by Selena Kitt
Chapter Seven
“She’s goin’t’need a shave!” Giggles ensued, the high-pitched sort of laughter shared by women whose intentions were both wicked and cruel. “Wanna bring ’er a blade?”
“Hush!” Moira waved the young maidservants out of the room, closing the door behind them after ushering them through. Gayle give Kirstin a wicked, gap-tooth grin before the door slammed shut.
Kirstin didn’t move from her place by the fire, still rolled in her plaid, staring into the flames. The room was warm, but she shivered, as if from fever. She knew the signs. Her time was coming, and soon. She would change then. She had no choice. The giggling maidservants who had laughed and poked fun weren’t wrong, after all. She was abhorrent, a monster, something sick and twisted and wrong.
She couldn’t blame the girls for being disgusted by her.
She wouldn’t blame Donal for not wanting her.
What man would?
“Pay’em n’mind, lass.” Moira picked up a poker to stoke the fire. “D’ye need anythin’?”
“Nuh.” Kirstin sat, pulling the ends of her plaid up around her shoulders and glancing out the window at the setting sun. The moon would rise soon, full and beautiful—and she would be trapped. Trapped by her body, by her own nature. Trapped into her life as a wulver woman.
She should just return home, as Sibyl had begged her to before she left, and find a wulver warrior to settle with, to love and raise pups with—even if no other man besides Donal could ever be her one true mate.
But she knew, there was no wulver warrior who could make her feel the way Donal did. She didn’t understand it, nor did she question it. Her nature might have been at odds with her heart’s desire, but she trusted her instincts, and every fiber of her being told her that Donal was the man she was meant to be with. It was the only reason she had stayed here in this castle with the MacFalons, willing to withstand all the whispers and jibes.
To be with Donal, her one true mate, her only true love.
She’d said a tearful goodbye not too long ago once Darrow was ready to travel. Sibyl hadn’t yet told Raife her secret, even though he’d stopped being a stubborn fool and had finally forgiven her. Too many things could go wrong before she started to show, Sibyl insisted. She’d wait until Raife noticed the physical changes in her body before telling him she was expecting his bairn.
“You’ll come to me, when it’s my time?” Sibyl had whispered to Kirstin as they hugged goodbye.
“A’course, banrighinn,” Kirstin assured her, not knowing if she would be able to make it to the den to attend the birth of the wulver heir or not. She didn’t know anything for sure—except that she was going to change, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“I have the book.” Sibyl kept her voice low. “Laina’s excited about something Moira told us about the silvermoon. I have some of it transplanted in a pot, and a gathered a great deal of it to take home and dry. Mayhaps the book will give us the key to the change...”
“Mayhaps,” Kirstin had agreed, hugging Laina too, who was anxious to get back to her bairn. She truly hoped Sibyl would be able to translate the book they’d found in the first den well enough to find something useful, something that would allow wulver women to gain some modicum of control over their bodies during estrus and birthing, but she couldn’t count on it.
Her own change was coming, and she would have to deal with it.
“’Tis almos’time.” Moira said, sounding reluctant to mention it, and Kirstin knew she was. This wasn’t the first time they’d had an unpredictable wulver woman in their midst.
“Aye.” Kirstin sighed and stood, tucking her plaid into her belt as a knock came on the door.
“I’m ’ere fer t’she-wolf.” Gregor stood in the doorway, sneering at Kirstin as she straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a brave, public face, prepared to face this horrible humiliation. He took a leery step back as Kirstin approached and she almost laughed. It was true, she could have torn the man’s throat out in an instant, the moment she turned.
“Nuh, I’ll take ’er down.” Moira insisted, linking her arm with Kirstin’s and leading her out of the room. “T’isn’t fer t’likes’o’ye.”
“Lock ’er up good!” Gregor called after the women as they made their way down the hallway. “We a’ready lost one laird—not gonna lose another!”
