Compromising Positions (2 page)

“Laird MacFalon, feel free to finish your task, free your quarry, and exit your perch.”

Kirstin growled, feeling the hackles on the back of her neck rising. The voice was smooth, confident, even slightly amused—but she didn’t trust the man it came from. She didn’t know why—it was just instinct, but she trusted her instincts. Maybe it was just because the accent was so different from their own Scottish brogue. This man was English and spoke in the clipped way she was used to hearing from the Englishwoman, Sibyl, who had recently been living with them in the wulver den.

“I promise, this pair of mongrel poachers will hinder you no further,” the Englishman assured them from below. “And, at your word, they’ll hinder this world no longer either.”

Don’t trust him.
Kirstin wanted to tell Donal, but she had no voice. Instead, she gave a low whine that turned into a growl in the back of her throat.

“Aye, thank ye, stranger.” Donal frowned at Kirstin, hearing her animal warning.

The Scotsman was at a disadvantage, and he clearly knew it. He had to trust the Englishman, given that he had not only one, but two, arrows pointed in his direction, likely at very vital parts of his anatomy. Kirstin had a feeling that, whoever was below—especially if they were the poachers who had set the trap in which she was now ensnared—would rather have Donal dead before he left the tree than face him on level ground.

“Spare the curs, Lord Eldred,” Donal called down. So he knew the man, then? But he’d called him “stranger?” Kirstin wrinkled her nose in confusion. “If they’re honest poachers, they’re hungry, and their wives and bairns will be as well. An empty belly’s an ailment that spread quickly under m’late brother’s watch—and t’will be cured under mine. As England’s good King Henry’s shown, there’s none more loyal than those given mercy and a full belly—when warranted.”

“You already have the makings of The MacFalon.” The Englishman chuckled. “And your instincts are correct—I am Lord Eldred Lothienne, at your service.”

So the laird had been guessing at the man’s identity then, Kirstin realized, looking up at the Scot.

“Easy.” Donal squatted, speaking low to Kirstin, keeping his balance as he unhitched the rope and secured it, dropping a long end, presumably so he could lower Kirstin down once he was on the ground. At least, she hoped. “I know ye’ve got n’reason t’trust me, but I’ll not harm ye—I’ll free ye, I promise.”

She gave a conciliatory whine as Donal began climbing down the trunk of the tree. Twisting in the net, she glimpsed the Englishman standing at its base out of the corner of her eye. He spoke like an English lord, but he was dressed in travelling clothes, a pack secured to his back. He gave Donal a gloved hand down and the Scotsman give a low whistle when an arrow thunked into the tree trunk beside his head.

Lord Eldred shouldered Donal aside as two more loosed arrows hit the tree across the way, answering the first, these from the man’s captains, still hidden somewhere in the wood.

“It appears the mongrels have given a parting shot before running off into the forest.” Lord Eldred frowned into the woods, where the poachers had retreated. “Shall my captains and I pursue?”

“Nay, if they’re local, they’ll know these woods well—and they’ll be as invisible as the fey folk a’fore ye run ’em down.” Donal looked at the other man, head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly. “Ye marked ’em a’fore they were even in position. And ye weren’t due t’visit ’til the morrow, but ye’re in the MacFalon woods. Scouting, mayhaps? The tales of yer skill in the wild haven’t been overtold, Lord Eldred Lothienne.”

“Nor have the tales of your courage and generosity been overtold, Donal MacFalon,” the Englishman replied with a smile, clapping the other man on the back. “It would appear that King Henry was correct in his assessment. You are as forthright as your brother was treacherous. It’ll be a burden lifted to carry that message back to the King. I’d wager my finest bow that you won’t be threatening the peace agreed upon with the wulvers.”

“Ye can wager yer
life
on that.” Donal glanced up at Kirstin, still stuck in the net. She was panting lightly, waiting patiently for the men to free her, trusting Donal at his word. Not that she had much choice, given the circumstances. The Scotsman grabbed the end of the rope he’d left dangling, unhitching it with a sharp tug, and Kirstin felt the net begin to move.

