An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Name of a Wolf
ISBN 9781419919244
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Name of a Wolf Copyright © 2008 Jez Morrow.
Edited by Briana St. James.
Cover art by Dar Albert.
Electronic book Publication December 2008
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
N
AME OF A
W
OLF
Jez Morrow
Jez Morrow
Chapter One
The outlaws crouched shoulder to shoulder like a pack of wolves behind the brown
reeds, waiting in ambush for Lord Marsh’s carriage to approach the old stone bridge.
A cold wind tore dry leaves from skeletal trees. The blunt-winged shape of an owl
passed over the face of the moon.
Connor picked up the faint sound of hooves approaching—not enough of them and
from the wrong direction to belong to Lord Marsh. Connor growled to his companions,
“Get down.”
The six of them hunkered down into the reeds.
Onto the bridge rode a young heroic figure on a fine white steed. The young rider
did not continue on, but reined in atop the bridge and stayed there.
“Oh now who is this idiot?” Connor stole a glance up the embankment.
The rider was an aristocrat from the look of him. In the moonlight his hair was
black and wavy, tied back in a tail. His dark blue jacket was tailored to show off wide
shoulders, broad chest and a proud, proud back. Kidskin trousers fit snug around his
long exquisitely muscled legs. He really was a beautiful young man. His shirt was a
pure shade of white that only an aristocrat could maintain. Polished silver buckles
glinted on his well-heeled shoes and on the horse’s tack.
Connor muttered low between clenched teeth as if he could will him away, “Move.
Move.”
The young man turned and turned his unhappy mare, keeping his gaze up the road
by sharp turns of his head. His skin shone very fair in the pale light. He presented a
bold classic profile that had to be a sculptor’s vision of a young god as he glared up the
road again from atop his circling steed.
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Name of a Wolf
Katie whispered, “Is he looking for us?”
Connor shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“It almost seems as if he’s waiting for Lord Marsh,” said Hugh, not wanting to
believe it.
“That would be a bad thing,” said Connor, but he couldn’t deny the apparent truth
of it.
The young man on the bridge kept an angry hand on the reins. The white mare
objected to all the hard turns leading nowhere.
The rider was waiting for the same thing they were and he was in the way.
He is going to get us all shot or hanged.
The white horse whickered and stamped her hooves.
“His mare has scented us,” said Connor.
From the stand of evergreens well behind them, where the outlaw horses waited,
hidden, Connor’s stallion muttered and pawed a great hoof at the carpet of brown pine
needles. Connor nodded up at the bridge. “We need to get him down from there.”
“Is he armed?” Katie whispered.
“Can’t see,” said Rory.
Connor, who could see in the dark, answered, “Yes. Pistol.”
Connor turned around to crouch low with his back to the embankment, muttering
damnations. He asked up to his companions, “Any others?”
“Can’t see,” said Rory. “Connor, get your eyes back up here.”
Connor elbowed back up to the edge of the rise. He searched up the black road.
“Marsh’s carriage is coming.”
In a moment, the ears of the white horse on the bridge went up. The young rider
stood high in his stirrups.
“Our boy is in motion.”
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The young rider drove his mare into a gallop at the carriage, his pistol out.
“What is he doing?” Katie squeaked.
Connor growled, “Oh this is foul.”
The white mare ran into the trip rope meant for Lord Marsh’s horses. The mare
lunged to catch her footing. Her bucking jarred a pistol shot loose from her rider.
All the outlaws ducked at the sound of the gun crack except Connor.
By the time you heard the shot, it was too late. Connor had been shot at enough
times to know that. His nerves were steely enough not to flinch.
The white mare plunged down the steep embankment, twisted and threw her
gallant young rider over the side, sending him rolling down under the bridge into the
stream.
Up the road, just where the trees cleared, four matched horses screamed, rearing.
The driver roared. Lord Marsh’s carriage bristled guns from every window.
The four horses, brought under rein, dragged the carriage round in a wide turn, the
wheels digging ruts in the meadow grass. At the crack of a whip, the horses leapt
ahead, dragging the carriage back onto the road, then off the way they had come.
Connor spied two figures dropping out of the carriage at the turn, not by accident.
Those two would be Lord Marsh’s soldiers coming out to hunt for their master’s
assailants.
“This balls up everything.” Connor climbed up over the bank, staying low to the
ground so his silhouette would not betray him to the hunters. He sighted where the
young aristocrat lay unhorsed, facedown in the streambed.
“Get him!” Connor ordered, while Connor himself moved up the rise, his two
pistols aimed toward the advancing soldiers.
Rory scrambled into the streambed to pull the young man’s face out of the water,
because the young man was not doing it for himself. The aristocrat’s fine white mare,
much the wiser, was running as if chased by wolves.
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Name of a Wolf
At the flash of white, Lord Marsh’s two soldiers turned around to follow the mare.
Apparently they could not see that she carried no rider.
Rory and Hugh dragged the young man up the slope by the collar of his elegant
blue wool jacket. Connor edged down the bank and took charge of the fallen man. He
commanded the others, “I have this one. Those two will be coming back.” He gestured
toward Lord Marsh’s soldiers, who were still chasing the mare. “Get yourselves out of
here fast. I’m right behind.”
* * * * *
David Blackleigh floated up to consciousness, only vaguely aware of a rolling ride
on the back of a very large horse. The wind was cold. His head was wet. His cheek
rested against the rough coat on a man’s broad back. His arms were around the man,
locked there by a strong hand which pinned both his wrists fast against a hard chest.
As the path turned, he glimpsed other horses far ahead of them, drawn out like
beads on a string. They were passing through wild lands of high rocks and wind-
contorted trees.
He may have passed out again.
Next he knew, he was sliding off the back of the towering horse into strong arms.
The horse nodded its great head. It was a huge animal, brown with a thick crested neck
like a draft beast or the kind of steed that carried knights of old into battle wearing full
armor. Its hooves were as big as David’s face.
Someone small and pale took the horse’s reins, turned with a passing glint of corn
silk hair in the moonlight and led the animal away.
The big man carried David like a bride through a door into warmth and firelight,
then dropped him unceremoniously onto something cushioned.
The deep crumbling voice above him sounded sardonic, “Falleen, can you patch up
the highwayman?”
The big man’s footsteps stalked away. David heard him shrugging a coat off,
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shaking it and hanging it on a hook.
A woman with a sweet voice cried, “What happened?” A feminine rustle of skirts
drew near with a scent of lavender. Without opening his eyes, David guessed this was
Falleen.
The big man paced the wooden floor with brooding footfalls, not answering her,
only muttering, “What a cockup.”
Men’s voices conferred in low murmurs somewhere across the wide room while
deft feminine hands pulled off David’s wet jacket and shirt.
The woman fit a heavy rough-knit woolen sweater over David’s head, like dressing
a jointed doll. David was no help at all. His head hurt and he felt drunk.
Someone else came near where David lay. A different female voice sounded above
him, hard and bright as a bell, “Oh, is he pretty!”
Falleen pulled the sweater down over David’s wide, well-muscled chest.
The big man paced back to him. “What do we have here?” David felt a nudge like a
knee at the side of his pallet.
Falleen’s gentle hand moved damp hair from David’s brow. Her cool fingers
carefully lifted his eyelids.
David saw an ageless face with luminous gray eyes peering into his. Very fine lines
etched in Falleen’s skin suggested she might be older than she seemed. She looked
angelic and gentle as a doe. Her brows drew close together. Falleen turned her face
away from him and called, “Uh, Connor?” David heard dismay in her voice.
David’s eyelids fluttered. A shadow fell across him.
Falleen rose up. The big man took her place at his side. His scent identified him as
the man who had carried David in here. He smelled of wood smoke and forest air,
leather and masculinity. His weight on the pallet made it dip and creak. Large hands,
rough-skinned and warm, took David’s face with a firm, surprisingly gentle touch.
His thumbs lifted the lids from David’s eyes and revealed to David an astonishing
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Name of a Wolf
face close to his.
Connor.
Breathtaking, raw, handsome, Connor was altogether male. His face was several
days past a shave. The rough stubble looked seductive on him. His thick brown hair
was tied back in short tail, though two locks had got free of the tie and curled loosely on
his brow.
He was a big man, mightily built, exuding enormous sexuality.
The man had several years and a few lifetimes on David. He had the look of a man
who had seen and done everything and was capable of more. There was a great depth
of sensuality in his soft lips. His extraordinary eyes—eyes of winter blue—were hooded
with melting intensity, studying David’s face. There was surprise and worry in his gaze.
Sounding oddly tentative, Connor asked, “What color are your eyes, laddie?” The
coarsely textured voice touched David deep inside like a sexual caress.
David wondered dully why Connor asked, as he was looking right into his eyes.
David answered, “Blue.”
Connor let out a puff of air like a small snort through his nostrils. His brows gave a
slight lift. “You think so?” Apparently Connor begged to differ.
In fact, David’s eyes were two wide round smoky black disks of pupil, eclipsing his
irises.
“Don’t close them,” Connor ordered. David closed his eyes.
The seated weight lifted from the pallet. David heard Conner stalk a few paces
away and collect his coat from its hook.
David drifted off toward sleep. It must have been only an instant. “You’ve done
yourself grand, you have.” Connor spoke above him, decisive “You’ve taken a crack on
the head. And do you not deserve it? Nevertheless, up you go.”
Connor’s big hands slid under David’s arms and hauled him up to a sitting
position. David listed forward to rest his cheek on Connor’s broad shoulder. He just
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wanted to sleep. “Lay me down,” he mumbled.
“Not now, sweetheart, I don’t know your name,” Connor murmured in that warm
crumbling voice and lifted him off the couch up to his feet. “We are walking.”
David tried to take a step, lost his balance and wove into the man. Conner was solid
as a wall, taller than David, and David was not short man. An arm like an iron band
held him upright, turned him face forward and forced him to walk. David’s head lolled.
“Let me sleep.”
“No, laddie. You sleep now, you will not wake again. Do you hear me?” The voice
was soft but deadly stern. “You have a concussion. Either that or you have been
smoking strange weeds and you don’t smell of it.” Connor kicked a door open with his
booted foot and navigated him over the worn threshold.
Outside was cold, the ground uneven. Connor walked him on a rough path
alongside piled stones and the ruins of ancient walls.
“Now, laddie,” said Connor. “What are ye called?”
David mumbled, “Not.”
“I cannot hear you.”
“‘M not telling you,” said David.
“You’d best tell me or I’ll just make something up and I promise you will not like
it.”
“David. David Blackleigh.”
“A fine aristocratic name you have there, Davy. For a highwayman.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, about that. Tell me why is a fine young high blood shooting at my mark?”
Memory of what he had been about penetrated his muzzy senses and David
opened his eyes. He had gone out to kill Lord Marsh. He lifted his head. “Did I hit
him?”
“No. His lordship is well, and no doubt he thanks you for your inquiry. You
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Name of a Wolf
mucked that up just grand, laddie.”
David suddenly had the sense to be frightened. “Are you the lord’s guards?”
Conner threw back his head and laughed, a clear no in the laugh. “Your mare
wisely chucked you under the bridge where we found you before Lord Marsh’s soldiers
could collect you.”
David’s head drooped back down, rested on Connor’s shoulder. “What are you?”
“Ah. You are the one talking just now, Mister Blackleigh. Or would you rather tell it
to the High Lord?”
Davy leaned forward, spat.
“Was that for me, Davy?”
“For the High Lord.”
“Well, that was my boot you hit.”
David mumbled something like, “Sorry.”
David drifted out of consciousness. Connor brought him back in quickly with a
jostle.
“Wake up. We’re singing, Davy, my man. Join me. I want to hear you. I’m not
walking a corpse about.”
David Blackleigh did not feel like singing. He could not say how much he did not
feel like singing. But this Connor was not a force ever to be denied. David mumbled his
way through several tavern songs. Connor’s strong voice carried the tune.
The night was clear with icy stars and a ring around the moon. A few night voices
sounded in the wild grasses.
The moon had crossed the sky when at last Connor circled him back to the outlaws’
lair. The wooden door, set in jumbled stones in a cliff face, looked like a door to
nowhere. The place looked utterly derelict from without. The door opened and David
managed to walk over the threshold mostly under his own power. Inside was
roughhewn, clean, warm and light from the fieldstone hearth.
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By now almost everyone else was gone from the room, which appeared to be some
kind of common hall. Falleen was still there, seated at a tall loom at the hearthside. She
rose as Connor and David came in.
Connor stood David on own feet and stepped back to see if he would stay vertical.
“My head hurts,” said David.
“I’m not surprised,” said Connor. He drew in close to study David’s face. David
kept his eyes open, mesmerized by Connor’s face, his amazing lips, the handsome scruff
on his jaw. David felt he was falling into those extraordinary eyes.
David put out a hand to Connor’s wide chest to catch himself from swaying into
him again. Connor took David’s head between his hands and tilted his face up. David
melted into the warm strength of that touch. A sexual stirring moved his cock.
Connor critically studied his eyes, his breath hot on David’s wind-chilled face.
Connor gave a slight nod and made a sound of satisfaction. “Well hang me, they are
blue.”
Falleen gave David something stinking to drink. The smell got rid of his hard-on.
He held the mug for himself. The drink had an acrid taste but it felt good going down,
as if it were something he needed. One look at Falleen and he knew she would not
poison him. He was so weary he bobbled the mug passing it back to her. She caught it.
And Connor caught him. He hadn’t realized he was collapsing until Connor was
lifting him up in his arms without effort. David’s arms looped around Connor’s neck
without thinking. Connor carried him through a door into the dark and down a
corridor. He pushed through another doorway, dropped him on a simple bed in a plain
room and left.
David fell asleep and dreamed of a man.
