Highland Wolf Pact Compromising Positions: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance

by Selena Kitt

  “Och, yer gonna be t’death’o’me,” he groaned, pulling her to him and kissing her. It was a hard, punishing kiss and she whimpered, but she clung to him as they parted, feeling his body against hers, the cool air on her skin. She’d never felt so alive.

  But was she different? She couldn’t tell.

  “Do I look different?” she asked, cocking her head at him.

  “Ye look delicious.” His hands moved down to cup her breasts. They had made slow, easy, sleepy love the night before. The memory of it made her feel warm all over. But she was rested now, and ready for more of him.

  “I took the cure.” There was no sense keeping it from him, she decided. Besides, if it worked, it meant they could be together. At least, that was her best hope.

  “What cure?” Donal blinked at her, distracted from her breasts by her words.

  “This.” Kirstin picked up the vial, shaking it. There was a tiny bit of liquid left in the bottom. “Sibyl did it. She made the cure. It works—Beitrus took it, and she can’na change anymore.”

  “What’re ye talkin’ about?” Donal looked from her to the vial and back again, as if trying to make sense of her words. “What cure? A cure for…?”

  “A cure fer t’curse.” She laughed at his dumbfounded expression. “Donal, this means I’ll ne’er change again. It means I can marry ye. It means I can have yer bairn…”

  Her eyes filled with tears at this last.

  “How d’ye know it worked?” He took the vial from her, holding it up in the light. “How d’ye know what else it might do t’ye?”

  “I do’na know.” She frowned, looking down at her body, then back at him. “I guess I should try t’change and see—”

  Donal frowned, looking up at the grating above.

  “What?” Kirstin asked, frowning.

  He cocked his head, shushing her. “Ye do’na hear that?”

  “Hear what?” She blinked at him in surprise. Her wulver ears were far better than his human ones at picking up sound. If there was something to hear, surely…

  But I’m not a wulver anymore.

  The realization dawned on her as Donal stood, pointing an angry finger in her direction.

  “They’re soundin’ t’alarm.” Donal glowered at her. “Ye do’na follow me. Stay put, ye ken?”

  “Aye.” She nodded, pulling her plaid around her. “What is it?”

  “I’m gonna find out.” He made his way over the rocks, glancing back at her before he slipped out the exit. “I mean it, Kirstin. Ye’ll be safe ’ere. Stay put.”

  “Aye,” she agreed again, nodding. “I’ll wait fer ye.”

  She intended to do as he asked. She really did. She knew she’d scared him, taking off to the first den. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She just wanted to make sure the cure had worked before she went back to the castle to surprise him with her news.

  But the more she sat there, shivering on the rock, the more worried she became. Why had they sounded the alarm? Had Eldred and Moraga somehow managed to complete their spell after all? The thought of Donal riding back to the castle to face an army of enchanted wulver warriors left her choked with fear.

  She washed her face and hands in the spring, trying to keep the latter from trembling. She got dressed, sitting back down in the slant of light from above, to wait. Mayhaps it was good news, she told herself. Mayhaps Eldred and the witch had been found. Donal would come back and tell her, and they would celebrate. They would make love in the grotto. Mayhaps they would even make a baby.

  That thought made her smile.

  That’s when she heard it.

  She didn’t have wulver’s ears anymore, but her human ones couldn’t mistake the sound.

  It was the high, panicked scream of a terrified horse.

  Kestrel? Donal’s big, black war horse? Could it be?

  Fear clawed her throat, but she willed herself to wait, to be still. Donal had told her stay put. But what if he was hurt? What if he was up there, right now? Hurt? What if he needed help?

  Kirstin couldn’t stay put.

  She ran across the rocks and out through the kitchen. Once she reached the tunnels, she changed to wolf form, just because it was faster. But instead of paws and claws clicking on the rock, she looked down at the soft leather of her boots.

  Because while she expected to change, while she did what had always come naturally to transform her into a wulver, she didn’t change at all.

  She couldn’t change.

  Her lungs hurt by the time she got to the stairs and she groaned as she started up them. Her thighs burned when she reached the top. Donal’s horse wasn’t tethered anywhere. And she didn’t have a horse at all.

