by Jessi Gage
Cover Copy
Anya’s been a bad girl. A vindictive plot against one of her clansmen backfired, resulting in her grave injury. Now scarred and crippled, her selfish ambition has turned into bitter self-loathing. She finds nothing lovely about herself, and doesn’t expect anyone else to either. But when a magical wishing box sends her to another dimension, she becomes the most valuable prize imaginable.
While hunting a rare marbled boar, Riggs, a trapper in Marann’s western forest, hears a strange cry. Distracted from the hunt, he loses the sow but finds instead something more valuable than a whole cart packed with marbled boar skins. A woman. She is delicate, her teeth are small and flat, and her skin is curiously hairless. She is not wolfkind. Maybe she is the miracle his people have been hoping for.
Riggs must bring Anya to King Magnus, because breeding rights belong first and foremost to His Majesty, who needs an heir. But the female calls to a primal part of him. He longs to keep her in secret and take her as his mate. But if he gives in to the temptation, he could single handedly bring about the end of civilization.
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He rushed to the woman’s side. Instantly, her scent overwhelmed him. Sweet flowers, hyssop, and woman’s musk. She also smelled of horses and leather tack, of damp wool and mist. Glossy chestnut hair fell across her face, obscuring it.
Don’t be dead.
He crouched and reached a hand toward her. Pulled it back. She was so small. He was afraid to touch her.
He observed her instead, his gaze going to her back. It rose and fell with steady breaths. She was alive.
By the moon. He was in custody of a woman.
The tight coil of fury in his chest turned to wonder. It lasted only a moment before turning into a heavy weight of responsibility.
Shite. He was in custody of a woman.
The Wolf and the Highlander
By Jessi Gage
Dedication
To my mom
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Julie Brannagh and Amy Raby, my faithful friends and critique partners. I look forward to seeing you both each and every week. Thank you to Shane for your love and support. I couldn’t do this without you. That goes for you too, Mom. Between babysitting, brainstorming, help with the housework, and just listening when I need to talk, you make it possible for me to follow my dream. Thank you to Kim Killion for your beautiful cover art. Thank you to Joanne Wadsworth and Shiboney Dumo, my wonderful beta readers. And thank you to Piper Denna for editing this manuscript. You all helped me make this finished product the best it can be.
Chapter 1
Frigid wind whipped the mist. Icy particles scraped Anya’s cheeks like a demon’s kiss as she gazed across the wide valley of farmland toward the village she’d been exiled from more than a year ago. Ackergill. Another hour’s ride and she’d be home. By sunrise, she’d most likely be dead.
“Best get it over with,” she muttered to Leah, the pony Gravois had given her.
“Chi-Yuen tells me your legs are fully healed,” the leader of the tinker camp had told her two days ago near Inverness. “There is no more she can do for you.”
“Are ye trying to get rid of me?” She’d made light of Gravois’ not so subtle hint, but in truth, her stomach had shriveled with fear at his words. After five months of traveling with his camp, she’d come to feel a mild sort of belonging with the mysterious tink and his magical misfits.
“Never, mademoiselle. But your destiny lies elsewhere.”
She’d learned not to argue with him when he claimed to ken such impossible things. Spurning the impossible seemed to be a specialty of Gravois’. She should have died after she’d fallen into a crevice in a remote patch of rocky terrain and broken both her legs, but Gravois, a stranger at the time, had miraculously found her. She should never have been able to walk again, but Chi-Yuen’s medicines had healed her to the point she could bear her own weight for short periods. If he thought she had a destiny waiting for her, mayhap she ought to listen.
“Take this,” Gravois had said, holding out a polished amethyst gemstone the likes of which a common lass like her would never dream of possessing. “It will guide you to the place you are meant to go. Embrace your destiny, and I will consider your debt for the last five months paid.”