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Name of a Wolf
Chapter Two
David woke with a fuzzy ache. Daylight showed behind his closed eyelids.
The dream had been a strong one, hot and wet.
He opened his eyes in a strange place. He wondered now how much of last night
been dream and how much real. Events of yesterday came back to him with sinking
loss, anger, sorrow and emptiness as he realized they were all horribly true. The life he
knew was over.
His memories were clear up until his wait for Lord Marsh on the bridge. He knew
that had gone wrong and remembered that he’d got off a pistol shot. He’d gone sailing
off his horse. Most of his memories following that had to be a dream.
The room he woke in was plain as a servant’s quarters. A thick glass window in the
ceiling let in the light. He was wearing a scratchy wool sweater like a fisherman. The
crisp muslin of the bedding was not soft, but it was clean.
His jacket and shirt hung on a hook. They were dry now, so he took off his
borrowed wool sweater and put his own clothes on.
A highly polished copper reflector in a lamp served as a mirror. His facial hair had
always been fine and slow to appear so he did not look quite like a brigand yet. A
luridly colored lump had risen on his brow. His coal black hair was a nest. He
unsnarled the black ribbon from it and combed out his locks with his fingers and tied it
back again. He looped his white silk scarf around his neck. And there he was, David
Blackleigh, a little ragged, but still very fine with ivory skin, thick dark eyelashes over
brilliant blue eyes, bold cheekbones and full indulgent lips.
He stepped out to a narrow corridor walled with stone and moved toward the
sound of voices. A line of light shone under a wooden door. The sounds and smells of a
convivial breakfast came from the other side. He drew the door open.
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He stood in the doorway to the common hall. He had been here last night. Walls,
ceiling beams, floor were all made of yellow woods, maple, pine and poplar. There
were no windows. The light came from skylights and from the fieldstone hearth that
took up one side. None of the many candles were lit at this hour.
A man turned from the long rustic table where seven rough commoners sat sharing
a meal. “Well, there he is.”
“He lives,” said another.
“Have some brew,” one offered.
“Who the hell are you?” David demanded. “How could you let Lord Marsh go?”
“Easy, Mister Blackleigh.”
Immediately suspicious, David snapped, “How do you know my name?”
“You told us,” said one.
Another said, “You had a very large hand in that fiasco last night, so don’t go
popping off on us.”
“What is this place?”
“Why don’t you wait for Connor to explain it all to you. He’s better at that.”
Connor. David remembered the name of his vision. He’d thought Connor had to be
someone he made up in a fevered dream.
Falleen turned out to be real as well. She was very tall for a woman, built like a
willow. Her hair was silvery white and flowed past her shoulders. She brought him a
mug of something better smelling than last night’s brew. Being contrary, David
resolved that he would not drink in hell. But he could not be rude to gentle Falleen, so
he took the mug and just held it in his hands.
And this was not really hell. The room had been very companionable until he
walked in.
A shorter younger woman clad in trousers got up from the table. She tromped to
the outer door with a farmer’s tread and leaned out, yelling, “Connor, his lordship
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Name of a Wolf
wakes!” Hers was the same bright voice that had called him pretty last night.
In moments, Connor filled the doorway.
Merciful God.
Connor was real, a big man, seeming even bigger for the sheer force of his presence.
He entered like he owned the place and the others reacted as if he owned it too, even
the one or two who seemed to resent the truth.
David found himself staring at Connor’s mouth, the enigmatic expression on it,
intrigued and guarded. His lips looked soft.
It scared David how he felt. He would show none of that. He drew himself up tall
in bluff defiance, demanding, “What are you?”
“I am the leader of this merry band of rogues,” Connor answered in a quiet rolling
lilt, mischief in the eyes of winter blue.
A loud harrumph from the table greeted that pronouncement and the one whom
the others called Rory squared his very broad shoulders and rephrased Connor’s title
for him, “First among equals.”
“Very well,” Connor said easily with a nod to the strapping, clean-shaven
woodsman Rory. “I’m more the little guy in one of your fancy little racing boats on the
river who makes everyone row together.”
“The coxie.” That came out of David’s mouth before he intended to speak. The
word had a bad effect in this company. Rowing was an aristocratic sport.
“Knew you’d know what that little man was called,” said Connor. “Cox’n.”
Katie in a la-tee-dah voice commented aside to Rory, “Must be coxie to his friends.”
“What are you about?” said David.
“We are outlaws,” said Connor, careless as you please. “Same question to you.”
David hesitated. When these outlaws discovered there would be no ransom for
him, they would kill him.
The door opened, saving David from answering. The others greeted the man by
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name—Segeff—as Segeff came in carrying a load on his shoulder. Segeff unrolled a cord
of firewood by the hearth. When he stood up, he asked, “Connor, did you kill them?”
“Kill who?” said Connor.
“Marsh’s two soldiers back at the bridge last night.”
“No,” said Connor. “I’m not going to trade two lives for less than no reason.”
The words struck David as strange coming from an outlaw.
“No reason?” said Segeff. “They would have killed us quick enough if they’d seen
us.”
“They didn’t see us,” said Connor. “They needn’t die.”
“Wouldn’t have hurt anything,” Segeff grumbled.
“Don’t turn into one of them, Segeff,” said Connor softly.
“As if I could! As if I could ever be one of his kind!” That part was aimed at David,
who was quite bewildered. The venom sounded personal.
David squinted at the one they called Segeff, a wiry, scruffy, dark-haired,
thoroughly common sort. “Do I know you?”
“How could you possibly, ‘crat,” Segeff spat.
“I have seen you,” David said, trying to place him, which was a little difficult,
because David had never paid much attention to the faces of commoners. But there was
something familiar in the dark eyes, the broken nose.
Segeff’s dark hawkish eyes flicked back and forth. He shook his head. “That would
be someone else you wiped your boot on.”
David returned to the obvious leader. “What kind of outlaw are you?” he asked
Connor.
“I’m the one whose plans you hashed with your wretched excuse for an attack last
night. I might have thrashed you for that, if you hadn’t done it so well to yourself.”
Connor’s hand brushed David’s temple, just to the side of the very sore lump. “That’s a
beauty.”
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Name of a Wolf
The words nettled, but Connor’s voice and his touch scattered David’s wits.
“He’s so pretty,” said Katie with a cagey smile. “Not yet twenty-one, I suspect.”
“I am twenty-four,” David declared.
Katie winked at Connor, who winked back.
Katie had got him to say his age. And David had meant to tell these rogues nothing.
“Of an age to take your portion, are you now, laddie,” said Connor. “So why are
you out on the north stone bridge with a pistol?”
“What have you done with my pistol?” It came out like an accusation and David
supposed he meant it to be one.
Katie, miffed, brought his pistol forth. She rapped it down on the table. Someone—
probably Katie—had cleaned it and oiled it nicely. “Dragged it out of the creek for ye.
You’re most welcome, your lordship.” She tugged at the sides of her canvas trousers
and bobbed a very curt curtsey.
David went silent.
“Let me make up a story, as Mister Blackleigh does not care to tell one,” said
Connor. “Once upon a time, a young gentleman, upon coming of age, attempted to take
his inheritance only to find it already snatched away by a certain Lord Marsh by some
sleight of law. The end.”
David thought Connor had read his mind. But then, he supposed after that scene on
the bridge and once Katie got out his age as twenty-four, the rest fell into place.
Segeff was cackling. “Do you mean if his father lived ‘til now, this one would have
his land? He’d still be a ‘crat?”
David grew irate. “That is funny?”
Segeff did not stop laughing.
David reached for his pistol. Connor’s hand came down like a great paw, pinning
David’s hand to the table short of the pistol. He said to Segeff, “It’s not for laughing.”
“He’s one of us now,” said Segeff. “I do think it’s a little funny.”
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“I am highborn!” David declared.
“How clever of you,” said Connor softly. “How did you manage that?”
“God decides one’s birth.”
“Oh well, then, fear not for your inheritance, laddie. God will do what He wills
with you and your things. Good day to you.” Connor removed his hand from atop
David’s and sat himself down at the table. He leaned back in his chair and nodded
David away. “There is the door.”
David stood stock-still. He was not to be ransomed or killed. He had nowhere to go.
It took everything he had to admit, “I sound like a perfect idiot.”
Falleen nodded at her loom, agreeing with him, her face placid.
“Aye.” Connor kicked out the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
David sat across from Connor.
“Let us begin anew. What were you doing on the bridge, my fine young
gentleman?”
“Killing Lord Marsh.”
Connor nodded approval. “A worthy undertaking. But I would know why.”
“My father passed recently,” David began, his hand clasped on the table.
Connor interrupted, “I am sorry. Not an easy passage for any man.” He nodded for
him to go on.
David opened his hands, stared into their emptiness. “It was some kind of
apoplexy, though he had not been ill. He died intestate.”
“Wha’s that?” Katie broke in. “Don’t he have testicles?”
“Means there was no will,” Connor murmured to Katie.
“When there is no will, the estate goes to the High Lord for apportionment,” said
David. “The High Lord awarded my father’s estate, the Blackleigh, to Lord Marsh
instead of to me. And Marsh refused to give it back when I asked. Had my father
named me his heir in a legal writing, there would be no problem with the inheritance.
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My father did not make a will. He was in good health and the thought of writing one
was morbid to him as it was to me. I was near to age of taking. Who thought I would
ever be separated from Blackleigh? And there, as you say, by sleight of law, go my
father’s lands.”
“Is this where I weep?” said Rory, glaring from under too-long bangs.
“Enough,” said Connor, softly, but there was great weight in his quiet word. He
was much more than the coxswain here. He was the one who speaks and all cannot help
but listen.
David said, “You were at the bridge when I attacked Lord Marsh’s carriage.”
“When you tried,” said Connor. “You never got close.”
“Why were you there?”
“We meant to kill him, same as you,” said Katie.
“Only we would have got the job done if you hadna got in the way,” said Connor.
“You are murderers as well as thieves?” David asked.
“Thieves, on occasion. But murderers? I don’t think so and neither do you. An eye
for an eye. A life for a life. We are not domestic cattle to be slaughtered as some titled
head pleases. Lord Marsh does not respect life. We’ve lost all respect for his. What we
do here, Davy, is we live. We defend our own. It’s a pack of wolves, if you will.”
And no doubt Connor was the dominant wolf in this pack.
The mention of wolves dislodged some misplaced memories. By slow blinks,
David’s midnight walk with Connor around the ruins came back to him. He
remembered walking past the tumbled stones and the weathered engraving of a cross.
And old stories came back to him of wolves and cloisters. The Wolves of Craiglaren.
The Horror at Craiglaren. Stories of a haunted abbey where dwelled a breed of ravening
wolf folk.
The wolf kind had all burned to death in the abbey at the hand of Saint Randall, so
said the legend. That was all back centuries ago, in the age when the witches known as
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the Merowidd held power. Those folk were gone now too, if they had ever existed at all.
The abbey part of the tale was real. So was the fire. The Abbey at Craiglaren had
actually burned down. A mudslide left its ruins buried, cursed and abandoned. The
abbey was now a haunted labyrinth of underground cloisters and catacombs out in the
wild lands.
David and the outlaws had ridden through wild lands last night.
David gave a start. “This is the abbey! This is Craiglaren!”
“Aye,” said Connor.
The wooden walls, the floors, the ceiling were all new facings set over buried stone.
That was why all the windows were in the roof.
Connor said, “How do you feel about a life as an outlaw, Davy?”
David decided quickly. “When the law turns on you, what else can you be?”
“Wha? Are we keeping this mutt then?” said Segeff, food in his mouth.
Connor spoke, rising, “Well, someone needs to teach him how to keep hold of his
pistol.”
Connor took his coat from the hook and strode out the door.
David followed him with his eyes. He spoke after he was gone, “He’s a bit of a
bastard, isn’t he?”
“Uh. Not really,” said Katie.
“No. Not at all,” said Rory.
“Then it’s just me.”
Segeff said, “Just you and the other ‘crats.”
David gave a twist of a smile. “Is that it? You cannot bear aristocrats. Then I give
you joy. I am now as common as—” He stopped, but not in time.
“Common as what?” said Segeff. “Common as what? As dirt? Common as us?”
Another outlaw, the solid-looking one who put David in mind of a bear, took over
20
Name of a Wolf
the introductions. “The commoner there is Segeff. I am Bernard. There is Rory.”
Rory touched his knuckle to his forelock in a kind of salute.
“I think you’ve met Falleen. This is our Katie.”
Katie performed a sitting curtsey with a lilt of her head.
“Leann lives in the stables. She’ll only talk to the horses, so don’t take it personal if
she don’t talk to you.”
David thought he recalled the pale wisp of a girl darting into the stables. He had
thought her a woodland spirit or something he had imagined in his delirium.
“There’s Hugh,” Bernard nodded at probably the oldest man in the room.
“Terrel.” Probably the youngest.
“Arven.” A lank, loose-jointed straw-haired young scarecrow escaped from his
post.
“And Lorens.”
All in all, a tough lot, David thought. There was not one of them who could not
literally pull his or her own weight.
Bernard was done with the introductions. It was David’s turn. “And I am Davi—”
He stopped himself. Restarted, “Davy. I am just Davy. I don’t think I can lay claim
to the name Blackleigh.”
* * * * *
So this was Craiglaren. Davy gazed upon the mostly buried jumble of stones that
were the ruins of the abbey.
Centuries ago, wolves who walked as men roamed these hills. They stole into town
to snatch children and to kill men.
In some of the stories, the creatures were wolves like any others. In some stories,
they were men who were as vicious as wolves.
In some stories, they were man-wolves.
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Jez Morrow
They were all gone now. Supposedly.
Then Davy saw a moving shadow.
