by Selena Kitt
“Aye.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s get ye t’Laina and Sibyl, so they can patch ye’up.”
He slid off his horse, glancing back at Lord Eldred’s body, now bent and broken from being dragged behind the horse. It was a horrible sight and Kirstin turned her face into Donal’s chest as she slid off the horse into his waiting arms.
“Send what’s left of ’im t’King Henry.” Donal tossed Kestrel’s reins to Angus.
“Donal,” Kirstin warned, shaking her head, feeling dizzy. “Do’na start a war.”
“When he finds out what t’man was plannin’, he’ll give me an honorary knighthood,” Donal scoffed, and Lorien laughed. Donal grinned back, then leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, “Or mayhaps m’choice of a bride.”
She thrilled at his words, in spite of the pain in her shoulder, the nausea in her belly, and the dizziness in her head. She lifted her face to his, smiling, and let him kiss her. For a moment, she didn’t feel anything but pure bliss. She didn’t hear the witch screaming, she didn’t feel the pain of her wound.
There was only Donal. The only man in the world. In her world. She felt dizzy with him, filled with him. She was his, and he was hers.
Finally, completely.
“Uhhhh, MacFalon…” Lorien interrupted, clearing his throat.
“What?” Donal snapped, annoyed at being interrupted. Kirstin clung to him, close. She was so dizzy she could hardly stand.
“Yer bride…” Lorien replied, glancing over at Angus. “She…”
“Aye?” Donal prompted, looking between the two of them.
And Kirstin knew. She just knew, by the way they looked at her, with that little bit of guilt in their eyes.
Aiden rocked back on his heels, clearing his throat. Then he pointed at the front of the castle, where a carriage was parked, led by four big horses.
Lorien sighed and announced, “Yer bride’s arrived.”
And with that, Kirsten fainted.
“I’m goin’ to run ye through wit’ an arrow e’ery month, jus’ t’keep ye in bed wit’ me.” Kirstin snuggled down under the covers, resting her head against Donal’s shoulder—his unbandaged one. Thankfully, their arrow wounds were mirror images of each other, so they fit together, as always, perfectly.
“Ye do’na hafta shoot me t’keep me in bed wit’ ye, lass.” Donal chuckled, kissing the top of her head.
“I’d usually say yer betrothed might object,” Moira called, grinning over at Laina as she readied their breakfast on trays on the table. Laina had been called in to play nursemaid—because Moira was so shorthanded and Raife insisted Sibyl stay in bed and rest for the bairn’s sake, even if there’d been no more bleeding—and she sat at their bedside, tearing cloth to make dressings. “But Lady Cecilia Witcombe’s been spendin’ s’much time wit’ the handsome Lorien, I do’na think she’d care a bit.”
The mention of Donal’s intended still made Kirstin wince, no matter how much he reassured her that he was, never, under any circumstances, going to marry the woman. They’d both been laid up in bed for almost a week with their wounds. Donal’s was healing quite nicely, but Kirstin had broken out into a fever on the second day and was just now, finally, starting to feel human again.
Which made her laugh to herself, because that’s all she was now—human. Her wulver side had been banished by the mix of herbs Sibyl had prepared. Kirstin still felt a little bad about stealing it and secretly taking the mixture. Laina had been beyond angry when she found out, but now that they had two instances of proof that the “cure” was permanent—and Darrow had been informed of its effects—Laina had come to her senses and had decided to stay a wulver, in spite of her deep desire to control her change. At least, until Sibyl could develop something that wasn’t so permanent.
“Too bad yer not a wulver anymore,” Laina grumbled, pulling back the covers to check Kirstin’s bandage, as if she’d read Kirstin’s mind. “Ye’d mend faster.”
“I’m glad I’m not a wulver anymore.” Kirstin winced when she pulled the dressing away. She was going to have an ugly scar there, she knew. “How’s Sibyl?”
“She’s doin’ well.” Laina couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face. She stood, holding her linked hands out in front of her middle. “Startin’ t’show.”
“And the cure?” Kirstin knew it was a sensitive subject, but she was too curious not to ask. “Has she recreated it yet?”
“She’s workin’ on it. Silvermoon’s plenty in the first den, but now we have to travel for the huluppa.” Laina helped Moira bring their breakfast tray over to the bed.
