The Wolf and the Highlander (Highland Wishes) (11 page)

His deep breathing changed. His back tensed. Power and readiness seeped from him, sudden and heavy enough to penetrate the thick wool cloak she was bundled in. He held his breath and remained utterly motionless for several heartbeats. He was listening.

She held her breath, too, and strained her ears. She heard nothing beyond the expected forest noises.

Riggs inhaled a great gulp of air and sprang up with animal quickness. Apparently, his ears were better than hers. He’d heard something.

She rolled over to find him crouched with one hand on the ground and one on the axe he’d slept beside. His gaze was fixed to the south, the direction they’d come from.

“Trackers?” she asked, her heart thumping her to wakefulness.

She’d barely uttered the question before he scooped her up and began running. Just like that. Running. Faster than she’d ever felt him go before. Everything but his axe and the clothes on their backs
was left behind.

He slung her over his shoulder and held her with an arm around her thighs. His other arm pumped, axe in his fist.

The forest whipped past, gray trunks, dark firs, dead leaves on the ground. Riggs’s boots pounding, pounding, pounding. And yet his gait was smooth, like a horse’s gallop, even when he darted left or right, presumably to avoid obstacles.

Hanging upside down and backward was bloody disorienting, but she resisted the urge to close her eyes. Instead, she lifted her head to search for signs of whoever might be following. She saw nothing. But then, the forest grew even thicker here than near Riggs’s cabin.

“How close?” she asked.

“Too close.”

“How many men?”

“Not men,” he answered between heavy breaths. “Wolves.”

“Wolves!”

“Tracking wolves. Four. Maybe five.”

Terror thrummed through her. She kent better than to distract him with any more questions. Gripping his shirt, she curled around his shoulder as best she could so she didn’t flop like a bloody fish.

The forest opened into a meadow, tinted with golden, early-morning light. She hoped they lived to appreciate the sun’s warmth today.

The tree line behind them grew farther away as Riggs’s stride lengthened in the wide open space. ’Twas a mixed blessing, the open space. Riggs could move faster, but if the wolves broke through that tree line, they’d move faster too. Could he possibly outrun a pack of wolves? What would a pack of wolves do to them if they were caught?

She held her head up to watch the trees.
Please, no wolves. No wolves.

There. A gray beast burst into the meadow. The thing was as tall as a cart pony, bigger than any wolf she’d ever heard of, more like a Wolfhound, but with even more bulk. It dropped its head and drove forward on long legs that ate up the distance between them. Two more wolves emerged from the forest.

“They’re coming,” she said.

“I hear them. How many?”

“Three. No, four, five. Christ, six. The sixth is smaller.” Their long-haired coats varied from gray to brown. Each one flashed deadly-looking fangs. And they were gaining.

Riggs plunged them back into the forest.

The light dimmed. ’Twas eerily quiet save for his pounding footsteps until the wolves entered the trees. The tattoo of dozens of swift paws multiplied in her ears like brittle thunder.

Riggs skidded to a stop.

This was it. She didn’t mind dying, but the thought of Riggs going with her rent a gash in her soul.

“Just throw me to them!” she cried. He’d be able to run faster without her. Better only one of them get killed than both. “Get away with you! Run!”

Riggs hefted her into the air. “Grab on!” he shouted.

A sturdy tree limb appeared above her head. She grabbed for it with both hands and hooked her good leg around. The moment she was free of Riggs’s hold, the enormous gray wolf lunged for him.

Riggs spun with his axe at the ready. He was going to die fighting. Her protector. Her brave, brave wolf-man.

He swung his mighty axe while he threw himself to the side to dodge the leader’s fangs. The axe missed the beast’s haunches by a breath. Riggs hit the ground with a grunt but bounded to his feet in time to swing his axe at a second attacking wolf. His blade lifted the beast off the ground with a sickening crack to the ribs. Blood sprayed.

At least he would take one of the wolves with them into the afterlife. But there was no way he could survive the five remaining.

Four of them skidded into a snarling, writhing circle around him. The smaller wolf was nowhere to be seen. From her upside-down perch, she watched Riggs adopt a wide stance. He swiveled his head from wolf to wolf, assessing. Which would attack first?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. A large brown one flattened its ears. Riggs drew his hunting knife, doubly arming himself. The wolf crouched, ready to pounce.

A sharp pain
tugged at her throat.

Och,
Riggs’s cloak! She’d forgotten she was still wearing it. Something had grabbed the heavy wool as it dangled beneath her.

She clutched at the ties, trying to undo them one-handed while she clung to the branch.

There! The ties gave. The cloak jerked from her neck. She twisted to see the small wolf trying to shake the garment from its head. It was blinded, but not for long.

She released the branch and fell.

The ground knocked the wind from her and rattled her teeth. While she was still too numb to feel any pain, she drew the hunting knife Riggs had given her.

The small wolf stood over her, looking much larger from this angle. It shook the cloak free.

She didn’t give it a chance to attack her, or worse, to attack Riggs. She swung her arm in an arc. The blade ripped across the wolf’s throat. Blood gushed down its chest. Wide eyed, it stood over her. Would it attack while it bled to death?

She held the knife ready, but didn’t need to land another blow. The animal stumbled and went down.

A thud sounded behind her. Then a whimper.

She rolled over to find Riggs striding to her, breathing heavy, covered in blood. He crouched and cupped her face in his hand.

“It’s over,” he said. “Come.”

Disbelief plowed over her. How could it be over? Could he have really slain five monstrous wolves while she’d fought the smallest one?