He had gone out well away from the abbey to relieve himself before bed. He was
passing between forest and moor on his way back when he saw the shape among the
trees. It had peaked ears, weirdly reflecting eyes and a brush tail.
It was a big shape.
Davy froze. The apparition did not waver. The shiny eyes seemed to be very
deliberately watching him.
Davy’s mouth felt rough as dried stones.
All those stories of the infamous killer wolves of Craiglaren came back to him in
that moment.
He had thought the wolves were all dead, killed in the abbey fire set by Saint
Randall.
Saint Randall may have missed one.
Casually and confidently as he could, Davy continued back toward the abbey. He
had his pistol with him, but his father had drummed it into him never ever to fire at
what he could not see. He carried himself tall and made his stride forthright, letting his
boot heels clack loudly on the stones to show himself as too much for a wolf to tangle
with.
Then his thoughts strayed to his own hunting dogs back at Blackleigh and it
occurred to him that he was too much for a wolf unless there was a pack behind it.
The blood drained from his face.
Holy God and Saint Randall, don’t let there be a pack!
He quit glancing over his shoulder. He kept up his soldierly march, his shoulders
wide and proud.
He was afraid he broke into a run the last twenty yards to the abbey door.
22
Name of a Wolf
* * * * *
“Have you ever seen a wolf around here?” Davy asked Katie in the work shed next
morning. His fear seemed silly now.
“Aye,” said Katie, pulling on dirt-encrusted leather gloves. “I do sometimes.”
It was not the answer Davy wanted to hear.
“Not well,” Katie added. “It don’t come nigh when we’re out. Good thing, ‘cause
it’s bloody big. Arven didna believe me, even after I showed him its tracks. Falleen
willna let the men hunt it. She’s an odd one, Falleen. She didna grow up on a farm,
that’s for sure. Honey.” Katie planted her hands on her hips, set her foot to tapping and
pushed her chin forward as if addressing the absent Falleen, “It’s a wolf! But—” Katie
tilted her head as if reconsidering. “The beastie never hurts the horses and it has never
taken a goat. Nah. Not so much as a hen. So.” Katie shrugged. “Maybe there’s a spell on
it. How are you feeling today, Davy?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
“Do not be thanking me,” Katie grinned gathering up garden tools. “I ain’t being
polite. I mean to use you. Oh. Those shoes are no good.” She squinted at his feet. “Are
those buckles silver? Take ‘em off. Here.” She pulled a pair of work boots from a row
and pushed them at him, then a spade and a burlap sack and she led him out to the
garden to dig up potatoes.
He found no wolf prints in the garden mud.
It had been a long time since Davy had thought or heard of the wolves of
Craiglaren or of the dread magical beings called the Merowidd.
His mum had died when he was still quite young. Of things magical, he
remembered potions and candles and prayers and incantations in the house while his
mother was failing. She died in spite of all the enchantments, and after she was gone, all
the totems and charms landed in the rubbish.
Magic, his father told him, was the delusion of helpless and desperate people.
Vapor and wishes, he said. Nothing more in it.
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Davy had not heard of the wolves or witches from his father. Father was an
educated, enlightened man. He never told such stories. Davy had heard the stories from
many other folk, for they were oft-told tales. Father was not pleased that Davy dragged
the stories home like a proud cat bearing dead mice.
Craiglaren is not cursed, his father said.
“Then why does no one live there?” young Davy had asked.
“They all left after the abbey burned.”
“But why did all the people leave?”
“Not because the land is cursed!” Father had insisted. “The folk left because the
land is rock! A man can’t stab a spade into that earth without hitting a stone. You cannot
plow. Nothing grows in Craiglaren except what’s sown by the wind. It’s that sort of bad
land. Not wicked. Wickedness requires men.”
“What of the Merowidd?” Davy had asked next. Ghastly beings the Merowidd were
said to be.
“Now those were men,” his father said. “Wicked men. Wanderers. And it’s
probably from them that the wolves in your tall tales came to stand on two legs.”
“You mean there really were wolf men!” young Davy gasped.
“No!” Father had become vexed. “I mean the stories of wild wolves got mixed up
with stories of the Merowidd, who were a very foul lot. A foul lot of men. They had no
magic, mind you. Only evil. All the hocus-pocus part of the tale came from the same pot
of peasant slop as the wolf men. It was a dark ignorant age and folks did not use their
reason. Those were stories to frighten children and ignorant commoners. Don’t be an
ignorant peasant!
“There is an order to the world. If you drop a thing, it falls down. Not up. Never
up. Things are what they are. A man is not a wolf and there are no such things as
witches. Never were. Do not let anyone ever gull you.
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Name of a Wolf
“Let no one sell you power in a stone or love in a bottle. Never try to get something
done by wishing. Use your back, use your hands, use your brain.” Davy could still feel
his father tap on his forehead as if he were trying to push the sense into it. “You are not
a stupid peasant.”
Stupid peasant, Father had said as if those were one word.
Father had been wrong there. Davy’s all-knowing, immensely wise father could err.
Not all peasants were stupid. And God knew all nobles were not wise.
* * * * *
After Davy had healed from his fall over the bridge, Connor took him on his first
raid as a member of the pack. They started out just after dinner as the sun—had there
actually been one this day—would be nearing the western horizon.
Davy looked round as he put on the boots Katie had given him and a woolen coat
another outlaw had given him. “Is no one else coming?”
“The first time out is always with me,” said Connor, opening the door. “You’re
dangerous. And they’ve seen your work.”
“Not my fault. I have never heard of a trip rope,” said Davy.
“But you see, we all know what a trip rope is.”
They were both dressed in wool. There would be no staying dry this night. “The
wool will keep you warm even when you’re soaked to the skin,” Connor told him. “No,
do not carry your pistol. You’re a menace with that. And the muzzle fire will just give
away your position, if it fires at all. We’re getting wet.”
Closing the door behind him, Davy turned his face up to the pelting raindrops.
“You picked a hell of a night.”
“Because I want to live to see the end of it,” said Connor. “Only a lunatic would
come out in this, do you think?”
“Aye.”
“This foray could be a little tricky because this is the third time we’ve done this one.
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They may be guarding against us this time.”
Connor informed Davy that they were paying a visit to a squire who had dammed
off the crofters’ water for the third time. The crofters who lived down in the hollow
needed the water for their crops and their livestock. “We are taking the dam apart
again.”
Connor warned him they would be several hours getting to the dam on foot. This
was no kind of track for horses.
This was no track at all.
Night had fallen quite some time ago. David had no idea how many hours passed
because there were no stars to steer by. He could scarcely see Connor in front of him.
When they entered the forest, he could not see anything. He held onto the back of
Connor’s coat and walked blind. Connor warned him of logs and holes as they moved
ahead.
The last part of their trek had them wading to the dam through a newly created
marsh.
There they set themselves to pulling up the rocks and logs that held the water back
from its natural course. It was dark, wet, muddy business.
A current started to swirl around Davy’s legs as parts of the dam gave way. It got
harder to keep his footing.
Davy’s eyes had adjusted to the dark just enough for him to see what he was doing.
And he could see Connor take up enormous logs and hurl them down the incline like
cabers. A magnificent man throwing stout tree trunks made for a stirring sight.
The water was rushing down lively now. The quick current was helping to push the
remaining barriers down. Davy skidded, splashed down on his ass in the flow.
Down the slope he saw a flash of reddish light, then heard the sharp crack of a
gunshot. There were men down below, scrambling up the slope, slipping and shouting.
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Name of a Wolf
Connor threw a rock in the direction of the powder flash. A pained yelp sounded.
“I’m shot!”
Connor snorted, his mouth set in an ironic twist.
Next came the impotent clicking of a gunlock on wet powder. Connor hurled
another stone past the man’s ear. The stone ripped through leaves and passed close to
the gunman’s face. The man fell flat to the wet earth, crying, “They’re shooting!”
Another voice scolded, “No one is shooting! Get them, damn your eyes! Release the
dogs!”
“Time to go,” Connor took Davy’s gloved hand and ran, splashing upstream on
slippery rocks.
Davy glanced back over his shoulder. He saw the moving shapes of wilted-looking
bloodhounds traipsing among the trees, lost.
When the dogs were no longer a threat, Connor climbed out of the stream and led
Davy through the wet forest.
The rain strengthened, falling in a torrent. High winds rocked the treetops.
Davy had never been shot at. That had an unreal quality to it. He couldn’t believe it
happened back there. He had never been chased by dogs. He had committed vandalism
to help common folk he didn’t even know and was running in the dark, in the rain, with
a big outlaw and having the time of his life.
Connor shouted back, “Davy, are you laughing?”
“Not I,” said Davy, laughing.
They were still far from home when Connor told Davy they were stopping for the
night. The temperature was falling, the rain starting to feel icy. Connor led Davy to a
hiding place in a sheltered hollow left by an uprooted tree in a hillside. Rainwater
channeled down on either side of the fallen tree. The thick roots provided a roof.
It was a tight space, scarcely big enough for two, but it was almost dry. Connor and
Davy curled up together, Connor warm at Davy’s back, his arms around Davy.
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Connor fell quickly to sleep.
Davy remained wide awake, listening to the rain and to Connor’s breathing. He
could feel the hard cords of Connor’s thighs under his own. Even relaxed in sleep,
Connor felt powerful. With Davy surrounded in the hardness of Connor’s body, his
heat and his intoxicating male smell, Davy’s cock thickened, stiffened.
Connor’s unshaven face was surprisingly soft against the nape of Davy’s neck.
Connor’s breaths, long and deep in slumber, caressed Davy’s skin. Connor was
dreaming. He nuzzled Davy’s hair. His lips brushed Davy’s neck.
Davy was hard as a rutting stallion.
Through several layers of fabric he became aware of something moving against his
ass, a male bulge hardening against him, growing to daunting size, right where Davy
wanted him to be—except that Davy would wish away all the clothes. Davy was afraid
to breathe, terrified that Connor would wake up and push him away. He didn’t know
who Connor was dreaming of, but he wanted to be that one. Fires leapt in his groin. He
was fully aroused and dared not move.
Connor shifted in his sleep, held Davy closer to his body, pressing that awesome
manhood against his buttocks.
Davy’s eyes went wide. Sleep would not come. But he did.
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Name of a Wolf
Chapter Three
The dawn was old by the time Connor and Davy returned to the abbey.
Segeff looked up from where he lazed by the hearth. “How bad did our delicate
dandy do?”
Connor shrugged, “Well enough.”
Davy was certain he had done better than that. Davy went in to his little chamber to
change into dry clothes. He checked his look in the polished copper. There was an
excited blush on his snowy skin.
He dressed, not sure whose clothes these used to be. The legs and arms were long
enough for him, but wide enough to fit two of him in.
He came back out to the common hall, feeling like a child dressed in his father’s
things. He sat at the table and wrapped his long fingers around a cup of hot he-didn’t-
care-what.
Apparently Connor had given his report of the dam busting, because Katie was
telling Segeff, “Sounds like he’s fitting right in.”
“He didn’t turn into a shriveling violet then?” said Segeff.
Oh, thought Davy, Nothing shriveled last night.
If Segeff thought beauty was the same as delicacy, he was woefully mistaken.
Katie said, “No, I think our Davy has some muscles.” Katie came round to stand
behind him and laid her strong hands on his shoulders. “Ooh yes, he does.”
“From rowing in all those regattas, you know,” said Davy.
“This is like massaging boulders.” Katie leaned over Davy’s shoulder, “So how was
your first time?”
“Wet,” said Davy.
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Connor came out in dry clothes. He hung his wet coat by the hearth.
“What’s next?” Davy asked, game for anything.
Hugh raised his brows at Davy. “Ha! No problems, I take it?”
“No,” said Davy. Then added, “Not as long as I’ve got Connor’s eyes with me.”
And all the rest of Connor.
“Oh we all need Connor’s eyes,” Rory assured him. “Connor’s like a cat.”
Connor drew himself up full height, affronted. “I,” said Connor, “am not a cat.”
* * * * *
Davy went on several raids after that—as a leader now. His latest raid took him to
his own Blackleigh estate. Unlike his first run to take apart the dam, which had been a
mission of mercy, this visit home was to be pure thievery.
Segeff surprised Davy by volunteering for the venture. Segeff never put himself
under Davy’s leadership.
“Why?” Davy asked. “Why the hell would you want to come with me?”
Segeff explained, “I’d love to loot your place.” And he grinned, his stained teeth
unusually straight.
Davy shrugged. “Then come on.” And he seized the opening to ask offhandedly,
“Connor? You want to come too? We’re pillaging.”
Connor said no, as usual.
Davy had not been on a mission with Connor since the first one. Connor never
volunteered to join any raid he put Davy in charge of and he never chose Davy to
accompany him on his own forays. Davy was stung.
It could not be that Connor didn’t trust him. After all, he let him lead.
Could it be that Davy had done too well and Connor saw him only as a leader now?
That explanation sounded weak. Or did he just not want Davy around?
Davy was getting a strong sense that Connor was avoiding him.
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Name of a Wolf
He’d noticed it at breakfasts and at dinners. The gatherings were always fun with a
lot of talk and laughter and Connor was merry, but Davy was never able to get a seat
close to him. The pattern was becoming too strong to be Davy’s imagination.
Upon Davy’s return from the raid on Blackleigh, Connor did join the party on the
floor of the common hall to sort through the take.
Things ended up in one of three piles—things they needed, things other folk could
use and things Segeff could get money for in town.
Katie asked loudly, “Who gets Davy’s ass?”
Out in the stable under Leann’s care was a sweet little jenny ass Davy had liberated
from the Blackleigh stable to help carry their loot away. “Nobody touch my ass,” said
Davy.
