by Jessi Gage
Shite. He was in custody of a woman.
“Where did you come from?” he asked. Of course she didn’t answer.
Gently as he could manage, he curled a finger around the silky strands of her hair and lifted them off her face. By the moon, her ear! It was rounded like a clam shell!
His heart pounded as he studied it, as he transferred his scrutiny to what he could see of her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted to reveal oddly blunt teeth, like a ewe’s. The graceful arch of her cheekbone looked as delicate as finely crafted porcelain. She wasn’t wolfkind.
“Where did you come from?” he asked again. She didn’t stir.
He touched a fingertip to her perfect eggshell cheek, careful not to scratch her. When she didn’t respond, he patted her cheek.
“Wake up.”
Still nothing.
Careful of his hands, so large compared to her thin arms, he rolled her onto her back. She went over limp as a freshly slaughtered doe. Her face turned up to the sky. Her loveliness froze the breath in his throat. Not even the old claw marks furrowing her left cheek could ruin such beauty.
Her eyelids appeared thin as vellum. He could make out the spider web network of vessels in the skin. Her cheeks looked like sunset, pale pink against her ivory-cloud paleness. Her lips were dark pink and full as dripping heart blooms.
His gaze roved downward, over the high neckline of her dress, over the mouthwatering swell of breasts beneath faded blue fabric. His whole body thrummed with sudden desire, which he resolutely ignored as he fixed his attention on those claw marks. Had this stunning creature been a plaything for the Larnians? Had some man marked her as his in this barbaric way?
No. He would smell mating on her if any man had had her recently. The Larnians must have found her moments before he’d heard her cries.
Shite. Larnians. In his shock over finding this treasure, he’d forgotten he was still in Larna.
He had to get her away from here. If the second maggot he’d killed had told the truth about this forest being populated by trappers with access to horses and tracking wolves, he’d better hurry. It took time to organize a tracking party. That would give him a head start. He’d need it.
He started to scoop the woman into his arms.
Her eyes opened. Her pupils contracted as she focused on him. She screamed.
He pressed a hand over her mouth. “Hush. Hush, now. Quiet.”
She continued to scream. Her tiny fingers with their blunt nails grasped at his arm. Her heels dug in the ground as she tried to get away from him.
“Hush, now! I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you! I’m not like them.”
The last made her stop screaming. Her eyes, dark brown, like the wary eyes of a doe, darted to the dead Larnians.
He released her mouth. “Easy, easy now. I killed them for you.”
She looked down the line of his crouched body, her gaze stopping on the evidence of his attraction to her. Her eyes grew wide, panicked. Shite, she was going to scream again.
He pressed a hand over her mouth again just in time. “Stop it,” he said over her muffled squealing. “There are more of them out here. If they hear you, it’ll be both our necks.”
That gave her pause.
“I can’t help this.” He motioned to his prick. “But I won’t hurt you. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. She looked like she wanted to speak.
He took his hand away.
“Why are you naked?” Her voice rolled with a burr that pleased his ear.
“I was hunting.”
“You hunt naked?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
She frowned. “What are you?”
He felt himself grin. “I was just wondering the same about you. We can discuss it later. For now, we have to fly.” He offered her his hand.
She stared at it. Then she swallowed and took it.
At her touch, his chest gave an unsettling lurch. He ignored it and tugged her to her feet.
She got them under her with difficulty. A wince pulled taut her lovely mouth.
“Look at that crippled gait,” the soldier had said.
“You’re wounded.” He scooped her into his arms. With her bird-light bones, she weighed next to nothing.
She swatted his chest. “Put me down, you brute! I can walk.”
“But can you run?”
She glared at him. It was answer enough. He tucked her close to his chest and sped toward the border.
“You mentioned there are more of them,” the woman said, winding an arm around his neck and peering over his shoulder. A thrill shot through him at the trusting gesture. He almost lost his footing. “How many more?” Her voice was steel. Brave lady.
