Authors: Vanessa Royall
The excitement of being with him again had momentarily put everything else out of Selena’s mind, but the smell of bread, the
sight of cheese, stirred the juices of appetite. She was famished. She was also bedraggled and suddenly aware of how she must look, standing there barelegged and draped in that purloined officer’s uniform. Well, he would certainly tell her of his plans later. Curiosity could wait.
“Hand me the towel please, darling? Is there water and soap? Is there anything for me to wear?”
Royce set the wine and the food on the table. He smiled.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know exactly what you’d require. But Penrod will be coming by tomorrow. I’m sure we can ask him to get some clothes for you.
“It may be,” he added, “that you won’t need any until then.”
“I hope not,” replied Selena, meeting his eyes.
He uncorked the wine, sliced bread and cheese. Selena washed herself, feeling better every moment, and even succeeded in putting her hair back into a semblance of order, using Royce’s own pearl-handled comb, into which—as into all of his personal effects—was set a small silver image of a wolf’s head. That noble animal, so often misunderstood and reviled, was his symbol. More too. In a manner at once vague yet irrefutably clear, the wolf—which roams and hunts, which attacks only when provoked, which mates for life, and which will sacrifice itself for the safety of its own—was Royce Campbell’s brother, mirror-image, empath. Once aboard his previous ship, the
Highlander
, he had held her in his arms in the hammock in his captain’s quarters and told her what he had had to do to become a man in the eyes of the wild Highlands clan of which he was a part.
She had recently suffered the loss of her father, and the hidden meanings of life, if any, perplexed her, so first Royce had asked, “You even believe in God, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Royce said, giving her a lazy, indulgent kiss. “But I met him, and there are no longer any obligations attendant upon a vow in his name.”
“What do you mean? You could not have met—”
“God,” Royce said simply, and nodded. “It was my time, in the spring. The sun was falling that day, and I was readied in the usual manner. First I was stripped naked and my body was greased from crown to sole with bear oil, for symbolic strength and to protect me from the cold. We were in our hunting lodge
near Loch Nan Clar, and the torches were lighted. I will remember forever the way my shadow loomed against the stone walls, and when I saw the shadow, the way the light had thrown my image upon the stone, I knew there would never be need of fear in my life. Selena, it was an exultation I cannot describe. I knew, at that very instant, that nothing could touch me. Not then, that night, nor ever.
“After the oiling, I was girded in the tanned hides of wolves, strong with the scent of the wolf, and dressed in boots and gloves and a hat of fur. I took up a dagger and sheathed it at my side, and I was given whiskey to take with me against the cold. Then I left the lodge and set out upon my quest.”
“Were you afraid?” Selena had asked, pressing herself against his long body as they lay in the hammock.
“No. Excited. Overjoyed might be a better way to describe the feeling in my soul that night. Because, you see, my time had come. The time to be a man and to claim what was mine in the world. But first I had to succeed in the ritual. Midnight came and fled as I skirted the northern shore of the loch and began the climb toward the caves of Ben Kilbreck Mountain. I stopped for a time and had a bit of the whiskey, listening for the wolves.”
“You were hunting wolves? How old were you?”
“Six,” he answered casually, as Selena gasped. “You see, at that time of the year, the female whelps. She remains in the den with the cubs while the male brings prey for food. I found a cave, a den, and struck.”
“You killed the father wolf?”
“No. Not then. I entered the den when the father was gone, dressed in the skins of a wolf, smelling like an animal. You see, my first task was to suckle from the she-wolf, then to kill her, then to skin her and remove the dugs, to take them home with me as proof of my suckling.”
Hearing this, Selena had almost cried out. A boy with a dagger, crawling upon hands and knees into the reeking stench of the den. That boy had become the man beside her, whom she loved as much as all the earth.
“You might have been killed!”
“No, I knew that I would not be. I knew it from the time I saw my giant shadow wavering against the stone wall of our hunting lodge. The she-wolf came at me, but I caught her beneath the
throat with my dagger, and drank her bitter milk while the blood poured out. Her litter of pups squealed in panic, and in moments I could hear their father scrambling over the rocks outside the cave. But I was ready when I saw him, a dark, howling shape at the mouth of the cave, illuminated by a crescent of rising sun. The puppies, emboldened by his presence, were yapping and nipping at me now. I threw them off as the father charged. There is nothing to match the rage of an animal whose young are threatened, save perhaps the rage of women who want the same man, and I saw my death in the eyes of that attacking wolf.”