The outlaws were full of lewd proposals of what to do with his ass.
“We could sell Davy’s ass,” Bernard suggested.
“How much?” Katie asked brightly, as if interested in buying.
“We could ride his ass,” said Rory.
“You do. You do,” Davy assured him.
“Hey, Davy, you can go kiss your own ass,” said Segeff.
“Yes, you’re all very funny,” Davy rolled with it until they had milked all the jokes
they could and the subject of Davy’s ass was a very dead horse.
Connor said, “The jenny is a useful animal. We’ll keep her.”
Davy was disappointed that Connor had not added any other sort of suggestion of
what he could do with Davy’s ass.
“Connor, you shoulda seen Davy’s place,” said Hugh as he sorted through the
silver. Hugh was not as old as he looked. Life weighed heavily on him, but without
bitterness. His hair was a thinning mouse-brown going early to gray, his face going
early to jowls. A gentle soul, Hugh was. “The house was really nice. Not too
pretending.”
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“Pretentious,” Davy corrected and immediately winced. He had to stop doing that.
“Ah, you’re all right, Davy,” Hugh clapped a hand on his shoulder. “How come
you couldn’t get any of your ‘crat friends to help you keep your place?”
“‘Crat friendship is fairly brittle,” said Davy. “Everyone fears for his own rank and
lands. The High Lord favors those who gouge others for him. Until I came here, I never
knew anyone who took up a battle that wasn’t his own.”
Connor said, “Take care of others and you will have friends when you need them. If
you wait ‘til evil comes for you, it’s too late.” It sounded as if Connor had been on the
bitter end of that lesson and it was something he had learned the hard way.
Katie asked, suddenly curious, “Has anyone ever seen the High Lord?”
The question met with blank expressions.
All the stares turned Davy’s way. Connor’s brows canted upward and prompted,
“Your lordship?”
Davy put up his hands. “I haven’t!” he said, hurt and pissed that Connor would call
him lordship. Davy had thought he was fitting in with the group.
“The High Lord has got to be getting on,” said Hugh. Hugh appeared to be the
oldest of the group, except maybe for the ageless, enigmatic Falleen. “He’s been around
forever and I’ve never heard that he has heirs.”
The High Lord was from the high and mighty House of Esvenold. All bowed before
the exalted name, too sublime for low tongues even to speak. Truth be told, Davy had
never heard of anyone other than the High Lord bearing the name.
“I picture a syphilitic troll,” said Arven, rolling his shoulders forward and cradling
a silver candlestick. “Hunched over his piles of gold.”
“I have been in the High Lord’s bed.”
They all turned and gawked in the direction of the quiet voice—at Falleen.
Even Connor looked astonished.
Falleen spoke distantly, as if reciting a cruel and hideous fairy tale. She told them
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Name of a Wolf
she had been blindfolded with her hands bound for seven days and nights. She
remembered the scents of expensive spices in the room. She never saw the bedchamber.
Her eyes were only uncovered in the gilded splendor of the privy. She described the
rich dresses of her keepers who washed her with perfumed water and sea sponges and
anointed her with oil and brushed her hair. They would tie the black silk around her
eyes again and bind her to the bed for the High Lord’s use.
“On the eighth morning they turned me out to a city street with seven copper coins
in my hand.”
“Did you never see him?” asked Katie, the only one who would dare speak.
Falleen shook her head, moving her silver-white hair on her shoulders. “Strong. He
was very strong. His touch taunting and cruel. He pleased only himself. His hands were
large, not as big as yours, Connor. His hair was fine, so he may be fair-skinned. His
body was hard, his skin was firm, he had all his own teeth, so he was a younger man.
But this was thirty years ago.” She lifted her gentle, ageless face. Her luminous gray
eyes found Connor. “I should like to see him dead.”
Connor put his hand to her face. She leaned her cheek into his palm. He held her
tenderly, cherishing, as if she were the only one in the world. Davy felt jealousy flare
hot and painful even after Falleen’s horrid tale.
Connor spoke, “I shall try to make that happen for you, Falleen.”
Connor collected his coat to go out. He said, “Davy, with me.”
Davy followed him outside, caught up with him. “You care for her,” he said.
Connor’s brows lifted briefly. “Aye, for her. For all of them.”
“And me?”
Connor looked at him, looked away. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Davy had a sensation like quills under his tongue. “Why am I out here?”
Connor started up a rocky rise. “You have a visitor, laddie.”
Davy followed him up the incline, perplexed. He could not possibly have a visitor.
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No one knew he was here. And he was sure no one would care, unless it were the new
master of Blackleigh who might want him dead.
“We can’t catch her,” Connor pointed up the hillock.
The mare’s white head nodded. She shook her bridle vigorously to tell him to take
it off.
“Look at you,” Davy scolded her, smiling. He hiked up the rise. The white mare,
Bridie, let him approach and give her head an insistent jingling shake.
Davy unfastened the bridle, slid it down her nose. She spat the bit at him. He fixed
a loop of reins around her neck and led her down the hillock. “Rough time, Bridie?”
Upon approaching Connor, the mare shied and skipped out to the end of her short
tether, her eyelids pulled back, her nostrils flaring.
Davy spoke, surprised, “She’s afraid of you.” He pulled her back to him and held
her in place.
“Can you blame her?” Connor strolled in and stroked the mare’s face with a sure
calming touch. “Who would want me riding them, hm?”
David swallowed wrong. Coughed.
He held the skittish mare’s head while Connor undid her girth strap. Bridie
stamped impatiently until Connor hefted the saddle from her back at long last.
Bridie allowed the pale girl Leann to lead her inside the stable.
Connor left them rather abruptly. Davy tried not to feel hurt. He stayed in the stable
awhile with his mare, daubing salve on the corners of her mouth.
Leann peered outside the stable door, searching the fields. Davy wondered if she
might not be looking for the wolf that prowled around here. Could that be what had
spooked his mare?
He remembered Katie saying the wolf had not taken so much as a hen.
Davy strode outside, scanning the countryside.
A pheasant rose straight up with a metallic cry in front of him.
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Name of a Wolf
A clutch of guinea fowl pecked placidly among the ruins, hopping rock to rock. The
careless creatures presented easy pickings. Yet the wolf had not taken so much as a
hen—which meant neither had anything else spirited away any of the tame animals.
Nothing hunted the livestock around the abbey.
Why?
Were there no foxes in these hills? No weasels? No hawks? What was stopping
them from carrying off these silly hens?
Maybe the wolf that still haunted this abbey was actually a shepherd dog who had
lost its flock and adopted the abbey. Perhaps it needed something to guard.
Davy returned to the stable. It seemed the Abbey of Craiglaren had a protector.
* * * * *
At breakfast, Connor was choosing people to come with him on a trading run. Davy
volunteered for the last spot on the team before Connor could leave him behind again.
It didn’t help. Connor passed him over anyway.
“Na, na,” Connor murmured, scarcely looking at him, and chose Arven instead.
Davy felt wounded. He tried very hard to keep his expression neutral, but he really
felt as if he’d been stabbed. He couldn’t even pick up his mug, afraid it would tremble
in his hand. He just wanted to be with Connor and he had no idea why Connor was so
cold.
Connor was telling his chosen ones what to wear, what to bring, when to report.
The young scarecrow Arven stuffed a biscuit into his mouth and scrambled off the
bench to collect his gear.
Davy’s ears felt full of cotton wool. He wasn’t imagining this. Connor really was
snubbing him.
When Connor rose from the table and went outside, Davy followed him out.
Connor did not look back.
Davy caught up with Connor’s long strides. He had been rehearsing speeches,
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trying out different openings. Nothing worked. He ended up just shouting at Connor’s
back, “What? What is it? Am I not good enough for you!”
Connor stopped, tilted his head as if hearing an odd sound. He turned and made as
if surprised to find anyone there. “Ah. Our highborn.”
“Is that it?”
“Your words, laddie, not mine.”
“And I ate them. I’ll thank you not to cast them back at me.”
“Very well then, your lordship.” Connor inclined his head in a small bow.
Something broke inside. Probably his heart, but it was easier to pretend it was his
pride.
“Oh that is it!” Davy drew his pistol.
Connor, utterly fearless before a loaded weapon, batted the pistol out of Davy’s
hand with a hard, swift slap. It went flying. He seized Davy’s wrist, hauled him in close
and grabbed him by the scruff of his hair. He radiated a depth of anger Davy had only
ever seen in the wounded. The heat he felt from him was more than anger. And the
tremor he felt inside himself was more than fear and indignity.
“Draw on me?” Connor roared at him so close Davy felt the breaths of his angry
words pelt his lips. “You dog. You cur.”
Still holding Davy’s hair in his fist and dragging him with him, Connor stalked over
to the pistol, picked it out of the dirt. Davy felt the barrel atop his head—not aimed into
his skull, but a threat all the same.
“Have I not told you, you don’t know how to use this? Here, Davy, how do ye
fancy the view?”
Too heartbroken and furious to feel the terror he ought, Davy cried, “I will not
stand to be insulted!”
“And so you shan’t,” Connor conceded and let go of him. His wrath vanished as
quickly as it had blazed. The fight was over. Connor pushed the pistol grip into Davy’s
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Name of a Wolf
hand and walked away.
Davy was not sure what he’d been thinking. Clearly he had not been thinking at all.
He would never have shot Connor, so what made him draw the pistol?
Connor left Davy trembling. And it wasn’t in anger.
* * * * *
Katie came out to the stables with Davy. It was their turn to help Leann clean out
the stalls and put down fresh straw. Talk turned, as it always did, to Connor. Davy
found an opening to ask very casually, “Has Falleen been with him?”
“‘Been with him?’” Katie giggled. “How quaint. Who hasn’t ‘been with’ Connor?”
Me. Davy thought. I haven’t.
Leann peeked around a stall divider and lifted her finger to say Me!
“Leann, you’re a child!” Katie scolded. Then she told Davy, “Conner is such a sweet
rogue. Except that he’s not a rogue. He tells you true it will be but one night and there
will be no kiss in the morning.”
“Women?” Davy could not believe he asked that. His own feelings were branded
on his face now. He’d been trying so very hard to seem nonchalant. As if this were just
idle gossip and Davy didn’t care one way or the other.
I don’t care. And I am not jealous.
Katie did not appear to notice his agony. “Oh hell, everyone. EXCEPT CHILDREN,
LEANN,” Katie raised her voice.
Leann showed her face again to stick her tongue out at Katie, then vanished again.
Katie rattled on, “Connor has a lust for life. You’re looking at me strangely. Yes, I
have ‘been with’ him. One night, but oh, worth it. Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Davy could not speak.
“And it’s not like he’s a hunter. Lovers just throw themselves at him. I did. And he
always catches you. He won’t turn you away. He just won’t be held. It is only once. And
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what a once. He lets you lead him to your bed, but he won’t stay there. You wake up
and he’s good as his word. Gone.” She sighed.
Davy tried to phrase his next questions as glib and bored as he could, “Why is there
not an angry mob of jilted lovers hunting him down along with the royals?”
“Because he tells you plain he’s a faithless bastard. And he keeps his word. How
can you stay angry at him?” Katie gave a secretive fond smile, smiling at memories
Davy didn’t have.
Davy could not get himself alone fast enough. He hauled a wheelbarrow of rubbish
out of the stables, dumped it and ran around the ruins. He leaned back against a stone
wall, reeling from a pain that had no fixed place. It just lodged under his heart and
burned everywhere.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He felt hot and cold. Chilled and burning. Shaking.
How the revelation had shocked him. How naïve he was! The man was free and
easy as a wild dog. Shameless.
And just why should he not be?
Davy envied Connor for that even as he hated him for it. Should a man not love as
he willed, free as a dog, tied to no one?
Davy’s heart was fixed on one. He was fixed on one who had affection for
everyone, just not for you, David Blackleigh.
He could not change how he felt. But Davy would be damned if he would throw
himself at Connor. He wanted him and only him. It was no help that Connor would not
turn him away. The very thought of asking made his mouth go sour and his heart grow
still in his chest.
He could not lay himself open. Could not give Connor more of himself than he
already had—which was just about all of him.
He could not bear to be near him, could not bear the wanting, could not bear this
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feeling so very small.
He had to leave.
In the morning he would just gather up the shreds of his pride and go.
Early, before breakfast when Connor wasn’t there, Davy announced in the common
hall that he was parting company. He had quickly grown accustomed to the warmth of
this room, the light on the yellow wood, the people in it. He was going to miss it, miss
them. He waited for a taunt. Too good for us, your lordship?
No insults came his way. His companions were sorry. They wished him well. The
women fretted over him. “You’re such a pretty man, young Davy. Must you go?” said
Katie, fixing his silk neck cloth, her eyes glistening, while Falleen packed him food.
Falleen spoke some sort of charm over him in an ancient tongue and placed a talisman
around his neck. “For strength,” she said and kissed his forehead.
Segeff—count on Segeff to wish him good riddance—said sourly, “You’re going
back to your ‘crat life, then?”
“Of course not. I can’t.” He heard that come out wrong and tried to take it back, “I
would not, even if I could.”
Rory gave a harrumph. “Then good journey to you.”
Hugh made sure he had a flint, Lorens an iron skillet for cooking, Arven a stout
blanket for the nights and Bernard saddlebags to carry what he needed.
“But where will you go?” said Terrel, who seldom said anything.
“I don’t know.”
“Where is Connor!” Katie cried. “You must say farewell to Connor! He will miss
you sorely!”
“Connor will live,” said Davy. He had to get out of here before he saw Connor.
Connor could just kiss his jenny.
When Davy made it outside, he found the pale barn spirit Leann had Bridie saddled
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and bridled and she was kissing the white mare goodbye. Shyly, Leann gave Davy a
going away present—oats for the horse.
