Highland Wolf Pact (23 page)

“So ye did it for me, eh?” Raife crossed his big arms over that giant, bare chest of his—the MacFalons had all tried to get him to wear a shirt under his plaid, but he refused—scowling at her. “Ye ran back here into yer lover’s arms for me benefit?”

“Yes, you big, dumb oaf!” Sibyl snapped. “As a matter of fact, I did! Did it ever occur to you that coming back here and marrying Alistair was something I didn’t actually want to do?”

Raife’s brow knitted, his frown deepening. Sibyl had held her tongue long enough. She had chased him all around the grounds trying to get him to listen to her, and now that he was a captive audience—until he broke the door down—she wasn’t going to let the chance pass her by. She had practiced everything she was going to say in her head, in a cool, even tone, and all of that went completely out the window when she was faced with him.

“Did it ever enter your thick skull that maybe, just maybe, I was doing it to keep King Henry and the entire English army from attacking the wulvers?” she cried, her hand itching to reach out and smack him upside his big, dumb head.

“We’re wulvers, Sibyl!” he roared right back at her. She didn’t even shrink from his anger—at least he was responding. “We can take care of ourselves!”

“Your brother was run through with a MacFalon sword. He could have died!” She reminded him. “Now multiply that by a hundred. A thousand. How many wulvers would I have had my hands inside, trying to stop the bleeding, if war had broken out?”

Raife shook his head, ready to deny it, to argue with her, but she couldn’t keep any of it at bay anymore. She had let some of it out on Donal’s wide, generous, kind-hearted shoulder, but it wasn’t Donal she was mad it, and it wasn’t Donal she had been so afraid she was going to lose. It was Raife. It was her big, giant, stubborn, bull-headed, sweet, kind, protective, loveable man of a wolf she had been so scared she was going to lose. It was this man who she had been willing to sacrifice everything for, who she would rather have known was living safely up in the mountain, while she suffered at Alistair’s sadistic hands, than lying dead somewhere on MacFalon land.

“What if… what if it had been you…” she whispered, eyes brimming with tears. She saw a look of concern pass over his face, the way he reached for her but stopped himself. “What if it had been your severed head… in my lap…?”

She couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t stop picturing it in her mind. She sobbed into her hands, turning away from him, and then heard him say something she couldn’t quite believe.

“Would ye have cared if it had been?”

Sibyl lifted her head, gaping at him.

“Oh you bastard!” she whispered, a sudden wave of anger overtaking her. She launched herself at him, pounding her fists against his chest. “How can you say that? How can you even ask that question?”

Raife caught her wrists, half-smiling, an expression she hadn’t seen on his face since they’d been there. It made her want to smack him.

“Ye never told me, lass,” he said softly, meeting her clouded gaze.

“What?”

“Ye never said the words,” he said again. “How was I supposed t’know?”

“Are you mad?” she murmured. “Am I… dreaming?”

“D’ye or don’ye?” He pushed his chin out, defiant, glaring down at her.

Sibyl looked at her wrists, encircled by his big, giant paws, and then up at his face.

“You want me to say the words?” She shook her head, incredulous. “Because giving myself to you, that wasn’t enough? Because risking my life to save your thick hide wasn’t enough? You need me to say the words?”

He shrugged. “T’would be nice.”

“Raife…” She burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “My God, you idiotic, ridiculous man. I love you! Is that what you wanted to hear?
Tha gaol agam ort!”

His eyes searched her face for the truth. She prayed he found it.

“Do you understand that?” she asked softly. “In your own language?
Tha gaol agam ort.”

“Are ye done insultin’ me now?” he asked, letting her wrists go.

“No!” She hit him again, this time square in the chest with both fists. “You lumbering lout!”

He caught both wrists again and pulled her close, trapping her arms between them. Then he kissed her. Everything they hadn’t said to each other went into that kiss, everything they both wanted, everything they hoped for, all their desperate fears, all their dreams of a future together. Sibyl tasted salt on their lips.