She’d grudgingly taken the gemstone and ridden Leah to Inverness, despairing over having nowhere to go and intending to sell both pony and gemstone. If she were lucky, she’d make enough off them to eke out a few years’ miserly existence. But, curse the barmy tink, he’d been right again. Over the course of the ride, she’d recognized a restlessness in herself. Once she paid it heed, she’d realized where she must ride. And now here she was.
She touched her heels to Leah’s sides, and the pony started down the gentle slope into Ackergill’s farming valley. Hooves clopped over the hard ground as they followed the wagon-rutted road. In the distance, Big Darcy’s windmills stood atop the cliffs like pieces on a chessboard. To the left of the mills, squat and brooding, hunkered Ackergill Keep. Crofters’ cottages dotted the slope rising from the valley to the cliffs. At the familiar sight of her clan’s land, her restlessness lifted. She felt peace.
’Twas right she should come home. She’d done much wrong to her clan. She’d heard Big Darcy walked with a limp because of her, and he likely would forevermore. Fortunately no lasting harm had come to Ginneleah, the wife Laird Steafan had chosen over her. In her jealousy, Anya had sent Ginneleah doctored oils under a false name. She’d claimed the oils would aid conception when in truth the mixture was one Anya herself used to prevent catching a bairn. Big Darcy’s wife had been the one to discover Anya’s plot. Aodhan had exiled her for her treachery, and shortly after, she’d heard Ginneleah had gotten with child, the child Anya had wanted to give her laird. Hearing the news had so enraged her, she’d slipped Darcy and his wife an apple sack with a poisonous viper inside. The viper had bitten Darcy’s foot. He’d nearly died.
That very day, she’d fallen from her horse and into the rocky crevice.
She’d thought being scarred and utterly broken from her fall were just deserts for the treachery she’d dealt. But no. She bore her punishment in dishonor, having never faced those she’d wronged. ’Twas not the Keith way. It had taken a meddling tinker to make her realize it. Whether Gravois’ gemstone or her conscience had led her here, she was grateful. ’Twas time to balance the scales in full.
Leah started up the slope into the village. Anya rode her to the stables, which were thankfully abandoned for the evening. She groomed the pony and gave her grain and a pat on the neck for her work. That done, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and hobbled off in search of Aodhan. As war chieftain to the Keith, he would most likely be found at the keep.
The November cold nipped her nose. Wind buffeted her cloak. Her legs ached like someone was jabbing needles into her joints. The walk from the village to the keep had never taken her so long.
As she approached the fortress-like building, the sounds of a gathering filtered around from behind. She followed the fiddle and bagpipe music to the bailey behind the keep.
The oak doors from the great hall were thrown open to the chilly night. A bonfire in the center of the bailey threw sparks into the dark sky. Men sang loudly and sloshed their tankards. Women danced and laughed. A table strewn with scraps from a feast sat near the fire. In the center of the table was a carved out log. Without looking inside, she kent what that log would contain. At one end would be a pile of dirt, at the other a pile of salt. The Keith were celebrating the life of a clansman or woman with a salt and earth ceremony.
Too bad someone had died, but blood
y convenient for her since she needed to find Aodhan and he would certainly be in attendance. Steafan too. She hobbled into the shadow cast by the keep door and looked over the gathering, searching for their faces.
Across the bailey, a head of honey blond hair peeked above the rest. Big Darcy. Her stomach turned over. He wasn’t dancing but standing beyond the table, sipping ale and talking with another warrior. Could he dance anymore? Was it difficult for him to run his mills with his damaged leg? Och, if she’d never set upon her foolish course of vengeance, Darcy would be hale. She’d never have been exiled, never have fallen and become this twisted, broken wretch of a woman.
The musicians stopped as a broad shouldered man made his dignified way to the head of the table. Laird Steafan. She waited for the tug on her heart she always used to feel upon seeing him. It didn’t come. Strange. She’d always loved Steafan, ever since she was a wee ane. At least she’d thought so. Mayhap she’d only loved the position and privilege she’d hoped to find as his lady, or his mistress. At one time, she’d done everything in her power to secure a place in his bed. Tonight, she would go to his dungeon. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t remain there long before he ended her misery. But if her laird chose to make her end slow, she’d not complain. She’d earned whatever punishment he rained down upon her.