“She thanks you and so do I,” Davy told Leann and mounted his mare.
Bridie took a dance step sideways, shying. Davy looked around.
There he was, standing at the door, watching him. Connor’s brows were drawn up
in the center. His face was expressive and Davy could see many thoughts moving on
it—unfortunately, they were speaking a language he didn’t know. Connor’s voice
sounded low and crumbling. “Davy.”
His name on Connor’s lips penetrated like a private touch. He felt the voice inside
him and stroking.
“Please come here.”
Davy steeled himself. As if sheering off a piece of himself to get free, he said, “Fare
thee well, Connor.”
Davy touched heels to his white horse.
* * * * *
Davy existed in a haze of loneliness. Missing Connor was like an open wound that
refused to heal. It just ached all the time. How could he miss so sorely what he never
had?
He just felt gutted, with no hope or purpose in the world. It was a sickness that only
time could heal and time had just stopped.
The days themselves were gray. They passed one after the other without showing
the sun.
He’d made camp on the ridge this last night. He rose with the sun, which finally
chose to appear this morning. He packed up his gear. He was making sure his fire was
completely dead before he moved on when Bridie whinnied and pawed the ground, her
ears flat back.
Two riders approached at a trot along the ridge from the pine forest where he was
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headed. As the men drew passing close, Davy nodded a greeting up to them on the
path.
One man passed his reins to the other rider while he himself dismounted and,
without a word, untethered Bridie from the scrub thorn and mounted her.
Davy rushed at him with a shout. He grasped at Bridie’s reins, trying to wrest them
from the thief’s hands.
The man’s boot hit him hard in the face, knocking him to the ground.
The three horses fled at full gallop. The laughter of men carried back on the wind.
Davy picked himself up. He gazed up at the wide sky, his thoughts a gray whirl.
For several moments he just stared at the cruel beauty of the wild lands.
Now. Now you have reason to despair. He had no flint, no pistol, no cooking pot, no
horse, no food, no water. Now you are allowed to feel miserable.
He started walking forward because he could not go back. Now he truly had
nothing but his pride.
Faintly at first, the sound of hoofbeats from behind him pushed into his awareness.
He whirled, ready to ask the thieves if they forgot to take his coat.
But it was Bridie, riderless, cantering back along the ridge, her laden saddlebags
flapping at her sides.
Davy heard more hooves on the wind than just hers. He thought the brigands must
be chasing her.
He ran out to meet Bridie, caught her head, kissed her nose and glanced down the
ridge path in the direction of the hoofbeats to see how close his pursuers were.
There was only one horseman coming, astride a great brown warhorse.
Davy froze where he was, holding Bridie’s head. Connor grew larger as he closed
the distance between them. Davy felt the impact of the stallion’s mammoth hooves
through the ground.
Connor made a cavalryman’s dismount, swinging his leg up over the horse’s neck
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to jump down facing outward. He strode forward, wind-tousled and bloody-knuckled.
He thundered at Davy as he stalked at him, “You damn silly girl.”
He seized Davy by the back of his coat collar and dragged him in against him.
Those great arms surrounded him, held him close, one hand behind his head holding it
captive. His lips grazed Davy’s temple, his hair. Connor was a devastating power, yet
he felt to be holding on for dear life.
Connor.
Frightened.
Davy was dazed and trying to freeze this instant forever. Connor’s great chest
heaved against his own with deep breaths. Arms of iron strength tightened, near
desperation in his embrace. His big hand opened and closed in Davy’s hair as if
reassuring himself that Davy was real. He pressed his face to the side of Davy’s head
and breathed through clenched teeth against his jaw. “God, Davy!”
Some detached part of Davy’s mind was thinking, Maybe I did die back there. The
brigands killed me and this is heaven. The rest of him existed firmly in this moment, feeling
Connor hold him and bury his face against his neck. It could not possibly be, but Davy
felt the wetness of tears on his neck. Steel bands of arms felt as if they would not let go
and Davy never wanted to be free.
Connor pulled back, caught Davy’s face between his rough-skinned hands and
roared at him, “What were you thinking!”
His eyes heavy with flooding tears, Davy smiled, “You cannot possibly know.”
Connor drew him in again, breathing heavily in anger, fear, pain. One hand moved
low on Davy’s back and pressed their bodies together full length. Davy felt an instant
stab of fear that Connor would feel his desire and Davy would burn away in shame. But
as Connor pressed them together hip to hip, Almighty God, there was a great hard
erection swollen and straining at its confines pressed to his. A deep groan welled from
Connor’s chest. Davy felt a sweet burn that was not shame.
Connor held him, slightly rocking in the cold wind.
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Name of a Wolf
Davy kissed Connor’s chest through his rough-spun shirt. The overcast sky
brightened through the prism of his tears, became incandescent.
Connor’s head lifted up, like a wild animal checking the wind, still keeping one arm
round Davy’s back, the other low, pressing them desire to desire. “We should go.”
Davy mumbled into his chest, “We should.”
Connor, with a kind of laugh, confessed, “I can’t let go.”
“Don’t. Don’t let go. Ever.”
“Do you mean that, Davy?”
Davy shut his eyes. Everything was falling. There was no stopping now. “Just
throw me on the ground, Connor. I— I—” Why the hell was he crying?
Davy clung to him. Connor’s hands moved to cradle his face. His lips brushed
Davy’s mouth, a sensation of bliss such as he’d never felt, soft and ecstatic and too
quickly passed. Davy needed that again. Connor’s lips touched his and lingered there.
Davy could fall into that kiss, a kiss that was both the fire that burned and the water
that soothed. Then Connor’s lips were kissing his tears from his face. His hands slid
under his hair. He held Davy’s head and covered his mouth with his own, his tongue
plunging inside Davy’s mouth. Davy felt his insides melting. He fit his arms around
Connor’s broad shoulders, overwhelmed to hold such power within the circle of his
embrace.
Connor’s arms surrounded him again and pressed him close. Davy never felt a
touch like his touch—it was something he did with his hands, so sure and slow and
complete—absolute possession in that touch.
The air was cold, Connor was warm. His thick hair had come loose from its tie and
tossed on the wind, wild as the hillside.
Connor let go of Davy to take off his coat and spread it on the ground.
“What if the bandits come back?” Davy thought to ask.
“Not in this lifetime,” said Connor darkly, no regret in it.
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Davy noticed his raw knuckles. Davy had never killed anyone. Never had anyone
kill for him. It struck him as savagely endearing.
Shy as a maid, Davy let Connor lay him down. He’d had lovers before and thought
there were no mysteries left to explore. He had never been so wrong.
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Chapter Four
Davy lay on his back. Connor crawled over him, his knees moving Davy’s legs
apart. Davy felt vulnerable in this position. When Connor planted his elbows on the
ground above Davy’s shoulders, Davy felt surrounded in his warmth. Connor hunched
over him, his arms caging his head. His lips moved on Davy’s lips as he spoke, “Are
you sure, laddie?” Davy felt the stirring depth of his rugged voice resonating inside.
Davy reached up to hold Connor’s head. His thick locks fell round his hands like
soft firelight. Connor’s beautiful face above him waited for his answer, his brows canted
up over his amazing eyes in an expression akin to worry. A wayward curl of soft hair
fell across his furled brow.
Davy saw the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple in the column of his throat between
the thick cords of his neck.
“I have never been so sure of anything in my life.”
Connor’s delicious weight pressed down on him. Davy slipped his hands up under
Connor’s rough-spun shirt to run his palms across his broad back, feeling the powerful
sinews moving beneath his skin. Davy bent his knees up so he could feel Connor’s thick
haunches between his thighs.
Their erections, imprisoned in maddening cloth, rode against each other. Connor’s
mouth covered his, his kisses deep and marauding. Davy wanted him, all of him, and
met his tongue stroke for stroke. Connor’s arousal swept over him in frightening
intensity. His deep heavy breaths were nearly growls. He exhaled like a bull. Davy
drank in Connor’s devouring kisses. Connor’s daunting hunger soothed Davy’s own
ache. Connor’s overwhelming passion told Davy that he was not alone in this sea of
fire. He let the waves of passion sweep over him. He would happily drown in Connor’s
arms.
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With Connor rutting against him, Davy felt that awesome thickness in his crotch
moving against his own erection. Davy reached down to feel the heavy thews of his ass
working under his palms.
Excited, impatient, Davy slid one hand down between their fevered bodies to
Connor’s groin and held that enormous swelling in his palm. Connor’s head moved
sharply back with a gasp. His hair wreathed his rugged face.
As Connor lifted himself up, Davy groped to set him free, torn between fumbling
with the tie and stroking his prodigious manhood. He got distracted, put his hand over
that delicious swelling just to feel it throb. “I need to get you out of there.”
Connor turned his head aside, his face contorted as if enduring great pain, but it
was blinding ecstasy. He propped himself up on one hand and reached down.
Then he rolled off him onto his back, laughing near to crying, “You’ve made a knot
of it!” He covered his eyes, laughing.
Davy rolled up and set himself to work on the knot he’d made. His hands brushed
Connor’s straining need. Connor gasped at his touch, fighting for control. One big hand
closed tight on Davy’s thigh, trying to hold on, trying not to crush him. Connor lost
patience, pushed Davy’s hands away, seized the lace and broke it. Stupid way to fasten
a man’s fly anyway. With his teeth set on edge, he carefully unbent himself and set free
a rod of magnificent size gleaming in the gray light.
Connor rose up like a roused beast and pushed Davy onto his back. The buttons of
Davy’s trousers flew off with a single yank and Connor jerked Davy’s trousers down
around his hips. Davy’s manhood stood up long, smooth and hard as alabaster.
A sound in Connor’s throat spoke of hunger and adoration.
A cry escaped from Davy at the shock of first touch—Connor’s bare hand on his
naked erection. The gentle stroke of his rough-skinned hand made his balls ache. The
sensation was too wondrous, the longing too great. Everything he was burned between
this man’s hands. The look on Connor’s face, his eyes under their heavy lids, was too
beautiful. Wanting him, poised on the sharp edge of perfect rapture, he could not
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contain his desire. “Connor. Connor, I—” A pinpoint of starlight flashed, pushed over
the peak and fanned out in fiery blaze. His need spilled onto Connor’s hand.
Wave after wave of pulsing bliss receded, leaving Davy embarrassed to death.
Connor looked down on him, smug, his eyes smoldering, caressing him.
Davy gulped for air. “I can last longer than that.”
“Oh you’re not done,” Connor assured him, a subtle smile at the edges of his lips,
his eyes mischievous.
Connor pulled Davy’s trousers down round his thighs in a bunch, effectively
trussing Davy’s legs together. Connor pulled Davy’s jacket and shirt down to his
elbows, pinning his arms against his sides. Bound up in his own clothing, Davy blurted,
“I can’t do anything!”
A cunning look lurked in his Connor’s eyes, his lips. “I mean to have my way with
you, Davy.” His body naked, his arms and legs pinned, Davy was at Connor’s hungry
mercy. Cold, there was no cold. Davy’s face burned under Connor’s gaze.
Broad, calloused hands moved across his wide, smooth chest with ownership,
mastery in his touch. Connor’s lips moved with a gravelly murmur, “How can any man
be so beautiful?”
Davy never knew his nipples were anything but decorative. Connor’s soft lips, his
hot tongue on him sent spears of passion down below. His cock began to revive with
amazing quickness.
Davy wanted to take hold of Connor’s head as he tormented his nipples, but he
couldn’t move his arms, trapped in his clothes. His fists clenched and unclenched. His
head tossed side to side. He bared his teeth at the sky.
Connor lay forward, his chest pressing down on Davy’s groin.
Connor’s teeth on delicate edge grazed one nipple dangerously. Feathery tips of his
hair brushed Davy’s flat hard chest with silken fire. Davy could only writhe against
him, his cock hardening against Connor’s chest. Davy rocked his hips against him to
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feel more of him.
Connor moved down lower, taking Davy’s narrow hips between his great hands.
His tongue teased his sex, licked and massaged him to rigidity. He brushed his lips
across the head of his erection. Davy moaned. Connor’s tongue swept up the length of
his cock, and Davy’s cock lifted of its own will to meet it.
Connor’s lips slid down him, closed round him, taking as much of him into his
mouth as he could, his tongue sliding up and down the front of his shaft. Some kind of
noise clogged Davy’s throat in inexpressible delight.
Davy shrugged his shirt and jacket up over his shoulders, freeing his arms. He took
Connor’s head between his hands, grasped his hair and pulled his head up. He writhed
out from beneath him and struggled out of his trousers, consumed by a wild need to get
out of these clothes right now, cold be damned. He was on fire.
“I need your sex inside me,” said Davy, turning over to crouch on his hands and
knees. Connor covered him like a stallion. Davy felt Connor’s hard abdomen on his ass,
his broad chest on his back. Davy reached down between his legs to feel Connor’s cock,
immense, hard and moist with desire. Connor’s stiff cock slid a couple strokes in the
tight channel between Davy’s buttocks. Davy begged, nearly sobbing, “Put it in!
Connor! Connor! Connor!”
To his utter shock, Connor stood up.
Davy twisted around to see him stride to his horse and unlace a dagger from its
sheepskin wrapping.
“What are you doing?” Davy cried with a thrill of terror.
Connor unrolled the fleece and threw the dagger, blade first, into the dirt. The
sheepskin wrapping was the part he wanted.
He answered, his voice gone guttural and mumbling under desire’s goad, “Saving
your jenny.”
He rubbed the fleece, greasy with lanolin, up and down his rigid phallus until his
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Name of a Wolf
sex gleamed with oil. He strode back to kneel behind Davy who returned to hands and
knees, ready, more than ready.
