The Wolf and the Highlander (Highland Wishes)

by Jessi Gage

  “I’ll never hurt you,” he vowed.

  “We’ll see. Drink.” She left him to the flask and hobbled to the cabinet. Positioning the lantern nearby, she began searching through his medicinal supplies.

  He wrapped his mouth around the opening of the flask, more so his tongue could search out her taste than because he needed distraction from his pain. The sharp bite of whiskey overwhelmed his nose, but beneath it he found a hint of salt from her skin and the hearty sweetness of his barley bread. He took a healthy swallow. Fire burned a path to his stomach.

  The drink was good, just as she’d said. The surprising flavor of wood smoke thickened on his palate as the heat from the spirits melded with the heat of Anya’s body and slid down his throat. Such an intoxicating cocktail!

  He was tempted to drain the flask and take as much of her warmth into him as he could, but he capped it instead. He needed his wits about him. Already with one gulp of whiskey making his lips tingle, he entertained thoughts of wooing and keeping Anya. Not here, of course. At least not until the danger of trackers had passed. But there was an even more remote place he could live in secret with her, take her as his mate. Breed with her.

  And what then? Remain hidden for their entire lives? If they bore a child together, would he keep that secret as well? What if it was a girl child?

  “Here we are.” Her voice yanked him from his thoughts. She came at him with his jar of vinegar in one hand. “Bed.” She pointed for emphasis. “Trews.” She pinched his trousers at his hip and gave a firm tug that zinged him in the worst possible place.

  By the moon, he wanted to plant himself deep between her thighs. He wanted it so bad it hurt. Leaning a hip on his workbench, he gritted his teeth against the pleasurable ache and shifted the pile of bandages to hide the tent in his lap.

  She put her fists on her hips. “What are ye waiting for? On the bed with you.”

  “I can clean my own wound,” he said more harshly than he’d meant to. “But first, I’ll see yours cleaned and dressed.”

  She was standing close. He could see tears in the sleeves of her dress and pink scratches beneath. Fucking Larnians. He’d be worse than those barbarians if he let his painful arousal keep him from caring for her. “Give me the vinegar.” He wrapped his hand around the jar. His fingers covered hers.

  She didn’t let it go. “My injuries are practically nonexistent. Your wound is far more serious.” She tugged the jar toward her bosom.

  He should let go. He didn’t. Not even when his knuckles brushed the laced-up front of her woolen dress. A drab thing it was—nothing like the bright silks favored by the ladies in Chroina—but it fit her curved body like a glove. The gathered linen around her neck invited a man’s nose to search among the folds until he found her warm, fragrant skin beneath. His thumb left the jar to stroke the fabric over her breast.

  She sucked in a breath.

  Their gazes met and locked. Her pupils dilated. She licked her lips.

  Something wild grew inside of him, filling him near to the point of agony. Relief could only come by joining his body with hers. His hands shook with the necessity of claiming her flesh, branding her with his scent until no other male would mistake her as a woman available for breeding.

  He’d known bodily urges before and never failed to relieve them with his own hand. This was more than that. Much more.

  Was this what happened to a man when he got a cock-stand near a flesh and blood woman? Is this what the lottery winners experienced when taking ladies to their beds?

  He closed the small distance between them until the only thing keeping their bodies from fitting tight together was the jar with both their hands wrapped around it. He was going to take her. Danu help him, he would not be able to stop himself. He bent his head to hers, needing to put his mouth on her skin, needing to rub his scent on her.

  She turned her face away. Her eyes dulled. She stepped back, relinquishing the jar.

  “You’ll no’ get what you’re after,” she said, her voice as flat as her expression. “I’ll repay you for your kindness, but no’ with my body. My service is only as good as a crippled maid’s, but it’s all I have to offer. You’ll settle for that pittance or you’ll get nothing at all.” She raised her chin. “Now will you permit me to tend your wound or no’?”

  She thought he wanted her body for payment? Or to keep her as a servant?

