Highland Wolf Pact (20 page)

That was all she knew and all that mattered.

* * * *

She hadn’t expected kindness from anyone, but Moira clucked and fussed over her as much as she ever had. Sibyl didn’t realize it would be so hard to give up her plaid, how dependent she had become on its warmth, its safety, its freedom. Moira threw it in the fire and burned it and Sibyl had never been more bereft. It was as if her heart had been thrown into that fire. The tears came, relentless. She couldn’t stop them and she stopped trying after a while.

“Ye have gone and done it now,” Moira whispered as she cinched Sibyl into a corset that crushed her ribs and forced her breath up high in her chest. “I’m surprised the MacFalon will still have ye.”

So was Sibyl. She had yet to see Alistair, but she was being groomed and dressed for him. They had started calling him “the MacFalon” in her absence. She wondered at that—his men hadn’t the respect for him they had for his father, at least that had been the case when she left. But things had changed and she couldn’t quite understand why or how.

“Yer t’be married t’im today.” Moira nodded as the women brought in Sibyl’s wedding dress, the train so long it took four of them to bring it all in.

“Today?” Sibyl felt her knees go weak at the thought, at the sight of that wedding dress she couldn’t imagine wearing. “But I must speak with him!”

“Ye’ll have plenty of time after yer married fer that.”

“You don’t understand,” Sibyl whispered. She had been on MacFalon land already for over an hour. If he didn’t let Laina go—and soon—the wulvers would come looking for her, armed and ready to do battle. “He must let her go.”

“Her?” Moira raised her bushy white eyebrows. “The she-wolf?”

“I hear she threw herself on a spike when one of the men tried to... be with her…” One of the other girls whispered. Sibyl recognized her as one of the kitchen maids. Moira had enlisted extra help today, since Sibyl was to be sewn into her wedding dress.

“No,” Sibyl whispered, looking between the two younger women with wide eyes as they snugged Sibyl’s gown down over her hips.

“Why would ye?” The dark-haired scullery maid gasped in shock at this news. “It’d be like lyin’ wit’a dog!”

“Well I would’na mind bein’ wit’ one,” the blonde remarked with a grin that showed a considerable gap in her teeth. “If he was hung like a dog…”

All the women cackled at that and Sibyl couldn’t stand it another minute.

“Where is Donal?” she asked. There was no one else who would listen to reason. Maybe she could talk to him, if they weren’t going to let her see Alistair before the wedding.

“Alistair has had him locked up down the hall,” the gap-toothed blonde told her, arranging Sibyl’s long train behind her.

“He came ta the defense of the she-wolf,” the dark-haired one snorted. “He did’na want ’er harmed. He said if they broke the wolf pact, the wulvers would come for ’er…”

“Of course they will come for her.” Sibyl rolled her eyes, glancing at the open door. Half her train was still stuck in the hallway.

“Come back ’ere!” Moira called as Sibyl grabbed a knife off the table, where the maids had put a tray of bread, meat and cheese, and stalked out of the room.

Sibyl ignored the maids and Moira, wading through the fabric of her wedding dress toward the man standing at the end of the hallway. It was the one called Gregor—the same one who had thrown her over his saddle, who had pulled up her plaid to spank her in front of the men, and who likely would have done more, if another man hadn’t ordered him to take her inside.

“Where is Laina?” She held the dagger up, snarling at the guard. “The wolf—the wulver. The she-wolf. Where is she?”

“I… I do’na know,” he stammered, glancing down the hall at the maids, who gathered up the length of Sibyl’s train as they made their way toward them.

“Who do you guard behind this door?” she demanded to know, still brandishing the knife.

“Sibyl?” came a muffled voice. “Lady Blackthorne?”

“Donal!” She brightened at the sound of him, pounding on the door. He pounded back, definitely behind it.

“Me brother wants war wit’ the wulvers!” he called. “Let me out of ’ere!”

“Let him out,” Sibyl told the guard. “Do it. Now.”

“I can’na.” The man mopped his greasy brow with the back of his hand, frowning at her. “I’ve me orders.”

