The Wolf and the Highlander (Highland Wishes)

by Jessi Gage

  “What happened to Ben?” He abandoned Riggs to stalk toward her. Menace poured off him in waves.

  She ought to think of some acceptable answer. She ought to scurry away and cower before this monster. All she could do was look at Riggs. His head hung down, blood dripping from his face. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up. It seemed to take all his effort.

  One eye was already swelling shut. The other fixed on her. His gaze burned with regret. His mouth moved, forming a single, silent word. “Run.”

  As if she would even if she could. She would not flee like a coward while Riggs suffered.

  Lance’s shadow loomed over her as he came between her and the fire. Fear closed around her, making it impossible for her to think or move. She’d not flee, but she couldn’t possibly fight. Could she? What could a crippled whore do against a man like this?

  “What’d you do to him?”

  Her heart pounded. “I—I doona ken,” she stammered. “He fell ill.”

  A cruel hand fisted in the front of her shirt. He yanked her to stand belly to belly with him. Only her toes touched the ground.

  His eyes burned into hers. Fear made her look away, down at Ben, anything to escape that icy blaze. Firelight winked on the polished hilt of the dirk strapped to Ben’s calf.

  Lance shook her by his grip on her shirt. “What. Did. You. Do. To. Him.”

  She craned her neck to look him dead in the eye. He was brawn and terrible grace glowering down at her.

  “I killed him,” she said, her voice as cold as his eyes. “And I’m going to kill you too.” For what he’d done to Riggs. For what he intended to do to her. For the other women trapped in Larna.

  Uncertainty flickered behind those cold, cold eyes.

  A choked sound drew Lance’s gaze off her and toward the men. Ced fell to the ground. He was seizing as Ben had done. Gord doubled over with his arms around his stomach.

  She broke from his hold and snatched up Ben’s dirk.

  Lance appeared more concerned with Riggs, who threw himself to the ground and rolled, grabbing up his axe. In a heartbeat, he was on his feet. A single swing of his axe separated Ced’s head from his shoulders. A second swing, and the axe blade embedded so deeply in Gord’s back, Riggs had to rock it free. He’d ended them. He’d finished what the water hemlock had started.

  Head down, her wolf-man raised his eyes. Sweat and blood dripped from his chin. He grinned at Lance. Death was written all over his face.

  Lance went motionless, either frozen with shock or preparing to meet Riggs’s challenge. He likely regretted not dealing a killing blow with his sword when he’d had the chance.

  Taking advantage of his inattention, she thrust Ben’s dirk forward, aiming at Lance’s unprotected back, low and to the side—the place a former lover had told her was the best for disabling an opponent, if one didn’t mind fighting dirty and attacking when a man’s back was turned. She’d never minded fighting dirty, and now wasn’t the time to start minding.

  She put her shoulder into it, pushing the blade as deep as she could.

  Lance stiffened and roared.

  Riggs limped around the fire, whirling his axe through the air like the spinning sails of a windmill. The sound alone would have made her piss herself if she thought that axe was coming for her.

  Lance tried to back up, but Anya twisted the blade in his back, making him arch and yell.

  Riggs swung the axe, aiming high.

  She turned away. The whistle of steel cutting through air was followed by a dull, wet thwack. Then the sound of a limp body hitting sand.

  She turned to find Riggs pulling his axe free from Lance’s neck. The man’s head remained attached by the merest thread.

  “Never asked you to drag your Larnian carcass into my country,” Riggs said, and he spat on the tracker’s still body.

  Then he fell to his knees and into Anya’s waiting arms.

  Chapter 15

  Riggs buried his face against Anya’s soft stomach and wrapped his arms around her waist. Her scent of flowers and hyssop enveloped him, replacing the metallic bite of his own blood and the stench of dead Larnian.

  She bowed over him, trembling. Her small fingers gripped the hair at his nape. She rubbed her cheek over the top of his head like he’d done with her so many times. Marking him, comforting him. His heart swelled.

  Anya.