“But why did they make you do that?”
“No one
made
me. I
wanted
to. It is the way things are, because we Campbells believe that the only thing one must fear is God—”
“And you said that you met—”
“—and that God exists only at the instant when man is poised upon the thin line between life and death—”
“—God, and he was—”
“—for me, that father wolf, charging, fangs bared, out of the dawn, with his whelps gnawing at me too. But I dropped him with a dagger to the heart. He died with his teeth at my throat. Then I cut his throat where the skin is soft. And on that dawn I drank the blood of God…”
Selena had reached out hesitantly then to touch his skin, as if afraid that some alien force would be transmitted from his body to her own. But nothing seemed to happen; no charged current came from him to her. In truth, it could not. They were already the same. She did not yet know, had not yet learned, that they were both possessed by the power of pure impulse, that they shared heartbeats with a rare, feral universe.
“I killed the puppies too,” he had told her casually, “except for one I brought back home. He was a symbol of the fact that I had sacrificed what I must, but also spared what I could. Wolves cannot be domesticated, but I cared for him until he was able to fend for himself, then set him free. I think of him sometimes, roaming those Highlands of mine, and I feel gladness for him and for me.”
“And you chose his image as your own.”
He had, and it suited him. Although, Selena had come to believe, there were differences. The man who seated her at the table now and wrapped more tightly around her the blanket in which she sought to warm herself, the man who brushed her forehead
with his lips and poured her a glass of red wine, no, that was not a man who would roam wild ever again, nor set the selfish interests of lust and lucre above those of compassion and love.
Yes, she
had
gentled him and turned him from his willful ways.
“To us,” he said, sitting down at the table with her and raising his glass.
They drank.
“To victory,” she said, and they drank again.
Selena attacked the bread and cheese, even gulped the wine, as if she would never eat again. She’d had no idea how hungry she was. Royce sipped wine, smiling indulgently, but he cautioned her too.
“Don’t overdo it, darling. You’re not used to this fare.”
Already, she felt the effect of the wine, a slow, soaring light-headedness, a voluptuous ease spreading through her body. “I never want to see barley porridge again, not for the rest of my days. I think I lost three or four stone in prison.”
“Spirit is the thing you cannot afford to lose, and you haven’t, as far as I can tell. Weight can always be regained.”
“But not too much!” Selena cried, laughing and increasingly giddy from the wine. “Or would you love me fat?”
“Time will tell.”
“No, I’ll
never
get fat,” she babbled, cutting an immense wedge of cheddar and putting it between two crusty slabs of bread. “When I was locked in the fortress, I thought—” She was about to tell him of how, lying half-famished on the plank bunk in her cell, she had sometimes recalled the great holiday feasts of her youth, of lamb roasted in spices and basted with sweet wine, of pheasant stuffed with honey and butter and baked, of bread, soft and white as clouds, of apples and pears and candies, of tangy sausages and cold, strong ale. She meant to tell Royce about those delicacies, but the wine intruded, and she remembered what he’d said earlier.
“Why are we sailing to the Caribbean?”
Was it the influence of the grape on her perception that made Selena think he looked startled by her question?
“I think it would be best if we absented ourselves from this part of America for a time. It is hardly safe for either of us, I’d say.”
“But, darling, but, darling—” Now what the deuce had she been planning to say? Oh, yes, it came to her “—but, darling, if
Washington succeeds against Cornwallis at Yorktown, the war will be over. Don’t you want to be here for that? Don’t you want to enjoy the victory for which we’ve all struggled so long?”
“Of course I do.” He reached across the little table and took her hand. “Of course I do, but there are…but there are other things that require—Let’s talk about it later,” he concluded lightly. “I think you’re well on your way to sailing three sheets to the wind.”
“What?
What?