“Come back now, ye hear me?” Moira tugged at Sibyl’s train—the women had caught up. “Come get ready fer yer weddin.”

“You will open this door,” Sibyl insisted, hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife, pointing it straight at the man’s chest. “Or I will stab you straight through the heart with this before you can even draw your sword.”

The women behind her gasped, but Sibyl ignored them.

“Do not test me,” she snapped, eyes flashing.

The guard took one look at Sibyl’s face and then fumbled for his keys. He undid the big padlock and Donal rushed out of the room, knocking the man flat on his back, the wind escaping his throat in a hiss.

“Stay down,” Donal instructed, drawing the man’s sword before he could even think about getting up.

“Donal, you have to help me,” Sibyl begged. She knew he would listen to her—especially now that she’d discovered Alistair had him locked up. “Your brother has broken the wolf pact. Do you know where Laina is?”

Just the mention of the woman’s name brought tears to Sibyl’s eyes.

“Lady Blackthorne, ye must come wit’ me.” Moira wasn’t just pulling on Sibyl’s train now, she was yanking on it. “I must get ye ready fer yer weddin’!”

“I will worry about my wedding later!” Sibyl cried, grabbing a yard of the fabric attached at her waist and yanking it back, making the older woman stumble. “Right now I have more important things to concern myself with!” 

“How d’ye know of the wolf pact?” Donal asked, frowning at the guard still on the ground as he inched his way past Sibyl, the fabric of her dress making it difficult to move along the floor.

“I have been living with the wulvers this whole while,” she explained, hearing the maids gasp again. That little piece of gossip would keep them going for years, she thought. “Do you know where she is? If he will just let her go, war can be avoided.”

“I do’na know.” Donal shook his head. “I came t’her defense, and I ended up locked in ’ere.”

“What?” Sibyl gasped as she felt her train being tugged again, but this time it wasn’t Moira or the maids. This time it was the guard. He had tunneled beneath the fabric and was now caught in it near the door Sibyl had stormed out of.

“Get back ’ere!” Donal yelled, but the man had freed himself from his white satin prison and practically fell down the stairs at the end of the hall. “He’ll tell me brother I’m free.”

“It will be war,” Sibyl whispered. “The wulver’s mate is coming for her. We must find her and let her go. If we can just free her…”

Had she sacrificed herself for nothing? Sibyl wondered, looking back at Donal’s face. The color had drained from it. Was Laina already dead, as the maids had intimated? She couldn’t bear the thought. Tears came to her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.

“Ye cry fer a dog?” The dark-haired maid rolled her eyes.

“Shut up!” Sibyl snapped. “Donal! Where are you going?”

But he was already halfway down the hall, sword in hand, going after the guard.

Sibyl quickly followed, shoving by Moira and the maids, but she found herself stuck halfway down the stairs, her train too heavy to move on her own. Donal had the guard by the throat, but it was too late, he had already sounded the alarm. Alistair’s men were gathered at the foot of the stone steps, looking up at Donal holding one of their men at sword point and Sibyl standing at the top of them in her wedding gown.

“Please!” She pleaded with them all, hoping she could reason with someone, anyone. “Let the she-wolf go! If you let her go, then the wulvers will not come after you!”

“Let ’em come!” Alistair’s voice echoed through the great hall as he stalked into it, his men parting as he approached the stairway.

“It will be war!” she cried. The sight of her betrothed made her dizzy with disgust and she clutched the stair’s railing.

“King Henry will’na stand fer it,” Donal insisted. He still had the guard at sword point. “He does’na want war wit’ the wulvers.”

“Yer wrong, brother.” Alistair called up the stairs, smiling that cold smile that never reached his eyes. “King Henry wants his demon seed dead. He wants no challenge t’is throne.”