Moira was still shorthanded, but at least she didn’t have all the wulvers to feed anymore. They’d all moved into the first den, and from what Laina said, they’d made a home there in a very short amount of time. The space was the perfect size, and The MacFalon had no problem instructing his men to fix up the old barn to house their horses or build a fence in the field to keep sheep.
“’Tis always somethin’.” Kirstin sighed, cracking her hard-boiled egg and beginning to peel it.
“Sibyl a’ready sent somma t’wulver scouts back t’gather the huluppa fer her,” Laina said, pouring water into a cup and putting it on Kirstin’s bedside. “They also herded t’sheep to t’first den, so they would’na starve. I was glad they brought home some more of our things.”
“Laina!” Darrow’s voice echoed through the hallway, floating into their room. Kirstin wasn’t surprised to hear him. The wulvers and the MacFalons had been going back and forth, between the first den and the MacFalon castle.
Darrow and Raife had been in to see them at least once a day, sometimes together, sometimes separately. They had a lot to discuss with The MacFalon, who was doing business from his bed, which Laina and Moira insisted he not leave. This made Kirstin happy, because the longer they kept the real world at bay, the better, as far as she was concerned. She liked having Donal all to herself in their own little world.
“Here!” Laina called back.
Darrow poked his head in and grinned at Kirstin and Donal sitting up in bed together. “There’s t’love birds. Ready to go ridin’ yet, MacFalon?”
“I’m quite happy wit’ t’mount I’ve got righ ’ere,” Donal replied, sliding an arm around Kirstin and pulling her close. She giggled and flushed, but didn’t object. “I trust ye and Raife ’ave e’erythin’ handled, Darrow?”
“Oh aye,” Darrow agreed, grabbing his wife to him one handed and planting a kiss on her cheek as she passed. “E’erythin’ except the witch.”
Kirstin shivered at the mention of her. She couldn’t get the memory out of her mind of the woman screaming, sobbing, cursing all of them in Gaelic at the sight of Eldred’s mangled body being dragged behind the horse. When they had unlashed her from the pole and taken her to the dungeons, she had been put in a cell alone, away from Eldred’s four men. When one of the servants had gone down to bring her bread and water the next morning, the cell had been empty. Neither the bars nor the lock had been tampered with. She had simply vanished.
“I told ye she was a witch.” Kirstin couldn’t help ribbing Darrow a little about that.
“Mayhaps.” Darrow shrugged. He was still reluctant to believe, even now. “Although I think it more likely someone who had access to the keys set ’er free.”
“But no sign of ’er?” Donal asked, frowning. “Ye haven’t found ’er?”
The missing witch had been the main reason Raife had decided to keep the wulver pack on MacFalon land, in the first den. With her on the loose, there was at least one person in the world who knew exactly where the mountain den was located, and that made it too dangerous to live there. At least, at the first den, they had the MacFalons at the ready to watch their backs. Mayhaps they would find another place, in time, but for now, it was a good solution.
And it made Kirstin so very happy, to have her family close, even if she was no longer a wulver.
“Ye sent Eldred’s body t’King Henry, along wit’ m
e message?” Donal asked, taking the egg Kirstin had just finished peeled and popping the whole thing into his mouth. He asked this question every time Darrow or Raife or any of his men came in, and they always gave the same answer.
“Aye,” Darrow agreed.
“Nex’time, I bite yer finger off,” Kirstin growled, nudging Donal with her elbow for stealing her food.
“Yer not a wulver anymore, luv,” he reminded her with a reciprocal nudge. “I’m not afeared a’ye. Bite away.”
She turned and nipped at his shoulder, feeling him jump, but he grinned down at her, a dark light in his eyes that made her feel warm from head to toe.
Another knock came on the open door and the two MacFalon brothers, Aiden and Angus, who seemed to go everywhere together, appeared. Kirstin saw that Lorien was behind them, a head taller than both of the big men. He smiled over their heads at her and she smiled back. She wondered if it was true, what the women were saying about him and Lady Cecilia Witcombe.