As if Kirstin ever would have hurt Donal, in any form, human or wolf. But she didn’t say anything as she and Moira made their way down the stairs. She expected to be led to the dungeon—where else would she be locked up? But Moira turned and led her down the hall, stopping outside the door of Donal’s chancery.
“He wanted t’see ye... a’fore t’change...” Moira knocked softly on the door and Kirstin’s heart broke when Donal opened it.
“Nuh, I can’na...” Kirstin took a step back, but Donal already had her in his arms, pulling her into the room and locking the door, shutting Moira out.
“Aye, lass, ye can and ye will...” Donal buried his face and hands in Kirstin’s long, dark hair. “I want ye, I need ye...”
“Aye,” she whispered, knowing just how he felt, unable to hide her own feelings, not here, in his arms. “Time’s almos’up, ye ken?”
“Aye.” He lifted his face to look into her eyes, searching there for some answer, some solution to their strange dilemma. “Lemme look at ye.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes, swallowing around a lump in her throat. “I wish I was someone else fer ye, somethin’ else...”
“Nuh, lass. Do’na say’t.” Donal groaned, wrapping thick, strong arms around her waist, pulling her body in tight to his. “Ye’re e’rythin’ I’ve e’er wanted.”
Kirstin shook her head, but her throat was closed with pain and heartache—and her impending change. She couldn’t speak. She would lose the ability entirely soon.
“You’re m’only love, and if I can’na’ave ye...”
“Shhh.” Kirstin couldn’t stand any more words and she was grateful when Donal’s mouth found hers. This was a language she understood. Her arms went around his neck, fingers playing in the hair curling at the nape, his big hands moving over her tunic and plaid as if he could memorize her with his palms.
She wanted him, was desperate for him. If only he would take her and make her his own, mark her—marry her. She was a wulver, and wanted his claim, more than anything, but she knew it was the one thing she might never have.
Kirstin knew she should have listened to Sibyl’s sensible advice. If anyone knew what it was like to be caught between two worlds, it was Sibyl. Donal was laird of his clan, and now he was promised to another—Cecilia Witcombe, a highborn, English lady, a woman who would arrive this week, a “gift” from King Henry VII.
The contract, arranged by the English king so he could secure the border, was binding. Even if Donal had not signed it, his brother had already agreed to give part of his lands to the English king in exchange for an English bride. So it was an English bride Donal would have.
The king’s logic was sound—if the Scots married the English, it seemed reasonable they’d stop killing each other in the borderlands. It was a plan that had been set in motion when Sibyl had come to Scotland to marry Alistair, and one King Henry seemed determined to carry through with. The woman he chose seemed to matter not as all, as long as she was an English lady. It was a perfectly rational solution—but the heart didn’t always follow the logical plans set forth by the mind, even the mind of a king.
It had surprised her that King Henry had simply chosen another Englishwoman to take Sibyl’s place, rather than forcing her to marry Donal instead of his brother, Alistair. But mayhaps he knew it would bring the wrath of the wulvers down on the crown, because Sibyl was Raife’s, and their pack leader wasn’t about to let anyone separate them, whether he was the King of England or the Pope.
Now that he’d finally stopped being angry with her for risking life and limb, at any rate.
While Clan MacFalon had welcomed Alistair’s younger brother, Donal, as their new laird, and King Henry had made him warden of the Middle March—that responsibility came with more than just a title, she knew. Sibyl’s heart had led her astray, from the life of a lady to living in a wolf’s den, and her advice to Kirstin before they’d departed had been sensible, even if they both knew it was useless to argue with what the heart wanted.
“Come back with us,” Sibyl had pleaded. “Find a wulver to love. They are all good, strong men. Any of them would make a good mate for you. Lorien has eyes for you.”
Kirstin had nodded her agreement. In her head, she knew it was true. She should find a nice, wulver warrior and settle down, like the rest of the wulver women. Lorien was a fine wulver, and they’d been together a few times, before she’d left the den, before she’d met The MacFalon. She could return to the den and make a family with him. Every wulver had a true mate—but not all wulvers found them. Sometimes, Sibyl had told her, you had to settle for something else. That “something else” would be a mate that wasn’t true.
