Highland Wolf Pact (24 page)

Mayhaps the future was the future, and she couldn’t change it. Or mayhaps she could, and her son would lead the way toward a different one for all of them.

And mayhaps the Queen of England would someday be a red-haired woman, she thought, smiling to herself at that ludicrous idea.

All Sibyl knew was that this red-haired, red-eyed baby was her son, and she was going to hold onto him and keep him close as long as she could manage.

This is a sneak peek at the sequel to Highland Wolf Pact!

Scotland

Middle March – Castle MacFalon

Year of our Lord 1502

“She’s goin’t’need a shave!” Giggles ensued, the high-pitched sort of laughter shared by women whose intentions were both wicked and cruel. “Wanna bring ’er a blade?”

“Hush!” Moira waved the young maidservants out of the room, closing the door behind them after ushering them through.

Kirstin didn’t move from her place by the fire, still rolled in her plaid, staring into the flames. The room was warm, but she shivered, as if from fever. She knew the signs. Her moon time was coming, and soon. She would change then. She had no choice. The giggling maidservants who had laughed and poked fun weren’t wrong, after all. She was abhorrent, a monster, something sick and twisted and wrong.

She couldn’t blame the girls for being disgusted by her.

She wouldn’t blame Donal for not wanting her.

What man would?

“Pay’em n’mind, lass.” Moira picked up a poker to stoke the fire. “D’ye need anythin’?”

“Nuh.” Kirstin sat, pulling the ends of her plaid up around her shoulders and glancing out the window at the setting sun. The moon would rise soon, and she would be trapped. Trapped by her body, by her own nature. Trapped into her life as a wulver woman. She should just return home, as Sibyl had begged her to, and find a wulver warrior to settle with, to love and raise pups with.

But there was no wulver warrior who made her feel the way Donal did. She didn’t understand it, nor did she question it. Her nature might have been at odds with her heart’s desire, but she trusted her instincts, and every fiber of her being told her that Donal was the man she was meant to be with. It was the only reason she had stayed here in this castle with the MacFalons.

“Tis almos’time.” Moira said, sounding reluctant to mention it, and Kirstin knew she was. This wasn’t the first time they’d had an unpredictable wulver woman in their midst.

“Aye.” Kirstin sighed and stood, tucking her plaid into her belt as a knock came on the door.

“I’m’ere fer t’she-wolf.” Gregor stood in the doorway, sneering at Kirstin as she straightened her shoulders and tried to put on a brave, public face, prepared to face this horrible humiliation. He took a leery step back as Kirstin approached and she almost laughed. It was true, she could have torn the man’s throat out in an instant, the moment she turned. And part of her wanted to. The man had been nothing but trouble since she arrived. He was still loyal to Alistair, although Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon.

“Nuh, I’ll take’er down.” Moira insisted, linking her arm with Kirstin’s and leading her out of the room. “T’isn’t fer t’likes’o’ye.”

“Lock’er up good!” Gregor called after the women as they made their way down the hallway. “We a’ready lost one laird—nuh gonna lose another!”

As if Kirstin ever would have hurt Donal, in any form, human or wolf. But she didn’t say anything as she and Moira made their way down the stairs. She expected to be led to the dungeon—where else would she be locked up? But Moira turned and led her down the hall, stopping outside the door of Donal’s chancery.

“He wanted t’see ye… before t’change…” Moira knocked softly on the door and Kirstin’s heart broke when Donal opened it.

“Nuh, I can’na…” Kirstin took a step back, but Donal already had her in his arms, pulling her into the room, shutting Moira out.

“Aye, lass, ye can and ye will…” Donal buried his face and hands in Kirstin’s long, dark hair. “I want ye, I need ye…”

“Aye,” she whispered, knowing just how he felt, unable to hide her own feelings, not here, in his arms. “Time’s almos’up, ye ken?”

“Aye.” He lifted his face to look into her eyes, searching there for some answer, some solution to their strange dilemma. “Lemme look at ye.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling tears stinging her eyes, swallowing around a lump in her throat. “I wish I was someone else fer ye, some
thin’
else…”

“Nuh, lass. Do’na say’t.” Donal groaned, wrapping thick, strong arms around her waist, pulling her body in tight to his. “Ye’re e’rythin’ I’ve e’er wanted.”