Steafan waited for the revelers to attend to him. He smiled, showing his even teeth. ’Twas time to honor the dead by tossing the earth and salt into the fire, the earth to represent mortal flesh, the salt to represent eternal life.
Vaguely, she wondered who’d died, but mainly, she searched for Aodhan’s dark head. She didn’t see him. Mayhap she’d find him in the keep. She turned to go inside.
“Tonight, we gather to honor the passing of Fergus Douglass MacDougal Keith.” Steafan’s voice hit her in the chest like a sledgehammer.
Da.
The salt and earth ceremony was for her da.
“To Fergus,” one man shouted.
“To Fergus,” the revelers answered.
Her legs became weak. She leaned on the door. Gone. They’re all gone.
Her mother had left when she and Seona had been small. Seona, her elder sister and dearest friend, had disappeared from the bawdyhouse in Thurson shortly before Anya had taken up a post there after her exile. She’d never stopped searching for Seona, not even after her fall. Everywhere Gravois brought the tinker camp, Anya would ask about to see if anyone had seen her sister. Nothing ever came of it.
Now her da was gone too. She hadn’t seen him since her exile, and they had never gotten on well, but he was still her da. Her heart recognized the lost connection with a deep pang of sadness.
Her courage fled. She no longer wanted to find Aodhan, no longer wished to pay for her sins. She wanted to climb on Leah and ride away and weep for all she’d lost. Was it too late to go back to Gravois and beg for a place in his camp?
Sniffing back tears, she limped from the keep. Behind her, she heard the hiss as Steafan threw the contents of the log on the fire. Her chest constricted. Her da’s spirit would have heard the hiss too and departed for Heaven’s peace.
He was really gone.
Christ, she felt so alone.
The crowd cheered. Their singing followed her all the way down to the cottages. Her feet led her to the dark alley she kent like the back of her hand. The cottage she’d shared with her da was just ahead, there beyond the hedgerow where the widow McAllister kept her ewes.
The slope of the thatched roof greeted her like an old friend. She limped to the front door. It was cracked open. A band of golden light peeked through the crack.
She stopped short.
Someone was inside.
How dare someone pillage her da’s cottage while his bonfire was still burning? She pushed open the creaky door to find a dark-haired man bent over her da’s shelf of knickknacks, poking through the creations of seashells and driftwood her da had cobbled together to amuse himself.
The man straightened and spun around, nearly dropping the box he’d just lifted from the shelf. A lantern on a nearby table lit his features. Aodhan.
* * * *
Riggs’s thighs burned as he raced through the forest. He pushed harder. Faster. He would not lose the quarry he’d tracked all night, all the way into the wilds of Larna. For one thing and one thing alone would he risk crossing paths with the barbarians who lived across the border from Marann. Marbled boar.
He could already taste the sow’s sweet meat melting on his tongue. Her hindquarters would make a fine breakfast. Then he’d make a bedcover from her hide to sell to a noble in Chroina. Over the years, he’d saved up enough coin to buy ten lottery tickets. Now he needed to pad his purse enough that he could pamper the lady if he should happen to win one for a season. The take from a single marbled boar skin would bring him up to his goal.
The sow disappeared into a gully then reappeared as she made for a line of evergreens. He leapt the gully, gaining ground on her, but his boot skidded in the slick leaves on the far side. He windmilled his arms and had to put one hand to the ground to keep from falling. The boar disappeared past the line of trees.
He lowered his head and plowed on. Nothing would stop him from catching her. This was his lucky year. He could feel it in his bones.
The scent of pine burst over him as he tore a hole through the line of trees. He didn’t see the sow at first. A scrabbling noise to his right drew his gaze just in time to see that beautiful mottled hide disappear into the bracken. She was tan and black with just enough white to make her stand out against the autumn-brown forest.