  No physical pain could match the soul-deep ache he’d carried all the way from Valeworth. Not a battered face, not a stab wound meant to be the first of many insults to weaken him before the deathblow. He would miss a lost limb less than he’d missed Anya. Her absence had diminished him in a way no physical injury ever could. Now he was whole again.

  He raised his face like a flower to the sun, seeking something more than her nuzzling, though he didn’t know what.

  His lady knew. Her mouth alighted on his. Her cool hand soothed the hot swelling of his jaw. She ignored the blood and pressed her soft lips to his, moving them gently, tentatively.

  A kiss.

  The sweetest gift imaginable. He’d heard of kisses but never imagined he’d know the bliss of one outside his fantasies.

  Her lips clung to his and released, clung and released, a rocking rhythm that his lips answered so naturally the wonder of it was like a blow to his gut.

  Perfect. Complete. Anya.

  Mine.

  The soft pressure of their kiss shifted the tooth the commander had loosened with that last hit. The pain was nothing compared to the pleasure spinning through him. It heated his blood, soothed his soul. His eyes fluttered shut.

  He tightened his arms around her, remembering when she’d told him he wouldn’t break her. Had it really been just a few days since they’d left his cabin and he’d held her hand for the first time, helping her across a slippery log? He’d known her such a short time, but it felt like his life hadn’t truly begun until he’d found her.

  Against his mouth, her lips twisted into a grimace. She made a high-pitched sound. A protest? Was he hurting her after all? Had he done something wrong with the kiss?

  He shifted her away with his hands on her shoulders. The fire had almost burned out, but there was enough light for him to see her scrunched-up expression. Her chin was dimpled and quivering and stained with his blood. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Shite. He’d hurt her. Clumsy oaf! “What’s wrong?” He ran his hands over her face, her head, her shoulders, checking for injury but also just to touch her, just to be with her. He wasn’t sure he could stop, even if she demanded it.

  “You bloody foolish man.” She hiccupped. “You almost got yourself killed. Twice!” She grabbed his head and hugged it tight to her bosom. “I almost lost you. I almost lost you.”

  His stomach rolled.

  “I’m here,” he assured her, folding his arms around her again. Her heart beat against his ear. Her lush breasts cushioned his face. She felt like home. “I’m here now.”

  “Och, but you’re bleeding like a speared boar. Lie down, let me look at you.” She tried to back out of his arms.

  He wouldn’t let her go. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready.

  He held her tighter. “I’m fine.” As long as she was in his arms, he was better than fine. “Come here.” He sat back on his haunches and dragged her onto his lap, directing her legs around his hips.

  Her body came to his willingly. Her silky hair cooled the knuckles of the hand he wrapped behind her neck. With his other hand, he supported her left leg, the one that pained her most, pressing it around him. Her slight weight bore down on his arousal, making him feel pleasurable pain. Her scent thickened with that heady spice that made him lose his mind.

  Her gaze met his, and a feeling of deep connection snapped taut between them. Her eyes widened as if she felt it too. Her lips parted on a breath that smelled of cooked meat. For once the smell didn’t bother him, because it came from her. It meant she’d been nourished tonight.

  Protect. Love.

 
Keep.

  Warm, dark possibility twisted through him. He racked his brain trying to think of a place secure enough to hide away for a lifetime with her.

  “The commander stabbed you,” she said, cutting off his thoughts. “You’re no’ fine. No one could be fine after what you’ve endured.”

  “I’ve had worse. I’ll heal.”

  She wound her arms around his neck, bringing her sweet lips to the sweaty skin of his throat. “You better,” she murmured there, making his whole body shiver with need. “If you die on me, I’ll bloody kill you.”

  He smiled with a twinge of pain to his loose tooth and a deeper pain to his heart. There was no way he could keep this treasure for himself. No matter how badly he wanted her, he couldn’t betray his king.

  Gently, he eased her off his lap. Pain that had nothing to do with his injuries tore through him.

  It’s for the best. She’s not mine. Never will be.

  Even though he would always be hers.