His words carried through the hall. The maids gasped, of course—Sibyl didn’t expect anything less. But everyone seemed to understand his meaning. They all knew the legends, the stories that had been told about the wulvers and the wolf pact. Perhaps some of them had even been alive, Sibyl realized, looking back at Moira’s pale face and the way she crossed herself at the mention of the wulvers, when a young man named Henry had come looking for soldiers to help him win a crown. When that same man, who would one day be king, had taken what he wanted from the wulver woman, as men were wont to do, and had abandoned her with child, as men were also wont to do.

The consequences for those actions were far-reaching, and likely riding toward them right now, half-man, half-wolf, fully armed and ready for battle.

“Raife doesn’t want the crown!” Sibyl’s voice shook when she spoke the words. It was true, but would anyone believe it? She didn’t know.

“Raife is it?” Alistair sneered at her. The hatred in his eyes, the hatred that had always been there, just barely veiled, filled her with dread as he came up the stairs, two at a time, passing his brother to get to Sibyl. “And has he taken what’s mine?”

“I am not yours.” She felt her lower lip tremble but she couldn’t stop the truth from spilling out of her mouth. “I will never be yours.”

“Ye’re wrong about that.” Alistair grabbed her to him, crushing his mouth against hers in a painful, bruising kiss. His tongue forced its way past her teeth as he gripped her behind in one hand, her breast in the other, right in front of everyone like he didn’t care who saw. And of course, he didn’t. He wanted them all to see that he owned her. She was surprised he didn’t strip her naked and take her right there on the stairs.

If it weren’t for the presence of the priest down there, ready to perform the marriage ceremony, she knew he really might have.

“King Henry promised me a proper English bride and the rule of all of Middle March if I would kill those flea-ridden dogs,” Alistair growled, spittle spraying her ear. “There is no more wolf pact.”

“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes to it.

It couldn’t be. Was King Henry so afraid of losing his title, his throne, to a bastard son who didn’t want to have anything to do with the crown? No one knew about Raife—and his claim to the throne was tenuous, at best. He wasn’t just Scottish—he wasn’t even fully human! Henry had a son in line for the throne. The Tudors had regained the title after much maneuvering and fighting, but it was theirs. And the wulvers had helped them win it.

“I’ve a thousand men ready to kill ’em all as soon as those dogs ride up to the gates!” Alistair announced, his arm still around Sibyl’s waist as he grinned down at his men. There were only a hundred or so gathered in the hall, but that didn’t mean a thing. She was certain there were more where that came from—these were just the ones who had heard the commotion and had come running.

“Isn’t that so?” Alistair called out. The men rallied, crying back with a rousing, “Aye!”

They were riding into a trap, just as Sibyl had feared. The wulvers would come down the mountain on horses, armed and ready for battle, transformed as half-man, half-wolf, a few hundred strong. In a battle, they were almost invincible, their healing capacities and super-strength making them fierce warriors, which is what had made them such a force to be reckoned with when Henry recruited them.

But a few hundred wulvers against a thousand men, all set on killing them? It would be an ambush. A slaughter. Sibyl saw Raife falling, saw Alistair—or more likely one of Alistair’s men, because the man himself was too coward to face a wulver—running a sword through her mate’s heart. They might be able to quickly heal from wounds, but they could still be killed. Their hearts could still stop beating.

And if Raife’s heart stopped beating, hers would too.

“Have you ever seen a wulver?” she snarled at Alistair, raising her voice so they could all hear her words. “Have you ever faced a beast who is half-man, half-wolf? They are warriors. I have seen them. They have held me captive for over a month!
They do nothing else but train for war.
They are far more ready for it than any of your farmers or even your best-trained men! I have seen them rip an animal’s throat out with their bare hands!”

“We can’na fight magic,” the men whispered. Sibyl’s heart soared when she heard the mutterings down below. They crossed themselves and kissed the crosses around their necks. She was sowing the seeds, but she needed more help. “Tis witchcraft. Tis against nature.”

“She’s trying t’scare ye!” Alistair pushed Sibyl away from him and she tumbled, losing her footing, as he went back down the stairs. “They’ll be as easy t’put down as dogs, you’ll see!”

“Donal… please…” Sibyl cried, thankful the man was still standing there. He caught her fall. “You must do something.”