Kirstin shook her head, but her throat was closed with pain and heartache—and her impending change. She couldn’t speak. She would lose the ability entirely soon.

“You’re m’only love, and if I can’na’ave ye…”

“Shhh.” Kirstin couldn’t stand any more words and she was grateful when Donal’s mouth found hers. This was a language she understood. Her arms went around his neck, fingers playing in the hair curling at the nape, his big hands moving over her tunic and plaid as if he could memorize her with his palms.

She wanted him, was desperate for him. If only he would take her and make her his own, mark her. She was a wulver, and wanted his claim, more than anything, but she knew it was the one thing she couldn’t have. Kirstin knew she should have listened to Sibyl’s sensible advice. If anyone knew what it was like to be caught between two worlds, it was Sibyl. Donal was laird of his clan, and now he was promised to another—a highborn, English lady, a woman who would arrive this week, a “gift” from King Henry VII.

It was a contract arranged by the English king so he could secure the border. If the Scots married the English, it seemed reasonable they’d stop killing each other. It was a sound, logical plan, one that had been set in motion when Sibyl Blackthorne had come to Scotland to marry Donal’s older brother, Alistair. But the heart didn’t always follow the logical plans set forth by the mind, even the mind of a king.

Sibyl had fallen in love with Raife, the leader of Kirstin’s wulver pack, and had made a life with him in the den. Alistair was dead—killed by Darrow, Raife’s brother, after the laird had taken Darrow’s wulver wife hostage. Clan MacFalon had welcomed Alistair’s younger brother, Donal, as their new laird, and King Henry had made him warden of the Middle March. But that came with more than just a title, she knew. Sibyl’s heart had led her astray, from the life of a lady to living in a wolf’s den, and her advice to Kirstin had been sensible, even if they both knew it was useless to argue with what the heart wanted.

“Come back with us,” Sibyl had pleaded. “Find a wulver to love. They are all good, strong men. Any of them would make a good mate for you.”

Kirstin had nodded her agreement. In her head, she knew it was true. She should find a nice, wulver warrior and settle down, like the rest of the wulver women.

There was just one problem with that.

None of them were Donal.

The man had found his way into her heart and she couldn’t stop her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. She’d thrown herself into caring after Darrow—the reason she’d come to the MacFalon castle in the first place—after his near-fatal fight with Alistair. She’d thrown herself into helping Moira and the rest of the servants, learning the daily workings of the castle. This is what she’d done at home, after all, and came naturally to her.

But none of it had distracted her from Donal.

He’d been everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, that devilish smile and those dancing eyes. She told herself—often—that the man was, well, just a man. He wasn’t a wulver. He wasn’t her kind. He would never be able to understand, let alone tolerate, her ways. Kirstin didn’t have a choice, not like the wulver men. They could change at will, could even transform into half-man, half-wolf, but wulver women didn’t have that luxury.

Wulver women’s bodies were tied inextricably to their moon cycles. When they went into heat, they changed into their full wolf form, and when they did, they were unpredictable. Kirstin’s life had always been ruled by the moon. Unlike Laina, Darrow’s wife, who had hated that fact and tried her best to find a way to change it, Kirstin had always accepted her lot in life as a wulver. “We are what we are,” that’s what Raife always said, and it was true. You couldn’t spend your life wishing you were someone, or something, else. It was a recipe for heartache.

But that was just what she’d done, Kirstin realized, clinging to Donal, wishing she could stop what was coming. She wanted to blame him, for being so kind, so generous, so damned handsome and irresistible, but she knew better. It wasn’t Donal’s fault. The man hadn’t done anything untoward, hadn’t made any advances. It was, shamefully, all on her. It was her own wild heart that had betrayed her.

Now she was tied to him, utterly in love with him, and she knew it was hopeless. Kirstin knew Sibyl’s logical advice would have been easier to follow a month ago, before she’d let herself fall for this man. Kirstin should have returned to the wulvers’ den with her family then. She should have ignored the calling of her heart to his, should have denied her feelings, should have turned and walked away.