No, I’m not!” She started to stand, but suddenly the candlelight danced oddly, in leaping patterns of colors, like a bouquet of flowers, and—she was very, very sure—the room had begun to move like a slow carousel.
She sat down abruptly, giggling. “I’m purrfectly fine…”
The blanket had fallen loose around her shoulders. Why was Royce looking at her so sternly? It was certainly not the way he’d ever looked at her before. Usually the merest glimpse of her bare breasts made him…
“Where did you get that?” he was asking. She heard his voice, as if from far away, through the surfeit of food, the delicious languor of wine.
“What? Where did I get…oh, this cross!” The fate of Erasmus Ward sobered her a little, only for a moment, but long enough to tell him that Penrod had given her the little object.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she heard herself asking. “And do you know what he said, what Erasmus Ward said as he died? It was the strangest thing. ‘Sorbontay.’ What do you think of that?”
Royce Campbell’s dark eyes widened suddenly, as if the word meant something to him.
“Do you know what it means?” she asked, reaching for the almost-empty wine bottle.
“No, no, I don’t think I do,” she heard him say.
Selena’s hand missed its mark. The bottle tipped over onto the table. Red wine, like blood, pooled on the boards.
“Perhaps,” Royce said, “it’s time you had yourself a good sleep?”
“But I thought we could—”
“Later. First things first.”
She sat at the table watching as, with dreamlike slowness, at a great distance, Royce spread a bedroll out upon the floor. He came toward her then, step by step, lifted her from the chair into
his arms, carried her back to the bedroll, and laid her gently down upon it. Her arms were around his neck and she clung to him.
“Royce, let’s. Please, darling. Now.”
He unclasped her hands from behind his neck and kissed her briefly, as one would kiss a child at bedtime.
“Later,” he said. “It will be much better when you’re rested.”
“Don’t go away! You won’t go away, will you?”
“Have no fear of that. I’ll be right here. I have to plan a few things for tomorrow and afterwards, but I’m coming to bed in a little while.”
“I’ll be here,” she murmured drowsily, feeling wine-dimmed and wonderful, her body already anticipating the pleasure to come.
He tucked blankets around her and kissed her on the mouth. “What will you do with the cross?” he asked, in a tone she could not just then decipher.
“I promised…I promised to wear it always…as a memory and keepsake.”
“Yes. The little guy was probably the bravest man I ever knew. Sleep now.”
“Ummmmmmm…”
Selena drifted so gently into wakefulness that for a while she was not even aware of being awake, nor of her surroundings. For a moment, she thought that she was still in her cell and immediately regretted that sleep had abandoned her to its squalor. But these blankets were soft and warm, and there had been no candlelight in her fortress prison. Then she turned, saw Royce seated at the table, and remembered that she was safe. “I love you,” she said.
He looked up, his face dark with concentration, and immediately blew out the flame, leaving the room in pale darkness. Selena had almost slept the night away. She could see, by the hint of light behind the drawn curtain, that it was almost dawn.
“Stay there,” he said. His voice was quiet, but in its tone was something almost like an order. She could make out the outline of his big body as he undressed and draped his clothing over the back of a chair. Then he picked something up from the table and put it in the cupboard. Selena had just begun to wonder what it
was, but he came toward her then across the creaking floor of this hideaway, and all thoughts of mundane things spun away.
They had made love the first time in his hammock aboard the
Highlander
years ago, made love the last time in a hazel thicket on Long Island just before Oakley and his men had captured her and separated them, made love countless times in between in every way there was.
And now it was going to happen again.
Selena felt a tremendous rush of expectant desire as he slipped beside her in the bedroll and put his arms around her. His kiss tasted of wine for an instant, but then it was just and only his kiss. It was enough. She closed her eyes, gasping hungrily as he caressed her breasts, ran his hand down along her taut belly, teased the warm insides of her thighs with his fingertips, and touched her finally where she wanted most to be touched. Her hands sought the staff of him, long and hard and throbbing along its great length, softer there, thick and sleek and rounded at the end. A pearly drop of moisture, bespeaking his desire, seeped from him, and with her finger Selena spread it out like balm over the need-swollen tip, rubbing it in slowly, massaging him with slow, delicious motions as he moaned.