  Gripping her waist, he helped her stand, nice and slow—her legs didn’t like quick changes in position. “Is the tea still hot?” he asked past his constricted throat. Addressing his thirst might help ease the sense of loss crushing his chest like a boulder.

  Her eyes went wide. All color drained from her face. “Touch that teapot, and I’ll skin you alive.”

  That’s right. Anya liked to be useful. She’d want to serve him tonight. He felt himself grin at her feisty spirit. King Magnus was a damned lucky man. “Fine. I won’t lift a finger. I’ll let you serve me.”

  He sat back on the sand, memorizing the sway of her hips as she limped to the fire, the swell of her breasts as she bent at the waist over the notch in the woodpile where the teapot sat. The dying fire outlined those glorious orbs through the linen of his shirt.

  “Hope it’s good and strong,” he said. “I could use a kick in my brew tonight. And see if you can find some poultice and bandages in the tracker’s saddle bags after you pour me a cup.”

  Anya pulled her shirtsleeves over her hands to protect herself from the hot handle.

  It would be nice to rinse the taste of blood out of his mouth with good strong tea. He licked his lips, so thirsty.

  But Anya didn’t pour the tea into a cup for him to sip. Instead, she hobbled to the bank and hurled the pot into the river with a cry.

  Splash.

  He blinked at the rings of water spreading around where it had sunk. Then he looked at Anya. She had both her hands clasped over her mouth.

  He got up and went to her. Shite, he was lightheaded. He really could have used some of that tea. He’d have to settle for water, but not until he’d found out what was wrong with Anya.

  “What is it, lady?” He put a hand on her shoulder.

  She was trembling.

  He gathered her into his arms and soothed her with long strokes over her hair. “Tell me. Did the trackers hurt you?” What else could upset her like this?

  “I hurt them.” She met his eyes. “I poisoned their tea. I killed them.”

  She’d poisoned the trackers.

  It hadn’t been Danu to miraculously help him when he’d needed it most. It had been his lady. No less a miracle for his rescue coming from mortal hands.

  He’d thought to save Anya, but she had saved him. She’d saved them both.

  Pride filled him. But she didn’t look proud. Shite. He recognized the confusion in her gaze. He remembered his first time on the battlefield, the first time he’d buried his axe in a man instead of a straw dummy on the practice field.

  She’d never killed before.

  “I don’t regret it,” she said. “Does that make me wicked?”

  He bent around her. “No. You’re not wicked.”

  “What kind of woman kills without regret?”

  “A brave one. A smart one.” She appeared so fragile, but she was strong, his lady. He tipped her face up with a curled finger under her chin. “A beautiful one.” He kissed her scars.

  She closed her eyes, leaning into his kiss, making his chest puff up.

  “You did what a good soldier would have done,” he murmured against her cheek. “You fought. You saved my life.”

  She nipped her lower lip between her teeth. He couldn’t help himself. He moved his mouth to hers and kissed those lush lips. Sweet. So damn sweet.

  Her fists curled in his shirt at his back. She clung to him.

  He rocked his lips over hers the way he knew she liked.

  She whimpered, a sound of helpless abandon. It heated him from head to toe, that little sound.

  Then he did another thing he couldn’t help. He thrust his tongue between her lips, between her teeth. He licked deep into her mouth as his lips sealed them together.

  She gripped him even tighter and rubbed her tongue over his. That spicy scent of hers plowed over him. Pleasure tightened his stomach, made his blood sing with need.

  The ground seemed to tilt under his feet. He thought it was the wonder of kissing Anya so intimately, but when a rush of blackness clouded his vision, he knew better. He’d lost too much blood. The wound in his side must be worse than he’d thought. He had just enough time to disengage from her before he felt himself go down and remembered no more.

  * * * *

  “Stupid bloody man.”

  Anya scrubbed the tears off her cheeks as she stared down at a wolf-man in danger of bleeding to death on the coarse sand of a riverbank. He’d made her believe the stab wound in his side was nothing to fash over. Typical thick-skulled warrior, thinking himself invincible.