Her heart raced, and the closer she got to the ground, the more the fur on the back of her neck stood up. Her instinct told her to run. Or fight. And she had to force herself to stay still in the net.

“All of these wulver traps shoulda been disarmed.” Donal frowned as he slowly lowered Kirstin toward the forest floor. She tensed, seeing the Englishman fully for the first time. He was an older man—a good ten, maybe fifteen, years older than Donal, at least—with a thick, dark beard shot with streaks of gray and salt and pepper hair. His dark eyes missed nothing, and his gaze settled on her and stayed there, making her hackles rise further. “I do’na know if they missed this one, or mayhaps someone’s re-arming them. ’T’will be quite a job for ye and yer captains t’undertake, I’m afeared.”

“King Henry has entrusted it to me, and it will be done.” Lord Eldred squatted near the net, not touching her, but his gaze moved over her in wolf form as if cataloging her. Kirstin shuddered, feeling a growl building in her throat.

“What’s free is what’s good, and what’s good is what’s free.” Donal unsheathed his dirk and began cutting the net apart.

“You plan to just let her go?” Lord Eldred asked, craggy eyebrows rising in surprise. “In that form?”

“She’ll change and come back,” Donal assured him, working more of the net free. “Won’t ye, lass?”

Kirstin just looked at him, feeling his hands moving in her fur, soft, tender, as he worked to free her.

“You trust a wulver?” Eldred Lothienne stood, taking a step back as Kirstin lifted her head to look at him.

“Aye. She’s not a wulver warrior.” Donal snorted, shaking his head, unwrapping part of the net from her hind leg. “She’s a female, here to see to her wounded kin.”

Kirstin blinked at him in surprise, at how much the man had deduced when she hadn’t yet said a word to him.

“Ye go make yerself decent, lass,” Donal told her softly, freeing her up from the last of the net. Her body shook with the effort it took her to stay still. “And I’ll take ye back wit’ me to Castle MacFalon t’see yer kin. Ye ken?”

She gave a low whine, but her gaze was on the Englishman, not the Scot. It was the former she didn’t trust, although she had no idea why not.

“I’ll take ye to Darrow,” Donal said softly, his hand moving through her fur, scratching her affectionately behind the ear. She was still stunned by his lack of fear.

Kirsten glanced down at the dirk in his other hand, the one he’d used to open the net, shredding hours of someone’s handiwork. He hadn’t thought twice about destroying it. Kirstin let out a growl, head low, getting quickly to her feet. She heard them before she glimpsed them, two men appearing out of the woods on foot.

“Just my captains,” Lord Eldred announced, waving them over, but Kirsten had already escaped deeper into the woods, in the opposite direction.

“Come back, ye ken?” Donal called after her as she disappeared into the brush.

Kirstin crouched there for a moment, panting lightly, feeling the adrenaline course through her body as she listened to the men talking, trying to decide what to do. If it had just been the man, Donal, she wouldn’t have hesitated, but the other three men gave her pause. The two that had gotten away—where were they? She was sure they had been traveling together, but the man, Lord Eldred, had called them poachers.

Mayhaps she’d been mistaken, her senses changed from hanging so high up in the tree…

She glimpsed Donal pulling an arrow from that same tree she’d been hanging in—the arrow that had nearly hit him.

“Well-made. A local arrow?” Lord Eldred asked, looking at it over Donal’s shoulder.

“Aye, ’tis an honest hunter’s arrow, not unmarked, fer a poacher’s purpose.” Donal frowned at it, turning it over in his hands. Then he slid it into his own quiver, looking at the Englishman. “Thank ye fer yer assistance wit’ the marksman. I did’na wanna make two more widows t’curse t’MacFalon name if I did’na hafta.”

“I understand.” Lord Eldred nodded, glancing toward the woods in her direction, and Donal did, too. They would be wondering about her, if she would return—a question she was pondering herself. She had options.

She could turn tail and run home. That was one option. But had she come all this way, just to turn around again? It had taken her nearly a week to convince the wulver warriors of her need to tend to Darrow. Her need to see him, to make sure he was all right—to help heal him and make her pack whole—overwhelmed her. It had been the force that had compelled her on this journey in the first place, and she was determined to see it through.