“I love you,” she whispered when they parted. He kissed the tears from her cheeks. “Tha gaol agam ort, you boorish fool.”

“And I love ye,” he said hoarsely. “Ye strange, irrational woman.”

She rolled her eyes at him and he kissed her again, this time capturing her mouth in a desperate slant, as if he could put every moment they had missed into it.

“And if ye ever…” His mouth dipped to her neck, nipping and biting her there, making her cry out. “Do anythin’…” His tongue moved down to her collarbone, making her moan as his hands moved under her plaid, seeking the heat of her skin. “So idiotic again…”

“You’ll what?” she challenged, sliding a thigh between his, feeling the steel heat of him, satisfied when she heard him groan. 

“Wulvers mate for life, lass, I told ye,” he breathed against the tops of her breasts. “I guess I’ll have to kill us both.”

“Oh but what a way to go,” she whispered as her man, her mate, her wulver, cleared Donal’s desk with one fell swoop, knocking everything to the floor so he could sit her up on it.

Sibyl wrapped her arms and legs around him, hungry, desperate for him, unable to quench the fire he’d started burning inside her without him.

“Ye’ll’na leave me again, lass.” Raife said the words as he entered her, making her cry out and cling to him. “Ne’er again.”

“I promise,” she whispered into his neck, trembling at the thought of losing him again. “I am yours.”

“Say it again,” he growled, thrusting deep.

“I’m yours!” she cried, biting her lip.

“Again!”

“Yours!”

“Mine!” he groaned, driving in deep, filling her completely. “Mine!”

Sibyl wouldn’t let him go. Even when they came and knocked on the door, asking if everything was all right—someone had obviously heard all the clatter—she refused to let him go. She wasn’t going to ever let him go again.

Her father used to tell everyone that Sibyl Blackthorne wasn’t afraid of anything, and that had been true. But she had been stupid, and reckless, in her fearlessness.

That was back when she didn’t have anything to lose.

Now she knew what it was to love a man—a wulver—and how it felt to lose him.

She wasn’t fearless anymore.

But she was wonderfully, desperately, humanly in love.

And Sibyl would take that over being brave, any day of the week, any month of the year, for the rest of her life—and his.

The End

I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sibyl and Raife stole my heart and surprised me probably as much as they surprised you. They have been some of my favorite characters and I couldn’t resist the chance to explore more of their world. The epilogue to Highland Wolf Pact follows. I do hope you decide to pick up the sequel—coming soon!—and give it a read.

In the meantime, I just wanted to let you know that you can get five free reads from me if you subscribe to my newsletter. Don’t worry, I always message responsibly. I never send spam—only great deals! So take a moment to click below and subscribe to get your free reads.

Then go ahead and read the epilogue. I think you’re going to like where Sibyl and Raife ended up and be quite interested in where the story is heading! I know I am!

Selena loves hearing from readers!

website:
http://www.selenakitt.com

facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/selenakittfanpage

twitter:
http://bit.ly/UTj97X
@selenakitt

blog:
http://bit.ly/1o1TvLn

Get ALL FIVE of Selena Kitt’s FREE READS

by
joining her mailing list!

MONTHLY contest winners!

BIG prizes awarded at the end of the year!

Scotland

Year of our Lord 1504

“An’wha’if she births a son?”

Sibyl heard Darrow’s question, spoken in a harsh whisper outside the big wooden door, and turned her face into Laina’s soft, white fur. The woman was in her wolf state—it was her moon time and she could not change into her human one—but her eyes said everything her mouth couldn’t. Laina heard her husband’s protests and knew they pained Sibyl, far more than the labor she was enduring.

Sibyl wanted Raife by her side, wanted his hand in hers. Instead he was pacing back and forth outside her door, growling at every passerby, while Sibyl labored in front of a warm fire, Beitris, the old midwife, tending her. Laina had come, in spite of her wolf form, knowing her presence alone would give Sibyl comfort, and it did.

