steadying her when her intention was clear.
“Easy,” he urged as she swung her feet to the floor. “Yer wounded.”
“Wounded?” She touched her head, an ache throbbing there, vaguely remembering something. Then it came back. The arrow stuck quivering in the tree. The blood trickling down her cheek. She touched her temple and felt a bandage there. It was real. That sudden realization brought a chill and she shuddered, meeting Raife’s eyes.
It was real.
It was all real.
“Wulvers?” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.
Raife gave a slow nod.
But it couldn’t be real. Her mind balked.
“Laina!” The shout echoed in the distance and Sibyl’s spine straightened.
The white wolf. Raife had called her Laina. Who was calling for her?
“Darrow.” Raife stood, glancing down at Sibyl, frowning.
Sibyl remembered that too. The sentry who had stopped them, he had asked about someone named Darrow. She didn’t know any of the other words in Gaelic, but she knew that was a name.
“Mo bràithair.” Raife took a step toward the door, that shout growing louder, calling the white wolf’s name.
“Your brother.” Sibyl stood, steadying herself against him. He was as solid and still as a tree rooted in place. “He owns the wolf?”
Her mind wouldn’t let her believe anything else.
“Darrow!” Raife called his brother’s name, opening the door. “Trobhad an seo!”
The shouting stopped but Sibyl heard footfalls heading toward them. And that low whine intensified. She located the source of the sound across the room and realized it was the wolf. She was still laboring, panting softly, and beside her was an older woman dressed in tartan plaid tending to her and a much younger woman by her side.
“Laina?” Sibyl whispered the wolf’s name and her white head came up briefly. Those blue eyes locked with hers. And then she was laboring again, her side rising and falling quickly, the sound of her panting filling the room.
“Laina!” Darrow bellowed, bursting into the room. He was as tall as his brother, but lankier, not quite as broad. He had the same thick, dark hair, those piercing blue eyes that desperately searched the room for the sight of the wolf laboring on a mattress on the floor across the room.
The wolf howled and Darrow went straight to her side.
“Tiugainn!” the midwife muttered to herself, doing something Sibyl couldn’t see, but there was blood, plenty of it, on both women’s hands. The wolf actually snapped at the old woman, but she didn’t actually bite her.
“Tha e cunnartach!” The midwife shook her head, removing a hand covered in blood from the behind of the wolf. Sibyl had seen enough calves and horses born to know what was happening, but she leaned in to ask Raife for sure.
“What is it?”
“The pup is facin’ wrong ways,” he murmured, his eyes on the scene before them. “She’s tryin’ ta turn the bairn.”
“The pup…” Sibyl frowned. “But… shouldn’t there be… more?”
Horses and cows usually carried only one offspring to term, but wolves were like dogs—they had litters. She had played with lots of puppies in the warmth of her father’s castle kitchen where the bitch would give birth in a large crate, and then the puppies would crawl all over each other in it until they were big enough to let roam.
“Wulvers birth one.”
Wulvers. Not wolves, wulvers. Raife had corrected her again and again, but Sibyl had dismissed his insistence as a language barrier. In Scotland, wolves and wulvers seemed interchangeable. At least, that’s what she had initially believed. Now, watching the white wolf, Laina, give birth, she wasn’t so sure.
“Bidh curramach!” Darrow growled at the midwife as she did something that made Laina howl in pain.
“Wulvers birth as wolves,” Raife explained as Sibyl watched, feeling weak-kneed and weak-stomached. “She can’na change while she’s laborin’. Tis why she could’na free herself.”
“From the cage?”
“Easy,” he urged as she swung her feet to the floor. “Yer wounded.”
“Wounded?” She touched her head, an ache throbbing there, vaguely remembering something. Then it came back. The arrow stuck quivering in the tree. The blood trickling down her cheek. She touched her temple and felt a bandage there. It was real. That sudden realization brought a chill and she shuddered, meeting Raife’s eyes.
It was real.
It was all real.
“Wulvers?” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.
Raife gave a slow nod.
But it couldn’t be real. Her mind balked.
“Laina!” The shout echoed in the distance and Sibyl’s spine straightened.
The white wolf. Raife had called her Laina. Who was calling for her?
“Darrow.” Raife stood, glancing down at Sibyl, frowning.
Sibyl remembered that too. The sentry who had stopped them, he had asked about someone named Darrow. She didn’t know any of the other words in Gaelic, but she knew that was a name.
“Mo bràithair.” Raife took a step toward the door, that shout growing louder, calling the white wolf’s name.
“Your brother.” Sibyl stood, steadying herself against him. He was as solid and still as a tree rooted in place. “He owns the wolf?”
Her mind wouldn’t let her believe anything else.
“Darrow!” Raife called his brother’s name, opening the door. “Trobhad an seo!”
The shouting stopped but Sibyl heard footfalls heading toward them. And that low whine intensified. She located the source of the sound across the room and realized it was the wolf. She was still laboring, panting softly, and beside her was an older woman dressed in tartan plaid tending to her and a much younger woman by her side.
“Laina?” Sibyl whispered the wolf’s name and her white head came up briefly. Those blue eyes locked with hers. And then she was laboring again, her side rising and falling quickly, the sound of her panting filling the room.
“Laina!” Darrow bellowed, bursting into the room. He was as tall as his brother, but lankier, not quite as broad. He had the same thick, dark hair, those piercing blue eyes that desperately searched the room for the sight of the wolf laboring on a mattress on the floor across the room.
The wolf howled and Darrow went straight to her side.
“Tiugainn!” the midwife muttered to herself, doing something Sibyl couldn’t see, but there was blood, plenty of it, on both women’s hands. The wolf actually snapped at the old woman, but she didn’t actually bite her.
“Tha e cunnartach!” The midwife shook her head, removing a hand covered in blood from the behind of the wolf. Sibyl had seen enough calves and horses born to know what was happening, but she leaned in to ask Raife for sure.
“What is it?”
“The pup is facin’ wrong ways,” he murmured, his eyes on the scene before them. “She’s tryin’ ta turn the bairn.”
“The pup…” Sibyl frowned. “But… shouldn’t there be… more?”
Horses and cows usually carried only one offspring to term, but wolves were like dogs—they had litters. She had played with lots of puppies in the warmth of her father’s castle kitchen where the bitch would give birth in a large crate, and then the puppies would crawl all over each other in it until they were big enough to let roam.
“Wulvers birth one.”
Wulvers. Not wolves, wulvers. Raife had corrected her again and again, but Sibyl had dismissed his insistence as a language barrier. In Scotland, wolves and wulvers seemed interchangeable. At least, that’s what she had initially believed. Now, watching the white wolf, Laina, give birth, she wasn’t so sure.
“Bidh curramach!” Darrow growled at the midwife as she did something that made Laina howl in pain.
“Wulvers birth as wolves,” Raife explained as Sibyl watched, feeling weak-kneed and weak-stomached. “She can’na change while she’s laborin’. Tis why she could’na free herself.”
“From the cage?”
Similar Books