“I don’t plan to find out.”
Chapter 3
If Anya ever saw that blasted box again, she was going to chop it into a million bits. Laird Steafan hadn’t been able to manage it, but there was no force on Earth as powerful as an irate Highland lass. How dare that bloody thing interfere with her plans to face her laird and pay for her sins? How dare it thrust its magic upon her and cast her into a world of great mottled boars and enormous naked men?
Och, make that a single enormous naked man. The other two she’d seen had been naked but not enormous. That hadn’t made them any less terrifying when they’d been trying to rape her.
The one now running through the forest at alarming speed while cradling her in the brawniest pair of arms she’d ever seen ought to terrify her too. He clearly wasn’t human. Not with those bulky teeth and animal eyes, those pointed fingernails and that luxurious body hair covering his chest and stomach and growing thick and tempting between his legs. But for some reason she wasn’t afraid. Mayhap ’twas the way the skin of his cheeks above his thick black beard had turned a shy shade of pink when she’d noticed his cock-stand. Or the way his eyes had crinkled at the corners when she’d asked how many men might be after them. Or the way his scent of pine and clean, dusty dog made her think of home and happiness and safety.
Or mayhap she was merely addled from when the other man had hit her in the head. Och, it felt like someone had flayed her skull open upon the blacksmith’s anvil and pounded away at it with the Devil’s own hammer.
Furthermore, it seemed to be morning wherever here happened to be, yet to her weary bones and heavy eyelids, it felt like the middle of the night. The rocking motion of the man’s loping stride tempted her toward slumber. A great yawn stretched her mouth. After it passed, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“To my home.”
Such guileless eyes. She could hardly look away from their captivating color. A brown as bright and pure as hardened tree sap glinting in the sun.
Content he hadn’t said, “torture chamber” or “slave house,” she rested her cheek on his firm shoulder and let sleep claim her.
A change in the soothing rocking motion woke her. She opened her eyes to bright sunlight. Her headache assaulted her afresh, as did other aches and pains, too numerous to count. But she didn’t fash about any of that. Somat was wrong. She recognized this dip-rise-pause sort of walk. Her rescuer—or was he her captor?—was limping.
While she’d been asleep, they’d passed into a narrow meadow of fluttering wheat-colored grass. He skirted the meadow, keeping close to the crumbling stone wall at the tree line. The sun kissed her face, but its warmth was a mere flicker of a candle compared to the raging bonfire of the man’s chest, which heaved with exertion and heated her through her dress and shift like a bed warmer. He’d been carrying her for what felt like hours. He’d slowed to a walk, but still, his arms didn’t tremble.
She let her head fall back on his shoulder to study his face. Tension pinched the skin at the corners of his eyes. “How long did I sleep?”
He startled, and suddenly his gait became smoother. “A while,” he said, avoiding her gaze. He did not wish for her to find weakness in him.
She understood that. “H
ow far to your home?”
His gaze swept the path before them, alert, though his eyelids drooped with weariness. His skin had taken on an ashy pallor. “Not far.”
“How. Far.”
His lips twitched. He didn’t answer.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“You’re weary.” And injured, if his complexion was any indication. When she’d first seen him, he’d been crouching over her with splatters of blood on his face, chest, and legs. She’d assumed it was because he’d just killed two men to save her, but what if some of the blood was his?
He shrugged, a powerful bunching of muscle beneath her cheek, as though the fact of his weariness was barely worth considering. Stubborn man.
“I can walk. I can certainly keep up with a wounded man.”
“You’re wounded as well.” He didn’t deny he was hurt. Och, and he’d carried her who kent how far while she’d slept like a lazy cur.
“Mine are old wounds. I can walk.” She wiggled, trying to get free.
His arms didn’t budge. He glanced at her skirted legs. “The Larnians didn’t hurt you?”
