Compromising Positions (3 page)

“Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” Lord Eldred interrupted their interlude, holding his gloved hand out for hers, but Kirstin held the edged of her wrapped plaid and dropped into a brief curtsy instead. Sibyl had taught it to her and some of the other wulvers, and she used it to keep from having to touch him. For some reason, the thought was anathema to her. The older man nodded, lips pursing for a moment before he smiled and turned to introduce his men. “I’m Lord Eldred Lothienne, and these are my captains—William and Geoffrey Blackmoore of Blythe.”

“Sirs.” She curtsied for them, too, seeing Donal still watching her out of the corner of her eye. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, but she was very aware of his presence. It seemed to fill the whole forest.

Lord Eldred chuckled at that. “As lord of the royal hunt, neither I, nor my men, are knights. The royal huntsmen are required to get their hands dirty doing work knights would likely feel unfit for them.”

Kirstin gave a nod, acknowledging that, wondering just what kind of dirty work the man in front of her and his captains had been up to in the forest before they came along, but she didn’t say anything.

“I am quite accustomed to living in the wild,” Lord Eldred assured her, his dark eyes glittering, even in the dim light of the forest. “As I know you are, m’dear.”

“She’s a wild one, I’ll give him that,” one of the captains—Geoffrey—said softly to the other. She didn’t think Donal heard it, but she did—and so did Eldred Lothienne. He gave them both a warning look, but his eyes raked over her when he turned back again.

“Would you like to come back to our camp for the night, m’lady?” The other captain, William, dared to ask. “Mayhaps the outdoors, sleeping out under the stars, would be more to your liking than the creature comforts of Castle MacFalon?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but Donal beat her to it.

“Nay, the lass’s coming wit’ me.” Donal took a step nearer to her, frowning at the men on horseback. “She’s anxious t’meet up wit’ the rest of ’er pack.”

“You have wulvers at the castle still, then?” Lord Eldred asked.

“Aye.” Donal gave a short nod. “One of ’em was wounded.”

“Darrow.” Kirstin spoke his name, feeling her heart breaking at the thought of one of her pack—the brother of their pack leader, no less—helpless and in need of tending.

“We’ve four wulvers stayin’ at Castle MacFalon,” Donal informed the Englishman. “Raife’s their pack leader. Darrow, the wounded wulver, is his brother. The other two are their mates.”

“Mates.” Geoffrey snickered at that, but the look Lord Eldred gave him made him cover his mouth with a hand and straighten his posture.

“They’ve all been given welcome refuge wit’ us ’til Darrow’s healed,” Donal said, glancing at Kirstin as he spoke. Then he turned to Lord Eldred. “I’m sure you’ll be interested t’meet them at t’castle tomorrow—when ye officially ‘arrive’?”

“Indeed.” The Englishman nodded, reaching out and shaking Donal’s outstretched hand. “We’ll continue with our reconnaissance until then, and see you after sunrise tomorrow. If we find any more traps, we’ll disarm them.”

“Thank ye. I’ll make official welcome t’ye tomorrow as laird of Clan MacFalon,” Donal replied, squeezing the man’s gloved hand with his big, bare ones. Kirsten couldn’t help noticing how rough and calloused they were. Donal MacFalon was clearly not afraid of hard work. “But I hafta say, I’m grateful we’ve had a chance t’meet informally, man t’man.”

“Indeed.”

“I jus’ find all that infernal pageantry hides more than it reveals ’bout men, d’ye ken?”

“I do ‘ken’. We shall see you in the morning, MacFalon.” The older man dropped him a wink, grinning, and turned to go. They had no horses and she wondered where they were.

That made Kirsten wonder where Donal’s horse was—and how they were going to get back to Castle MacFalon without it. When she turned back to look, Eldred and his men had already melted into the woods.

“Something’s amiss wit’ that man...” she whispered to herself, rubbing her bare arms. She’d broken out in gooseflesh.

“Lord Eldred?” Donal asked, looking in the direction the men had ridden off in.

“Aye...” She nodded, meeting his concerned gaze.

“He acted honorably.” Donal frowned, tilting his head at her. “Less stuffy than I expected of a king’s lord.”