He scooped her up and tucked the rumpled cloak in her arms then picked up his axe. His powerful legs launched them into a run. She craned her neck to look back. Gray and brown carcasses covered the ground.

He’d done it. And he’d come out of it in good enough shape to run.

Her heart lifted with hope. And filled with somat warmer than relief and fiercer than mere affection. It went beyond gratefulness. Beyond lust. And it scared her more than a pack of wolves.

* * * *

Riggs held Anya tight to his chest as he cut through the forest, glad he lived to do so. It had been a near thing. Very near. Damn him for giving in to the temptation to lie down beside her last night. He should have let her rest in his arms while he pressed on through the night, but she’d looked so beautiful in the moonlight, and he’d been so exhausted after his hunt. He’d meant only to rest his body for an hour.

Fool.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Even if he had to stay awake until he got her to Chroina.             

“What happened?” she asked, her voice trembling. “How did
you kill them all? Are you hurt?”

He flicked his gaze to her, assuring himself she was uninjured, then went back to picking out the path ahead—it would all be for nothing if he crashed into an obstacle and killed her. The glimpse revealed she was searching his face, her eyebrows pinched with worry. For him. His tight chest relaxed a fraction.

“I’ll be fine,” he told her. “You? You fell far.”

His heart had nearly exploded out of his chest when he’d seen her fall from the tree out of the corner of his eye. He’d turned to help her, but one of the damn tracking wolves took the opportunity to sink its teeth into his calf and another had taken a chunk out of his axe arm. Something had snapped to life inside him then, some wild instinct he’d felt prowling deep within him when he’d been at his cabin with Anya.
Kill!
It had commanded, and the world had seemed to slow down around him. Strength had surged into his limbs. The pain from his wounds had all but disappeared.

His axe and hunting knife found their marks with
unprecedented accuracy. Never before had he fought with such purpose, such focus. It had been exhilarating.

When it had all been over, that instinct had shouted,
run!
Where there were tracking wolves, trackers would not be far behind. He’d snatched her up and ran, and he wouldn’t stop until he reached the lake. He would not fail his lady.

No, not his. The king’s lady.

That inner instinct growled.

Anya rubbed the back of her head. “I’m fine. I expect I’ll have a headache soon enough, but it could have been worse.”

Worse, indeed. He held her tighter. So precious. And so brave. A warrior, this woman. She wore the blood of her victim on her knife arm like a badge of honor. That sixth wolf might have made the difference between his victory and defeat. Anya very well might have saved his life.

“Well, what happened?” Anya demanded. “How did
you best five wolves? Why are you running like the hounds of hell are after us?”

He hadn’t answered her questions. Partly because he still couldn’t believe what had happened. Partly because he needed to mind his footing.

“I fought well,” he said, conserving his breath. “You helped. Trackers not far behind.”

Her brow pinched with distress. “Why? Why are they after you?”

They weren’t after him. It was her they wanted. The wolves had proved it when they’d fought to kill. Tracking wolves were trained to corner the prey whose scent their masters gave them. And kill whatever got in their way. It was her scent they followed. The trackers must have gotten it from where he’d found her, where he’d abandoned the bodies of the Larnians who had attacked her. A female’s scent in the middle of the forest would stand out. A female’s scent anywhere but in Chroina would stand out.

He didn’t have the breath to tell her all that now. “Later,” he said, ignoring the knives of pain stabbing his lungs and the fire of his fresh wounds.

She started to ask something else, but he shushed her. “I won’t let them get you. No more questions.”

She fell silent. But she didn’t stay that way for long. “Your arm,” she said, and he felt her touch the shredded linen over his bicep. The wound would need a tight binding, but they couldn’t afford to do it now.

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s your axe arm.”

“I can fight with either.” When she didn’t look convinced, he added, “I’ll keep you safe. We just need to stay ahead of the trackers.”

“Can we? Stay ahead of them? Are they on foot? Horses? How many?
Och,
never mind. I can see ye struggling no’ to keel over. And you’re limping besides. Save your strength. But you’ll be answering my questions soon.”

He grinned at her trust and how she held her curiosity in check. Her brave spirit took his mind off the pain.

Wind whistled in his ear. The scents of pine and loam and musty leaves filled his nose, layering over the hyssop-laced musk that had stamped itself on his consciousness since he’d found Anya. He kept to the landmarks he’d learned as a pup, when he used to follow his sire to the lake to fish and trap the long-haired goats that lived in the northern foothills. Sweet meat, those goats had, and beautiful coats that brought fine sums at market.

The lake was his home away from home. He could walk its northern inlets and valleys with his eyes closed and know where each rock and fallen tree lay. Once there, the trackers would not find them easily, especially without their wolves. He and Anya would be able to rest safely for at
least a day and a night. He’d be able to hunt and cook meat for her. He’d rub her sore legs and sleep beside her for as long as they both needed.

When they were rested and well fed, they’d take the northern route to Chroina. Where he would transfer her custody to King Magnus. A hollow burn flared in his gut, and it stayed there all the way to the lake.

* * * *

Anya ached all over. The arm she’d had wrapped around Riggs’s neck all day felt fixed in its curled position. Her legs cramped with the day’s inactivity. Her neck and shoulders ached from the fall.
And her stomach was so empty it made an angry fist inside her. But she was alive. And relatively unhurt.

Not bad for a
skirmish with a pack of oversized wolves. Too bad she couldn’t say the same for Riggs. Well, he was alive, thank the saints. But the sharp, coppery smell of blood stung her nostrils, reminding her of the open wound in his right arm. And his limp was becoming more pronounced by the hour. He must be even hungrier than she, and thirstier after running from dawn ’til dusk.