Connor’s hot flesh entered him, a long slow slide. Davy caught in his breath and
cried for the unbearable beauty. Connor was inside him. The world was perfect and
complete. Davy threw his head back, his dark hair tossing on his shoulders.
Everything was beautiful and bright, Connor’s coat under his hands and knees,
Connor’s scent in his nostrils, the wide cold sky above them.
Connor’s brute power moved over him, in him, swept on passion’s tide. Connor
growled against him. His great hand reached down to surround Davy’s cock with his
heat, sending him higher. Connor’s hand made a tight channel that moved up and
down Davy’s shaft in a slow sensual ride.
Davy felt Connor’s teeth graze his back, felt his great animal strength as Connor
adored him with his flesh, filling and consuming him.
Tears pushed out Davy’s eyes for joy, his heart overfull, his body ablaze. Flames of
passion flashed over as Connor thrust and thrust. Connor’s hand, slick with Davy’s
wanting, tightened around Davy’s erection. With a deep rocky groan, Connor came.
Davy felt the wash of heat pulsing within him and a core of pleasure ignited there in the
palm of Connor’s strong hand. Davy spilled his passion into it.
Connor tightened his hold on him and slid again, Davy felt himself crashing
through the farthest limits of delight. When he thought he had no more, Connor’s hand
slid hard and rough down his sex. Davy came still more and shuddered.
Connor held Davy tight against him and rolled onto his side, taking Davy over with
him, his cock still deep inside him. Connor’s body curled round behind Davy in locked
spoons, one arm across his shoulders, the other still holding his cock, surrounding him
with body and soul. Davy felt Connor shudder under yet one more blade of joy.
The horses, grazing on the ridge, snorted and shook their tack. The mare whickered
and stamped.
Everything was splendid, edged in light, the wind, the rocks, the wind-torn grasses,
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the wide iron sky, his own blood pounding in his ears, Connor’s heart drumming at his
back.
Davy’s cock, sheathed in Connor’s warm hand, was still hard in persistence of
sensation. The male brush of Connor’s jaw tickled his neck. Connor pulled up the edge
of his coat from the ground to shelter him from the cold air. Davy felt he would never
be cold again.
Davy picked up all his scattered buttons out of the grass and put them in his
pocket. He used a decorative pin from his jacket to fasten his trousers and he tucked his
shirt in, crossing the front to cover his torso. He retrieved his white silk neck cloth from
a thorn bush where it had tumbled on the wind.
Some part of his soul had taken flight and still soared high, high with the wind-
shredded clouds. Amazing how beautiful those ragged clouds looked now. While,
lurking in the background, an inner voice wondered, Do I get the speech now? When
would Connor tell him that once was once and there would be no kiss in the morning?
Well, it wasn’t now. When Davy tried to mount Bridie, Connor dragged him back
down so he could slip his hands inside his clothes again and kiss his neck and fondle
his buttocks.
After several tries, they made their way into their separate saddles. They rode,
sharing those glances that pass between two people who have just made love for the
first time—the shy, happy and a little bit sly looks of cats having feasted on canary. A
rosy tinge in Connor’s cheeks was not from the wind. He was still able to blush. Lights
shone in eyes of winter blue.
Connor rode into him, his stallion pushing Davy’s little mare sideways, just to be
ornery. Davy pushed the big brown head aside with his hand to back him off.
Davy finally noticed that they were not riding back the way they had come and
thought to ask, “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
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But they had not turned around and Davy had been riding this way for days.
Reading his thoughts, Connor told him, “No one packed you a compass.”
“I followed the path,” said Davy.
“It’s called the serpent trail,” Connor said significantly.
When they passed clear of the trees, Davy saw the stone bridge on the crossroad
ahead.
Connor asked him, “Do you know where you are now?”
“Oh no.”
Bridie remembered. The mare would not approach the place where the trip rope
had been.
Connor’s eyes were bright. “You looked so fine and angry up there,” he said fondly.
“And I said—” He paused, stifling a laugh, grinning too broadly to speak for several
moments. “And I said, ‘Who is this idiot’?”
“Aye? That is nothing next to what I was calling you,” said Davy. “I had some very
fine words for ye.”
“No doubt.”
They picked up the dirt trail that led to the abbey, where they had ridden together
on the night they met.
When the horses stepped up to a trot, then came the inevitable comment, “You’re
standing in your stirrups, Davy. Any reason for that?”
“It is called posting, Connor. It is how aristocrats ride— Don’t say anything evil!”
“I?” Connor said innocently. Connor had left innocence behind in a distant age.
“Stay in front of me, this is amazing to watch.”
Connor whistled a jaunty tavern tune, one of the songs they had sung—well, one of
the songs Connor had sung and Davy had mumbled on the night they’d met.
Davy got to see the path in fading daylight this time.
Soon they came to the now-familiar door set in the ramshackle stone wall. Connor
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opened the door and stepped in to the common hall.
The group was still seated at the long table after dinner. Everyone turned in their
seats to look.
“Well!” Hugh smiled as a gust drew out the low flames in the hearth. “Look what
the wind blew in!”
“Connor!” several voices cried.
“Davy!” Katie shouted. “Davy’s back!”
Falleen stood up from her seat by her loom, her long-fingered hands gently clasped
under her chin in happiness.
“Good evening, ladies. Gents.” Connor crossed the floor to the inner door, not
letting go of Davy’s hand. The group’s welcomes home to Davy would need to wait.
Davy was all Connor’s right now.
Davy could see the women’s knowing smiles as they read the signals. Connor’s hair
hung loose and tumbled, his cheeks a merry red. Clear as a sunrise was that bright
dazzled look in Connor’s eyes, with the smile of a man who had got very, very lucky.
Davy was embarrassed, his buttonless shirt gaping open to his waist. He had been
thoroughly ravished and looked it. He knew his lips had to be red and there was
probably a beard rash on his neck. There was to be no pretending now. Yes, I’m going to
get laid by this man. Again.
Davy gave an extraordinarily sheepish wave hello to the others and followed
Connor through the inner door.
Connor took him down the corridor farther than he had ever been, past the lamps
into total darkness. “Can you see?” asked Davy, who could not see his own hand.
“Yes.”
Connor led him by the hand through several turns in the labyrinthine corridors.
Davy knew he could get lost down here even carrying a lamp.
Stories of the haunted abbey came back to him here in the pitch blackness, stories of
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the wolves of Craiglaren.
“Are there any wolves left in here?” Davy meant it as a little jest.
“One,” Connor’s voice sounded from ahead in the dark.
Davy had not expected that answer.
“Is it tame?”
“No.”
Davy would have liked a few more words to go with that answer. “Is it
dangerous?”
“Yes.”
Worse and worse. Davy wanted better words. “Dangerous to us?”
“To you? Very.”
Which did not seem to concern Connor in the least. Possibly because Connor was
more than a match for any beast.
At last Connor opened a door. A crack of light appeared in the darkness, opening to
a glow of embers from a hearth which lit the space within.
Connor’s room.
Ancient weavings covered the rock walls. A very old hand-carved cedar chest lay at
the foot of the narrow bed, a bed built for one. The woven blanket of faded blue, forest
green and autumn gold may have been Falleen’s work. An earthenware pitcher sat on a
small table. A mug hung on the wall from an iron hook. There was also a crossbow
hanging on the wall and a tooled leather belt with a knife scabbard. A woven mat
softened the stone floor. The chamber was spare, simple, comfortable.
A stone archway led out of the chamber. From beyond the arch, Davy could swear
he heard a chuckling, as of a stream.
“What’s in there?” Davy asked.
“Take a look.”
The archway led to two side chambers. A rushing underground stream tumbled
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through a narrow rock channel. A downstream chamber served as a privy. Up current,
the rock wall curved to enclose a spring-fed bathing pool. The pool’s smooth basin had
been carved into the stone under a light well. Only stars showed up there now through
the top of the shaft. The warmth of the chamber was coming from the water, which
flowed straight out of the limestone.
Davy felt sticky. He took off his clothes and stepped into the basin’s soothing swirl.
He rinsed away the dust, sweat and semen.
He stepped out dripping. The edges of his hair were wet on his shoulders. There
were towels on a rock shelf, one of them from Blackleigh.
He dried off, then faced the idiotic dilemma of the newly intimate. Do I put my
clothes back on? How hard the simplest things became when the person out there
mattered more than anything. He scolded himself. Connor had already seen absolutely
everything and it was obvious why Connor brought him here. Davy would go to him
naked.
He stepped into the bedchamber.
Connor was undressing, stretching upward to bring his shirt up over his head,
baring his magnificent male torso. There was such raw beauty in that motion it struck
Davy breathless. Connor’s upstretched arms showed off the interweaving of masculine
sinew in his hard sides and the downy tufts of hair in the hollows under his arms where
moving plates of muscle from his chest and his back blended into his sides. A slight
brush of reddish-brown hair showed on his broad chest. Scars showed up white on his
sun-darkened skin.
He dragged his head free, bringing his shirt down in front of him. His thick hair
hung loose about his face. One beguiling red-brown lock curled over his brow. His blue
eyes found Davy and stopped mid-motion, his shirt still round his arms, his gaze fixed
in amazement as if beholding something of unutterable beauty, the kind of humbling
beauty that brings a man to his knees. He said in that husky sexual voice, “Davy, you
are a vision.”
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Davy was very conscious of his own long, hard erection. He knew he was
handsome and was more than a little vain about it. He had been too much attached to
his mirror back in his past life as a ‘crat. From the first moment that Connor had lifted
his eyelids, Davy had wanted those eyes to see him, needed to feel his gaze on his body.
To have someone so beautiful look at him this way warmed and tingled inside like
strong drink.
Connor’s teeth were set on edge, his brow taut in the center, almost woeful, his
eyelids low as if beholding something painfully bright, yet could not bear to look away.
Connor’s voice dropped lower. “Davy.”
Davy’s cock, already rigid, tightened and lifted at just the sound of Connor’s voice.
Wetness expressed from its tip in readiness. Connor didn’t even need to touch him.
Connor’s trousers hugged his hips, his thighs. The tie had come undone and gave a
provocative glimpse of red-brown fur that grew just above that masculine bulge still
held uncomfortably captive.
Connor came to him, took his hand and led him to his bed. He pulled back the
blanket and laid him down.
The bed was narrow. Davy remembered that Connor did not bring his lovers to his
own bed. He slept alone. Davy was amazed to be here. He lay back, expectant.
Connor stood over him at the edge of bed, Davy’s hand still in his. He looked down
at him, long. Davy’s dark hair tumbled over Connor’s pillow. The caress of Connor’s
gaze was suffused with longing. Davy moved his body and his long limbs seductively.
Connor turned and walked out through the stone arch.
Davy threw his forearm across his eyes. Oh Connor, you had better need to piss!
If Connor left him here, David might have to shoot him.
He noticed then that the oil-laden fleece had followed them into the bed chamber. It
waited on the bed post. That held promise.
Connor returned, naked and erect, his skin clean and damp, his formidable cock
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standing in brazen readiness.
He climbed onto the narrow bed with Davy. Their bodies entwined. Davy enjoyed
the sensation of the light male hair on Connor’s powerful legs brushing against his own,
the warmth of Connor’s hands on his bare skin. They held each other chest to chest, sex
to sex. Davy threw back his head as Connor kissed his throat, his shoulders. His hands
got lost in his hair.
Davy marveled at the enormous power in Connor’s shoulders, the thick muscle that
rounded over the shoulder joint like a piece of armor.
Connor rolled to sit up. He moved with the untamed grandeur of a wild beast. He
knelt back on his heels and pulled Davy back into his lap so his cock pressed against the
small of Davy’s back.
Teased to distraction, Davy snatched up the sheepskin from the bedpost and
pushed it behind his back. He felt as much as heard Connor chuckle as he greased his
erection head to hilt.
Davy knelt up, straddling Connor’s thighs. He reached back for Connor’s sex to
guide him where he wanted to go. Connor drew him back down, impaling him on his
stout manhood.
Davy groaned, his voice dropping low in sheer pleasure.
Connor spoke thickly, his hands gripping Davy’s hips, “You like that?”
Davy sputtered half a laugh, seething in a fire of ecstasy. He couldn’t talk. He gave
a ragged grunt and a moan of pleasure. His body molded to Connor’s.
Connor’s lips grazed his shoulder, his arms surrounded his body, his hand found
his erection, enveloped it with sensuous strokes. Their bodies rocked in a rhythm of
sweet fire. Connor’s arms drew tight, crushing. Davy’s hands grasped at Connor’s
thighs desperately. He felt the warmth spread inside and he came in Connor’s hands.
Lying together on the narrow bed, Connor brushed Davy’s hair to one side and
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murmured into the nape of his neck, “You’ve been down this road before, laddie.”
“Once,” Davy admitted. “Once on the road you’re speaking of. At school. He was
an upper classman. And an absolute bastard. He didn’t like me and I had no use for
him, but he had a big—”
“Heart?” Connor supplied disingenuously.
“Yes, he had a very big heart,” said Davy. “And he taught me things.”
The bastard taught him that a man’s sex inside him—even an absolute bastard’s
sex—was an experience near to heaven.
Sex with Connor went far beyond that. With Connor, Davy had crashed straight
through heaven’s gates and dwelled there in an iridescent moment that could not be
measured in real time.
Davy turned around on the narrow bed to face Connor, so he could hold him. His
hands wandered over his body, memorizing him—the manly breadth of his shoulders,
his abdomen of woven iron.
His skin was darker above his hips, as a man who spent summers with his shirt off.
His groin and his ass were not entirely untouched by sunlight. Connor had spent time
in the sun naked.
“Ever burn your boys?” Davy had to ask.