“Do’na pay’tention t’em, lass,” Beitris soothed, putting a soft, wrinkled hand on Sibyl’s damp brow.

But how could she ignore them? She knew they were worried. They were worried that this baby would be a boy, who might threaten King Henry VII’s claim to the throne. The king’s first son, Arthur, had died of the English sweating sickness. Rumors ran rampant that King Henry had become paranoid, fearfully keeping a hold of his crown. Advisors of and protectors to the king, of which Sibyl’s uncle, Godfrey Blackthorne, was one, were telling Henry he must purge all illegitimate pretenders to the throne and raise up the only legitimate son had had left—Henry VIII—to take his place.

There was also talk of King Henry keeping his alliances with Spain by marrying off Arthur Tudor’s widow, Catherine of Aragon, to Henry VIII. The younger Henry was just a boy, though, still unable to enter a marriage contract. Sibyl had received a letter from her mother—all her correspondence went through Castle MacFalon, since they had maintained the wolf pact and their amiable ties with Donal, the new laird and warden of Middle March—stating that King Henry VII had lost not only his son, Arthur, but that Queen Elizabeth had died as well, and the old king had set his own sights on Catherine of Aragon as a way to possibly hedge his bets and secure the Tudors on the throne.

Sibyl didn’t care who the king married, as long as he didn’t remember his other, illegitimate son, Raife, and change his mind about leaving the wulvers in peace. Raife was her husband, her mate, and now, he was about to be the father of her child. His brother, Darrow, was worried, she knew—if the baby were a boy, King Henry VII might get word and feel his crown was being threatened. Of course, the rest of the pack was worried this baby would be a girl. They wanted a male, to lead the wulvers.

It didn’t seem to matter what gender child she gave birth to, Sibyl was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And at that moment, she felt as if she was pushing that rock uphill!

“King Henry’s got another son,” Beitris reminded her. “I’m sure he’ll have sons as well and the Tudors’ll reign long.”

““I don’t care if the Tudors have boys or girls or wulvers—as long as
my
mate and
my
children stay with
me
and don’t lay claim to any English or Scottish thrones,” Sibyl panted, trying to will the pain away.

“Women can’na lead!” Beitris laughed at the thought and Sibyl rolled her eyes. Even wulver women, who were so strong and capable, believed women couldn’t lead, whether it was a pack or a country.

“Maybe the Tudors will be ruled by a red-haired woman!” Sibyl snapped, feeling another pain coming on.

“Tis yer time,” Beitris soothed. “Do’na worry. This bairn’ll be leader’o’his pack.”

Sibyl didn’t care if this baby would lead the wulvers or follow another, she just wanted to hold it to her breast and see it open its eyes. Her first baby had been born too soon, a tiny wisp of a thing Raife could hold in one palm. She had insisted, then, he be at the birth, and he’d held her hand through the whole ordeal. But when she’d looked up at his face, when she’d seen the way his eyes clouded over at the sight of his tiny, dying son, Sibyl knew she couldn’t again put him through something so traumatic.

Men might deal every day in matters of life and death, but a woman’s heart was stronger than a man’s when it came to birth. So this time, Sibyl insisted he wait outside. Bad luck, she told him, for a man to be at the birth of his child. It was certainly true in her world, amongst humans, that men weren’t invited into the birthing chamber. This was women’s work. Her work. And she knew she had to do it alone.

“I wish Kirstin was here!” Sibyl moaned as the pain came again and she bit down hard on the leather strap Beitris gave her. Sibyl was trying to be as quiet as she could so as not to alarm her already anxious husband.

Laina licked the back of Sibyl’s hand, her tongue warm and soothing, as if to say, “I understand.”

