by Jessi Gage
She considered the breeding lottery. It made sense given the state of the population, though it sounded a lot like whoring to her. Only in Marann’s lottery, men paid for a woman not for a few hours but for a whole “season.”
“A season,” she said, “Is that what you call a woman’s fertile time?”
“It’s just a season,” he said. “You know, spring, summer, fall, winter. The drawing for winter will be soon. We may get to Chroina before it happens.”
“Ah, so the men who are chosen have two or three chances to breed in a season.”
Riggs cocked his head then shook it. “One chance. Women tend to have one fertile time per season.”
Another difference between wolfkind and humans. “For human women, it’s more,” she said.
He craned his neck to meet her eyes briefly. “Two or three?”
She nodded. “Many women have a chance each month to catch a bairn.” Made it bloody difficult on whores who didn’t wish to do so. She’d never had a scare. Most weren’t so lucky, even the very fastidious. It had made her wonder sometimes if mayhap she didn’t work right down there, even before her fall.
Riggs looked straight ahead. His back went stiff. “Have you ever...caught a child?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed. “You will,” he said. “For King Magnus, you will.” He nodded with certainty.
She didn’t ken how to tell him he was wrong.
“How old are you?” he asked, dragging her thoughts away from breeding lotteries and kings in need of heirs.
“Twenty-five. That’s well into womanhood if you’re wondering. Humans are considered grown at fifteen or sixteen.”
“So young.” He splashed across a narrow brook and headed up the bank into the trees. It amazed her he could tell where he was going. It all looked like wilderness to her. “How long do humans live?”
“I told you, seventy-five is a ripe auld age. I’ve kent men and women to live into their eighties, but it’s rare.”
He walked in silence a long time. Then he said, “You have about fifty years left. So does King Magnus. You’ll be well matched.”
Likely the king would discard her once it became apparent her womb was worthless as a mule without a cart. Her only consolation was that Riggs wouldn’t be around to see her inevitable dishonor. He’d be living out his life at his cabin, trapping, hunting, baking his honey-sweetened bread and eating it at his workbench, alone.
“Tell me about Larna,” she said to take her mind off the sad thought. Yesterday, he’d told her about the war twenty years ago. At King Magnus’s command, Marann’s army had brought Larna under submission. “What started the last war?”
“Our spies found out Bantus, Larna’s pathetic excuse for a king, had been hording women for himself and treating them like dirt.”
Bantus. That name sounded familiar. “Must have escaped Bantus’s harem and walked here from Saroc,” the men she’d first encountered here had said. Her skin erupted in goose bumps.
“He had a harem of wolf-women?” she asked.
“Wolfkind women,” Riggs corrected. “But yeah. You could call it a harem. Refused to let other men try to breed with them until one of them gave him an heir. Only, none of them ever did.”
“This was twenty years ago?”
“Yeah.”
Then why would those men have assumed she’d escaped from King Bantus? “You’re sure all the women got out?”
“Positive. King Magnus appointed his cousin and second in line for the throne to govern Larna. Bantus still holds the title of king, but he can’t so much as wipe his ass without Ari reporting it back to King Magnus. Ari would have found out if there were any women remaining, and King Magnus sent spies besides. No evidence of women being held in Saroc was ever found.”
“How long were the spies active?”
“A few years,” he said with a shrug.
“So no spies have been to Larna recently?”
“No, but Ari’s there keeping an eye on things. Why?”
“The Larnians you saved me from mentioned Bantus. They assumed I’d escaped from his harem, and that I’d been there a long time because I could speak their tongue. Of course, I could speak and understand them because of the gemstone. I’d only just arrived. But according to what you’ve told me, they should have been surprised to find a woman in Larna. They didn’t seem surprised. They seemed delighted, like they couldn’t believe their luck.”
Riggs’s back went stiff. His hands tightened under her knees.
“You doona suppose there are women in Larna?” she wondered out loud.