“Once. That’s something you only do once if you’re dumb enough to do it at all.”
“What’s this?” Davy traced a deep set of scars like an animal bite in his side.
“Dog?”
“Wolf.”
“And these?” He trailed his fingers over a spread of raking scars in his back.
“Claws. Same wolf.”
“This?” He drew his tongue down a jagged whiteness in his forearm.
“Knife.”
“Connor, leave the skin on!” Davy scolded, horrified. “I happen to like it!”
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“I shall try.”
A sudden wooden crack! gave Davy a start. It was only a wooden beam of the bed
frame splitting under their combined weight. “Op!” he said, startled.
“Virginity,” said Connor.
Virginity? “Whose!” said Davy.
“My bed’s.”
“Really?” said Davy with a tickled smile.
“Yes. Really.”
Davy continued stroking his skin, insufferably pleased at having deflowered
Connor’s bed. His fingertip paused on a scar like a small puckered star below his rib
cage. “What did this?”
“That, Davy, is what a bullet looks like coming out.” Connor half rolled over,
crooked an arm back to point awkwardly at some place in his back. “And that is what it
looks like going in.”
Davy found the wound near his spine. He placed his fingertip on it. “Oh. There.”
Such a small thing to be nearly fatal. It made him shiver from the danger long past.
“You drew on me,” said Connor. “Why did you do that?”
Davy blinked. Yes, he had done that. Idiot thing to do, but he had done that. Why?
“You shot first, Connor,” said Davy. “Right here.” He put his hand over his heart.
“It was self-defense,” said Connor.
“Am I so terrible to be with?” Davy asked.
“Too perfect,” said Connor.
“Connor, that’s just plain dumb.”
Connor considered this, nodded. “I suppose so.” He kissed Davy on the brow and
held him close.
They slept.
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Davy opened his eyes. His head was pillowed on the hard muscle of Connor’s
chest, his hair tickling his nose. Not that there was a great lot of hair on his chest. Just
enough to tickle his nose. The fire in the hearth had guttered out. Dawn light brought a
soft glow through the light well.
Connor was awake and already aroused. He rolled and covered him. Kissed him.
Smiled into his eyes. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because I’m happy, why else?” said Davy, laughing because he got a kiss and was
about to get a long glorious fuck in the morning.
* * * * *
Davy finally showed himself in the common hall late in the morning. The men
glowered a bit.
There had been a dramatic shift in the pack dynamic and they were not liking this
at all. Whether because Connor had chosen a male as his apparent mate or because
none of them knew where he ranked now. The women were unruffled, maybe even
outright pleased.
Falleen tossed something to Davy. He caught it on reflex.
He opened his hand to see that he now held a spool of fawn-colored thread with a
needle stuck in it.
For his trouser buttons.
He shut his eyes, embarrassed. His face had to be scarlet. “Thank you, Falleen.”
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Chapter Five
Connor had left on a mission with Segeff and came back alone.
The door opened with a bang and Connor stormed in, angry. He slammed the
heavy door behind him, rattling everything in the common hall.
Connor’s anger filled the room.
He said baldly, “Segeff is dead. Murdered.”
Falleen turned from her loom.
Katie and Davy had been sorting an odd collection of screws and nails and
hardware on the floor, as Hugh had been looking for a wood screw to tighten down a
squeaking floorboard. The three of them picked themselves off the floor and moved to
sit at the table.
Terrel and Arven were already seated across from each other, hunched over a
chessboard, Lorens looking on. They pushed the board aside, the game forgotten.
Rory had been stirring the kettle of stew hanging in the hearth. He dropped the
ladle, turned and stood before the fire with his arms crossed.
“Any idea who did it?” Katie asked.
“Idea? Oh I know who,” said Connor. “I did.”
The shock and disbelief shot through the room and lodged in Davy’s chest.
“You can trust that I had reason or you can demand to know why,” Connor told
them.
“I think we better know why, Connor,” Hugh said evenly, looking very, very old.
“That is the proper answer,” Connor said, his voice hard. “Because we are not a
tyranny. I don’t rule you and I can’t snuff out a life by my will alone like the High Lord
does. You have a right to know. But you will be sorry to know.”
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“Very showy, Connor,” said Rory from the hearth. “Just say it plain.”
“Most of you are out here because the aristocracy drove you here. What would you
do if you learned that one of us committed the crime that drove you here?”
Davy looked down the table at all the startled faces. It was unthinkable. Forced to
think it, the outlaws stirred in outrage and betrayal. They were all incredulous.
“It happened,” said Connor.
The pack fell silent, no one quite looking at anyone else. And Davy didn’t know
where to look. One of his friends was feeling a knife stuck in his back.
“I took the revenge as mine,” said Connor. “It wasn’t mine to take.”
“Segeff did this?” Lorens asked uselessly. He didn’t want this to be true. “Segeff
ruined one of us? You’re sure?”
Connor nodded.
“He did. He is dead. Is the matter finished or unfinished?”
Rory jerked his chin up. “I say you should have left Segeff’s guilt or innocence to
our decision and then left his throat for us to cut.”
The others muttered.
Lorens swallowed hard. “I think we need to know who Segeff hurt, Connor.”
“Only one of you was wronged and only that one has the right to vengeance. You
can take it on me.” Connor stabbed his blade into the table, then stepped away from it
for someone else to take. “It stops here. Rory, sit down, it wasn’t you.”
Katie opened her mouth.
“Not you, Kate.”
The silence extended. Eyes shifted around the table. Segeff had done something
horrible to one of them. Davy knew it couldn’t be he. His father had died of apoplexy
and the High Lord and Lord Marsh had cheated him out of his estate. Davy’s being
here had nothing to do with any crime of Segeff’s.
No one else would speak either. They either knew or were afraid of knowing.
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Or they had no clue whatsoever.
Connor said at last, “Pick up the blade, Blackleigh.”
David felt his eyes go very wide.
“Segeff poisoned your father.”
Davy reeled as if he’d been struck. It took another moment for him to feel the pain.
His throat quivered. His father’s aggrieved spirit rose up and asked him how Davy
mourned him.
“Son of a bitch,” Davy breathed.
“Yes.”
Davy’s breaths deepened in wrath. At last he rose slowly, moved down the length
of the table and wrenched the blade from the wood. Tried to. Connor was powerful and
the blade had stuck deep. It took three yanks to get it free. Davy stalked to Connor,
seized him by his hair, pulled his head back and sliced.
He threw the fat severed hank of red-brown hair onto the table and strode to the
door.
He turned in the doorway to look back. His slash had left a wide short swath on top
of Connor’s head. Davy told him, “You look stupid.” He went out.
Connor lifted his hand to feel the cut ends of his hair. “I think he took that well,” he
said.
“There are worse things he could have cut off,” said Rory.
“He’s right, you look stupid,” said Katie. “Sit. Sit. Sit. Let me see if I can fix that. Oh
Connor, your pretty, pretty hair.”
“Falleen can do something with it,” said Connor. The fat hank of hair on the table
was the least of his concerns. “Katie, go after him. Make sure he’s all right.”
* * * * *
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Evening was closing in and Davy had not come inside. Katie reported back that
Davy wanted to be by himself for a while. They had given him his while.
Connor went out as night was falling. He found Davy sitting on a rock in the cold.
He had been crying. Connor sat next to him on the rock, leaned forward with his
elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Eyes on the horizon, he waited for Davy to
speak.
Davy cried awhile longer. He settled at length. Finally he turned his head to look at
the man beside him. Davy’s nose was thick and it made his voice congested. “I liked
your hair.”
Connor lifted his hand to brush the tops of his much-shortened hair. “Does it look
funny?” Falleen had done her best with what was left of it.
Davy shook his head. “Different.” A crease formed between his brows while he
studied it. “Handsome.”
“Should I keep it short?”
Davy considered for a moment. Said, “No.”
Connor hunched his great shoulders. “Good. Because my ears are cold.”
When Davy stood up from the rock his butt was numb. Connor took his hand and
put it in his coat pocket, still holding it. They walked. A different sort of walk than the
first time, but still under cold stars.
“I knew I’d seen him,” said Davy. “Segeff. He carried ashes from the kitchen hearth
at Blackleigh.”
“He didn’t even have a reason. He did it because he could. Segeff hated all
aristocrats,” said Connor. “He hated them just for being.”
“How did you know he poisoned my father?”
“He told me,” Connor said in disgust. “He was laughing. He thought I’d enjoy the
irony that you chanced to land here.”
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“Where is he?”
“I left his carcass. Don’t go looking for him, laddie. I didn’t just kill him.”
“That’s good.” Davy nodded approval. “I keep going back and forth. If Segeff had
not killed my father, I would still have my father, but I would not have you. But he
murdered my father. I miss my father. I loved him. How can I stand to be so happy, to
get something good because my father was murdered? I am in hell.”
“You think too much, Davy. Things are as they are. If is not real. You are allowed to
be happy. Your dad would want that.” He looked up at sky. A sly look crept over his
features with an almost smile. “Though I cannot say he would approve of me.”
Still in tears, Davy had to laugh. “No, I’m fairly sure not.” He sniffled, asked, “Your
dad?”
Connor shrugged one big shoulder. “My dad had worse shocks from me.”
Connor took Davy to his bed, and held him a while, both of them fully clothed.
They lay quietly warming up but for the thunk of their boots hitting the rock floor when
they kicked them off.
They snuggled closer under the blanket, Davy’s head on Connor’s shoulder, his
nose against Connor’s neck.
A beeswax candle within its translucent globe of amber glass shed honey-colored
light on the chamber.
The fire in the rock hearth burned very low, giving off more heat than light. The oak
log burned slow and steady. The fragrant cherry wood hissed and snapped.
Connor tugged Davy’s shirt hem loose from his trousers and slid his hand up under
the linen. Davy enjoyed the rough texture of Connor’s broad palm, the strength and
tenderness in his hand. Connor’s hands had been so recently deadly, yet no memory of
violence followed them in here. Connor’s hands felt protective, possessive, infinitely
gentle. His fingertips trailed up and down Davy’s back, Davy nearly purring like a cat.
A cool breath of air wafted in from the side chamber where the underground spring
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chortled.
Sounds from outside carried down through the light well—the lazy shambling of
goats moving around up on the grassy roof, the lonely cry of a lost gull.
Davy unlaced Connor’s shirt front and nestled his face in the coarse hair of his
chest. With his middle finger, he indolently traced a circle round the flat russet disk of
one nipple and its low nub.
Davy moved his head to settle his ear into the depression where the boulder of
Connor’s shoulder muscle joined the mass of his chest.
Connor moved his arm—the one with which he was holding Davy—his hand
roaming lower, sliding underneath Davy’s waistband to grip one taut muscular cheek.
Davy squirmed against him.
The leather lashing which suspended the mattress between the bed’s stout beams
groaned a little with their shifting weight.
They kicked off the rough-woven wool blanket as they grew warmer. The weaving
was Falleen’s work, Davy had learned earlier. The worn colors of woad blue, sunflower
green and burdock yellow tumbled into a pile at the bedside.
A cherry wood spark popped from the hearth. The ember glowed fiercely and died
on the stone floor.
Connor rolled Davy onto his back and sat astride him. His powerfully muscled
thighs, cased in soft buckskin, hugged Davy’s hips. Connor pulled his own shirt up
over his head and cast it aside. He had no long locks to shake free this time. His short,
shorn hair left the handsomely sculpted planes of his head in clear view.
Davy watched Connor’s stout fingers unfasten the first button of Davy’s shirt with
tantalizing slowness. Connor paused after just one to lean down and trace Davy’s
collarbone with his tongue. Davy shivered at the sensation. Connor’s head bowed
lower, his short hair brushing under Davy’s chin. He blew gently down the front of
Davy’s shirt, his hot breath making all the hairs on Davy’s body stand on end. His cock
tried to stand, but it was uncomfortably bound within his clothing.
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Connor sat up again and leisurely undid the second button of Davy’s shirt. Davy’s
hands opened and closed impatiently on Connor’s embracing thighs. Davy drew in a
deep breath, making his chest rise. Connor slid his hands inside Davy’s half-open shirt
to fondle his chest as he might a woman’s breasts. He bent low and nuzzled Davy’s
chest, the scruff of his chin tickling Davy’s skin. Connor licked and kissed one nipple,
then the other. Davy arched up to meet his kisses.
Davy’s hands fumbled to undo the rest of his own damn shirt buttons, then he
groped for the straining laces at the close of Connor’s breeches. His fingertips brushed
against the bulge at Connor’s groin. The fire within him mounting, Davy stroked
Connor’s swelling desire, feeling the hard outline of his cock confined under the soft
hide.
Connor reared back with a deep animal moan.
He knelt up and stepped off the bed to wrench his buckskin trousers down and off.
Davy curled up to lift his ass from the mattress and rid himself of his own trousers. He
kicked free and threw them onto the floor on top of Connor’s pile of clothes. Then he sat
up on the edge of the bed and reached for an antique ceramic oil lamp which sat unlit
on the cedar chest. He lifted the lamp to his nose. It smelled of olive oil scented with
sesame and some other nut essence. He tipped several drops of the oil into one palm
and set the lamp down. With slow sensuous motions he smoothed the oil between his
palms while Connor stood next to the bed, looking down at him, his eyes reflecting lust
and intrigue.
With a faint smile, Davy beckoned him closer. Connor stepped near to have his
hard, hard shaft enfolded between Davy’s hands. A sound of desire came from deep
within him. Davy teased him with smooth oil and a provocative touch. He leaned down
to touch his tongue tip to cock tip.
Swiftly, with a roar, Connor lifted Davy back on the bed, turned him over facedown
and pounced on him. Connor’s weight pressed him into the mattress—hips, chest, face.