But Kirstin was gone. Sibyl didn’t like to think about losing her friend, about the sacrifices Kirstin had made to be with the man she loved. Laina’s own sacrifice, the wolf’s sad eyes and soft whine, said enough. Too much. It broke Sibyl’s heart that she had failed them, that she’d been unable to really help the plight of the wulver women—even if she had, in the end, found a way to “cure” the curse.

“Oh no, not again,” she whispered, her fingers digging into Laina’s soft, white fur.

Sibyl thought she just might die from the pain alone. She’d thought, when she birthed Robert—named after her father—that it had been bad, but he’d been so small. This baby was full term, his head like a boulder she was trying to push uphill. She grunted and strained and tried not to cry out, but the pain was too intense. She couldn’t hold out any longer. The man she loved, the only man who had ever claimed her—mind, body and soul—was standing on the other side of that door, and she wanted him.

She needed him.

“Raife!” Sibyl screamed his name, feeling as if she was being split in two. This was pain beyond pain. She couldn’t even see straight. Her body had taken over. Everything was out of control.

“Sibyl!” The door burst open and Raife barged in. He was at her side in an instant, holding her in his big arms, the circle of his embrace safer than any she’d ever known in her life. “Are ye hurt?”

She couldn’t help her short, strangled laugh. She wasn’t hurt, no, but she was hurting. Beyond hurting. But with him there, it was instantly better. He made everything better.

“Tis almos’time,” Beitris told him calmly, pressing a warm cloth between Sibyl’s open legs. “Yer son’ll be’ere soon.”

“It could be a daughter!” Sibyl panted, clinging to her mate, cheek pressed against the broad expanse of his chest.

“Aye.” Raife chuckled, kissing the top of her head. “A bonnie red-haired lass like ’er mother.”

“Tis ginger, that’s fer sure,” Beitris gave a nod between Sibyl’s thighs.

Sibyl blinked in surprise as Raife bent his dark head to look but then another pain hit and she was sinking. There was nothing but a red, thrashing haze of pain and an overwhelming urge to bear down.

“Noooo! Please! Raife!” Sibyl screamed, abandoning the leather strap and giving into the agony. She turned her face against his upper arm—the marked one. She carried a matching mark, intricate Celtic swirls, down her hip and thigh. Her marking had been painful, she remembered, but it had been nothing like this.

“Yer safe, lass,” he whispered, stroking her damp hair, her shaking body, as she strained and thrashed in his arms. “I’ve got ye. Let’im come. He’s strong. He wants t’meet ye.”

“Tis time!” Beitris was doing something between Sibyl’s legs but she didn’t know what. She had her eyes closed, face buried against Raife. “One more good push!”

Sibyl screamed, digging her nails into Raife, doing as the old midwife asked. The world was on fire. Everything burned.

“Balach!” Beitris announced proudly, as if she had been the one who had done all the work.

“A boy,” Sibyl whispered, opening her eyes to see the little red-haired, wailing child between her legs. “Raife, it’s a son!”

“Aye.” Raife’s voice caught in his throat as she lifted the child, still attached to his mother by the pulsing cord, and brought him to his wife’s breast.

“He’s perfect,” Sibyl whispered, glancing up to see Darrow standing in the doorway, watching. How long had he been there? She wondered.

Her usual modest nature had abandoned her. Now she just wanted everyone to see her child. Sibyl motioned for Darrow as Laina licked the baby with her pink, wulver tongue, making him startle. Robert, her little black-haired bairn, had been less than half this boy’s size. No wonder she had felt as if she’d been pushing a rock!

“Balach,” Darrow murmured, taking a step into the room, and sinking to his knee before his brother’s new son. “What’ll ye call’im?

“Griffith.” Raife traced a cross over the newborn’s forehead with his index finger.

“Griff.” Sibyl pressed her lips to the baby’s forehead. The Gaelic name meant red-haired and was more than fitting. “Will he be a red wolf?”