She knew wulver women who had done just that. They lived comfortable, if a bit bland, lives. Other women, like Beitrus, had refused to settle. She had never found her true mate. An old woman now, she was unlikely to ever find him. So Kirstin knew she had choices. She could leave Castle MacFalon, try to find happiness with a wulver like Lorien, or some other wulver warrior.
There was just one problem with that.
None of them were Donal.
None of them were her one, true mate.
The man had found his way into her heart and she couldn’t stop her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. She’d thrown herself into caring after Darrow—the reason she’d come to the MacFalon castle in the first place—until they’d gone back to the den. Then, she’d thrown herself into helping Moira and the rest of the servants, learning the daily workings of the castle. This is what she’d done at home, after all, and came naturally to her.
But none of it had distracted her from Donal.
He was everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, that devilish smile and those dancing eyes. She told herself—often—that the man was, well, just a man. He wasn’t a wulver. He wasn’t her kind. He would never be able to understand, let alone tolerate, her ways. Kirstin didn’t have a choice, not like the wulver men. They could change at will, could even transform into half-man, half-wolf, but wulver women didn’t have that luxury.
Wulver women’s bodies were tied inextricably to their moon cycles. When they went into heat, they changed into their full wolf form, and when they did, they were unpredictable. Kirstin’s life had always been ruled by the moon. Unlike Laina, who had hated that fact and tried her best to find a way to change it, Kirstin had always accepted her lot in life as a wulver.
Until now.
“We are what we are,” that’s what Raife always said, and it was true. You couldn’t spend your life wishing you were someone, or something, else. It was a recipe for heartache.
But that was just what she’d done, Kirstin realized, clinging to Donal, wishing she could stop what was coming. She wanted to blame him, for being so kind, so generous, so damned handsome and irresistible, but she knew better. It wasn’t Donal’s fault. The man hadn’t done anything untoward, hadn’t made any advances. He had been honorable—until she practically attacked him at the spring in the first den.
It was, shamefully, all on her. It was her own wild heart that had betrayed her.
Now she was tied to him, utterly in love with him, and she knew it was hopeless. Kirstin knew Sibyl’s logical advice would have been easier to follow a month ago, before she’d let herself fall for this man. Kirstin should have returned to the wulvers’ den with her family. She should have ignored the calling of her heart to his, should have denied her feelings, should have turned and walked away.
Kirstin remembered her home fondly, with some measure of homesickness, but she knew, in her heart, she would miss this man more. But when Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon, he had, in turn, assumed his brother’s responsibility to “marry the border.” To join the English and the Scots, as King Henry VII had instructed him to.
Even if Donal was in love with another woman.
Or, another wulver.
That clearly didn’t matter to the heads of state.
What the heart wanted had to be second to what the crown wanted.
“I should go.” Kirstin tried to disengage herself from him, but he held her fast in the circle of his arms. To be fair, she didn’t try too hard to get away. She spent too little time in the man’s arms, and could have spent an eternity there. Since that first morning at the spring when she had fallen into his arms like some lovesick teen and confessed her affection for him, she had found herself taking every opportunity she could to be with him.
“I do’na want ye t’go, lass,” he murmured, hands lost in the thick mass of her hair. “I’m n’afraid of ye. Stay wit’ me.”
She wanted to, more than anything, but there was more than just his betrothal to an English bride standing in their way.
Every time she thought of Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe’s only daughter, on her way to marry the laird of clan MacFalon, it made her physically ill. Not that it mattered, Kirstin knew. The king would never approve a marriage between a man and a wulver woman, even if the king himself had once bedded one. There was a big difference between bedding a wulver and marrying one, Raife had said, and he was right.
She and Donal had talked in circles about it, and they kept coming around to the same point.