Donal’s intended had arrived, terrified of the Scots, afraid she was going to be raped and murdered the moment she stepped out of her carriage. It had taken her party a great deal of extra time to arrive, because according to castle rumors, Cecilia had sabotaged their trip on more than one occasion, including “accidentally” shooting the captain of her guard in the thigh with an arrow.
She had stepped out of her carriage to find a witch lashed to a pole in the yard, guarded by half-men, half-wolves and bare-kneed, bearded Scotsmen in kilts. She had screamed at the sight, attracting the attention of the wulvers. Lorien, who had forgotten he was in warrior form—half-wolf, half-man—had rushed to her aid, always the gentleman. She had taken one look at his face and screamed again.
And when he’d remembered, and changed back to a man?
She had simply fainted dead away
Kirstin’s feelings for the woman had been nothing but venom at first, but the more she heard, the more she realized, Lady Cecilia Witcombe wasn’t any more interested in marrying Donal MacFalon than he was in marrying her. But if the rumors were true, she had become quite enamored with the wulver who had caught her when she fainted and carried her into the castle. And Lorien had been spending a lot of time at Castle MacFalon, if Laina and Moira were to be believed…
“What’s yer business?” Donal asked with a sigh as Aiden and Angus argued their way into the room, Lorien following close behind. “’Tis startin’ to feel like a circus in ’ere.”
“Ye were drunker than I was, man,” Aiden protested. “Why d’ye think I won at dice?”
“Ye did’na win, ye cheated,” Angus snorted. “An’ I wan’me money back.”
“Nuh, I would’ve known if he was cheatin’,” Lorien replied. “A wulver can spot a cheater a mile away, at least.”
“’Tis true,” Darrow agreed, leaning against the door frame. “We’re also vera good at cheatin’, if we wanna be.”
“T’was ye then!” Angus pointed a finger at Lorien. “Ye were cheatin’ fer ’im! How much did he pay ye outta d’winnin’s?”
“Do’na lookit me!” Lorien laughed, holding up his hands. “I do’na need yer worthless coins. I’m a wulver, remember?”
“Face it, Angus, ye’re jus’ not a winner.” Darrow grinned at the man, who glowered at all of them. “Let’s g’back out on the archery range, eh? I’d be happy t’beat ye again. This time we can wager on it…”
“I would’na lost if I was half-wolf either,” Angus snorted over his shoulder at the wulver, pulling something from the pocket of his plaid, handing it to Donal. “This came fer ye.”
“Yer half wild boar, but that does’na seem t’help ye.” Darrow laughed.
“Sounds like wulver-human relations are improvin’ a’ready,” Kirstin giggled, looking over Donal’s shoulder at the scroll.
Her heart stopped when she saw it had the king’s seal. Moira glanced at it and saw too.
“Mayhaps ye should go along wit’ King Henry and nullify t’wolf pact,” Angus joked. “So I can drive these dogs back t’their kennels where they belong a’fore they give all the MacFalons fleas, eh?”
“The only flea-bitten dog ’ere is ye, Angus MacFalon,” Moira said with a laugh, already shooing the two big, bearded men out the door. “Now, out wit’ ye!”
Darrow snickered at that and Moira, who had no qualms about who ran the castle, smacked his bottom with a tray.
“Ye, too, dog! Out!” She threatened him with a tray over the head and he backed away through the door, still laughing. “I do’na care if yer a wulver or the Lord of the Wild Hunt ’imself, ye’all need to clear out. I’ve got patients t’heal before I’m called t’me own death, ye ken?”
“A’righ’!” Darrow agreed, pulling his wife into his arm. “But I’m takin’ m’wife wit’ me!”
“Take this one, too!” Moira waved Lorien out with her tray and he avoided being smacked by it—just barely—as he slipped out, all the men snickering at Moira’s dramatic, but effective, display. She shut the door behind them with a sigh.
“That’s that, then,” she announced, fanning her red face with the tray. “I’ll leave ye alone t’eat yer breakfast. Call if ye need me?”
“Aye, thank ye,” Kirstin said, meeting the old woman’s smiling eyes. Moira knew what was in the scroll, just as well as they did.
At least, she hoped.
When Moira had gone out Kirstin looked at Donal, feeling a lump in her throat that was hard to swallow past.
“From t’king?” she asked and he just nodded.
