The Wolf and the Highlander (Highland Wishes)

by Jessi Gage

  That was another thing she’d be asking him soon. Why was he being pursued? Might it be for killing those Larnians?

  Riggs slowed to a walk. Ahead of them the trees thinned in the way of a forest yielding to a loch. Beyond lay a vast expanse of hyacinth-blue evening sky. Far in the distance, lavender tinted, white-tipped mountains stretched to majestic heights. Her chest compressed with longing for her Highlands.

  This place is just as wild. Just as lovely.

  But it was not her home. She had no home. And Riggs carried her ever farther from the one place she wouldn’t have minded calling home.

  Would Chroina ever feel like home? What would a city of wolf-people be like? Why was he bringing her there? She sensed he was hiding somat from her, but she couldn’t bring herself to demand answers now. Not when her fingers itched to bind the seeping wound in his arm. Not when they both needed food, drink, and rest.

  Riggs walked through the last of the trees and down a mild slope. His boots crunched over small pebbles and damp sand. Glassy water stretched for leagues. A grand loch curved around a hill rising to the east. The surface reflected the mountains and the ghost of a nearly full moon visible in the twilit sky.

  “Drop the cloak here,” he said.

  She did, glad to be rid of its warm weight. Between the cloak and the heat coming off Riggs, she was sweating rather profusely. A thud-slap must have been his axe hitting the pebbles, head first, then handle. Barely slowing, he walked into the water.

  “What are ye doing?” She clung to him tighter than ever, inching up to avoid the surface rising up in churning whorls around his legs.

  He didn’t answer, but lowered her in. Much too quickly. She hissed as the icy water billowed her trews and soaked her to her waist. He must figure her legs needed another cold soaking. Well, the man might have warned her first!

  She was about to berate him, but he surrounded her with his body, with all of his body, giving her some of his weight, burying his nose in her hair.

  Shock made her go stock still as he wrapped a big, hot hand around her head. The other scooped her so tightly to him he had her bending backward. But she didn’t fall. His strong arms wouldn’t permit it.

  Against her breasts, his stomach heaved. He was catching his breath after the strenuous journey. His breathing slowly returned to normal. For some reason, her breathing had quickened.

  His hand moved over her hair, rubbing her head round and round, the gesture clumsy and yet oddly reassuring. Her stomach tightened, recognizing tenderness. Protectiveness.

  No. She couldn’t tolerate this from him. She already desired him too much, considering he planned to abandon her in some strange city, considering how broken she was. His tenderness would surely turn to pity once he saw her unclothed by the light of day, a crooked shell of a woman. She’d rather be alone than pitied.

  “Riggs.” She warned him with her voice.

  He straightened enough to look at her with liquid brown eyes. The flecks of gold melted her in places she did not wish to be melted. Then he expelled a breath and lowered his cheek to hers. He rubbed his beard over her skin. He moved to the other side and rubbed her there, too. It chafed, but in a way she didn’t mind. It made her feel alive, like hard kisses, the kind that bruised lips against teeth, the kind that left her panting.

  She was panting.

  So was he, but not like he was still out of breath. She was no stranger to this sort of heavy breathing. He was aroused.

  She ought to push him away. But her hands wouldn’t work properly. Her arms had wound themselves up and around his sweaty neck. The heat pouring off him stole the chill from the water. She was warm all over. Wet and warm. And warmest of all was the place where his arousal pressed against her abdomen in a hard ridge that burned through their layers of clothing.

  When he nuzzled into the hair at her nape, she nuzzled the black curls behind his ear. Och, his scent there! Woods and perspiration. Warmth and loyalty.

  They could tup here, quickly on the shore. They could serve each other and then continue their flight. But no. If he meant to keep her at his cabin as his companion, perhaps she could let him close enough to feel her legs wrapped around him. But he did not wish to keep her. She would not risk her pride only to have him deposit her in a strange city, strut away with a sated smile on his face, and forget about her. Not when she didn’t think she could ever forget about him.

