by Selena Kitt
Table of Contents
BOOK DESCRIPTION
HIGHLAND WOLF PACT: Compromising Positions
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
The Story Continues...
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BOOK DESCRIPTION
Kirstin has never been out of her den before, but now one of her pack is seriously injured—he may even be dying. Desperate to help, she races straight to Middle March, the borderland between Scotland and England, and falls right into a dangerous trap.
As the new laird of his clan, Donal MacFalon has made it clear that he, unlike his brother before him, will honor the wolf pact, an agreement their father made with England’s King Henry VII to protect Scotland’s wolf shifters, the wulvers, who most believe to be only the stuff of legend.
Wulvers, though, are very real. Kirstin knows. She’s one of them.
When Donal MacFalon turns those steel blue-grey eyes her way, she realizes she’s facing something far more dangerous in this man than any trap.
This man, already promised to another, has a power over her no man or wulver has ever had before. When he opens his castle and his heart to her, she finds herself willing to risk not only her own heart, but everything she’s ever known, just to be with him.
Kirstin will find herself caught-—between the man she loves and his intended bride, between her pack and a human world frightened of her kind, between nations whose hatred runs deep.
Kirstin will be forced to make choices no woman, or wulver, should ever have to make. All for one man, whose love goes beyond borders, nations, or legends, whose heart beats only for her.
HIGHLAND WOLF PACT: Compromising Positions
By Selena Kitt
Chapter One
Scotland
Middle March – near Castle MacFalon
Year of our Lord 1502
If she hadn’t caught scent of the man, she never would have ended up in the trap.
Kirstin cursed the stranger as she struggled, strung halfway up the side of a huge oak tree, the limb holding her weight moving only slightly as she snapped and pawed at the net. She had caught his scent and had followed her nose to the edge of the wood, where it ended in a clearing. In the middle of the clearing was an enormous burial cairn. This was where the man knelt, one bare knee on the ground, his elbow up on the other, forehead pressed to his closed fist.
She had believed him to be praying, too distracted to notice her, so she had crept forward, curious. That had been her mistake. The movement had caught the attention of the man’s horse. The big, black animal had thrown its head and yanked at the reins, tied to a stake on the ground, pawing the grass as it caught her scent. Kirstin’s fur had prickled, standing on end, as the man turned his head to look at her.
He was a Scotsman—his plaid gave that much away. He didn’t call out or move for a weapon when he saw her, as she expected a man might, when faced with a wolf in the early morning light. The man easily could have drawn the bow he had slung over his back, although if he moved, she would have been gone faster than he could cock an arrow. But he stayed still, his gaze meeting hers across the dewy grass.
And there was something about those eyes...
The moment their gaze locked, Kirstin felt it. Something crackled, like lightning flashing through storm clouds. The horse continued to whinny and paw his big hoof at the ground, but the human and the wolf didn’t move. They just looked at each other, sizing each other up. If she had been a regular wolf, she probably would have instantly turned tail and run. But if she had been a regular wolf, she never would have followed the scent of a human this close in the first place.
Her tail twitched and her nose wrinkled when she caught his scent again as the wind shifted. He wasn’t afraid. She would have smelled that—it was a tinny, copper scent, similar to blood, a mixture of sweat and adrenaline. The man whose eyes searched hers across the clearing wasn’t afraid—although he should have been. She wondered at it, cocking her shaggy head and whining softly at her own confusion.
That’s when he spoke.
“Are ye a wulver, then?” he called in a thick, Scottish brogue. He didn’t make a move, didn’t reach for a bow or a sword, but his words frightened her far more than any weapon would have. If this man knew the difference between a wolf and a wulver, and even suspected she was the latter, she was in far more danger than she thought. But then she remembered, she’d tied her own plaid around her neck before she left the den, and it was tied there still.
She had turned tail and run, even though he’d stood, calling after her, “Halt! Come back!”
If only she hadn’t followed his scent. If only the horse hadn’t noticed her and alerted his master. If only she hadn’t taken off running. Or mayhaps if she had run the other direction, through the clearing instead of back into the woods. If she had only stayed home, snug in her den, taking care of her pack the way she always had...
But she couldn’t lament this last.
Because while most of her pack was safe back in the den, their pack leader was at Castle MacFalon, sitting by his brother’s bedside, waiting to see if he’d recover from wounds that would’ve instantly killed any mortal man. The warriors had returned to their den, exhausted, hungry, with a tale so horrifying, Kirstin didn’t even want to imagine it. But it was all she could think of as she took off running through the woods, following their scent on the trail. It would take her to the borderlands, back to Castle MacFalon, where one of her pack lay dying...
Not dying. She twisted in the net, glimpsing the ground below. It was going to be quite a hard drop to the forest floor. He’s not going to die. Not if I have anything to say about it.