She noticed Donal’s hand shook slightly as he broke the seal and she felt cold, in spite of the fire in the fireplace.
“Wait.” She put her hand over his. “Donal… what if…?”
“I told ye, lass.” His blue-grey eyes were clear, shining with love. “Yer mine, n’matter what. I’ll fight for ye, I’ll die fer ye, I’ll—”
She kissed him, feeling the soft, full press of his lips against hers, a promise more powerful than any king’s proclamation.
Kirstin covered her face with her hands as Donal opened it and began to read. She couldn’t read the words anyway, and even if she could, they meant nothing.
Nothing except freedom or death. Nothing except peace or war. Nothing except her love or pain. Nothing. And everything.
“Kirstin…” he whispered her name, trying to peek through her fingers.
“Nuh. I can’na.” Her voice was muffled, her tears—they seemed to come so easily lately, now that she had no wulver left in her—stinging her eyes.
“Kirstin, look a’me.” She dropped her hands, feeling her mouth trembling as he cupped her face. “Yer mine. I do’na need any man’s permission.”
“He denied it again,” she whispered, feeling a heavy weight tugging on her heart.
She had visions of war, King Henry’s men marching to the borderlands, facing off against her whole family, all of them, the MacFalons and the wulvers, the green, velvet hills of her homeland running with blood. She could lose them all, in one horrible, bloody battle, simply because the English king was afraid a wulver might claim the right to his precious throne.
“Nuh, lass.” Donal pressed his mouth to hers and a fat, salty tear slipped between their lips. “King Henry’s granted the dispensation. As a thank ye fer exposin’ Lord Eldred’s treason, King Henry’s given up all rights to the MacFalon lands.”
“Ye do’na hafta marry an Englishwoman?”
“Accordin’ t’this, James IV of Scotland’s s’posed t’marry King Henry VII’s daughter, Margaret Tudor some time this year.”
“Looks like t’king’s gettin’ serious ’bout marryin’ t’border.” Kirstin’s eyes widened. “What else does it say?”
“This says I’m free to choose me own bride.”
“Free.” She repeated the word softly, saying it out loud, hardly believing it could be true.
“Aye.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Free t’choose—and I choose ye, Kirstin MacFalon.”
Kirs
tin MacFalon. Hearing him say it out loud gave her a little thrill of pleasure.
“Are ye sure?” She swallowed, feeling doubt now that there were suddenly no barriers at all between them. “Even if I’m… not quite a woman, and not quite a wulver?”
“Och! Ye’ve always been all woman, lass.” He laughed, grabbing their tray of food and setting it aside on the bedside stand. He moved his body over hers, stretching her out beneath him, and she welcomed his delightful heat and weight, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I told ye, nothin’ could keep me from ye.” His mouth claimed hers, hands roaming over her body, carefully avoiding her wound. They’d slept in the same bed for a week, but had been warned not to engage in any ‘strenuous behavior’ by Laina, their resident nursemaid, and Donal had taken her at her word, no matter how much Kirstin begged him to take her.
“E’en if ye were a star up in the heavens, I’d reach ye,” he whispered against her throat, his big, calloused hand moving over her hip. “And make ye mine.”
“I’m much closer than that.” She took his hand and pressed it between her legs, rocking against it, moaning softly. “And I burn hotter, too…”
“Aye, ye do.” He slipped two fingers into her heat and she gasped.
“But e’en if I was a star…” Her hand traced over the sloped hills and valleys of his belly, tracing that dark line of hair down from his navel to find him oh-so-hard and ready for her. “Ye could still reach me wit’ this…”
He chuckled as he shifted his weight fully onto her.
“Yer a thousand times brighter and more beautiful than any star, m’love,” he murmured. “And I’m t’luckiest man in the world, because I don’t have to look up into t’sky to see ye.”
“Nay, ye jus’ have t’look in yer bed,” she laughed, putting her arms around his neck. She would never, ever tire of this. Making love with him was the deepest, best expression of who she was.
“Nay, lass.” His breath was hot in her ear, and she realized with a little thrill that this was the first time they would make love as man and woman, free and unencumbered. “T’only place I’ll e’er have t’look fer ye is in m’heart.”