  “We shouldn’t stop for long,” he said into her neck, interrupting her thoughts. “Can you wait another few hours to eat? I’ll cook you meat when we get to my cave.”

  Her mouth instantly watered at the thought of meat. And at the thought of Riggs providing it for her and bedding down with her in a cave. But he should not be the one caring for her, not when he stood before her exhausted and bleeding.

  “Look at you, foolish man. You’re in no shape to hunt.” She ran a hand across his broad shoulder and down to the tear in his shirt. The linen was destroyed. The tear is his arm looked even worse. “What am I to mend this with? We have no sewing things.”

  “It’s just a shirt.”

  She swatted his chest. “I meant your arm.”

  “I know.”

  Och, that grin of his would be her undoing.

  “It just needs binding. I’ll take care of it soon enough.” He acted like he’d gotten a splinter, not had vicious teeth rend his skin and muscle. And he made it clear, as he’d done at his cabin, he didn’t need her doting on him.

  She felt bloody useless. “Fine.” She pushed out of his arms and began scooping up handfuls of water to quench her thirst.

  Riggs did the same. When they’d both had their fill, he said, “Stay here,” and waded parallel to the shore several paces before disappearing behind a rocky outcropping.

  “Riggs?” Curse her for sounding frightened.

  “I’m not leaving you.” His voice carried over the loch’s surface. “Just retrieving something we need.”

  He reappeared a few minutes later, guiding a logboat silently though the water. The thing was nearly as long as his cabin, and at its middle, the width appeared twice that of a man’s shoulders. The sides reflected the meager light, showing it had been pitched and polished for durability. A sound vessel, it appeared, at least as far as navigating a peaceful loch.

  “Man of miracles, you are. Where did ye get that?”

  “Made it. With my sire. Use it to fish. Fine trout to be had here.” He lifted his chin, indicating the loch. “We’ll row to the northern tip under cover of dark. The trackers will lose our scents. Should buy us some time to rest.” He left her with the logboat and waded to the shore to retrieve his axe and cloak. Holding them above the water, he brought them to the logboat.

  “In you go,” he said, and he lifted her up and over the side.

  Water drained off her trews as she scrambled onto a bench. The cool night air made her teeth clack.

  “Take off your trousers and wrap yourself in the cloak,” he said. The logboat tipped dangerously as he hefted himself over the side and climbed in.

  She leaned in the opposite direction to balance the narrow craft. While Riggs arranged himself on the other bench, she peeled off her clinging trews and tucked the dry cloak around her legs. From her ribs down, her shirt was soaked, but it would dry under the cloak with her. There were worse things than being wet.

  Like bleeding. She looked up to find Riggs dipping an oar into the water. They began to move.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Rowing.”

  “With a wounded arm? After you’ve been running under a load all day?”

  “I’ll manage.” His voice was tight as he worked the oar in another powerful stroke.

  “Give me the oar.” She could never match his speed on land, but she could row at least as well as a wounded man. Her arms had always been strong.

  He made no response.

  She secured the cloak around her waist and made her way to him, hands sliding along the edges of the
boat.

  He tensed at her approach.

  “Give. Me. The. Oar.”

  “No. Rest, lady.”

  She knelt between his spread knees. The water that had dripped from his clothing dampened her knees through the cloak.

  His eyes went wide, but he kept rowing and wouldn’t look at her. His expression seemed almost shy. Her massive, strong wolf-man was acting shy after he’d rubbed his face all over hers. After he’d held her like a drowning man clinging to a bit of driftwood.

  She put her hands on his thighs. His muscles jumped under her fingers.

  “Lady.” A growl rode under his speech, a warning like the one she’d given him earlier.

  Ignoring it, she squeezed her hands along the line of his firm muscles, around his knees, down to his calves. There it was, the reason for his limp. A hot, swollen wound, slick with congealed blood beneath torn canvas. She probed the wound, measuring its severity. It wasn’t terribly deep, but it should be bound now and cleaned well when they had supplies and light. “You’re wounded here.” She rose up on her knees, interrupting his rowing. “And here.” She touched his arm above the ragged hole in his shirt. “Bind your wounds, Riggs. I can row.”