  It was the first time in her life she cursed not being able to turn into a wulver when she wanted to.

  She heard it again, the high scream of a horse in pain. Kirstin ran for the woods. Nowhere near fast enough on human legs. She tired far too quickly. She reached the edge of the forest and stopped, listening. Her ears were faulty, she was sure of it. It was almost like going a little deaf.

  In the distance, through the trees, she saw Donal’s big, black charger.

  She made her way through the brush, approaching the animal carefully from the side. It wasn’t until she was almost on top of it that she saw the other, now dead, horse on the ground. Its neck was broken. Had this been the horse screaming?

  “Easy, boy.” Kirstin soothed, taking Kestrel’s reins. The horse’s head bobbed, but he didn’t seem afraid of her. She saw that he had two arrows in his hindquarters and winced at the sight of the animal’s blood. “Where’s yer master, hm?”

  She blinked as she looked around the forest, wishing for her wulver’s eyes to see with. It wasn’t light enough to see much with human ones. The sun was just casting its first, early morning orange glow over the land, but here in the forest it was still like dusk.

  Kirstin squatted, touching the flank of the dead horse. Whose? She wondered. No identifying marks on the saddle. But she had a strange feeling that she’d seen this horse before. If only her sense of smell were working—she’d know it in an instant.

  Kestrel pawed the ground nervously, shaking his big head. Kirstin stood, patting his neck. She’d have to take him back to the castle to tend him. But first, she had to find Donal. Kestrel whinnied and nudged her. Kirstin stumbled, grabbing onto the horses reins, but the big horse had knocked her hard enough to make her fall to the ground.

  She sat there for a moment, the wind knocked out of her, and that’s when she saw him.

  Donal was swinging from a wulver net, trapped high up in the tree.

  “Donal!” she called, but he didn’t answer.

  Kirsten checked her boot for her dirk, making sure it was there, before she began to climb. It didn’t take her long to reach him—or to find that, while unconscious, he was, thank the Lord, still breathing. She didn’t want to cut him free—the drop to the ground was too far. She’d have to pull the rope and lower him, she realized, although she wasn’t sure if she had enough upper body strength to do it.

  “Donal?” she whispered, nudging him in the net with her foot as she inched out onto the branch. She realized, from this vantage point, that this was the very same tree, the very same trap, she had been entangled in when she met him. Kestrel had moved closer to the edge of the forest, as if the big animal knew her plan to lower Donal to the ground and had gotten out of the way.

  Donal gave a little groan and she leaned over to look more closely at him.

  “It’s a’righ’,” she assured him softly. “I’m gonna get ye down.”

  “Kirstin.” Donal’s eyes came open, wide. “No, lass!”

  “Make a move to lower that trap, she-bitch, and I’ll shoot an arrow through your heart.”

  Kirstin froze at the sound of Eldred’s voice from below.

  “Do’na touch ’er!” Donal growled, twisting in the net, trying to see the man who had an arrow aimed in their direction. Kirstin couldn’t see him. He was some
where in the trees. But she could hear him. “I’ll kill ye!”

  “You’re not exactly in any position to be making threats, MacFalon.” Eldred chuckled. “I think I’m going to have a little ‘fun,’ as my captains liked to say, with your wulver-bitch, before I kill ’er.”

  “I’ll kill ye,” Donal said again through clenched teeth. “If ye lay one hand on ’er, I’ll kill ye!”

  “Blah blah blah.” Eldred sighed, then he snapped, “MacFalon, you touch that knife in your boot, I’ll put an arrow right through her eye.”

  Kirstin saw Donal’s hand stop moving downward and he winced.

  “Sad, what’s happened to your family,” Eldred called. “You’re all dirty wulver-lovers now, aren’t you? Your father would be appalled to know you had wulvers sleeping in your castle. And your grandfather must be rolling over in his tomb.”

  Kirstin met Donal’s eyes, seeing the anger and fire in his. She could only feel fear, knowing Eldred had his bow aimed at them. She couldn’t think of what to do. The animal instinct she’d come to count on had seemed to dry up and disappear overnight. Her limbs felt paralyzed.