Larnians? He must mean the other two men. “Gave me a bloody headache. But no, they didna hurt me much.” Thanks to him. “Put me down. I’d like to walk.” Chi Yuen hadn’t made her walk every day the last few weeks simply for the joy of watching Anya grimace, like she’d assumed at first. The movement eased her aches and loosened her knotted muscles. She could use some easing of her pain now, even if initially she would suffer.
“These old wounds. They still pain you.” He was stalling. Why he’d want to continue carrying her when she’d given him an excuse not to, she couldn’t fathom.
“They’ll pain me less if I move about.”
His brow pinched with distress she didn’t understand. “I can’t put you down. But I’ll do what I can for you soon enough.”
If he thought that tone of gruff finality would dissuade her from arguing, he was sorely mistaken.
“My wounds pain me much less than yours. Put me down.”
“How did you get them?”
Stalling again.
“I’ll tell you about my wounds if you put me down.”
“Be easy,” he answered, his gaze soft on her in a way that made her stomach flutter. “Not long, and we’ll be there.”
“Unless ye keel over on the way. You’re pale as a sheet. Put me down. I won’t ask again.”
“Good. I’m growing tired of the request.”
Irritating rascal. “That was supposed to be a threat, not acquiescence. Put me down, you great oaf!”
He had the gall to grin. And that grin had the gall to worm its way into her chest and lodge there like it belonged. “Don’t worry. I’m strong.” He squeezed her, demonstrating the truth of the statement. His grin grew cocky, as though he challenged her to find him lacking in any way.
Clearly, arguing with him wasn’t working. She tried honesty. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be lost. If you must carry me like a thick-skulled fool, at least tell me how to find this home of yours so I can fetch supplies and come tend you when you drop like a stone.” She might be smarter to leave his carcass where it lay, given she had no assurance his intentions were decent, but she wouldn’t. If he fell, she’d do what she could for him. If only to repay his rescuing her.
His cocksure grin melted away. He met her gaze and held it. “Don’t worry, lady. I will make it. For you, I would walk a hundred times as far with wounds a hundred times worse.”
Because she didn’t ken what to say to that, she said simply, “I am no lady. Call me Anya.”
* * * *
Anya.
A lovely, unique name for a lovely, unique woman.
Dark had fallen, and with the setting of the sun, the night-rich scents of the forest rose up to meet his nose. Damp moss, rotting bark, and decaying leaves. Not long now, and they’d be at his cabin. He’d be able to care for her like the lady she was, even if she didn’t consider herself one.
Why she didn’t, he could not imagine. There wasn’t a woman alive in Marann who wasn’t revered as a lady. But she wasn’t wolfkind, which meant not only was she not Maranner or Larnian, but she was from no place on Earth he had ever heard of. She had to have come from somewhere, though, since women didn’t just appear out of thin air.
It was a problem for later. For now, he had a potential party of trackers to elude. Turning against the night breeze, he headed for the creek that bordered his land. His thigh hurt with each step, but the muscle was still strong. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle. With a good dressing and plenty of bread and tea, he’d be mended enough to hunt by morning.
He smelled the fertile mud of the creek and the musk of the creatures that came to it for drink long before its musical babble reached his ears. Coming to the water’s edge, he loped down the bank, squeezing Anya tight to protect her from his jerky movements.
She’d slept much of the journey but stirred as he climbed the opposite bank. “Water?” She spoke with her eyes closed. When she opened them, her pupils were large black disks. Even in the darkness, he could tell her gaze was unfocused. She needed to drink, but he dared not stop. Lingering, even for a moment, would make their scents thicker in the air. If trackers were coming for her, he needed to delay their discovery of his cabin as long as possible. And get Anya well away by the time they found it.
“Soon,” he told her. “We’re nearly there.” He changed direction, doubling back to confuse the trail. Another half-hour’s walk brought him to the branch of the creek that led to his cabin. He stepped into the creek and made the rest of the journey with water lapping at his knees.
