety. Farran tried to back away farther, but the madness whispering through him rose to a shriek of rage as his oldest friend advanced on his mate.
The last tenuous wisps of his control shattered, and the curse took him so fully he had time for only one final wish—that Ciar would have mercy enough to slay him before he harmed Iloria.
She knew what the High Lord planned to do. In another heartbeat, he’d rush toward her, sweep her away before Farran had a chance to hurt her.
But the change that seized Farran as Ciar approached echoed through her—pure, unadulterated rage. He bristled and snarled, all sense gone from his flashing golden eyes. Ciar might succeed in getting her to safety, but he and Farran both would pay a heavy price in the fight that would surely follow.
Ciar flexed his hands, and Farran growled and launched himself at Ciar. The High Lord spun away at the last moment, and Farran skidded across the floor before backing up to place his bulk between the High Lord and Iloria.
She had only moments to head off a battle, so she slipped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his fur. I’m here. Please, love.
The High Lord bit off a curse and froze. “My lady, he is not himself. He won’t survive coming back to reason to discover that he has harmed you.”
“He could have done so before you arrived,” she shot back. “But he’s more upset now, with you near.”
Ciar rocked back, as if shocked that she’d disagreed with him. After a tense moment, he tilted his head and studied the way Farran stood, stiff but unmoving, in her embrace. “If I didn’t know better, I would guess that you’d mated him.”
She didn’t have the luxury of embarrassment, not when Farran needed her. “If you would ask instead of venturing a guess, I could tell you that I have, and it’s a vow I intend to honor. Even—no, especially like this.”
Farran growled, his lips pulling back from his teeth. Ciar held up both hands and took another step back. “I hope you understand the precarious position in which I find myself. If I stay, I enrage the beast. If I leave, my friend will never forgive me.”
She knew what her own instincts demanded, but she also knew he was right. “I have asked you for nothing, my Lord, but I ask you for this. Go, please. Leave me to tend to my husband.”
The High Lord watched her in silence until Farran growled again, then inclined his head. “As you wish, lady.”
He left, and she was alone in the echoing hallway with a trembling, snarling wolf.
Iloria stroked her hand over Farran’s fur and swallowed hard. “What do we do now, love?”
The shared rage throbbing at the base of her skull eased. Farran shook free of her and licked her chin. His nose bumped into her shoulder in silent command.
She looked back to the darkened doorway leading to his chambers. “Your room?”
He huffed and nudged her again, more gently this time. The tickle of his emotions melted into insistence as he prodded her toward his rooms. She rose and walked, keeping close to him as she made her way through the antechamber into his bedroom and lit a lamp.
Farran caught the edge of her robe between sharp teeth and tugged, pulling it from her shoulder.
“To the bed. I understand.” She set the lamp on the nightstand and crawled up under the coverlet. “What about you?”
The sound he made in answer wasn’t quite a growl, but a rumbling sort of noise that felt like affectionate laughter. He paced the floor to the doorway and circled once before settling across it with his chin on his paws, his gaze fixed on the bed.
Guarding her. Iloria’s heart ached for him. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. You could come up here with me.”
He only stared at her.
Farran. It took concentration to reach across the bond between them with words, but she furrowed her brow and tried. At least let me come down there with you.
That made him growl, but he climbed to his paws and crossed to hop up onto the massive bed. He stood there until she moved over, and only settled when she stretched out to rest.
She slipped her fingers through his fur and closed her eyes. He was impossible like this, and she was oddly comforted by the discovery. It was so like the man she’d come to know already that he seemed merely locked into his wolf form, certainly not a lunatic by any stretch of the imagination. And when the moon set...
“Sleep,” she whispered. “For me.”
It was, without a doubt, the most comfortable place in which he’d found himself after coming back from the curse. That it was his own bed paled in the face of the fact that his wife was curled next to him, her hand tangled possessively in the fur at his back.
Farran reached deep inside himself to summon the change. It was easy enough to melt into a human form, and he smiled when she rubbed her hand over his bare back and grumbled her confusion.
The smile faded as he bolted upright with a roar. “You stayed with me?”
Iloria wrinkled her nose a
nd pushed her tousled hair back from her face. “Of course I did.” She said it as if the words were perfectly reasonable.
