Compromising Positions (13 page)

“I can’na ask that of ye...”

“Ye do’na need t’ask, m’love.” He stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “I will’na lose ye. I can’na.”

“We can talk ’bout it later.” She swallowed, nodding, hearing the sound of the crowd, both inside and outside the castle walls. There were hundreds of guests roaming the halls, and they would expect to see their laird sooner rather than later. “But righ’ now, ye have responsibilities. People are waitin’ on ye, Donal MacFalon, and I—”

She was thinking of Sibyl, of Darrow and Raife and Laina. There were more immediate fires to put out, that Donal likely did not yet even know about.

“I do’na want them.” His voice was urgent, hoarse, as he turned his face up to look into her eyes. “I want ye.”

“And I want ye,” she assured him, wiggling in his lap to prove it. He groaned and she smiled. “But ye can ’ave both.”

“No, I can’na.”

Her brow wrinkled at his words. “What d’ye mean?”

The look on his face struck fear—real fear—into her heart. They’d been playing at being together, pretending they could, at some point, announce their betrothal to the world. That Donal could present her to his people as The MacFalon’s new wife. It begged so many questions it made her head hurt to think of them. Her mind told her one thing, her body, heart and soul another.

She’d been ignoring her head in favor of the latter.

“This.” Donal angrily grabbed one of the scrolls off the desk, depositing it into her lap. “This is what I mean.”

“What?” She puzzled as she unrolled the paper. It was finely inked and signed, adorned with the English king’s seal, now broken.

“Can ye not read?” he thundered, standing and practically spilling her onto the floor. Kirstin caught herself against the desk, watching Donal begin to pace the room like a caged animal, hands behind his back.

“Nuh,” she confessed in a small voice, sinking into the chair he’d vacated. “I can’na... only my name, a few words...”

He gaped at her for a moment, truly shocked.

“Wulvers do’na need t’know how t’read!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “What does it say?”

Donal hung his head for a moment, eyes closed. Then he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

“It says King Henry’s sendin’ me an English bride,” he told her softly. “And he expects me t’marry her wit’in the month.”

“What?” She breathed, glad she was seated, because her legs wouldn’t have held her if she hadn’t been.

“Aye.” He starting his pacing again, back and forth. “Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe’s only daughter. She’s on her way t’Castle MacFalon righ’ now. Will probably arrive wit’in a fortnight.”

“This is...” She raised the scroll in her trembling hands. “From King Henry? Himself?”

“Aye.” Donal whirled, stalking toward the tall bookcases at the other end of the room. “King Henry says I’m t’marry this stranger or forfeit m’claim to the MacFalon lands.”

“How can he do that?” she cried, seeing him turn on his heel and pace back in her direction, his face nothing but scowl. “He isn’t Scotland’s king—he isn’t yer king
or
mine.”

“Alistair made an agreement wit’ him as The MacFalon,” Donal reminded her darkly. “And I’m duty-bound t’honor it.”

Agreements. Duty-bound. Honor.
Words her heart did not recognize or care about in the least. Her heart knew this man was hers, no matter what claim the English king thought he had on him. Kirstin hung her head, looking at the scroll in her hands, knowing it had all been too good to be true. They’d been dreaming of being together, when all along, they’d both known it was impossible.

“Mayhaps ’tis for the best,” she whispered. Big, fat tears fell onto the parchment, blurring the words.

“What? How can ye say that?” Donal exploded, stalking over and grabbing the scroll. He crumpled it in his big fist with a sneer, tossing it aside. Then he took a knee in front of her, grasping both of her hands in his. His tone was pleading, desperate. “Kirstin, I love ye. D’hear me? I love ye more than any man has e’er loved a woman. I’ve naught interest in any other.”

The thought of him bedding another woman, let alone marrying her, made her stomach clench in pain. She met his eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks, seeing the pained look on his face and knowing it was mirrored on her own.

“Donal... if ye refuse...” She swallowed, not liking to think of it. “You do’na know what yer sayin’. Yer not thinkin’ clearly. Ye can’na give up yer lands, yer position as laird of Clan MacFalon, not for me, not for any woman.”

“So I should keep it t’marry a woman a do’na love?”

“Mayhaps.” Her own words pierced her heart and she saw them run him through, more painful than any sword. And she was going to have to break him further, now that they were facing these harsh realities. “Donal... there’s somethin’ else I hafta tell ye...”

“What is it?” He looked as if he was waiting for something to fall out of the sky and land on top of his head.