“Ye know I can’na stay.” Kirstin lifted her face to look at him, at those stormy eyes, his brow knitted with worry. “Y’er t’marry another.”
“Do’na remin’me.” He groaned, his expression pained, as if her words had stabbed him in the gut.
Because King Henry had denied the dispensation Donal had requested.
Donal sent another, but Kirstin didn’t hold much hope that it would be granted after the first had been turned down. They had to accept what was, as Raife always said.
She was a wulver. He was a man. A man set to marry another woman, upon order of the English king.
“She’ll arrive soon,” Kirstin reminded him, reminded herself. “In another day, mayhaps two.”
Donal nodded miserably. They both knew it was true, even if they didn’t want to think about it.
“Ye lead yer clan, Donal,” Kirstin reminded him of this, too. “Ye mus’ do what’s right fer the greatest good.”
“Ye’re m’greatest good, lass.” He cupped her face in his hands, searching her eyes. “Ye’re m’vera heart.”
His words broke her. How could she do this? How could she feel this way, knowing she couldn’t be with him, and still stand? She didn’t know.
“I can’na stay wit’ ye,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling, in spite of her self-admonition to stay strong. “I can’na stay.”
“Then I’ll come wit ye.”
And there it was again. They went around and around, in circles. It was impossible. He couldn’t live in the wulver den with her, and she couldn’t live in the MacFalon castle with him.
“Yer family’s ’ere,” she urged. “Yer obligation’s ’ere. Yer wife...”
They both winced at the word “wife.” Kirstin didn’t like to think about another woman coming anywhere near this man. Even in her human form, Kirstin’s instincts turned animal at the thought.
“But me mate is ’ere.” He kissed her cheek, the tear that slipped down it caught on his lips. “I want ye, Kirstin. I claim ye. D’y’hear me? Yer mine. Ye’ll always be mine.”
“I wish t’were true,” she whispered as he kissed her other cheek, another tear.
“’Tis true! We can make a life together, lass.”
“How?” she pleaded, wishing she could see a way around it. “If ye marry me, King Henry’ll come down on all our heads. ’T’will be t
he end of t’wolf pact and the end of the possibility of peace in t’borderlands. I can’na be responsible fer that.”
“Let me worry ’bout that,” he insisted.
“And then what?” she cried. “Ye live wit’ a woman ye hafta lock up once a month because she changes into a wolf?”
“’T’wouldn’t be the firs’ time a man had to deal with a she-devil once a month,” he replied with a grin.
“Donal!” Kirstin laughed. She couldn’t help it. He always made her laugh, took her outside herself. It was the first thing that had attracted her to him. That and those big, dancing, mischievous, blue-grey eyes.
“But m’love...” She turned her wet eyes up to him, hating herself for saying it out loud, but it was true, and it was the one thing she knew they couldn’t change. “I told ye. There’d be n’children. I can’na give ye heirs. We could’na mate while I was... while...”
She flushed, feeling the heat in her face, in her limbs, at the thought of mating with this man, as woman or wulver. The look in his eyes told her he was thinking about it, too. Lately it was all she ever thought about. Her body was so close to estrus, she was aroused almost constantly.
“Nothin’ would keep me from ye, lass.” That dark, determined look had come into his eyes. The man could be stubborn. “Nothin’.”
“Och, Donal.” Kirstin sighed, shaking her dark head. “Ye can’na come wit me, and I can’na stay. ’Tis impossible.”
“’T’isn’t impossible,” he insisted.
“When I change, then ye’ll see.” She lowered her head, not wanting to look at him, to see the expression on his face. She hated herself, hated her very nature. If she could have swallowed some magic potion in that moment that would have given her the ability not to change into a wolf, she would have done it in an instant. “Ye do’na really want me, Donal. Ye will’na, once ye see...”
“I do want ye.” His grip tightened, rocking her in his arms. “I’ll always want ye, whether ye’re a woman or a wolf or a... mouse!”