“I told you not to.”
One eyebrow rose in a delicate arch. “If you asked for my hand because you thought I’d be obedient and easy to control, I must say you chose your mate poorly.”
He hadn’t thought as much, at least not consciously. It had never occurred to him to consider, in all honesty, because so few wolves dared to defy him. “There’s obedience and then there’s sanity, Iloria. I could have killed you.”
She sighed and sat up beside him. “I’m not feebleminded, love. If I’d thought myself in danger, I would have gone. But you...” Her hand found his. “If I were hurting and scared, would you leave me alone?”
“No.” He lifted her hand and studied her arm and shoulders, looking for any sign of bruises or injuries. “I knew you as my mate?”
“You did.” She leaned in to his touch. “And you almost attacked Ciar when he tried to put himself between us. I had to force him to go.”
He nearly choked on a laugh. “You forced the High Lord to go? He is not a man who bows easily to commands.”
“Perhaps he recognizes good sense when he sees it.”
Farran cupped her cheek and tilted her head back. “So your husband gave in to lunacy, and you defied the two strongest wolves in the land to stay by his side. Hard to believe anyone ever described you as fragile, my love.”
She watched him through her lashes and smiled slowly. “You’re my mate. I think it’s safe to say no one in the world knows me the way you do.”
“I was one of those who found you fragile.” He touched her lower lip and imagined the taste of it, sweet and soft. He could spend a lifetime memorizing her tastes, and it still wouldn’t be enough. “I’ve learned my lesson.”
“I hope so.” She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll not be cowed, Farran, not by difficulty and certainly not by magic.”
“And not by a hard man’s rough temper?”
“Absolutely not.”
He fought to hide his smile. “Not even if he snarls when he shouldn’t?”
Iloria laughed. “I’m capable of a growl or two myself. We’ll manage.”
He’d done something right at last. The curse would always be with him but, unlike his father and grandfather before him, he’d taken a wife who had accepted him as her mate. Perhaps that leash would be enough. Either way, it was more than he’d ever dared to hope.
He satisfied his desire to lick her plump lower lip and smiled against its softness. “I imagine the High Lord and his irritatingly direct lady will have much to say to us on the subject of our future. Would it be terribly rude to avoid them by staying abed today?”
She tilted her head as if considering it before sliding gracefully into his lap. “There is but one way to find out.”
Then she kissed him.
Epilogue
Iloria ducked a draping line of paper streamers and sidestepped two giggling children in her haste to reach the High Lord before he served himself from the wrong tureen. “Not that punch,” she said quickly, steering his arm toward the other offering. “This one.”
Ciar let out an exasperated noise as he slipped an arm around her waist. “You promised your husband you’d sit, Iloria. He’ll roar at me if he discovers you rushed over here to save me from whatever’s in the punch. Surely it isn’t so dire.”
“You say that because you haven’t tasted it. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
The High Lord guided her away from the table, and the crowd melted away in front of him. He took it for granted, coaxing her toward the well-padded bench Farran had insisted on when she’d indicated she would not be missing the spring planting festival. “Now you’ve made me curious. What is in that tureen?”
The blacksmith’s son made the liquor in a barrel in the stables—and not a particularly clean barrel, at that. She changed the subject. “Where is my husband, by the way?”
“Sabine lured him away to look at birthing day gifts for you.” Ciar lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “A ruse, I’m sure, to give you a few moments peace from the overly solicitous father-to-be.”
Iloria laid her hand over the pronounced curve of her belly. Farran had been a dedicated soldier, a determined husband, and he’d thrown himself head-first into preparing for impending fatherhood. “He’s been wonderful, Ciar. There aren’t words, truly.”
“A shock to all of us who know him well.” When they reached the bench, Ciar helped her settle before taking a seat at her side. “Not that I find him changed. Mellowed, perhaps? Happy, I dare say.”
“As am I.” And now, sitting beside him, she could finally admit the truth. “Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful you didn’t want me, you know. I feel we’re well enough acquainted now for you not to take offense at that.”
“My heart was already spoken for.” Ciar’s golden hair fell over his eyes as he leveled his famously charming smile at her. “I’m nothing but relieved to learn that my friend’s heart has been just as surely claimed.”
