much move as change. The animal’s fur, thick and soft, grew sparse and then seemed to disappear altogether. One moment she was leaning forward over the wolf’s neck, nearly horizontal, and the next minute she was hanging on for dear life, her body almost completely vertical. She screamed, her cry echoing back at her, and let go, falling to a hard, rocky floor.
“Are ye hurt, lass?” The voice beside her spoke English. She understood it perfectly well. In fact, she could have sworn she recognized it. But that was impossible.
“Raife?” she whispered, feeling the man’s warmth as he knelt beside her. “Is it you? Can it be you? How…?”
“Come.” He lifted her in his arms and Sibyl put hers around him and sobbed against his neck in the darkness.
It was too much. The whole day had been too much, from her daring escape attempt to this very surreal moment as this strange man carried her past the sentry. She heard the guard say, “Siuthad!” the voice definitely male. “Càite bheil Darrow?” and the man who held her responded in Gaelic, but she was already slipping further into darkness.
She had a moment to chastise herself, knowing her father would have been appalled at such a feminine display of weakness, but her body had simply given up. She found herself disappearing down another deep, dark hole, cheek resting against the bare chest and beating heart of a man who, she could have sworn, was a giant, black wolf only moments before.
* * * *
Surely she was dreaming.
Sibyl woke on a mattress, looking around in the flickering light of an oil lamp, blinking up at the shadows and a man whose face was becoming increasingly familiar. She remembered the hunt first—her ride with Alistair into the woods, the revelation that the animal they were pursuing was a pregnant female locked in a convenient cage, her subsequent emancipation of that animal, her shooting of her fiancé, and her eventual escape—and then her capture.
Well, she didn’t exactly remember her capture, but she could only infer that it had happened. She remembered the dogs barking, the horses, the shouts of the men. She remembered huddling, trembling and sobbing like a child, on the forest floor. And then—
And then her mind had taken flight.
Surely she had been captured, taken down here into a cold, dank place with sheetrock walls that could only be in the dungeons of Alistair’s keep, and her imagination had done the rest. She couldn’t trust her memory—the wolves, the ones that had carried her to dubious safety, had been a dream. She was sure of it.
She had been sick with a very high fever once when she was a child and had dreamed all sorts of things. Her father’s huntsman had been twisted by her imagination into a bear, her mother into a vulture, her dear father into a barking dog. She knew the mind could play tricks that way.
This man, Raife—was he her jailer then? He sat beside her on a log-stump stool, still wearing only that wrapped tartan plaid, bare-chested in the dim orange glow as he pressed a cool, wet cloth to her head. She didn’t recognize him as one of Alistair’s men, but perhaps the master of the dungeon was little more than a prisoner himself, locked away down here taking care of Alistair’s mistakes, keeping her betrothed’s secrets.
“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. How long had she been asleep?
“’Ere lass.” He spoke English, but in her dream, he’d spoken Gaelic. So that must mean she really had been dreaming. Of course she had, because in her dream this man had changed from a giant, black wolf back into this human form.
“Yer wit’ me,” Raife reassured her. That cool cloth felt so good, and it made his hand feel even warmer as he brushed hair away from her face. “Yer safe.”
Maybe she was still dreaming, but somehow she knew this was true.
A low whine reached her ears and Sibyl frowned, trying to sit up. Raife frowned his own objection but he helped her, grabbing onto her elbow and
“Are ye hurt, lass?” The voice beside her spoke English. She understood it perfectly well. In fact, she could have sworn she recognized it. But that was impossible.
“Raife?” she whispered, feeling the man’s warmth as he knelt beside her. “Is it you? Can it be you? How…?”
“Come.” He lifted her in his arms and Sibyl put hers around him and sobbed against his neck in the darkness.
It was too much. The whole day had been too much, from her daring escape attempt to this very surreal moment as this strange man carried her past the sentry. She heard the guard say, “Siuthad!” the voice definitely male. “Càite bheil Darrow?” and the man who held her responded in Gaelic, but she was already slipping further into darkness.
She had a moment to chastise herself, knowing her father would have been appalled at such a feminine display of weakness, but her body had simply given up. She found herself disappearing down another deep, dark hole, cheek resting against the bare chest and beating heart of a man who, she could have sworn, was a giant, black wolf only moments before.
* * * *
Surely she was dreaming.
Sibyl woke on a mattress, looking around in the flickering light of an oil lamp, blinking up at the shadows and a man whose face was becoming increasingly familiar. She remembered the hunt first—her ride with Alistair into the woods, the revelation that the animal they were pursuing was a pregnant female locked in a convenient cage, her subsequent emancipation of that animal, her shooting of her fiancé, and her eventual escape—and then her capture.
Well, she didn’t exactly remember her capture, but she could only infer that it had happened. She remembered the dogs barking, the horses, the shouts of the men. She remembered huddling, trembling and sobbing like a child, on the forest floor. And then—
And then her mind had taken flight.
Surely she had been captured, taken down here into a cold, dank place with sheetrock walls that could only be in the dungeons of Alistair’s keep, and her imagination had done the rest. She couldn’t trust her memory—the wolves, the ones that had carried her to dubious safety, had been a dream. She was sure of it.
She had been sick with a very high fever once when she was a child and had dreamed all sorts of things. Her father’s huntsman had been twisted by her imagination into a bear, her mother into a vulture, her dear father into a barking dog. She knew the mind could play tricks that way.
This man, Raife—was he her jailer then? He sat beside her on a log-stump stool, still wearing only that wrapped tartan plaid, bare-chested in the dim orange glow as he pressed a cool, wet cloth to her head. She didn’t recognize him as one of Alistair’s men, but perhaps the master of the dungeon was little more than a prisoner himself, locked away down here taking care of Alistair’s mistakes, keeping her betrothed’s secrets.
“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. How long had she been asleep?
“’Ere lass.” He spoke English, but in her dream, he’d spoken Gaelic. So that must mean she really had been dreaming. Of course she had, because in her dream this man had changed from a giant, black wolf back into this human form.
“Yer wit’ me,” Raife reassured her. That cool cloth felt so good, and it made his hand feel even warmer as he brushed hair away from her face. “Yer safe.”
Maybe she was still dreaming, but somehow she knew this was true.
A low whine reached her ears and Sibyl frowned, trying to sit up. Raife frowned his own objection but he helped her, grabbing onto her elbow and
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