  What had he almost done?

  The vinegar slipped from his numb fingers. He lunged and caught the jar the instant before it would have shattered on the floor. The move sent a shard of pain through his thigh. He deserved it. He’d taken a liberty with her that would have earned him a lashing in Chroina. That rogue touch had started something he almost hadn’t been able to stop. Ashamed, he settled onto his knees before her, head bowed, holding the stupid jar.

  “Forgive me, lady. I seek no payment, especially not...of that nature.” He risked a peek up at her.

  Her lips were pinched in a line. Her brow furrowed, as if she found his apology confusing.

  How could he make his meaning more clear? “I won’t touch you again. You have my word.”

  Much as he craved her hands on him, he’d never keep his word if he let her tend his injury. He stood, welcoming the pain ripping through his leg. “Rest, lady. I’ll wrap my wound in my preservation hut. But first I’ll fetch you water to bathe with.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Get on the bed.”

  He headed for the door.

  “If you want my forgiveness, you’ll take off your bloody trews and get on the bloody bed. Now.”

  He could not resist glancing at her, not when her voice held such fire and strength.

  Her eyes blazed. Her beauty shone like the moon. She captivated him utterly and completely.

  He was helpless to look away. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, so instead of responding, he merely shook his head and forced himself to leave.

  Outside, he took his time filling the water bucket, hoping the crisp night air would cool his lust. It didn’t.

  When he returned, he found Anya at the workbench, coating bandages with salve and muttering about “bloody thick-skulled fools.” Even angry, she made him want to wrap her in his arms and never let go.

  He cleared his throat before approaching the workbench and setting the bucket on the floor. “I’ll give you privacy,” he said as he collected the bandages and vinegar. “Wash yourself and set your dress on the hearth. You can find a clean shirt to sleep in under my pallet.”

  He turned to go, but felt something catch on his sleeve. He looked down to see her hand curled in the fabric.

  “Stop being stubborn. I’m decent at healing. Let me do this. To thank you for rescuing me.”

  He wasn’t the only one being stubborn. Purple circles under her eyes spoke of her need for sleep, and yet she worried about him. He gently uncurled her hand from his shirt, keeping the touch as brief as possible. But when he spoke, he made his voice hard. “I’ve dealt with far worse than this on my own. I don’t need you to care for me. Now, let me lick my wounds in peace.”

  She flinched at his pretended impatience. It was for her own good. For the good of them both.

  He walked out, leaving her to the quiet cabin and his comfortable pallet.

  If he’d had any doubts before, they were gone now. He needed to take her to Chroina. She’d be safe in Marann’s capital. From the Larnians. And from him. Unfortunately, it was a long walk, and he had a sinking feeling the longer he kept company with her, the harder it would be to keep his word.

  He’d never been one to pray. The goddess, if she existed, had forsaken his people long ago. But if a little faith would benefit Anya, he had to try.

  Danu, don’t let me fail her.

  Chapter 4

  Hands on her hips, Anya watched the door close on the cold autumn night and an enormous, stubborn fool. If the wound turned, it would serve him right.

  She considered following and getting him out of thos
e trews by fair means or foul, but didn’t much care for the tone he’d used with her and was glad to be rid of him for a time. No matter what the pang behind her breastbone suggested.

  Sighing, she turned in a circle to survey his home. The single room with walls of log and mud was about the size of the front room of her da’s cottage, roughly ten paces square. Two stone pillars kept the roof from sagging, and between the pillars a rug of roan animal hide covered the floor. Mortared stone framed the door Riggs had just left through, as well as the two shuttered windows sharing the wall with the door. The next wall was dominated by a great sooty fireplace and a stone hearth cluttered with cooking things. Above the fireplace hung five sets of mounted antlers, all fierce looking and huge. Had he felled those stags with a party of hunters? By himself? She could almost believe it, given his size.