He shook his head. “Impossible.” Only, he didn’t sound convinced.
Chapter 12
Riggs hiked ever deeper into the northern foothills carrying Anya on his back. Where the western forest near his home smelled of old growth and dried leaves, the northern forest smelled of moss and clean moisture. It rained more up here. Good game up here. But there was no time to hunt today. He needed to get to Valeworth, get horses, and get out. Once he had Anya well away from the village, he’d think about leaving her to hunt. Or maybe he’d just stock up on bread in Valeworth and survive on that.
She was precious. She was worth skipping meat for.
But was she as rare as he thought? “You doona suppose there are women in Larna?”
Impossible. Wasn’t it?
He should know. He was one of the spies who’d snuck into Saroc a year after the war ended to confirm no scent trace of any woman could be found. His uncle Neil, King Magnus’s war chieftain, had led the large-scale, clandestine effort. They’d even brought a pair of King Magnus’s finest tracking wolves, who’d been given the scents of the evacuated Larnian women. Between the wolves and the spies, every room, passageway, and outbuilding of Castle Blackrock had been searched.
Riggs had done the dungeons himself and had been mortified to find evidence of past habitation by women, beds that were little more than piles of moldy hay, grooming combs lying forgotten on the floor, strands of long hair clinging like spider webs to rough patches on the stone walls. But no fresh scents. There had been no women in Saroc.
With all the remaining women accounted for and safe in Chroina, there would have been no place to get women, so no more searches had been done. But Anya had come by magic from another world. She wasn’t wolfkind. The fact that the Larnians he’d killed hadn’t been surprised at finding her didn’t bode well.
What if there were other women in Larna, gotten through magical means? Women like Anya? “Not as pretty as the little females Bantus likes to flaunt,” he’d heard one of the Larnians say. Riggs had assumed he had been referring to she-wolves, but he could have meant women like Anya.
He hated to think it, but it was possible. By the time he shouldered through the pines atop the ridge overlooking Valeworth, he knew what he had to do.
Clouds covered the moon, stealing most of her light. Below, darkened huts huddled loosely around the log and mud buildings that housed the pub, the inn, and the trade center of the small village. He hadn’t been to Valeworth in more than a year and wasn’t sure he’d find anyone here, but the central buildings glowed with light. How many men held the village? Thirty? Twenty? Fewer? Were they a law-abiding bunch, or had they grown desperate enough to cheat each other and unsuspecting travelers?
He hoped there were enough men to justify keeping a few horses on hand to rent. He’d have to be careful how he asked. If he seemed desperate, they’d charge him an eyetooth. If he paid what they asked, they’d assume he had more, and they might attempt to rob him. It would be a balancing act, this trip to Valeworth.
He gave Anya’s knees a squeeze. “Ready to walk?”
He felt it against his shoulder when she nodded. “Aye. My arms feel like soggy rope, they’re so weary.”
He crouched to let her to the ground, missing the warmth of her weight against his back the second she let go.
“Och, I canna even straighten them. I look like a bloody
praying mantis.”
He set down his axe and took up her arms one at a time to loosen the tight muscles with his rubbing fingers. “Better?”
She nodded, not looking at him. Ever since he’d told her the truth about what he intended for her, she’d been different, more reserved, not quite mistrustful, but no longer as open as she’d been. He missed the full measure of Anya.
Just as well. It was easier this way. She’d find solace from whatever hurt he’d caused her in King Magnus’s arms.
His molars ground together, making his jaw ache. “Put up your hood,” he growled. “And keep it up no matter what. Keep your hands hidden.”
She fluffed up the hood. Her bright eyes disappeared in shadow. He saw nothing of her face. The thick wool of the cloak hid the delicate line of her shoulders. Its folds hid her beautifully curved shape. Where he’d cut off the hem so it wouldn’t drag on the ground, her boots peeked out, overly large on her, just right for her height if she’d been a boy. His boy.