But she wasn’t going to be able to do anything if she didn’t get out of this damnable net. Kirstin twisted her big, furry head to see if any hunter was around. Had the man kneeling in the clearing been the one who laid this trap? She wondered. If so, he had seen her. He had watched her turn and run back into the woods. Straight toward the hidden n
et.
Kirstin felt a howl rising in her throat, nearly uncontrollable, at her sudden lack of freedom. Adrenaline coursed through her and she turned the howl into a low growl, forcing herself to be still, to stay calm. She couldn’t let her animal side take control, even if she was in wulver form. She had to stop, to think, to get herself out of this. She would have to change into human form, find the dirk she had sown into her plaid, and cut herself free.
Before the hunter found her.
“Easy, lass.”
The voice came from below and she froze, hackles rising, bladder tensing in her belly. He must have come from downwind, quietly tracking her, to appear so suddenly without her knowledge. She couldn’t see him, but she knew the man had a bow. She’d seen it slung across his back. He had a dirk hidden under his plaid, like any good Scotsman would. He could, right now, have an arrow aimed at her side.
“I’m not gonna hurt ye.” He spoke softly, from right beneath her.
She twisted in the net, trying to see him, and couldn’t, but she could sense him. Smell him. It was the same scent that had caught her attention as she followed her pack’s trail, the one that had intrigued her enough to leave the path and head toward the clearing.
“I hafta come up t’free ye,” he explained. He’d come into the woods quietly, on foot. She didn’t scent his horse at all. “I’m afeared somethin’s caught. The trap will’na let go from ’ere.”
His voice moved below her and she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. She gave a low growl, baring her teeth. It was pure instinct. The man came up the trunk on her left side, climbing fast and efficiently. Kirstin twisted in the net, snapping at him as he got nearer.
“Easy, lass, I mean ye n’harm,” he soothed.
He was already above her, standing on the branch the net was strung from. Then he sat, edging his way slowly toward her, leaning over so he could reach the place where the rope that held the net stretched taut over the branch.
“Ye mus’ be from t’wulver den?” He talked softly as he worked.
His hands were big, untangling the rope, which was tensed with Kirstin’s full wulver weight—almost double her human one. He had dark, shoulder-length hair that swept across his cheek, and he used his other hand to push it out of his eyes.
“Did ye come t’help Laina and Sibyl, then?” He stopped when he heard Kirstin whine softly at that. He cocked his head and looked at her. Up close like this, the steel in his eyes had softened, like storm clouds parting to reveal a deepening, blue sky underneath. He seemed to understand her response, almost like he’d read her thoughts. “Darrow’s healin’ more e’ery day. Sibyl says she thinks he’s comin’ outta t’worst of it.”
Just hearing those familiar, beloved names made Kirstin’s heart beat faster. Could it be true? Was this man a friend of the wulvers? If he knew Sibyl, Laina and Darrow, should she trust his words? But it wasn’t his words, it was his actions that swayed her. The man was up in a tree, trying to free her. What really convinced her, though, was his lack of alarm. She didn’t sense or scent any fear in him at all.
“We’ll get ye down from ’ere and I’ll take ye back t’Castle MacFalon.” The man’s brow creased as he tried to solve some problem with the trap she couldn’t see from her vantage point. He glanced at her and half-smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek. “I’m Donal MacFalon, by t’by. Laird of the MacFalon Clan. ’Though I’m t’first t’admit, I’m still gettin’ used to the title.”
Donal MacFalon. The wulvers had come home talking about him. She had listened to their tales in the dining hall, where the wulver women fed their travel-weary warriors a hot meal, and remembered the way they’d spoken of Donal MacFalon. Unlike his brother, this was a man of integrity, they said. And like his father before him, he would honor the peaceful pact made between man and wulver.
She really could trust him, then. At least, as much as she was likely to trust any man.
Kirstin whined softly, reaching out toward him with a paw. She could just reach the soft leather of his boot and she tapped it gently. Donal looked down at her and smiled when he met her eyes again. There were no storm clouds in those eyes at all now. Just a deep, sparkling blue, as reflective as the lake in the wulver valley.
“Yer safe, lass,” he assured her with a slow nod. “I apologize fer the trap. Alistair—me brother—was set on catchin’ all t’wulvers and killin ’em...”
She growled at this—although she knew the man’s brother, Alistair, was dead. He’d been the one responsible for Darrow’s wounds.
“Aye, ’tis jus’ how I feel ’bout it.” Donal made a face. “It’ll likely take us months t’find all the traps an’ take ’em down.”
Kirstin yipped in surprise, a high pitched sound, when the rope holding the net lengthened, but just for a moment. Then it went taut again.