  He shook his head in one sharp jerk. “When I get you to safety. For now, I will serve you.”

  “Och, you’ve done nothing but serve me. You’ve done everything for me for days. Everything. I feel useless. I’m tired of being a burden. I need to do somat. Can you understand that?” What was it about this man that made her appeal to him from her heart rather than belittle or badger him until she got her way? She hadn’t spoken this honestly with anyone since Seona. ’Twas almost as if she’d found a friend in him.

  Foolish lass. ’Twas merely the strain of the day twisting her judgment. Emotion after danger could never be trusted.

  She cleared her throat and wrapped her hands around the oar. The smooth wood met her palm and brought to mind carefree summer afternoons fishing on the lochs between Ackergill and Wick.

  Riggs released the oar.

  She smothered her smile of triumph. “Up with you. This is my place tonight.”

  Chapter 8

  The logboat rocked beneath his feet as Riggs squeezed past Anya and shuffled to the opposite bench. He sat down with a sigh. By the moon, he was weary. He’d had too little food and sleep the last two days. And he’d lost too much blood.

  At least Anya was in better shape. It should shame him to have her serve him this way, but the shame didn’t come. Instead, as he watched her dip the oar into the water and propel them northward, he reveled in the sight of her serene brow, her relaxed smile. Her beauty shone brighter than the waxing moon above and tugged at his spirit with a pull a thousand times as strong. This was Anya at peace, and she found peace in being useful. He’d ensure she felt this way often.

  She switched sides every few strokes, keeping them straight. Amazing that a lady knew how to row. She’d clearly done it before. Someone had taught her. Her sire? Mother? A lover?

  His stomach contracted at the thought of another man instructing her. He did his best to ignore the discomfort. Wasn’t his place to be jealous of the men who had touched her, interacted with her, loved her. If any man had the right to be jealous for Anya, it was King Magnus.

  A growl started in his chest.

  “What are you fashing about? Are your wounds bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Well it’s a wonder. You’re sitting there like an oaf, bleeding all over your fine boat. Those wounds arena going to bind themselves.”

  A different sound rumbled from him. A chuckle. The sound was foreign in his ears. And most welcome. “What do you suggest I bind them with? There are fishing nets beneath my bench, but I doubt they’d hold the blood in.”

  “Use your shirt. Cut strips from the bottom.”

  “That’ll ruin my shirt.”

  She grinned. “Where I come from, many fine warriors choose to go without shirts. They get caught on the bracken and provide a handhold for the enemy.”

  “Don’t they grow cold in winter?”

  “Aye. Verra cold, indeed. But when the day’s work and skirmishing is done, they go home to their wives or mistresses and get verra, verra warm.” Her saucy grin spoke of experience warming such men.

  By the moon, this woman had taken many lovers. It infuriated him. And it excited him. Heat and energy spun in his gut at the thought of her vast experience.

  Judging by the gleam in her eye, both wicked and gleeful, she knew what she did to him.

  He pictured her nude amidst bedfurs, her glorious breasts rising and falling with her needy pants as he covered her with his body and his scent. The primary reason to resist mating with her was growing distant and insubstantial: imprisonment.

  He had not won the lottery. He had not paid for a breeding contract. Thus he could not mate with her according to Marann’s Breeding Law. To plant his seed in her womb would earn him a ten-year sentence. Ten years away from his cabin and his trapping. Ten years to do nothing but sit on a cold stone floor, eat bread and vermin, and relive the memory of her body beneath his, her heat surrounding him, her breath stirring the hair behind his ear, as it had done a few minutes ago when they’d been standing in the water.