The man, Donal, could take her to Darrow. She sensed he was honorable, and knew from the wulver warriors who had returned, that he could be trusted. She didn’t know about the other men, but something in her said that Donal would protect her, if need be. Besides, she thought with a smile as she crouched fully behind a tall, thick oak tree, she could change into wulver form and snap all their necks before the first one could draw his blade, if she so chose.

She walked, barefoot, out of the brush, into the clearing where they stood talking. They didn’t sense or see her until she was almost on top of them, even though she was in human form now.

“Ah, there she is.” Lord Eldred spotted her first, his dark, glittering gaze sweeping her up and down.

Kirsten had changed back, pulling her plaid around her to cover as much as she could. It was a versatile garment, yards of fabric that could cover her from head to toe if needed, now gathered into the semblance of a skirt, crossing in front and pinned in place to cover her breasts. Although, if the Englishmen’s gazes were any indication, she was showing far more skin than they were used to seeing.

Donal turned toward her, smiling as she approached, his words fading away mid-sentence. She had smoothed her long, dark hair out over her shoulders, picking out the leaves and twigs as best she could, making herself as presentable as possible without the benefit of a looking glass or even a stream or pond.

She saw the apple in Donal’s throat move up and down as he swallowed, his gaze sweeping over her, too, from her bare feet and knees peeking out from under her make-shift skirt, to the V her plaid made between her breasts, then up to her face, their eyes meeting and locking. She had that same sense again, the one she’d experienced when she stopped in the clearing where he’d knelt, head bent in prayer. She didn’t understand it, but it gave her a sudden rush of feeling, and her cheeks flushed with it.

Kirstin didn’t even register the other three men—they were staring, too, although she only sensed this peripherally. It was as if the whole forest had narrowed suddenly into one, shining, sun-dappled path, and it led straight to Donal MacFalon. Kirstin’s knees felt wobbly as she continued her careful approach, running a nervous hand through her hair again, seeing Donal’s gaze distracted by the motion. He traced the dark waterfall her hair made over her creamy, bare shoulders, skipping to her cleavage, then up again, to her eyes—and then, finally, settling on her mouth.

She opened it to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. She could only stand there, a few feet from the man, trembling like she had been while trapped in the net. Her heart galloped in her chest, and something pumped through her veins that was hotter than her own blood, something foreign and uncontrollable.

A low whistle came from one of the Englishmen, who leaned in to say to the other, “Imagine her in an English gown.”

The second man shifted against the tree where he was leaning and remarked, “I’m imagining her out of one.”

That statement made Donal’s eyes flash and he turned his attention to the two young men. Lord Eldred caught the look and got between them, raising a gloved hand.

“Gentlemen, remember yourselves,” the bearded Englishman snapped. He turned to her then, bowing slightly, and asked, “What’s your name, m’lady?”

M’lady?
She smiled and wrinkled her nose at that, looking back at Donal. He stared at her still, bemused.

“Kirstin,” she said simply, her eyes locking again with the man standing transfixed beside her. She was glad there was a tree nearby—still stuck with two arrows—for her to lean back against. “And you’re Donal MacFalon? Laird of Clan MacFalon?”

“Aye.” He gave a slow nod. “That I am, lass—and I’m vera glad t’meet ye, now that yer not stuck yonder in a tree.”

She laughed at that, glancing up at the branch where she’d been dangling not too long ago.

“Thank ye fer savin’ me, kind sir.” She held out a hand to him, and he took it, bending slightly at the waist as any gentleman would. She expected him to kiss the back of her hand like she’d heard from Sibyl was the English custom—since they were in the presence of an English lord—but instead, he turned her hand over, palm up, and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

Kirstin’s breath caught in her throat, and she melted. His mouth was soft and he had two days’ stubble on his cheeks that prickled the sensitive skin of her wrist. Somehow, that one, small kiss, sent a thousand pulses of light through her body, bringing senses alive she’d never known before, even as a wulver. She looked at him in wonder, staring into those slate-blue eyes. They were focused solely on her like she was the only thing left in the world to look at.