Highland Wolf Pact Compromising Positions: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance Read online

  When Darrow opened his mouth to speak—likely to tell his wife to leave him the bloody hell alone, and not quietly either—Laina put a hand over his mouth. That’s when Kirstin got up and made her way through the crowd standing in the aisles—there weren’t nearly enough chairs for them all—to see if she could help get Darrow sorted before Raife caught wind. She saw Donal look her direction and she smiled at him, hoping he’d understand. He would, of course, once she’d told him why she’d slipped away.

  Kirstin found Laina and Sibyl pushing a frustrated Darrow back through the crowd, but given the number of people, and Darrow’s resistance, they weren’t getting far.

  “Darrow, please,” Laina pleaded. “Don’t do this. If Raife sees ye...”

  “I need t’be’ere,” Darrow insisted, ignoring the looks people were giving him. “Lemme go, woman!”

  “If he sees ye up, he’ll insist on leavin’,” Kirstin hissed, getting in front of Darrow—at least the three of them made some sort of barrier. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “Please, Darrow, think of Sibyl. Think of yer banrighinn.”

  That did stop him, for a moment.

  He frowned down at Sibyl, head tilted, considering. Kirstin could almost see his thoughts flitting over his face. He’d gone along with their plan thus far. What was a little longer? Laina said he’d been angry about not coming to the ceremony, but she said she would placate him. In the end, though, Sibyl had given him something to make him sleep, because nothing else would calm him. It appeared he’d either only pretended to take it, or he’d woken up sooner than they’d expected.

  “Darrow.” Sibyl looked up at him, and Kirstin saw the tears in her eyes. Sibyl took a step back, shaking her head. “Go. Go to him. He’s your brother, and you’re right, you should be here.”

  With that, Sibyl ran. Laina looked at Kirstin with wide eyes, then at her husband—who was already pushing his way through the crowd, now that he had Sibyl’s blessing. Kirstin could hear Donal announcing that the time for mourning his brother, Alistair, had come to an end.

  “Go to’im!” Kirstin pointed after Darrow. “I’ll take care of Sibyl.”

  She found her just outside the doors of the great hall, the ones that opened to the outside. Sibyl was crouching at the side of the stairs and Kirstin flew down them. When she reached her, Kirstin went to her knees beside Sibyl’s small, trembling form, pulling a curtain of red hair away from her damp face.

  “I’m sorry,” Sibyl whispered. Then her body jerked violently and she leaned forward to vomit onto the dirt.

  “Oh banrighinn,” Kirstin whispered, holding her hair back as Sibyl emptied her stomach of what little she’d had for breakfast onto the ground. When she was done, Kirstin pulled her into her arms, rocking her and stroking her hot, flushed face with cool hands. “How long’ve ye known?”

  “Known... what?” Sibyl frowned at her, blinking in surprise.

  “Ye do’na know?” Kirstin’s smile widened and she hugged her closer. “Oh m’sweet, lovely banrighinn, ye’re wit’ child. Ye’re carryin’ Raife’s bairn. Ye’ll bear t’wulver heir. Don’t ye know what this means? He can’na deny ye now!”

  The doors of the hall flew open and Kirstin heard Donal’s voice from a distance, carrying to them, thanking everyone for coming and telling them that the kegs were being tapped outside—hence the avalanche of Scotsmen and women pouring forth from the gathering place.

  “I’m pregnant?” Sibyl whispered, disbelieving.

  “Aye. I’m almos’ certain of it.” Kirstin nodded, cupping her face in her hands.

  “No.” Sibyl’s chin quivered and she pulled away, standing up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If I tell him... that will be the only reason he takes me back. I can’t. I won’t...”

  And with that, she turned and ran. Kirstin went to follow her, but there was such a crowd rushing down the stairs, it was impossible. Even with her bright red hair, Sibyl was soon swallowed up.

  “Kirstin?” Someone grabbed her arm and she looked up to see a man with a very bushy brown beard holding onto her. She recognized him as one of the recently pledged MacFalon brothers, either Aiden or Angus, but she couldn’t remember which.