His chest compressed at the thought of having a child of his own. A daughter would be far too much to even long for, but a son... He still had enough to buy those ten lottery tickets when they arrived in Chroina. He no longer wanted to do so. If he couldn’t have Anya, he wanted no woman. Guess that meant he was giving up hope of ever siring a child of his own.
“Why are you staring like that? Can you see me or no’?”
He cleared his throat. “You’re well hidden. Keep your chin tipped down. All the men will be taller than you. It’ll make it impossible for them to glimpse you.”
He leaned down to sniff her.
She tucked her chin to avoid having their faces come close, but he didn’t miss how her body leaned toward his ever so slightly. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice breathy.
“You still smell like you. If anyone gets a good whiff, they might suspect. Come here. I need to cover you with my scent.”
“I’m surprised I doona smell like you from riding on your back all day.”
“Not enough. Come here.”
She didn’t come. So he dragged her into his arms and held her still while he rubbed his beard and neck all over the hood of her cloak. He squeezed her even closer and made sure the wool around her shoulders tucked into his armpits. He bent around her, surrounding her with himself.
She didn’t protest as he layered his scent over hers. In fact, her arms went around his waist. She curled her hands in his shirt and buried her nose in his neck. “Are you done, yet?” she asked, but her voice was free from impatience. Her breath tickled his skin, made him hot all over.
He lowered one hand to the gentle slope below her waist. Holding her to him, he pressed forward with his hips. He did it without thought, craving pressure just there, where he was so hard for her, but needing to be closer to her as well.
A thrill of blissful sensation surged in his blood. Everything in him urged him to continue, to rub against her until pleasure wiped out his dread over a future without her.
Her woman’s musk billowed up to tease him. That scent begged him to keep on like this. It also made his blood run cold. They were about to go down into a village of men who could very well be a law unto themselves. It was the worst possible time for her to release that musky scent.
“Lady,” he said. His voice had gone husky. He made himself ease her away from him. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Even after taking two steps back, he still smelled that heavenly musk. The men in Valeworth would smell it too. “Shite. I can’t take you down there smelling like you’re in heat.”
Anya’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why, you bloody cur. I canna believe you! This is your fault, you and your—your manhandling.”
He hurried to put a hand over her mouth. “Hush. You want to be heard?” He pointed down at the village. “By the moon, I must be out of mind to consider bringing you down there. You’re going to get me killed and yourself stolen. Can’t you control yourself?”
Within the shadow of the hood, her eyes blazed. Her musky scent began to fade, replaced by an almost masculine spice.
“Good. That’s better. You smell like a furious warrior. Keep it up.”
She made a noise of disgust. With a final glare in his direction, she set off into the trees, limping down the hill and muttering about wolf-men and their blasted noses.
Despite the possible danger awaiting them, his mouth curled into a grin as he followed.
* * * *
Anya kept close by Riggs’s side as he stepped up onto a narrow, wheel-rutted road. Never in her life had she been forced to depend so thoroughly on someone so infuriating. Her arousal wasn’t her own to attend to or not as she saw fit. Noooo. It was every bloody wolf-man’s business, apparently, so long as he had a nose to sniff her with.
Och, at least she didn’t smell like a dusty, wild mongrel. Wait, she did, thanks to Riggs rubbing practically every inch of himself over practically every inch of her.
How was a lass to keep from becoming aroused when an enormous, panting wolf-man handled her with such roughness and passion? How else was she to react when he tugged her snug against his ready body?
He didn’t even intend to do anything about his readiness...or hers. Noooo. He planned to give her to his precious king.
“Mangy cur,” she muttered as she trod the dark road.
Riggs stalked beside her, gripping his axe and scanning from side to side, watching for danger. His alert posture reminded her how precarious their situation was. She shut her mouth and hoped she smelled as angry as she felt.