“I did’na wanna talk ‘bout this ’ere, now, but...” She lowered her head, shaking it, the weight of it breaking her heart in two. “I do’na know how t’say’t.”

“Tell me.” He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Ye can tell me anythin’, lass.”

“Donal, e’en if we run away, as ye suggest...” She swallowed, trying to gather enough courage to say the words, to face the reality out loud. “E’en if Raife would agree t’such a thing, and we go live among me pack...”

“He damned well will agree,” Donal snapped, his face a thundercloud.

“Listen t’me.” Kirstin took his face in her hands, clean-shaven today, smooth. “Yer a man, and I’m a wulver. We’ll ne’er be t’same.”

“I do’na care ’bout that,” he said with a shake of his head. “It does’na matter, Kirstin, we—”

“I’ll never be able t’have yer children,” she blurted out.

The words hung there between them and she saw his confusion, his bewilderment. So he didn’t know, then. Didn’t understand how it worked for the wulvers, the basic mechanics. It was impossible—it would always be impossible.

“What?” He shook his head again, as if to clear it.

“A she-wulver can only accept her mate’s seed when she’s a wolf,” she confessed. “I can’na have yer bairn, because we can’na mate when I’m changed. D’ye ken?”

“Aye.” He looked thoughtful, the realization slowly dawning. “But Raife... how was he conceived, then?”

She swallowed, telling him the awful truth. “King Henry took Avril when she was in heat. When she’d changed to a wulver.”

“What?” he breathed.

“Some men see’t as a challenge, a badge’a honor, t’take a wulver woman when she’s in animal form...”

He gaped at her, clearly unaware of this part of the history between their families.

“Men like yer brother, I imagine,” she murmured, hammering the point home. “Or yer grandfather.”

“Och, Kirstin...” He held his arms out to her and she went to him, let him cradle and rock her. They huddled together on the floor behind his desk like children hiding from their parents. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple, whispered how much he loved and wanted her until she thought her heart would overflow with feeling for him.

“Listen t’me,” he urged. “’Tis ye I want. Children would be a wonderful expression of our love together, if they were possible, but they’re not necessary. Ye’re the one I want.”

“’Tis easy t’say that now.” She sniffed, fitting her head under his chin. “Mayhaps ’tis time t’face some hard truths. We’ve been livin’ the dream of Ardis and Asher, but mayhaps that dream’s over now... and it’s time t’wake up to the reality of who we really are.”

“I know who I am.” Donal’s arms tightened around her. “I’m The MacFalon, and ye’re mine. I will’na let ye go. That’s the truth.”

“The truth...” She gave a long, shuddering sigh. “The truth is, ye would’na be happy wit’ the wulvers. And I...”

“Oh Kirstin, ye’ve been happy ’ere,” he countered, whispering against her hair. “I know ye have.”

“Aye,” she confessed, holding back a sob. “I love ye, and Moira, and yer family, and the castle... I do. But...” 

“Then stay,” he urged, wrapping her up completely in his arms as if that alone could keep her. “I’ll send word t’the king that I will’na marry this Englishwoman, and—”

“And start a war?” she cried. “Bring King Henry and ’is army down on yer head, so soon after reaffirming t’wolf pact? Put me pack and yer family in danger? At the vera least, lose everythin’ ye own?”

“I do’na care ’bout that...” he told her hoarsely.

“But I do,” she replied softly. “And we both know, e’en if... e’en if Lady Cecilia Witcombe wasn’t on ’er way t’marry ye... no one would accept the laird of Clan MacFalon marryin’ a wulver.”

“’Tis not true...” He denied it, but she heard the hesitation in his voice.

“Aye, ’tis,” she insisted. “I’ve heard what they say ’bout us. They all talk, when ye’re not ’round to silence ’em. They say things like ‘I’d love to lie wit’er, but I’d be afeared t’get fleas’.”

“Who said it?” he growled. “I’ll ’ave their heads.”

“You can’na quell hundreds of years of prejudice and superstition with yer sword, m’love.” She smiled. She didn’t want to tell him about the Alistair loyalists, the ones who continued to hate the wulvers. There was one man in particular, Gregor, who had said very rude, crude things, but she’d done her best to ignore him. “Ye’d hafta chop off e’ery head in the land t’were that yer solution.”

“There’s a way...” he insisted. “There mus’ be.”

“If’n there is, I do’na know’t.” She sighed, closing her eyes against the truth, not wanting to face it.

“Leave’t t’me.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lips, soft and sweet. “I should’na’ve burdened ye wit’this. But I wanted ye t’hear’t from me, a’fore...”

“A’fore?” She raised her eyebrows.