  He was taller than the largest man she’d ever met, Big Darcy. And his nether regions were comparably awe-inspiring. Years ago, she’d ridiculed Darcy for his size to humiliate him for refusing her offered virginity, but deep down, she’d found him pleasing. Until Riggs, she’d never seen a match to the weapon Darcy carried under his kilt. What would it feel like to have a lover so large, so powerful?

  Och, bloody waste of time, such idle ponderings. She was through with men. No good ever came from bestowing affection upon them, and no decent one would have her the way she was now. Riggs might want her for a tup, but she’d stake her flask he’d leave off with wanting her once he saw her mangled legs. Better not to encourage his affections, or heed her growing affections for him.

  Besides, he wasn’t even human. What he was, she didn’t ken, but she’d be finding out before long.

  In the meantime, she forced her attention back to her surroundings. After all, this might be her new home.

  Though small, Riggs’s home was cozy in a den like way. It contained everything a body needed in an arrangement that pleased her. She could see herself rolling dough on the workbench, which sheltered an assortment of tools and grain sacks. It would require a good cleaning first, since the surface was only slightly less dusty and disheveled than the recess beneath. Mayhap that would be her first project, once she’d slept off her headache. Riggs may not have accepted her offer to do his cooking and cleaning, but if he was going to keep her here, she was bloody well going to make herself useful.

  And if he doesn’t keep you here?

  What if he intended to sell her to the highest bidder? Selling one’s self was one matter. Being sold, without choice or dignity, was another. If Riggs thought to do that to her, she’d snip off his bollocks in his sleep.

  Speaking of sleep, the bed took up most of one wall. As long and wide as Riggs, framed in beveled wood, and piled high with fawn-colored animal skins, it practically begged her to burrow into its soft, warm depths.

  She bathed with the water he’d left her first, and found a linen shirt in one of the two finely-crafted drawers beneath the bed. When she put it on, it draped around her like a sheet. Tying the laces as tight as they would go ensured the garment wouldn’t fall off her shoulders, but she had to roll the sleeves four times to expose her hands. There was nothing to be done about the hem. On him, it would fall to his knees. On her, it reached her ankles like a nightgown. As far as the width of the garment, three of her could have easily fit in the space Riggs normally took up with his upper body alone.

  Refusing to dwell on the excited flutter in her stomach, she turned down his bed and climbed beneath the animal hides. Their weight settled on top of her. Odd, but with Riggs’s scent of pine and loyal, dusty dog surrounded her, she found herself not fashing over returning to Ackergill. In fact, she was curious about Riggs and his world. What was he? Were all the people in this place like him? Could she possibly belong here?

  Sleep beckoned. Her questions would wait for the morrow.

  The scent of baking bread woke her. It felt as though mere moments had passed, but morning light peeked from behind the closed shutters. Across the cabin, Riggs crouched near the workbench, stuffing supplies into a large leather sack with more straps and buckles than she’d ken what to do with. He was working quickly, almost hurriedly.

  “Are you going somewhere?” she asked around a yawn.

  He stopped and looked at her. He didn’t answer.

  “Going somewhere?” she repeated.

  His brows pinched until a hard line appeared between them. He rose from his crouch, and his head came nearly to the roof of the cabin. The sight of him before her so large and virile made her toes curl beneath the animal skins.

  He said somat, but she didn’t understand.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  He said it again, this time with a shake of his head. She still couldn’t make sense of it. ’Twas no more than a lilting rumble of meaningless syllables.

  She sat up, clutching the skins around her. “I must be half asleep. Could you say it again?”

  He spoke again, this time more urgently, and it made as little sense as what he’d said a moment ago. He kept trying to tell her things, and she kept not understanding.

  They stared at each other. Outside one of the windows, a pair of squirrels chattered, having a meaningful conversation while she and Riggs stared at each other with furrowed brows.

  Before her nap, they’d understood each other perfectly. Now, it seemed, they spoke different languages. What had changed?