Pines towered over the road. The forest was thicker than near Riggs’s cabin, and the terrain was hillier. Above, the sky was black except for a haze of blue that showed where the nearly full moon tried to shine through the clouds. From the ridge where Riggs had stopped to rest, she’d seen a few wee lights burning in the village, but now that she was on a level with it, she saw nothing. Heard nothing. The place felt utterly deserted. But Riggs was on his guard, as if he sensed danger.
Her fingers twitched near her hunting knife. Doona fash, lass. He’ll keep you safe. She might be furious with him, but she kent he would allow no harm to come to her.
The trees thinned. Large, dark mounds of earth loomed like massive anthills encroaching on the road. Long grass grew around them. Moss and weeds climbed their sides. “What are these things?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Cottages. Long abandoned.”
“People used to live in them? What are they made of?”
“Sticks and mud.”
“I like your cabin better.” She glanced at Riggs and found him looking straight ahead, but his eyes had crinkled in that warm way of his that was almost like a smile. Curse her for giving him aught to smile about. She kept forgetting to be angry with him.
The steady rhythm of a trotting horse sounded behind them. A rider approached. She tensed and started to look over her shoulder, fearing trackers.
Riggs cleared his throat in a sharp warning.
She caught herself and ducked her head, staring at the ground as the horse and rider passed. Only after the rider was several paces in front of them did she risk looking up. The rider was tall and cloaked, but his hood was down, revealing black, curling hair a little shorter than Riggs’s. The horse was black as well, and as big as a Percheron. Never had she seen a horse so large used for aught but pulling carts and plowing fields.
“Tracker?” she asked once the rider was out of earshot.
Riggs shook his head. “Just a traveler. Or a messenger. Trackers’ll be in a group.”
The mud cottages gave way to dreary buildings with crooked porches and dark interiors. She strained her ears for signs of life, hearing nothing but their footsteps and the stirring of tall grass in the breeze.
She followed Riggs around a turn in the road, and the horse from earlier came into view. It stood tied to a post outside another dilapidated building. The tip of its hind hoof dented the dirt. It paid them no heed as they approache
d.
Across the road was a two-story log and stone building in better repair than the rest of the village. Lantern light glowed behind the partially-opened shutters. As they drew closer, the sounds of murmured conversation floated out.
Her pulse sped. Besides the Larnians and Riggs, these were the first men she’d been near in this world.
“The Pub,” Riggs said. “We’ll get a meal and rent a room for the night.” He nodded at the upper floor. Leaning close, he said softly, “If we don’t attract attention, no one should bother us.”
She swallowed and tried not to be frightened at the prospect of entering a room full of wolf-men.
A set of rickety steps led up to the porch. With a death grip on the railing, she hauled herself up, step by painful step with Riggs hovering close by her side. Once she made it to the plank-wood landing, the voices inside became clearer. There was no music. No laughter, just a few voices murmuring quietly.
Riggs pulled open the creaky door and held it while she limped through. Past the edges of her hood, she glimpsed four long wooden tables in the low-ceilinged room. Five men clustered around the table nearest the flickering fireplace. One of them was the dark haired rider. Each had a tankard in his hands and a gleaming axe on his hip. Whether it was the fine weapon she’d grown so familiar with or the man holding it, she wasn’t sure, but the axe in Riggs’s hand looked more dangerous. She breathed a little easier for its proximity to her.
The conversation at the table stopped. All five heads turned their way.
She instantly looked at her boots.
Riggs steered her toward the bar with a firm hand on her shoulder.
A gravelly voice asked what he wanted.
“A room for me and the boy. And dinner.” Coins jingled as Riggs plunked them on the bar.
Gradually, the murmuring across the room resumed. Riggs kept a hand on her shoulder. She felt the tension in him as snippets of the conversation behind them reached her ears.
“How old, you think... Who’s the mother... Lottery winner... Lucky bastard... Not as lucky as all that. Did you see the pup’s limp? Injured or lame, you think?”