He sighed, a pained look crossing his face. “A’fore ye heard it from someone else. Like Lord Eldred.”

She shuddered at the mention of that man’s name. Of course he would make it a point to make that sort of announcement at his leisure. He liked to take the spotlight, and he would likely see it as a good opportunity to do so.

“What’re we gonna do, m’love?” she lamented, searching his eyes for an answer.

“Right now?” He brushed hair away from her face. “We’re goin’t’go out there, put on smiles, an’dance.”

“I can’na dance wit’ ye,” she protested with a shake of her head. “Not now...”

“I can’na dance
wit’out
ye.” He pressed his mouth full to hers and she tasted the salt of her tears slipping between their lips.

She would do as he asked, although, the thought of joining the gathering after this news made her stomach turn. And then she remembered Sibyl’s morning sickness.

“Oh, Donal, there’s somethin’ else,” she said.

He sighed. “I do’na think I can stand another thing...”

“It’s Sibyl... she’s wit’ child.”

He blinked in surprise. “Well, this is good news, isn’t it? It solves our problem of tryin’ t’get those two together, doesn’t it?”

“No.” Kirstin laughed, shaking her head. “Sibyl refuses t’tell him. She says she will’na use it t’get him back.”

“Och.” He smacked his forehead with his hand, rolling his eyes. “Women!”

“We’re the bain of man’s existence, aren’t we?” She giggled.

“Aye,” he agreed, grinning. “And the boon.”

“I love ye, Donal MacFalon,” she said suddenly. “No matter wha’appens, I’ll always love ye.”

“And I love ye, Kirstin MacFalon.” He pressed his forehead to hers, looking deeply into her eyes.

“I do like the sound of that.” She sighed.

“Good, because I’m goin’ t’marry ye. Some way, somehow, I’ll make ye mine. I promise ye that.”

Kirstin nodded, kissing him back when he touched his lips to hers again, not protesting in the least—because she wanted so very much to believe him.

“Raife, I can’na go back wit’ ye.” Kirstin wrung her hands, meeting her pack leader’s concerned gaze with her own pleading one. “He’s me one true mate.”

Raife scowled at her over the breakfast table, although she wasn’t surprised. He wore a scowl most of the time now. They were leaving on the morrow, and still, his face hadn’t cracked a smile. She couldn’t believe he was still holding out, keeping his mate at arm’s length. This was their last-ditch effort to bring the two of them together, and it had better work, because they’d run out of other options.

Unless they locked them in a room together that neither could escape, she couldn’t fathom any other plan but this one.

“He’s not a wulver,” Raife protested, glancing over at his brother, Darrow, who snorted at this from behind his mug of mead. Laina just looked into her bowl of meal, scraping the bottom brown bits, ignoring Raife’s cool look in their direction.

Kirstin had to point out the obvious. “Neither’s Sibyl”

“We’re talkin’ about ye, nuh me.” Raife’s scowl deepened. And here she thought that wasn’t even possible.

“I love ’im.” Kirstin confessed, glancing up as Moira brought a bowl of hard-boiled eggs to the table. It was dangerous, telling Raife this in front of Moira and the servant girls who hurried around bringing food out to the gathering hall and the people there. The wulvers ate in the kitchen with the servants, not because they were forced to, but to avoid the stares and whispers of most of the MacFalons.

Raife frowned, but for the first time, he looked like he was taking her seriously. “You’ve given yerself t’him?”

She nodded, glancing at her sister. “Laina says I’ll go into estrus soon.”

“But ye can’na ’ave bairns wit’ this man,” Raife reminded her, his voice soft, more concerned than angry now.

“Aye.” She swallowed, nodding again.

“And he knows that?”

“Aye.”

“Kirstin, he’s the laird of Clan MacFalon.” Raife reached across the table to take her hand in his. “How well d’ye think those people out there’re goin’ to accept ye? They do’na e’en like havin’ us eatin’ at t’same table beside ’em.”

What he said was true and made her eyes fill with tears. Raife frowned at that and sighed, watching her tears fall into her lap as she lowered her head, letting a dark curtain of hair hide her face.

“Kirstin, I’m not sayin’ it t’be cruel,” he murmured. She knew he wasn’t, and his kindness and sympathy hurt more than anything else. Raife had been chosen their pack leader for a reason. He was both intelligent and shrewd, and he almost always knew the right thing to do—unless it involved his own love life, apparently. “Besides, I do’na b’lieve King Henry’ll e’er allow the match.”

“But he upheld t’wolf pact.” She lifted her tear-filled gaze to meet his.

