Sibyl couldn’t scream, although she wanted to. She could barely breathe.
At first, the wolves ran side by side, keeping Sibyl from falling off the black wolf’s back. She tried hard to stay on, struggling with her heavy dress, the satchel pinned under her skirt, until she managed to get a leg securely over the wolf’s back so she was sitting astride him, like he was a horse. A horse with no saddle. A very slippery horse with no saddle.
“Dear God, help me,” she whispered, feeling something graze her temple. When she lifted a hand to her head, it came back bloody, and she saw an arrow quivering in a nearby tree. “Please help me.”
They were running so fast the forest was a blur whenever she opened her eyes, so she kept them closed, burying her face against the larger wolf’s neck. The animals ran hard, panting, and she felt the wolf’s muscles straining between her thighs with every leap over a stray log, every dodge around a tree. Beside them, the white wolf whimpered, but she managed to keep pace.
Sibyl listened for the thunder of the horses, the bark of the dogs, but miraculously, the sounds disappeared. She clung to the wolf, trembling on its back, too afraid to look up and see where they were going, too frightened to look back, wondering what had happened to the man, Raife. A sudden, horrible thought occurred to her while the wolves spirited her away as she felt blood from her temple running down her cheek.
Raife had been killed.
She was suddenly sure of it. The man had been felled by an arrow, shot by one of Alistair’s men. It was the only explanation. The thought brought such an overwhelming sadness she couldn’t help her tears. She’d known the man for all of half an hour, and yet she was sobbing, thinking of him bleeding to death in the middle of the woods. Maybe it was because, in spite of his short, gruff nature, he’d tried to protect her, and had been so gentle with the white wolf.
Sibyl sensed the temperature change around her, the cool sunlight of the woods giving way to something else. She opened her eyes to darkness, clinging to the wolf, arms tight around its neck, thighs squeezing its flanks so hard they ached. She couldn’t see her arms wrapped around the animal’s neck. Even the white wolf had disappeared from view, although she heard it panting and whimpering next to them.
“Oh Raife.” She whispered a prayer for the poor, dead man, burying her face once again against the wolf’s fur. She shivered, suddenly cold, even in all her velvet, even with the wolf’s body, flushed from its run, between her thighs. The animal slowed and she dared to open her eyes. She glimpsed a faint light as she peered around the wolf’s big head.
“Stad!” A voice echoed all around them.
She couldn‘t tell where it was coming from and Sibyl gasped, grabbing the wolf’s fur in her fists. They were underground—she knew that much. It was cold and no sun reached this place. Maybe they were in a cave? The thought of entering a wolf den with these two animals gave her a chill that went bone-deep, far worse than the chilly temperature making goose flesh rise on her skin.
But the voice that had spoken was most definitely human.
And as soon as the wolves heard it, they stopped.
The white wolf gave a quick bark and Sibyl felt the wolf beneath her growl. It rumbled through her body and the sound made her shiver. She held on tighter, even if she was afraid of the animal that carried her on its back. So far, it hadn’t done anything to hurt her—it had, in fact, carried her away from grave danger. The disembodied voice, while human, was far more unknown.
“Please,” she whispered, cheek pressed to the wolf’s soft pelt. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“A bheil a' Ghàidhlig agad?” the voice asked, closer now.
“I don’t understand,” she pleaded in the darkness, the figure of a man drawing nearer. “I’m an Englishwoman. I don’t—”
Beneath her, the wolf moved.
It didn’t so
At first, the wolves ran side by side, keeping Sibyl from falling off the black wolf’s back. She tried hard to stay on, struggling with her heavy dress, the satchel pinned under her skirt, until she managed to get a leg securely over the wolf’s back so she was sitting astride him, like he was a horse. A horse with no saddle. A very slippery horse with no saddle.
“Dear God, help me,” she whispered, feeling something graze her temple. When she lifted a hand to her head, it came back bloody, and she saw an arrow quivering in a nearby tree. “Please help me.”
They were running so fast the forest was a blur whenever she opened her eyes, so she kept them closed, burying her face against the larger wolf’s neck. The animals ran hard, panting, and she felt the wolf’s muscles straining between her thighs with every leap over a stray log, every dodge around a tree. Beside them, the white wolf whimpered, but she managed to keep pace.
Sibyl listened for the thunder of the horses, the bark of the dogs, but miraculously, the sounds disappeared. She clung to the wolf, trembling on its back, too afraid to look up and see where they were going, too frightened to look back, wondering what had happened to the man, Raife. A sudden, horrible thought occurred to her while the wolves spirited her away as she felt blood from her temple running down her cheek.
Raife had been killed.
She was suddenly sure of it. The man had been felled by an arrow, shot by one of Alistair’s men. It was the only explanation. The thought brought such an overwhelming sadness she couldn’t help her tears. She’d known the man for all of half an hour, and yet she was sobbing, thinking of him bleeding to death in the middle of the woods. Maybe it was because, in spite of his short, gruff nature, he’d tried to protect her, and had been so gentle with the white wolf.
Sibyl sensed the temperature change around her, the cool sunlight of the woods giving way to something else. She opened her eyes to darkness, clinging to the wolf, arms tight around its neck, thighs squeezing its flanks so hard they ached. She couldn’t see her arms wrapped around the animal’s neck. Even the white wolf had disappeared from view, although she heard it panting and whimpering next to them.
“Oh Raife.” She whispered a prayer for the poor, dead man, burying her face once again against the wolf’s fur. She shivered, suddenly cold, even in all her velvet, even with the wolf’s body, flushed from its run, between her thighs. The animal slowed and she dared to open her eyes. She glimpsed a faint light as she peered around the wolf’s big head.
“Stad!” A voice echoed all around them.
She couldn‘t tell where it was coming from and Sibyl gasped, grabbing the wolf’s fur in her fists. They were underground—she knew that much. It was cold and no sun reached this place. Maybe they were in a cave? The thought of entering a wolf den with these two animals gave her a chill that went bone-deep, far worse than the chilly temperature making goose flesh rise on her skin.
But the voice that had spoken was most definitely human.
And as soon as the wolves heard it, they stopped.
The white wolf gave a quick bark and Sibyl felt the wolf beneath her growl. It rumbled through her body and the sound made her shiver. She held on tighter, even if she was afraid of the animal that carried her on its back. So far, it hadn’t done anything to hurt her—it had, in fact, carried her away from grave danger. The disembodied voice, while human, was far more unknown.
“Please,” she whispered, cheek pressed to the wolf’s soft pelt. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
“A bheil a' Ghàidhlig agad?” the voice asked, closer now.
“I don’t understand,” she pleaded in the darkness, the figure of a man drawing nearer. “I’m an Englishwoman. I don’t—”
Beneath her, the wolf moved.
It didn’t so
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