“Oh fer the love’a—” He struggled with the rope, his body swaying on the limb, and Kirstin prayed he wouldn’t fall to his death.
Then she heard it. It wasn’t far off, coming from deeper in the woods—the sound of men. It wasn’t just one, but several. She glanced at Donal, but he was busy trying to finagle the trap and hadn’t heard anything. Of course, he was human—his sense of hearing and smell were seriously impaired compared to hers.
She whined softly, looking at the man, Donal, wondering how to tell him. Mayhaps they were his men, heading this way? She hoped so. The might be able to help him get her out of this damnable trap, because she wasn’t sure he was going to be able to do it on his own.
“Easy, lass,” he said again, softly, as he maneuvered the rope. “Almost there.”
She whined louder, reaching out with her paw to touch his calf. He glanced down, frowning, lifting his gaze to meet hers.
“What is it?”
Kirstin turned her head in the direction of the men. She could hear them clearly now. Couldn’t he?
Donal held his hand up, cocking his head. He’d heard them. Good! He moved quickly and almost silently, easing his way up higher in the tree. Using the leaves as cover, he nearly faded into the tree itself in the greens and blues of his plaid.
Kirstin panicked. She was caught in a trap with men heading her way. The howl rising in her throat was irrepressible. Twisting in the net, she pawed and snapped at it, determined to free herself, even if it meant falling to the forest floor below.
“Easy, lass, easy!” Donal soothed, his voice low and soft. “I’ll not let ’em hurt ye. I promise ye!”
She whined, turning her head to look at him. She could see him through a thick, Y-shaped branch, his head appearing above it. Did she dare trust this man? Her instinct to escape was strong, almost overpowering.
“I promise ye,” he said again, giving her a slow, firm nod. “No harm’ll come to ye on m’watch.”
Kirstin heard them coming closer, along the path. Not his men, then, or he wouldn’t be hiding. So who was it heading through the forest in the early morning light? Hunters?
She whined again, thrashing in the net.
“Shh!” Donal put his finger to his lips, shaking his head as he stood behind the thick tree limb.
Kirstin tried. She stilled, smelling them now—five men, heading their way. She made herself go limp in the net, turning her head so she could see Donal, see his eyes. He wasn’t afraid—but he had a concerned knit to his brow. He didn’t expect anyone coming through the woods on his land then. She saw he had his bow in his hand and he stood there, frozen, waiting.
Kirstin heard an arrow being knocked—and it wasn’t Donal’s. She wanted to warn him, to give him a chance to defend himself, but there was no need. He spoke before the other bow was drawn.
“If ye draw that arrow, I hope ye’re a better archer than ye’re a hunter.” Donal’s own bow was aimed in the direction of the interloper. “If I have t’drop from this tree a’fore I finish what I came up ’ere t’do, one of us’ll be dead a’fore supper—and I do’na plan to miss the crispy skin of the swine I dragged in from t’wo
ods t’mornin’ a’fore last.”
Kirstin heard another bow draw, this one from a different spot on the forest floor behind her, and she knew then that Donal was in trouble. She glanced up at the laird, seeing him preparing to launch himself from the tree, when a voice stopped him.
“Laird MacFalon, feel free to finish your task, free your quarry, and exit your perch.”
Kirstin growled, feeling the hackles on the back of her neck rising. The voice was smooth, confident, even slightly amused—but she didn’t trust the man it came from. She didn’t know why—it was just instinct, but she trusted her instincts. Maybe it was just because the accent was so different from their own Scottish brogue. This man was English and spoke in the clipped way she was used to hearing from the Englishwoman, Sibyl, who had recently been living with them in the wulver den.
“I promise, this pair of mongrel poachers will hinder you no further,” the Englishman assured them from below. “And, at your word, they’ll hinder this world no longer either.”
Don’t trust him. Kirstin wanted to tell Donal, but she had no voice. Instead, she gave a low whine that turned into a growl in the back of her throat.
“Aye, thank ye, stranger.” Donal frowned at Kirstin, hearing her animal warning.
The Scotsman was at a disadvantage, and he clearly knew it. He had to trust the Englishman, given that he had not only one, but two, arrows pointed in his direction, likely at very vital parts of his anatomy. Kirstin had a feeling that, whoever was below—especially if they were the poachers who had set the trap in which she was now ensnared—would rather have Donal dead before he left the tree than face him on level ground.
“Spare the curs, Lord Eldred,” Donal called down. So he knew the man, then? But he’d called him “stranger?” Kirstin wrinkled her nose in confusion. “If they’re honest poachers, they’re hungry, and their wives and bairns will be as well. An empty belly’s an ailment that spread quickly under m’late brother’s watch—and t’will be cured under mine. As England’s good King Henry’s shown, there’s none more loyal than those given mercy and a full belly—when warranted.”