  She’d almost believed him invincible, given all he’d withstood since they’d met. But he looked far from it now, sprawled on his back with his clothing tattered, his skin pale, blood staining his shirt.

  Her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. Why couldn’t he be invincible?

  “You’ll die tonight over my dead body,” she informed him.

  Her lips still tingled from his passionate kiss. Her body still thrummed with desire. She ignored it all as she threw more logs on the woodpile to stoke the blaze brighter. Doctoring a wounded man in daylight would have been her preference, but if she had to do it at night, she needed better light than that of a dying fire.

  Happy at last with the bright, leaping flames, she found a healing kit in the saddlebag that had belonged to Gord. Her gaze wanted to go to where his body lay near the tree line. No. Don’t look.

  Bloody difficult not to look upon a dead man—or tread upon one—when they littered the camp. She kept glimpsing a booted foot here, a dropped weapon by a too-still hand there. Each glimpse made her stomach contract with sickness.

  “You did what a good soldier would have done. You saved my life.”

  She had nothing to regret. No reason to fash.

  Putting it behind her, she hobbled to Riggs’s side with the healing kit. She pulled his shirt from his trews and inspected the worst of his wounds. His torso was firm with muscle and thickly furred toward the center. Any other time, she would have longed to smooth her hands over that luxurious coat. Tonight her grisly task was to wash blood out of it so she could see what they were dealing with.

  Using a clean rag and water from a skin, she uncovered a red gash about as long as her palm was wide. It cut diagonally through his hide where the hair began to thin at his flank. Blood dribbled from it freely, suggesting ’twas too deep to safely sew closed. She’d seen healers insert a hot iron into such wounds to stop the bleeding. Even if she had such a thing to heat in the fire, she doubted she possessed the courage to stick it into Riggs’s body. The best she could do would be to dress it to staunch the bleeding. She hoped it would be enough.

  After washing the wound with whisky she’d found in the trackers’ saddlebags and binding it with poultice-covered bandages, she turned her attention to the slice across his forearm. This she could sew.

  A few more logs on the fire gave her sufficient light to thread a needle and mend Riggs’s skin. Done with that, she inspected his face.
He had an eye swollen shut and a wee cut over his red-hot cheek. His thick beard covered his jaw, but she felt the heat of blooming bruises through the coarse hair. His complexion would be darker than a stormy sky tomorrow, but none of these wounds were serious.

  She fashed more about how pale he looked and how his eyes appeared sunken in his sockets. He looked like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. Mayhap the last thing he’d had to eat was the measly meal of ferrets from the inn in Valeworth. And he’d traveled leagues since then, and fought hard. He needed food, but he couldn’t eat while he was unconscious.

  She’d make sure he had food close at hand when he woke—he would wake. She’d not tolerate him dying in the night. Death couldn’t have him. He was hers.

  The possessive thought came out of nowhere. But once she’d had it, she couldn’t shake it away. No matter how ridiculous it was.

  She understood that more than ever. There was no safe place for a woman outside Chroina. And she’d not endanger Riggs further by suggesting different.

  Gathering up what was left of the cooked boar piglets, which was a substantial amount given her lack of appetite, she wrapped it and set it by Riggs. He preferred his meat raw, but if he was hungry enough, he’d be thankful for meat any way he could get it. Beside the meat, she put a full water skin and a flask of whisky, the latter in case he woke in much pain. She’d seen rounds of hard bread in the trackers’ bags while searching for other supplies. She put some of those by Riggs as well, in case he refused the meat.

  There. She’d done all she could.

  The fire faded, allowing the cold night to close in. She’d not have Riggs freezing to death while his body worked to heal his wounds. She untied Lance’s bedroll and unfurled it, skin-side down beside Riggs. Unceremoniously, she rolled him onto the soft fur lining, an event that left her exhausted enough to sleep for a week.

  Before climbing in to share her warmth with him, she surveyed the camp. Four horses tied on a rope and resting by the tree line. Four dead bodies littered hither and yon. One unconscious wolf-man.