“Aye.” Raife smiled fondly at her, running a hand through her red tresses as Beitris covered up mother and child with a sheet, tucking them in for warmth now that the hard work was done. “He’ll fulfill the prophecy a’last.”

“What prophecy?” Sibyl frowned at her mate, looking at Darrow and Laina as they both admired the little red-faced, red-haired child in her arms.

“The red wulver.” Beitrus, the old midwife, crossed herself, her wide, rheumy blue eyes meeting those of her pack leader’s. Raife gave a slow nod and met his brother’s eyes. Darrow looked like he couldn’t quite believe his own.

Laina threw back her shaggy, white head and howled. The sound never failed to send a shiver down Sibyl’s spine and this time was no exception. But Laina wasn’t alone. Out in the den, where the rest of the pack had been waiting to hear word of their pack leader’s new bairn, the call was returned. Answering howls echoed through the tunnel’s deep walls. Sibyl heard the word
banrighinn
being repeated in Gaelic out in the tunnel. Banrighinn meant queen. They were speaking of her, of the birth of their new leader.

“I told ye, lass.” Raife’s arm tightened around her. “I knew ye were meant to be me mate the moment I laid eyes on ye.”

Sibyl smiled at his words. She couldn’t imagine belonging to anyone else—man, wolf, or wulver. But what was this talk of some wulver prophecy? She had poured over the wulver text—what amounted to the wulver’s “bible”—and had never read anything about a “red wulver.”

“What is this prophecy?” Sibyl demanded as the baby in her arms squirmed. Laina whimpered, nuzzling her husband’s hand, and she knew if the woman had been in human form, she would have been forthcoming. “Beitris?”

Clearly the men didn’t want to tell her.

“The red devil’s savior.” Beitris whispered the words, crossing herself again.

“He’s jus’a bairn.” Raife scoffed, leaning over to look at his son. Sibyl noted he had Raife’s strong jaw and dimpled chin. But he definitely had her thick, red hair. “No need puttin’ too much on’him t’start.”

“His eyes.” Darrow’s voice broke as he looked down at the child in Sibyl’s arms. “He
is
the red wulver.”

Sibyl saw Raife’s expression change. She saw the face of a new father change from pride and wonder to something akin to awe and maybe even a little fear. She’d never seen her mate afraid of anything in her life and seeing that expression, even fleetingly, on Raife’s face, gave her pause.

Then Sibyl looked down at her newborn son.

He had opened his eyes, but instead of the deep, wulver blue she expected, they were red.

Redder than his hair.

As red as blood.

“Raife?” She turned her own, frightened face up to her husband’s. She was so surprised by her son’s features, she might have actually dropped the baby in her arms if he hadn’t turned his head and latched onto her breast, suckling deeply.

“Tis a’right, lass,” Raife soothed, smiling down at the bairn. He didn’t look frightened anymore. Now he looked resigned. “He’s perfect, jus’like ye.”

Sibyl glanced down again at the baby, whose eyes were still open, staring up his parents in his own kind of wonder. The red she’d seen in his eyes was gone. They weren’t wulver-blue, but instead green, like her own.

Had she seen it at all? Had it been a trick of the light?

Then the baby gave his mother a milky smile, as if he knew just what she was thinking.

Sibyl saw another, brief flash of red in her son’s eyes before he closed them and knew it had been no trick of the light. She wasn’t dreaming.

She’d given birth to the red wulver who would fulfill some sort of prophecy. The howls and wails that echoed off the walls of the wulvers’ den told her that every single member of the pack knew and understood what that meant.

Everyone except her.

Once again, she was an outsider, a human in a wolf’s den. She might have been their queen, mated to their king, but she had no idea what she was in for. As usual. She knew Raife would explain, as would Laina, and even Darrow. Whatever this prophecy was, she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like it.

For the moment, she decided, she was going to pretend it didn’t exist. Mayhaps there was a God who pulled the strings and provided them with books like road maps, full of things like curses and prophecies and commandments.