She looked around, taking in the hustle of the festival. The laughter, the color and activity, all of it fascinated her. There was a humbling honesty about village life she’d never seen at court—at least, not before Ciar and Sabine had taken their thrones. “I was meant to be here.”
“Then things truly worked out for the best.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It means a great deal to me, you know, that you welcome us so readily into your home. Sabine enjoys the respite from court life.”
“Yes, she does.” Sabine leaned over the back of the bench and kissed her husband’s temple. “I tried to keep him away for longer, love, but he just said he would buy her one of everything and headed back here.”
Ciar sighed. “And here I thought you were an expert at managing unmanageable wolves.”
“Only her own.” Farran slid strong hands over Iloria’s shoulders, his touch gentle and possessive at the same time. “Shame on you, Ciar, for using your mate against me.”
Iloria patted her husband’s hand. “Don’t fret. I kept your oldest friend from drinking the Wallace boy’s punch, and he made me sit down for a rest. Everyone wins.”
Farran’s bark of laughter drew startled glances, but he only shook his head. “She did you a favor, Ciar. Even the lions couldn’t brew liquor that foolhardy, and you know how they feel about reckless living.”
“Then your lady deserves my thanks.” Ciar rose and held out a hand to Sabine. “Shall we shock the town by showing them how much we enjoy a good country reel?”
The High Lady tossed her head with a laugh. “If we can find a lively, obliging fiddle player who can keep up with us.”
When they were gone, Farran settled into the spot Ciar had abandoned and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You promised me you’d take it easy this afternoon, love.”
“Mmm, and I have.” He looked adorably put out, and she had to kiss him, so she dropped a peck to his cheek. “Relax. Everything is fine. Better than fine.”
Farran dropped a protective hand to her belly. “Everything is perfect.”
She wound her fingers together with his. “But you’re still worried about passing on the curse.”
“I used to dread it,” he admitted quietly. “I used to swear I would never inflict such a life on a son. Now I realize it isn’t so terrible.”
It was a gift beyond measure, the knowledge that she’d brought him peace enough to live his life instead of simply enduring it. Tears pricked her eyes, and she smiled through them. “We can show him happiness. Love.”
He kissed her cheek, and his beard rasped over her skin as he moved his lips to her ear. “Enough of both to last a lifetime.”
“Or more.”
The And the Beast Stories
Story One: Sabine
Story Two: Kisri
Story Three: Iloria
Sneak Peek: Shira
Snea
k Peek
Enjoy this excerpt from the fourth and final And the Beast story. For an exclusive look at the cover and an extended excerpt, visit MoiraRogers.com.
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Once, she’d been a lioness, proud and fierce.
Once she’d been a woman. Not of great wealth, nor of unspeakable beauty. But one man desired her body, a man of considerable means. A lion who did not care for proud and fierce.
A curse took her will to resist him, made her exotic in all the ways he treasured, all the ways a lioness should not be. Obedient. Submissive.
One, she’d been a lioness. Now she was a mouse.
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“I’m sorry, who is she?”
The valet looked embarrassed, as if he’d rather be anywhere else than dealing with this particular issue. “Your uncle’s mistress, my lord. The only one he kept on his estate.”
Evidently, Malrion had been unaware of a good many of his uncle’s affairs, but a mistress... “Did he make provisions for her?”
Ammon’s lips twitched into a disapproving frown. “No. Do I have your leave to speak bluntly?”
“Your—” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Mal braced both hands on the window sill and stared down into the garden below, where the raven-haired woman sat. “Speak, man.”
“Your uncle preferred his women pliable, but could command neither their respect nor their fear. He bound his mistress to him with magic to ensure her submission.”
Mal’s blood ran cold. Such things were the province of evil men, not decent ones. “Was she willing before he had her bound? Did she know what he’d planned for her?”
“They say she loved him, in the beginning. That he wooed her, and she was willing.” The valet’s voice sounded tired. “Only she knows the truth. The curse that bound her to obedience died with your uncle, but she is...”
A shadow. Mal could see it even from his vantage point high above. “Is she human?” Perhaps she had family.