  “But don’t worry, the MacFalon name will die with you this day, Donal.” Eldred chuckled. Kirstin felt tears coming to her eyes, panic clawing up her throat. She leaned over, edging just a little closer to Donal, hugging the big branch with her limbs. “There won’t be much of your family left to carry on the name after the wulvers are done with them anyway. And you let them walk right into your castle. Foolish.”

  Donal swore, twisting and turning in the net, going mad, tearing at it with his bare hands, making them bloody. Eldred just laughed. The motion caught Kirstin’s eye and she glimpsed him through the trees. She knew where he was then, at least for the moment. Donal looked at her, his gaze moving from her to the rope, and she knew what he wanted her to do.

  But could she?

  She wasn’t sure she had the strength. Or the courage.

  Donal gave a slight nod, urging her, and Kirstin grabbed the rope. She pulled it, hard, and then let go. The length of rope ran quickly through the pulley, Donal’s weight taking the net toward the forest floor. It happened very fast. One moment, Kirstin was leaning over the tree branch, the next, her shoulder was on fire, and she was falling, following Donal down toward the ground.

  She screamed. She heard herself, landing on her hurt shoulder with a sick thud, the wind knocked out of her completely. The world went gray. Everything was a blur. She heard Lord Eldred drawing his bow again and opened her eyes to see Donal cutting himself free of the net with his dirk, his face a mask of horror and concern at the sight of her with an arrow through her shoulder.

  She heard the zing of the second arrow and prepared for it, knowing it was aimed at her.

  Donal heard it, too, and he roared, turning to face it and covering her body with his.

  She screamed again, but she couldn’t hear herself. The scream was coming from the inside, from the sight of the tip of the arrow that had pierced Donal’s left shoulder appearing just inches from her eye.

  Then Donal was on his feet, charging at the man in the underbrush, drawing his claymore, one-handed, a Herculean feat. Eldred screamed. Like a woman, he screamed, high pitched and frightened. He managed to draw his longsword at the last minute to stop a rageful, deadly swing that would have split him from the top of his head to his heart—even one-handed.

  She tried to call out, to warn him, but she couldn’t seem to find her voice. She was still screaming. It was just all in her head. Both men had their longswords out—Donal had abandoned the heavy claymore. It had been an impossible feat the first time he’d lifted it one-handed, and she didn’t think he could do it again.

  Donal was tiring quickly. She could see that much from her forest floor vantage point. Her shoulder screamed too, when she tried to move, but that was also on the inside. Eldred drove him back toward her, toward the net. It was disarmed now, useless. Then she saw it, glinting silver in the early morning light. Donal’s dirk, the one he’d used to cut his way out of the trap.

  The sound of their swords clashing filled the air. It hurt her ears, made them ring. Kirstin reached her good arm out, groping in the dirt. The knife felt like it was ten feet away, although it was probably only inches from her hand.

  Donal yelled in pain when Eldred knocked him into a tree, his hurt shoulder up against the bark. But he didn’t stop swinging his sword. Now she could see Donal’s face, as they circled, Lord Eldred’s back to her. Kirstin’s fingers touched the hilt of the knife. Just barely. Almost there.

  Swords clashed again, the men grunting, breathing hard. Kirstin winced and rolled, her shoulder burning with pain, but she grasped the dirk in her good hand. She had it!

  Now, what was she going to do with it?

  “Is this bitch really worth it?” Lord Eldred panted, using both hands to block a one-handed blow from Donal. “You’re The MacFalon. You deserve better than to lie with the dogs.”

  “I’m goin’ t’take great pleasure in runnin’ you through,” Donal growled, driving the older man back another step. “And draggin’ yer corpse behind m’horse back to the castle, jus’ like m’grandfather used t’do wit’ t’wulvers.”

  “You’re not going to win this fight.” Eldred grunted and ducked, blocking another blow. “Even if you kill me. The wulvers are already doing my bidding.”

  Was it true? Kirstin trembled at the thought. Had the enchantress found a way to compel them, without using Raife’s blood?

  Or had Raife’s blood already been spilled?

  “Ye lie.” Donal brought the sword, one-handed straight at the man’s side, but Eldred blocked it, taking another step back. “Yer the lyin’ dog ’ere.”