  Riggs looked all around the cabin, as if he’d had a similar thought. His gaze landed on the fire dancing happily in the grate. His eyes widened with alarm.

  Muttering unintelligible things, he dashed to the hearth and grabbed a set of tongs. A quick reach into the flames produced somat that looked like charred fabric. The blackened heap dropped to the hearth. Riggs poked through it with the tongs, then with his fingers as the fabric cooled. Odd, some bits were faded blue, like her overdress. And a scrap of sooty linen looked suspiciously like her linen shift.

  She searched the hearth for the bundle of clothing he’d instructed her to leave there, finding nothing but the flask and flint box she never traveled without. Och, he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

  “You burned my dress!” She threw off the skins and hoisted herself out of bed. Her legs cramped. Cursing them, she fell back on the furs.

  Using the tongs, Riggs plunked something he’d pulled from the fabric into a bucket of water, which emitted a hiss. After a moment, he reached into the water and withdrew the object. His large hand obscured her view, so she couldn’t identify it. Whatever ’twas, it caused a look of wonder to pass over his face.

  “What is it?” Her voice sounded angry, betraying the pain she was trying to ease with her kneading hands. Damn her legs.

  Riggs met her eyes, then looked down to her massaging hands. His gaze darkened. “Let me,” he said, and she understood him.

  He knelt by the bed, took one of her hands, and placed in it the amethyst gem Gravois had given her. It was hot as a cake from the oven. She rolled it between her fingers so no one bit of her skin got burned. It must magically allow people of different tongues to understand each other.

  “That barmy tink.”

  “What’s a barmy tink?”

  She became aware of Riggs’s strong fingers kneading her most painful spot, below her left knee. He was touching her beneath the nightshirt. Learning how deformed she was.

  She swatted his hand away and tucked the shirt tight around her legs. “You vowed you wouldna touch me.”

  Hurt flashed in his eyes. He hid it by rising with a grunt and turning away.

  She remembered his tusk wound, now hidden by fresh trews, and regretted her harsh words. He’d only been trying to help, not taking liberties as he had before. Though to be fair, she’d been the one to bring that jar close to her breasts, kenning full well his hand had still been holding it.

  “A barmy tink is an interfering, mysterious man who gives magical stones to maidens in distress and fills their heads with foolish talk of destinies. I’m sorry. You were only trying to help. But I
doona like my legs being touched.”

  He inclined his head in a nod, not looking at her. His face was in profile. He had a strong nose, straight and masculine in its broadness. Firelight danced over his beard, making it shine like the richest sable. Saints above, he was an attractive man.

  “My apologies,” he said.

  “Best you keep to your word and no’ touch me at all.”

  “Of course, lady.”

  “And cease calling me lady.”

  His eyes glinted at that. It seemed there was one command he didn’t intend to obey.

  * * * *

  Riggs stoked the fire and glanced at Anya over his shoulder. She sat on his pallet, pale and small in his shirt. She’d bathed and washed her hair, which had dried in thick, chestnut waves that shone in the firelight like silk. He couldn’t look full at her. It hurt too much. She was too beautiful. Too precious.

  Even more precious now that he understood just who she was. Anya was so much more than he’d first assumed.

  His mind went back many years, to when he’d been little more than a pup and King Magnus had been newly crowned.

  He followed his sire into the pub in Figcroft feeling like a man, carrying his very own axe and standing as tall as any other in the place, taller even than some.

  His sire thumped him on the back while he addressed the barkeep. “A full draught for my son, and another for me. Your reward for a hard day’s work,” he said to Riggs.

  The barkeep slid two tankards their way. “Heard about the king’s latest scandal? News just come from Chroina by way of a traveler last night.”

  His sire lifted the tankard to take a sip, eyeing the barkeep coolly.

  Riggs mirrored him, sucking down the foamy beer. Behind them were the sounds of men conversing at the tables. A boy sang with the voice of a lark and strummed a lute by the fire.