Kirstin remembered her home fondly, with some measure of homesickness, but she knew, in her heart, she would miss this man more. But when Donal had taken his brother’s place as laird of clan MacFalon, he had, in turn, assumed his brother’s responsibility to “marry the border.” To join the English and the Scots, as King Henry VII had instructed him to.

Even if Donal was in love with another woman.

Or, another wulver.

That clearly didn’t matter to the heads of state.

What the heart wanted had to be second to what the crown wanted.

“I should go.” Kirstin tried to disengage herself from him, but he held her fast in the circle of his arms. To be fair, she didn’t too try hard to get away. She spent too little time in the man’s arms, and could have spent an eternity there. Since that first morning in the garden when she had fallen into his arms like some lovesick teen and confessed her affection for him, she had found herself taking every opportunity she could to be with him.

“I do’na want ye t’go, lass,” he murmured, hands lost in the thick mass of her hair. “I’m n’afraid of ye. Stay wit’ me.”

Kirstin whimpered and held onto him even tighter, remembering the look on his face when she’d told him how she felt, that slow, dawning realization. Sibyl had warned her that men were dense when it came to matters of the heart, that Donal had no idea that Kirstin’s subtle clues, which seemed so overt to her, were flying right by him. She didn’t understand how this was possible, but after weeks of talking, flirting, even putting herself in harm’s way in hopes of being rescued—the man had simply caught up, dragged her off the “runaway” horse, and deposited her back under Raife’s care, telling the pack leader to keep a better eye on her—Kirstin finally just confessed.

And she’d thought her foolishness would end there. From the stunned look on the man’s face, she should have just kept her mouth shut. But Darrow had healed and they were all anxious to return to the wulvers’ den, and she didn’t have any more time for subtlety, she’d decided. So she had taken the opportunity, when Donal found her alone in the garden that morning, to throw herself into his arms and tell him.

And he’d just stood there, looking at her, face unmoved, unchanged. His eyes, though, they told her everything—those dancing, blue-grey eyes and the slow, dawning realization that came to them. She could almost see every ploy, every time she’d laughed at his jokes or flirted, flit through his mind as he looked at her and, watching him, she regretted every single one. She wanted to crawl under the stone bench, curl up, and die. She wanted it so much, she actually turned to go. She had to go tell Sibyl and Raife she’d be returning to the den with them after all.

Her motion to leave seemed to startle Donal out of his trance. That’s when he’d grabbed her arm, pulling her back to him so fast it took her breath away, and kissed her. And it had been everything she hoped. Everything and more. Kirstin had been kissed, on more than one occasion, but being kissed by this man wasn’t anything like being pawed by a wulver male in the dark damp of the tunnels. Being kissed by this man was like coming up for a breath after being underwater. It was as natural as that.

And just as sweet.

Now she had to go, had to leave him after all. If only she’d told him sooner, if only she’d done so before Donal had sent the messenger, accepting King Henry’s offer of an English bride. Donal had told her that before Kirstin’s confession, he hadn’t cared who he married, hadn’t even considered it. In fact, the man had even proposed to Sibyl, given that she had once been promised to his older brother, just because it seemed “logical.” Sibyl, already in love with Raife, had turned him down, so Donal had replied to the king’s offer with a lackadaisical “yes.”

Now Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe's only daughter, was on her way to marry the laird of clan MacFalon. Not that it mattered, Kirstin knew. The king would never approve a marriage between a wulver woman and a man, even if the king himself had once bedded one. There was a big difference between bedding a wulver and marrying one. She and Donal had talked in circles about it, and they kept coming around to the same point.

“Ye know I can’na stay.” Kirstin lifted her face to look at him, at those stormy eyes, his brow knitted with worry. “Y’er to marry another.”

“Do’na remin’me.” He groaned, his expression pained, as if her words had stabbed him in the gut.

“She’ll arrive soon,” Kirstin reminded him, reminded herself. “In another day, mayhaps two.”