  “You won’t make it back to the castle to see for yourself.” Eldred was breathing hard as he lifted his sword to strike a blow that Donal had to ward off one-handed. “More’s the pity. They’ll all be dead by the time I ride your horse back to Castle MacFalon, and my wulver army will be ready to march.”

  “Ye talk t’much.” Donal jabbed his sword at the man, who side-stepped, but just barely.

  “But first, I’m going to rape your little she-wolf.” Eldred laughed in triumph as Donal charged him, and Kirstin knew, it was a mistake. Eldred was baiting him, and it had worked.

  Kirstin screamed. This time on the outside. It hurt so much she thought she was going to pass out, but she managed to struggle to her feet, the knife in her hand. Her scream had alerted the huntsman and he turned far enough around to see her holding the dirk up high.

  “Ye touch me, and I’ll be the last dog ye e’er lie wit’.” Kirstin brought the knife down sideways, overhand, into the soft flesh at the side of the man’s throat.

  Eldred gurgled. He didn’t say anything, but blood filled his mouth as he sank to his knees, his sword falling to the forest floor. Donal didn’t hesitate. He ran the man through. Eldred gave one last, strangled cry, and then fell, taking Donal’s sword with him as he collapsed into the dirt.

  “Are ye a’righ’?” Donal pulled her against him with his good arm and she cried out, feeling dizzy and nauseous for a moment.

  “Aye,” she agreed, mustering enough energy to smile at him. “Would ye look’a’that? I saved ye this time. Now it’s ye who owes me yer life.”

  “Ye have m’life, lass.” His arm tightened around her as he pressed his lips to hers, and murmured, “Ye’ve had it since the moment I met ye.”

  Donal called Kestrel so he could put her on the horse. But first, he broke off the fletched part of the arrow, and pulled it through the exit wound.

  “’Tis gonna hurt,” he warned before he did it.

  Kirstin saw stars and thought the world had gone gray for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he murmured, doing the same with the arrow that had found its way into his shoulder.

  He mounted behind her, but only after he’d resheathed his sword and tied Eldred to the back of his saddle with a length of rope, like he’d prom
ised.

  She heard the man groan and she looked at Donal with wide eyes.

  “He’s not dead?”

  “He will be,” Donal said grimly as he took Kestrel’s reins.

  Kirstin didn’t look back, but there was something quite satisfying, knowing the man who hated and wanted all wulvers dead was being dragged behind them through the dirt.

  They didn’t talk about it, but she knew Donal was thinking the same thing she was.

  It wasn’t until they arrived back at Castle MacFalon that they knew for sure.

  Lorien met them on horseback, and Kirstin felt Donal’s good hand move to his sword as the wulver rode up.

  “’Tis the witch,” Lorien told them, pointing to the center of the field, where a shapely woman had been lashed to a tall post. “And I see ye found Lord Eldred.”

  “What’s left of ’im.” Donal’s jaw tightened as he looked at the woman struggling against her bindings. His hand wasn’t on his sword hilt anymore. Lorien was clearly not enchanted. Nor were any of the other wulvers in the yard. “Not much of a threat anymore, is she?”

  Donal rode toward the post, drawing close—but not too close.

  Moraga looked up, fire and hatred in her eyes, and she screamed at them in Gaelic.

  “What’s t’matter?” Kirstin asked, narrowing her eyes at the woman who had once sent an enchanted blade after her. “N’blood fer yer magic, witch?”

  Moraga snarled like an animal. Her dress was dirty and torn, face streaked with dirt.

  “Mayhaps ye wanna use his?” Kirstin jerked her thumb behind her and the witch turned her head and saw him for the first time. Lord Eldred was still recognizable by his clothes, if nothing else.

  “Noooooooooo!” The witch wailed, railing against the post, trying to escape her lashings, but whoever had tied her had done their job well. Besides, she had three MacFalons, two of which were Aiden and Angus, and four wulver warriors standing guard. The woman wasn’t going anywhere—except the dungeons.

  Moraga sobbed, real tears, screaming Eldred’s name over and over.

  “Donal, I’m feeling nauseous,” Kirstin confessed, although she wasn’t sure if it was her wound or the witch’s display that had done it.