“Mayhaps.” She swallowed, knowing she couldn’t tell him about the warning signals that had gone off inside her upon meeting Lord Eldred Lothienne—Donal wasn’t a wulver, he couldn’t understand.

“He’s ’ere t’make sure we keep t’wolf pact,” Donal explained, kicking at the shredded net still lying on the ground that had ensnared her. “To see that all such traps are dismantled and disposed of. ’Tis a noble purpose, ye ken?”

“Mayhaps,” she said again and sighed. “I hafta say, I’m glad I never had t’play politics. It seems dishonest.”

“I s’pose it might seem that way,” Donal mused. “But it’s really nuh different than posturing a’fore a battle or sword fight. Each side wants t’win the day wit’out the death or loss of self, friends or countrymen, ye ken?”

“Ye make a good politician.” She smiled up at him with both mouth and eyes, and he smiled back, just as brightly. She felt a little foolish, standing there in the middle of the woods, smiling at a strange man, but there was no helping it. Just looking at the man made her face break into a smile.

“S’tell me, how’s me kin?” She took a step toward him, pressing a hand to his forearm. He glanced down at where she touched him—his forearms alone were thick as tree branches, she noted. Strong, solid. “How’s Darrow?”

“He’s not getting’ any worse, and likely getting’ better,” he soothed, putting a big, calloused hand over hers. A slow heat filled her at his touch, the way his voice dipped, seeming to caress her with sound alone. “But I’m sure yer healin’ hands’ll be of great use t’him—and a glad reprieve fer Sibyl and Laina. They’ve been splittin’ nursin’ duties and are sorely taxed.”

“How did ye know?” she asked him, his fingertips moving over hers, not letting go.

“That ye’re a healer?” he guessed.

“Aye.”

“Who else’d c’mon t’MacFalon land, seekin’ their injured kin?” He smiled. “Besides, ye’ve a kindness in yer eyes that belies ye—e’en when yer a wulver.”

“Aye?” She blinked up at him in surprise.

She didn’t think, in her entire existence, than anyone had ever said anything like that to her before. She’d been a healer since she could remember, a midwife, taking care of the wulver children when the other wulver women went into estrus and changed, but it was something that went unacknowledged, for the most part. They all had their individual skills and talents, and everyone understood that they would use them for the good of the pack.

She’d never realized how much the pack took each other for granted, until that moment.

And, looking up into Donal’s eyes, she didn’t think she’d ever been quite so fully
seen
before that moment. It made her feel far more naked and vulnerable than she’d ever experienced, even after she’d changed from wulver to woman with no plaid at the ready.

“There’s such love and loyalty among ye wulvers.” He patted her hand, looking down at her fondly. “It’s been a rare gift t’bear witness to it. I do’na understand why men would make enemies of ye. ’Tis absurd.”

“Thankfully, t’English king agrees wit’ ye. ’Tis why t’wolf pact exists,” she reminded him, throwing in a bit of honesty for good measure. “Although King Henry created it t’use t’wulver warriors fer ’is own benefit.”

“I’ve seen t’wulver warriors,” Donal said, shaking his head. “I would’na wanna fight on t’opposite side.”

“Yer a wise man.” She smiled at him, glancing around, wondering again where his horse was. Still in the clearing? She wanted to get to Castle MacFalon, to see Darrow for herself, to talk to Laina and Sibyl, to see her pack leader, Raife. That alone would quell her jittery insides.

“And a devoted one,” Kirstin noted, remembering how she’d seen him, head bent, at the burial cairn. “I did’na mean t’interrupt yer prayer vigil. Is that ancestral land? Yer burial ground?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “I admit, I was surprised t’see ye. But truth be told, y’have e’ery right t’be on that spot, as well, lass—mayhaps e’en more’n I do.”

“Me?” She gave him a puzzled smile. “Why?”

“My family’s burial ground’s built on t’ancient den of yer kin—da wulvers,” he explained.

“I did’na know that.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “It’s our sire and his warriors who share and pass down wulver history. As a healer, I know it’s important t’learn and pass on ancestral knowledge of t’healing arts. I imagine the same’s true of leaders—whether they be wulvers or men.”