“There’s a difference a’tween livin’ peacefully alongside wulvers and marryin’ them, ye ken?” He squeezed her small hands in his giant ones. “But if it’s what ye really want, I’ll n’stop ye.”

“Thank ye.” Kirstin’s lower lip trembled. She wasn’t even acting—she didn’t have to. “I’m afeared ye may be right ’bout King Henry. He’s... he’s sent a royal decree.”

“What decree?” Raife glanced up at Darrow and Laina to see if they knew about such a decree but they both kept quiet, busying themselves with their breakfast.

“King Henry’s promised Donal another bride. An English one.” She wasn’t lying. She comforted herself with that as Raife’s eyebrows went up in surprise.

“I was afeared of that.” He shook his dark head, frowning.

“He sent a sealed scroll wit’ his royal huntsman. King Henry’s ordered ’im t’marry S—” She stopped herself mid-sentence, biting her lip. Mayhaps now she was putting on a bit of an act for his benefit. But it worked. His eyes widened when she wouldn’t finish the sibilant word and simply said, “An Englishwoman.”

“An Englishwoman,” Raife murmured. He was an intelligent wulver and could put a puzzle together. She was counting on it. His gaze skipped to Laina and Darrow, who avoided it. Even Moira rushed off to busy herself with something at the other end of the kitchen. “What Englishwoman?”

Kirsten lowered her head, feeling his hands tightening over hers in a vise-like grip. She nearly yelped, but used it to elicit a sob of pain from her throat.

“Kirstin!” he growled, letting go her hands—he’d realized he was hurting her—and grabbed her little shoulders, shaking her. His eyes were wild. She saw the fear in them—and knew his pain. It wasn’t Raife who would have to fight to keep his mate from marrying someone else. Sibyl was no longer promised to anyone but him. And mayhaps, after this little ruse, he’d finally realize that it was only Raife she’d ever loved.

“What Englishwoman?”
Raife thundered, standing and knocking the chair out from under him.

She shook her head, remaining mute, pretending she couldn’t talk because she was sobbing so hard—and it wasn’t hard to do. Because the tears were real. There was an Englishwoman who would soon be at the MacFalon doorstep who expected to marry Donal and bear his children on orders from her king. It brought up pain so great for Kirstin, she could barely breathe, let alone talk, and she just sobbed into her hands, unable to answer Raife’s questions.

“Sibyl...?” Raife’s big fingers dug into her shoulders.
“Is it Sibyl?”

“Enough, Raife!” Darrow snapped, glaring at his brother.

“Look at ’er!” Laina clucked, shaking her head. “She’s so upset, she can’na e’en speak...”

“D’ye know?” Raife pointed a finger at Darrow, then Laina. “Who’s this Englishwoman?”

“I—” Laina looked at Darrow, blinking innocently. “I... uh...”

“Well...” Darrow cleared his throat, leaning back in his seat. “Uh...”

“Ne’ermind!” Raife kicked the toppled chair out of his way as he stormed toward the exit. He nearly knocked over the little blonde maid, the one with the gap between her teeth called Gayle, as she came in. She shrank away from him, pressing herself flat against the wall, clearly afraid of the wulver warrior.

“I’ll speak to The MacFalon meself and wring it out of his scrawny neck...” Raife growled, sweeping past the maid without even seeing her.

“He’s in the chancery!” Moira called helpfully after him, chuckling when the door swung closed.

“Did it work?” Kirstin lifted her tear-filled cheeks, lowering her hands completely. She’d been peeking out of them between her fingers until that moment.

“Aye. That was quite a performance.” Darrow scowled, tearing roast chicken off the carcass in front of him. His appetite had come back threefold, his body requiring more protein to heal faster, and Moira had been happy to roast a chicken or two a day for him. “I hope so. Now it’s up to The MacFalon.”

Kirstin wasn’t about to tell them how little she’d had to pretend.

“The MacFalon plans t’keep Sibyl in the chancery ’til Raife arrives?” Moira asked, pouring more mead into Darrow’s empty glass.

“Aye.” Kirstin sniffed, cooling her red cheeks with the wave of her hands. “Angus’ll signal ’im when Raife’s almost there, so Donal knows just when he should propose to Sibyl.”

That thought brought more tears to Kirstin’s eyes, even though she knew it was all a ruse. She didn’t like the thought of Donal proposing to anyone—except her. And he’d done that, several times already, in the past couple weeks. If only she could accept him...

“Nothin’ like jealousy and possessiveness t’motivate a wulver t’action.” Laina smiled coyly, nudging her husband with her elbow.