Come on, sweetheart. You know you’re mine. Stop fighting it.
From the way her sides heaved and her pace had slowed, he could tell she was tiring. He was tired too after running full-out most of the night, but once he caught her, the exhaustion would be worth it. Oh, would it be worth it.
There! She tried to jump a fallen log and caught her hoof in the rotted wood.
He lunged and fell on her. His nails dug into her hide like daggers, holding her bucking body. He opened his mouth wide, ready to tear out her throat.
“What’s that racket?” A rumble of a voice coming from a nearby copse of trees made him freeze.
“I’ll go check.”
Shite. Larnians.
The sow took advantage of his distraction. She twisted around and gored his thigh. Pain ripped through his leg. Worse, the sow slithered out of his grasp. She tore off in the direction of the voices. Smart girl. She knew he’d come from Marann’s side of the border and wouldn’t risk becoming outnumbered by enemies.
She dashed into the copse of trees. Yells erupted.
“A marbled boar!”
“Get her!”
“Where’s my dagger?”
“Don’t just stand there with your thumb up your ass! Go after her!”
“We’ll mind the trap. Hurry! Don’t let her get away!”
Riggs made out four voices. Must be a hunting party. Only reason Larnians tolerated their own company was to hunt or make war. Rest of the time, they’d just as soon slaughter each other as work together.
There were sounds of men shucking their clothes and giving chase. Two sets of running feet took off into the forest. Two men stayed behind.
If he wanted to pursue the boar, he’d have to kill the Larnians for her, because now that they’d spotted her, they wouldn’t give up until they had her.
He didn’t mind killing Larnians, but couldn’t countenance it for a quarry, even a marbled boar. Shite. He punched the ground.
He sat with his back to the rotted log to catch his breath. The bark scratched his skin with a refreshing bite. The scent of the marbled boar lingered like a taunt in his nostrils.
Only thing worse than losing such a rare quarry was the thought of her fine hide being sullied by Larnian filth.
Run, sweetheart. Run like the wind.
He let his head fall back on the log and gazed past the treetops. By the moon, he was tired. And hungry. A
nd bleeding. He needed breakfast. Best if he snuck away quietly and hunted on Marann’s side of the border.
He started to get up to go when murmuring from the copse of trees caught his attention. “We could play with her,” one man said. “Give her a taste of what’s in store for her once we get back to Saroc. Huh, beautiful? How’d you like to come out and play?” The sound of a wooden cage being rattled.
A growl. Then the sounds of an irritated animal thrashing.
Ah, shite. They’d caught a she-wolf. Riggs had heard rumors about the Larnians that had turned his stomach. He’d hoped they were just rumors, but now he knew there was some truth to them. Despicable. And not something he would stand by and let happen. Looked like he might get to kill some Larnians this morning after all.
“You got a muzzle in your pack?” one of the men said.
“Yeah, here.” Silence while Riggs crept closer. Then, “Come on, beautiful, hold still.”
He’d gotten close enough to see the men through the boughs of a pine. They were shirtless but wore faded blue war kilts. Soldiers, like most of the remaining Larnians. And like most remaining Larnians, they were older than Riggs, their beards streaked with gray. One had stuck a pole collar through the bars of the trap-cage. He got the loop around the neck of a snarling she-wolf and tightened the collar. “Got her. Go on. Open the cage.”
The other man held a muzzle and lifted the door of the trap. “Not as pretty as the little females Bantus likes to flaunt, but she’ll do for a quick rut while the others are distracted with the boar.”
King Bantus flaunting females? Did they mean she-wolves? They must, because Riggs’s king, Magnus, had evacuated the remaining women from Larna in the last war. Since then, Larna’s King, Bantus, had been ruling a dying country of men with no hope of living on through their young. Some claimed that justified the Larnians’ interest in she-wolves. Riggs disagreed. No creature deserved to be rutted against their will.