The scent of freshly-chopped wood met his nose as he stepped from the brook into the clearing where his sire had built their log and stone cabin long ago. He strode past where his maul lay propped against the chopping block, ready for him to split more wood for the coming winter. Before he split any more, he had a precious treasure to see to safety. Unfortunately, he could think of only one place to take her where she’d be safe. And once he got her there, he’d have to leave her.
He would know but a few days in this woman’s presence. The thought sent a stab of disappointment through him. Ignoring it, he shouldered his cabin door open and laid her on the furs covering his pallet. After lighting a lantern and pulling on his shirt and trousers, he filled his finest cup, a pewter tankard, with water from the rain barrel and brought it to her. With an arm at her back, he helped her sit up.
“Drink, lady.”
She did, deeply, cupping her hands around his and draining the cup in several swallows. He filled the cup again, and she drank that too, this time sitting under her own power while he sat beside her on the edge of his pallet. She’d been in his home less than five minutes, and her scent already permeated the air. His bed would smell like her for weeks if he didn’t wash his bedcovers.
He swallowed hard as he watched her throat work. The smooth column looked like bronze in the lantern light. He wanted to feel its smoothness with his fingers, his nose, his lips.
She finished the water, and her tongue darted out to catch what moisture clung to her lips.
He felt that lick like she’d done it over the skin of his neck. A shiver passed through him. Shite. He’d have to get his reaction to her under control if he was going to walk across the country with her. Or he’d have to put up with tented trousers the whole way. “More?”
Thankfully, she didn’t look at his lap, only shook her head in answer. “But I’m hungry.”
“I have bread.” The wrapped loaf on his hearth was two days old, but it would do. He would bake some fresh later tonight, and they could take it with them when they left in the morning. He crossed the cabin and got the loaf. Before putting it in her delicate hands, he broke its grainy bulk in half, easier for her to manage.
She tore into the first half with her blunt little teeth. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she chewed. A deep moan came from her thr
oat.
With burning cheeks, he turned from her and busied himself tearing strips of linen to dress his wound with. He set the strips and his medicinal salve on the workbench, relieved when the moist, rhythmic sound of her chewing and swallowing stopped.
He’d gotten himself under control enough to face her again. “Where are you hurt?”
She blinked. “I told you. I’m no’ injured.”
“You said the Larnians didn’t hurt you much. That means they hurt you some.” She had old wounds that affected her legs as well. “And you never told me how you got hurt before.”
She shifted and put a dainty foot on the floor, smoothing her skirt as she moved to keep her legs hidden. The other foot followed more slowly. She pushed off the pallet frame and stood, wincing. Her mouth made a hard line, masking her reaction to the pain. She liked showing weakness about as much as he did.
“Broke my legs months ago in a bad fall. As for the Larnians, they didn’t do anything to me that can’t be mended with a wee bit of this.” She reached a hand into the gathered linen at the neck of her dress and pulled out a leather flask.
His mouth went dry at the thought of what delights that object had been nestled near all this time. Would the liquid inside be as warm as her skin?
She uncorked the top and lifted the flask, as if toasting him. “To Fergus.” She took a gulp that made her hiss. “Christ, that’s good. Now it’s your turn.” Her eyes went to where the boar’s tusk had gotten him. “Strip off those trews and get on the bed. Let me tend you.” She came at him with her limping gait and shoved the flask into his hand. “Where do you keep your vinegar?”
“Name’s not Fergus,” he said. “It’s Riggs. Some call me the trapper.”
“Well, Riggs the trapper, I’ll reserve judgment on whether ’tis my pleasure to make your acquaintance until I ken what ye plan to do with me. Fergus was my da. He’s dead. I never got a chance to toast him.” She nodded at the flask. “Drink.”
His name rolling off her tongue stole his breath. He’d never heard any woman other than his mother speak his name before. Then he realized what she’d said. Her da, her sire, was dead, gone to Danu’s breast, like his. Wherever she had come from, she currently had no source of protection. Except him. And she didn’t know whether she could trust him.