  “Aye.” She tried to shake him loose, but he held her, not rough, but firm.

  “The MacFalon requests yer presence in ’is chambers.”

  Kirstin followed Angus—it was Angus, not Aiden, who came to fetch her, she remembered when she saw the jagged scar on his calf and the story he’d told about the axe that had caused it—around the side of the castle, through the crowd. There was no sense going back up the stairs against the herd coming down it. Even with Angus’s bulk leading the way, it would be too much of a fight. Instead, he took her through the breezeway and into the castle, down another long hallway.

  Her heart was beating too fast, wondering why Donal had requested her so formally, why he hadn’t come to get her himself. Mayhaps it was just another part of the ceremony, but she had a feeling it had to do with Darrow coming into the hall, and Raife realizing that his brother was now fit to travel. She wished she’d managed to catch Sibyl before she ran, but she would deal with that later—as soon as she could talk to Laina, alone.

  Angus paused to knock on the big, solid, oak door.

  “Aye, enter,” Donal called out. He sounded weary. Mayhaps all the pomp and circumstance had been as exhausting for him as it had for her. She smiled, thinking of the night they would spend together in the first den, just the two of them alone. She would do her best to make him forget all of it, the responsibilities of being laird, the thousand small and large things weighing him down.

  Angus pushed the door open with a grunt and Kirstin marveled at how heavy the thing was. It was thicker than her wrist. She didn’t think a full grown wulver warrior could break it down without quite an effort.

  “Kirstin.” Donal’s smile only reached his mouth, which was very unusual. She glanced around, expecting to see Darrow and Raife, perhaps even Laina, ready for the fight that surely was about to ensue, but there was only Donal, sitting behind a wide, dark desk scattered with papers and maps and other documents, including two scrolls, their seals broken.

  The King’s seal, she realized, as Donal asked Angus to leave them and close the door behind him.

  “Is somethin’ t’matter?”

  He held his arms out to her, now that they were alone, and she went to him. Donal pulled her into his lap, kissing her hungrily, hands moving greedily under her plaid, seeking the velvet of her skin. His tongue made soft, swirling patterns with hers and she melted against him, moaning softly when he cupped her sex, parting her thighs to give him more access.

  Had he called her here for this, then? She wondered.

  But doing this here was dangerous, and they both knew it.

  “Donal,” she whispered, burying her face against his neck as they parted, feeling the hardness of his body against hers, the steel of his erection through his plaid. “We should’na do this—not ’ere, not now. There’re hundreds of people waitin’ t’see their laird...”

  “Damn them all t’hell n’back,” he swore, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back so he could take her throat, leaving hot, wet trails with his swirling tongue. “Yer mine, Kirstin. D’ye hear me? And I want e’eryone t’know’t.”

  He shifted in his chair, and she gasped when his cock pressed against her behind and his hand moved to cup the fullness of her breast. She couldn’t deny him—wouldn’t. She was his, truly. They were destined—she was sure of that. Her body knew it far better than her mind. It wept for him, opened to him, ached for him.

  “Tonight,” she whispered, crying out when his hand moved once again under her plaid, cupping and rubbing her through the thin silk barrier. “At our spring. We’ll be together then... but now...”

  “Kirstin.” Donal wrapped his arms around her waist, surrendering to her words, bending his head to her breasts and resting it there. She stroked his hair, long, silky, soft
under her fingers, a lion’s mane. She sensed a sadness in him, a desperation that had never been there before.

  “What is it?” she murmured, cradling her head against her breasts. “Tell me...”

  He lifted his face to look at her, searching her eyes, looking for something.

  “Let’s run away.” A small smile played on his lips at the shocked look that must have appeared on her face. “I’ll ask Raife t’take me into yer pack. I know it’s been done before. I’ll live among t’wulvers, be one of ye. We can be together, as we’re meant to be. I can’na be wit’out ye. Not as long as I draw breath.”

  She stared at him, heart hammering in her chest. All of the scenarios she’d seen playing out in her mind, and yet, this had never been one of them. She had never dreamed that the laird of Clan MacFalon would give up everything to follow her into the wulver den.

  “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—”