“Since t’dawn of man, when Eve took that first bite of apple.” Darrow sighed, reaching to the middle of the table to grab one out of a bowl of fruit, taking a large chunk of apple flesh out with his teeth and chewing noisily. “Ye women’ve been so vera cruel.”

Kirstin wiped her face with the edge of her plaid, and both Darrow’s words and the bulge beneath it reminded her.

“Speakin’ of the dawn of time...” Kirstin produced the book from where she’d hidden it in the folds of her Scots garment. “I’ve somethin’ I wanna show ye.”

“What’s this?” Laina frowned at the leather-bound tome as Kirstin put it up on the table.

“I found it in t’first den,” she confessed, flushing when Laina gave her a knowing smile. Did everyone know that she and Donal had been sneaking off to meet there? “Hidden in t’pack leader’s room.”

“Is that what I think ’tis?” Moira saw the book, her craggy gray eyebrows going up in surprised.

“Is it a witches book?” Gayle, the blonde maid, peered over Moira’s shoulder at it, her eyes wide. “It looks like witchcraft t’me.”

“It’s the Book of the Moon Wives.” Moira scoffed at the girl’s assumption, retrieving the chair Raife had kicked and sitting upon it so she could look through the book in question. “I thought t’was jus’ the stuff of legend...”

“I’ve ne’er heard of such a thing.” Laina stood to go look over Moira’s shoulder as well, watching the woman turn pages.

“I’d heard such a book existed,” Moira told her. “But I thought t’was jus’ a tale, or mayhaps that it’d once existed but it’d been lost long ago.”

“T’was well concealed,” Kirstin said, blushing at the memory of how they’d discovered the book, but no one noticed. They were all too interested in its contents—everyone except Darrow, who continued to pick meat off the chicken carcass with his fingers.

“What kinda book is’t?” Gayle inquired, curious but at the same time looking as if she might bolt at any moment should the book do something untoward.

“It’s said t’be a history of wulvers’n’men,” Moira informed them. Then she chuckled. “Well, mayhaps a history of wulvers’n’women might be a better description. It’s a sort of midwives’n’healer’s guide.”

Laina perked up at that. “Not many words...”

It was true, the guide was mostly pictures, although there were some words. Those words they saw were written mostly in Gaelic, and sometimes another, ancient language. The handwriting was mixed, making the assumption that the book had been written by more than one hand a good one.

“At the time, neither human women nor wulver women were allowed t’learn t’read or write,” Moira said.

“Only ladies need to learn t’read.” Gayle wrinkled her nose. “I can’na waste m’time learnin’ nonsense.”

“If we start teachin’ women t’read, mankind is doomed,” Darrow joked, ducking when Laina reached out to smack his head.

“I wish I’d learned.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

“I can’na read the words...” Kirstin lamented with a sigh.

“Nor I...” Gayle shrugged.

“I can,” Moira said, surprising them all. “But I do’na know all of the plants. Some, but n’all...

Laina and Kirstin looked at each other and they both said, “Sibyl.” 

“Aye,” Laina nodded, her eyes shining. “She can read—
and
she knows all t’plants. Likely more than all of us combined.”

“Mayhaps the cure lies within these pages...” Kirstin smiled at her sister.

“’Tis my greatest hope,” Laina confessed. “For yer sake, and mine... and the sake of our daughters.”

“Gayle, more mead!” Another servant girl stuck her head into the kitchen and the little blonde sighed, moving to get back to work.

Moira abandoned the book to fetch a pitcher for Gayle to take out to the guests.

Laina came over, standing beside Kirstin’s chair, gently stroking her long, unbraided hair. Kirstin put her arms around her, resting her cheek against Laina’s belly.

“I do’na like th’ idea of ye stayin ’ere, sister.” Laina sighed. “What’ll we do fer a midwife? Who’ll deliver the wulver heir?”

Darrow’s head came up at that, distracted from his mission of debriding the chicken of all its meat. She had told Laina and Darrow, but had sworn them to secrecy.

“Shhh!” Kirstin urged her sister to be quiet, glancing around at the servants. They were all busy, but still, you never knew who was listening. “Do’na give ’way that secret a’fore our
banrighinn
’s ready t’reveal it.”

“’T’would bring Raife ’round in a heartbeat,” Darrow said again, for the hundredth time. He’d been quick to suggest they just outright tell their pack leader about Sibyl’s condition, but the women had talked him out of the idea. He kept pushing it though, saying it was the one sure thing that would be certain to endear Sibyl to him again.