  If that were the only consequence, he’d do it. He’d mate with her. Tonight. In his cave. After feeding her with cooked meat and laying her down on the soft bed he kept there. He’d fill her with his seed and take pleasure from her and give her pleasure in return, the way he’d always dreamed. They’d be one for this night. And the next, and the next, and the next, until they reached Chroina. He’d hold her soft, lily-cool body tight to his while they slept, instead of settling for the press of her back against his. She’d be his, even if just for a short time. It would be worth it. He’d walk proud and smiling into his cell because no man would be able to take the memories from him.

  But giving in to his urges would bring more than imprisonment down on his head. It would bring the shame of knowing he’d betrayed his king. Magnus was a good king, from a line of good kings and queens. He deserved Riggs’s loyalty. If he did what he wanted with Anya, it would be a betrayal of the most personal kind. She was not just another female his king would mate with in hopes of breeding. Anya was special. The king had publicly claimed her in faith long before Riggs had found her. By doing so, he had invited the mockery of half the country, including Riggs. But he’d given hope to the other half.

  Of course, most of the ones who had taken heart at the king’s proclamation had gone to Danu’s breast like his sire, but maybe once Riggs brought Anya safe to Chroina, the ones who still mocked King Magnus would change their minds.

  All of Marann would hear how she’d appeared in their midst like magic. Like Riggs, they’d have no choice but to consider that maybe, just maybe, Danu had not forgotten them. Maybe King Magnus wasn’t mad. Maybe new life would come to the world through this miracle lady.

  So much depended on the next few days. He must resist the urges of his body. He must focus on keeping her safe. Hidden. He must not fail.

  “Are you going to bind that arm, or do I have to do everything for you?” Anya’s voice eased the weight of responsibility threatening to suffocate him. “I doona mind. I’ve undressed many men. Doctored some, too. But I canna do it and row at the same time. I only have two hands.”

  He felt his mouth turn up at the corner. She was flirting with him. He could flirt too. “I’m fond of this shirt. Maybe I should use yours. You have the cloak to wear, after all.”

  Anya’s laughter filled the night with joyous harmony. “Och, you’d like that, would you? Well, too bad. I plan on keeping my shirt on around you.”

  Smart lady.

  “Cut strips from the hem,” she said, growing serious. “You’ll still be able to tuck it into your trews. No one will suspect.”

  And wise.

  He loosened the laces and tugged the shirt from his trousers, undoing his belt to ease the way. “Keep the moon
to your left,” he told her as he drew his hunting knife and smoothed his shirt over his knees. He poked the blade through the fabric. “And point the bow at that jutting copse of trees.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the far-off marker for the hidden inlet that led to his cave.

  “I canna see it. It’s dark as pitch. But I can keep the boat straight by keeping an eye on the moon. Just tell me if I drift.” Only she wasn’t looking at the moon. She was looking directly at his naked chest.

  He bound his wounds, smiling to himself while the king’s lady, not nearly as night blind as she pretended, blushed beneath the three-quarters moon.

  * * * *

  Anya gazed at the moon as Riggs carried her up a steep slope. The cool white orb was high and bright and would reach its fullness in another two or three nights. Pebbles crunched beneath his boots, and the sound of his breathing filled her ears. The air smelled of fresh water and pine, and it nipped her face with the crisp bite of an autumn night. But she was warm against Riggs’s chest and bundled in his heavy cloak.

  It wasn’t so bad, really, being carried about. Undignified, aye, but she’d trade a wee bit of dignity for the privilege of having such hard working arms around her and such a reliable shoulder to rest her cheek on. At least she’d been able to serve him tonight instead of him doing everything for her.

  “We’re almost there,” he said. His voice was smaller than usual, as though he lacked his usual amount of breath. He must be beyond exhausted. He better not be thinking about seeing to her needs before his own. A few hours of rowing was nothing compared to his day of running and fighting.

  The sound of his steps and his breathing grew louder and took on a faint echo. They’d entered a cave. His cave. He’d told her about it as she’d paddled. He’d been coming here with his da since he was a child. Even though his da was gone, like hers, he still came every spring and summer for the fish and the fine furs of the animals that lived in this place and no other on the island.