“Aye, ’tis true of t’good ones,” he agreed. His fingers brushed hers again, this time turning her hand over. She watched, transfixed, as he brought it to his mouth, his lips caressing the inside of her wrist once more, making her knees feel like jelly underneath her plaid. “Yer pack’s blessed t’have such a devoted healer in their midst.”

“Thank ye.” She swallowed, trying to find her voice. It was caught in her throat, breathy. “I’m truly anxious to see my kin, if—”

Donal dropped her hand, turning to give a whistle that startled her. Thankfully, the tree was still there behind her, giving her legs more strength than she felt they actually had in the moment.

“That’s t’call of a kestrel,” she observed, admiring his ability to mimic the bird.

“Aye, ’tis,” he agreed, turning toward her again.

In the distance, Kirstin heard a horse’s hooves.

She swallowed as Donal leaned toward her, hand above her head, against the tree. He was a big tree of a man himself, his body thick and muscled. She swore she could feel every one of them tensing in front of her, every last sinew stretch and bulge of his veins. He was only inches from her and she wondered, briefly, if he might be about to more than just chastely kiss the inside of her pulsing wrist.

Then she glanced up and saw he had hold of the two arrows in the tree above her head. He was slowly working them out of the trunk, his breath coming a little faster with the effort, his bare knee grazing hers.

“The kestrel’s a sound heard both in city and forest,” he explained, giving the whistle again, even though she could hear his horse coming to the call.

She couldn’t help noticing the way his dark hair brushed the plaid over his shoulders. He likely kept it long, like most Scots, to remind them of their wildness—their closeness to nature, and the animals that lived there. Animals that, perhaps, man himself had once been.

“So it won’t alert t’enemy?” she guessed, thinking of his bird call as she heard the horse whinny nearby, pawing at the forest floor, announcing his presence.

“Aye, wise woman.” Donal showed straight, white teeth as he smiled down at her, yanking the arrows finally free with a sudden jerk. She gasped at the motion and bit her lip as the big man turned to his horse. “Here’s Kestrel now.”

“Yer horse is named Kestrel?” She laughed, looking at the big, spirited, fearless black beauty as Donal grabbed the reins and tugged the war horse nearer to her.

“Ye were naughty, Kestrel, givin’ away me position,” she scolded as the animal drew near.

It wasn’t too afraid of her, now that she was human again, but all animals could sense the difference between wulver and human. It took Donal’s comfort to get the big, black nose lowered in surrender, nuzzling her shoulder.

“I forgive ye.” She smiled, petting the soft velvet of his snout. “He did’na like me much when I was a wulver.”

“He did’na know ye.” Donal smiled, watching her rub her cheek against the horse’s nose.

“He’s beautiful,” she confessed, smiling up at Donal.

“Kestrel thinks t’same of ye, lass.” Donal put his boot in the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle. Mounted, he seemed like a giant, his smile brighter than the sun that shone through the trees behind his head as he held a hand out for her.

She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the arm he offered and slid onto the horse, settling into the saddle behind him. She sat astride, like any good Scotswoman would, although she wore nothing under her plaid.

“Do ye ride?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Aye.” She nodded against his broad back, her arms going naturally around his waist. Her fingers could feel the hard muscle of his abdomen, even through his plaid.

“Good.” He smiled—she couldn’t see it, but she could hear it in his voice. “Then I won’t hafta tell ye t’hold on.”

Kestrel took off like a shot and Kirsten gasped, holding tight to Donal MacFalon while clenching horse flesh between her quivering thighs. She pressed her cheek against his back, clinging to him, feeling the steady rhythm of the animal beneath them both as they headed back toward the castle.

But that was nothing compared to the animal Kirsten felt coming alive within her since she’d seen this man and caught his scent across the clearing.

She felt Donal’s thighs flexing against her own as he guided the horse on a path through the woods, and the scent of the man, even though she was currently a woman and not a wulver, made her salivate. Her whole body seemed to want to melt against his on the saddle, as if the motion of the horse could drive them together and make them one.