Davy expelled a hard breath. The linen weave felt rough against his cheek. The mattress
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exhaled crushed lavender and thyme underneath him. His own erection was trapped
between his belly and the mattress, the pressure stoking his excitement.
Connor moved Davy’s long hair off the nape of his neck. His soft kisses brushed the
back of Davy’s neck. His wet tongue limned the shell of his ear. Connor’s teeth grazed
his shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against Davy’s skin.
Connor’s erection slid smoothly in the trough between Davy’s firm buttocks. His
chest hairs brushed roughly against Davy’s back, riding. One big hand groped under
him to get his palm on Davy’s sex.
Davy’s eyes nearly shut, tears dotting his lashes. He saw the fire as a bright melting
blur in the hearth.
Connor growled, his breath hot against his ear, commanding, “Don’t come.”
Davy was not sure how he was to manage that.
Connor entered him. Davy could scarcely breathe for the splendor of the moment.
He felt Connor’s thick hard cock sliding in and out. He existed in a glistening twilight
between torture and sexual perfection, clinging to this edge of climax.
Connor’s stroke came fast and needful.
Then Davy’s felt the heat of liquid fire release inside him, felt the magnificent
animal shudder against him.
Don’t come.
Hell!
It was all Davy could do to contain his ardor.
Connor’s weight lifted from him. The air felt cool on Davy’s damp back. He was
panting hard through clenched teeth, frustrated and longing, still holding back.
Connor turned him over. The light shimmered through Davy’s wet eyelashes.
Connor smoothed tears from his face with his thumbs. “You’re crying?”
“No,” Davy bleated. “I think I came through my eyes. Connor, I’m so hot I could
die.”
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Connor murmured, “A small death, perhaps.” He lifted Davy’s legs, shouldering in
under Davy’s knees so his broad shoulders pushed at the underside of Davy’s thighs,
his head between them. His mouth came down on Davy’s begging shaft, surrounding
him with glorious wet fire. The texture of his tongue, the motions of his heated hunger
lifted Davy up, crashing through the floor of heaven.
His fists closed on the linen at his sides, his breath searing in his lungs, “Connor.
Connor. I can’t—” He could not hold back.
Connor did not care. His wet mouth, his lips set in a hot ring moved up and down
faster and faster. Davy’s teetered on the cusp of release. The lightest brush of teeth sent
him over the peak. His legs stretched out straight, his body arched. A ragged cry of
abandon tore from him as he succumbed to his need, pulsing into Connor’s hunger in
shattering abandon.
Fire-heated air sighed up the flue with a curl of wood smoke.
Davy lay peacefully in Connor’s arms. His gaze alighted on the crossbow hanging
on the wall. The weapon was very old, the wood black with age, the cords brittle. If
anyone tried to draw it back to load it, the cords would surely snap.
“Connor? Why do you have a crossbow on your wall?”
“Sentimental reasons.”
“A sentimental crossbow?”
“I was forced to marry with that crossbow at my head.”
Davy felt a twist in his gut, a prickle under his tongue. He kept himself from
blurting, You’re married? Since obviously Connor was married.
“Not even a pistol,” said Davy, trying to sound indifferent, but his mouth felt full of
dust. “How antique.”
“Not at the time.”
Davy heard himself asking the question he did not want the answer to. It just came
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out of his mouth of its own will. “Were you in love with her?”
A shallow crease formed between Connor’s brows and he became thoughtful. His
gaze seemed inward. “Janie was not the one I chose. She was not the desire I could not
live without. But I was fond of the lass. Yes, I did come to love her dearly.”
Hot blood vibrated inside Davy’s veins. Jealousy’s fangs pierced his heart. Davy
could not share. Not even with a woman. Davy’s passion was for one alone and his love
should be his and his alone. Torment squeezed his throat nearly shut. He could scarcely
see what was in front of him. He struggled to sound offhanded, “Where is she?”
“Oh laddie, she’s under the ground a long time now.”
Breath returned to Davy’s lungs, pure and free. The constriction suddenly let loose
his throat.
It was someone Connor knew before they met, someone who was gone now. Davy
could abide that. Connor was thirty or better years old. It was only natural that he
would find someone to love before now.
Fine. As long as she was safely in the past, a wife was fine.
Connor must have sensed something. His head lifted from the pillow. “You’re not
jealous?” He sounded surprised.
“Connor, I’m jealous as hell!” Davy cried.
Connor kissed his head.
At least no one had forced Davy on Connor with a crossbow.
But neither had Connor ever said he loved him.
“How long have you—” Davy stopped. He didn’t know how to finish that question.
Connor had never declared love by that word, so Davy was afraid to assume. He
changed what he meant to ask, “How long have you wanted me?”
“Since I saw your silly ass up on the bridge.”
“Why did you resist me?”
“I had a reason.”
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“What reason?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Do you love me, Connor?” Had not meant to ask that. Are you indeed an idiot,
Davy?
“Do not ask.”
Ah. There we are. The answer is no.
Connor rolled up and over onto his side. He took Davy’s face in his hands, told him
earnestly, “Davy, do not presume you know my mind. You don’t know me. I did not
answer you for a reason and you have no idea. Do not go guessing.”
Connor’s lips touched his with a kiss that felt like love.
* * * * *
Connor abruptly rising. Shouts echoing through the underground corridors.
“Soldiers!”
Davy woke with a jerk, confused.
Distant cracks of gunfire sounded from above. Voices filtered down through the
light well.
Davy pulled on his trousers, grabbed a shirt and jacket, not sure what was
happening.
Connor seized the baldric with the knife from the wall and went to the door naked,
no time for anything else but to hasten Davy out of the room. “Hide,” he growled. “Stay
away from the lights. Just hide.”
Connor shut the door and ran up the corridor. Davy lingered by the line of light
under the chamber door, frozen like a deer. Connor’s voice barked from the dark, “Go!”
Davy moved into the depth of the labyrinth, unable to see. He heard water and
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knelt down to find his way blocked by an underground stream He could not tell how
wide or deep it was. Sounds bounced around without direction. Gunshots, screams,
shouts, a blood-freezing wail. Davy didn’t know the agonized voice. He hoped he didn’t
know the voice.
His own frightened breaths bounced back at him from the rock walls. He cursed his
helplessness. He swore if he lived through this he would never, never be trapped like
this again.
And he was lost. He could not even find his way back to Connor’s chamber to try to
find a weapon. With groping hands, he felt along the floor for a loose rock. But
everything he touched was perfectly smooth.
After an eternity, the gunfire had all but died. The fighting noises diminished.
Someone was winning, Davy did not know which side. He was lost and blind in the
bowels of the abbey. He might die here. He halted, tried to collect his courage. The
passageway smelled of ancient ash from the burning of the abbey long, long ago.
Nearby, from some direction he could not discern, an animal snarled. Davy
remembered Connor said there was a wolf down here.
From closer still came a sudden scream of pained terror amid a horrid growling.
Davy covered one ear, trying to get a direction on the sounds. He felt his way down
the rock wall, edging away from the dying whimpers.
His foot moved a loose rock.
There you are!
He crouched, felt around for it, picked up the rock. He would have liked a bigger
one, but it was something.
He waited, listening. His heart hammered. His breath came fast and shallow
through his nostrils. He was frightened and he was angry at his fear.
Hunched down low, he clutched his rock, waiting.
When all the sounds died away except his own, he stood up and slowly ventured
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back the way he might have come.
Someone had won the battle. But no one was calling for him.
Why not?
Dread dropped his heart into the pit of his stomach. Maybe the victors did not
know his name.
He crept along for a while, utterly, utterly lost. The more time that passed without
friendly calls trying to find him, the sicker he felt. A quiver took hold of his throat and
would not let go.
He wanted to call out. And if it was an intruder who answered him, then Davy
would kill him with as many bashes of this rock as it took, or at least die fighting like
his comrades.
A faint glow appeared up ahead. It was not the moving reddish orange of
lamplight, but the cool daylight from a light well. He was close to Connor’s chamber.
He ran toward the illumination.
And skidded to a halt.
A large wolf sat at the edge of the pool of light. It appeared dim and gray in the
gloom.
For an extended moment, the two of them remained motionless, watching each
other.
Then the wolf got up from its haunches, turned around and waited—waited for
Davy with a slowly wagging tail.
Davy took a few diffident steps toward the animal, conscious of its teeth.
The wolf’s heavily plumed tail waved side to side.
As Davy neared, the wolf started to walk, leading the way, it would seem.
Davy followed it to the limits of the light. When he could no longer see the light or
anything at all, he kept moving forward, feeling along the walls until a cross corridor
divided the path.
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Where now?
He stood still.
He heard a panting breath coming back. Something warm and alive bumped his
knees. A nose pushed into his palm like a dog. A furry side pressed against his legs.
Davy stooped down, put his hand on the coarse pelt and followed blindly where
the animal led.
At long last a sliver of light appeared ahead—the light under the door to the
common hall. Davy stood up.
The animal was already turning back, disappearing into darkness.
Davy moved soundlessly to the entrance to the common hall. He held his breath
and pressed his ear to the door, terrified of what he might hear.
At the sound of Katie’s brassy bright voice, all his taut nerves and sinews unraveled
in relief. He dropped his rock and opened the door to hearth light.
“There he is!” Katie announced happily. “All accounted for!”
At the table Falleen was applying yarrow leaves to a gash on Rory’s face. Lorens
was picking shards of glass out of Hugh’s forearm.
Arven clapped Davy on the shoulder. “Well done.”
Davy rued, “Yeah, I was so brave. Where’s Connor?”
“He’s down there looking for any vermin that got away.” Arven jerked his head
back the way Davy had come.
“Let ‘em get lost and die, I say,” Hugh muttered. He flinched as another bit of glass
came out of his flesh.
“No, no, Hugh. Can’t do that,” said Lorens. “They get to smelling down there.”
Davy sat down, rattled. “Does this happen a lot?”
“No,” Hugh said soberly. “This is bad. These were Lord Marsh’s men. When they
don’t report back, Marsh will know someone is at the Abbey of Craiglaren and he’ll
send another lot. And next time there will be more of them.”
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Davy had learned the way to Connor’s bedchamber by now. He took a lamp and
walked back there to wait for him. He meant to demand that he be included in the
fighting next time Lord Marsh’s men invaded their home.
He opened the door.
A wolf lay on Connor’s bed. A very large wolf. In the light, its coat shone a thick
reddish-brown. Its eyes were blue.
Winter blue.
David had to blink, as if his eyes were blurring, but there was nothing wrong with
his eyes. The figure before him changed in a way that Davy could not quite keep his
focus on. He had to look away to something solid—he picked the floor.
When he looked up again, Connor was reclining where the wolf had been.
“Very well, now I am as naked as a man can possibly be, laddie. Be very careful
what you say next.”
“I’m—” Davy started slowly. “Surprised I’m not more shocked.”
Connor turned his gaze aside and far away, as if there were counsel to be found in
the air. He collected his scattered thoughts, picked up his shredded courage, spoke
toward the wall. “Once you’ve been shot, not a whole lot scares you. And you terrify
me, Davy.”
Davy had never seen Connor unable to hold anyone’s eyes.
Davy stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. He put his lamp down
and took off his jacket. When his shirt dropped to the floor, Connor’s eyes lifted again.
He reached out his hand.
Davy placed his own hand into Connor’s and let Connor pull him onto the bed.
Connor’s arms were warm on his bare skin. Davy had not realized how cold he was
until he felt the heat of Connor’s body enfold him. They lay together for a while. Davy
listened to Connor’s heart beat.
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Searching for something to say, Davy commented, “The moon is not full.”
“I don’t turn into a wolf when the moon is full. We are just easier to spot under the
light of a full moon.”
“We?” said Davy. “How many of you are there?”
“I don’t know. None, I hope. I have not seen another in a very long time.” He sat
up, taking Davy with him. “Come.”
They dressed to go outside.
“Are we going to see wolves?” Davy asked.
“No.”
The day was turning to evening as they stepped out of the abbey. Davy had lost
track of time. Shadows stretched long.
Connor took him out to the ash grove.
A row of fresh-turned earth lay at the edge of the trees where the outlaws had
buried their intruders.
The old graveyard was in the forest.
After the abbey burned down centuries ago, no one tended the place. Trees had
grown large around the graveyard, through it. The forest had reclaimed it. A chickadee
and a nuthatch flitted branch to branch above the stones.
Connor knew where he was going. “There is my Janie.” He stood before a well
weathered stone. “And here I am.”
The headstone bore faintly only a name “Connor Donnaugh” and dates that
embraced a span of thirty-two years.
Neither date was later than three hundred years ago.
Davy stared. “Who is under there?”
“Just a memory,” said Connor. My dad put this here, so no one would hunt me
down. There’s Dad.” He moved to the next stone. “My mother’s under here too.”
It was clear what all this implied, but it was difficult to give in to it. It defied reality.
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Feeling like he was giving in to madness, Davy asked, “Were you there when they
burned the wolves in the abbey at Craiglaren?”
“Aye,” said Connor. “I set the fire.”
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Chapter Six
“I and my dad.”
Davy stated dully, “The abbey burned down three hundred years ago.”
“Time flies,” Connor murmured.
There it was. The knowing. The certainty. The experience of three hundred years.
Davy stared at the headstone. Recognition set in. “Your father’s name was
Randall.” He looked up at Connor in still more surprise. “Your father was Randall the
Wolfslayer? Saint Randall?“
Connor gave a fond sad smile, a gleam in his eye, and low chuckle. “My dad was no
saint. But he did slay the wolves.”
“You were a wolf. He spared you.”
“Aye. I was his son. I helped him slay the rest. We were demons that day.” Davy
heard no pleasure in it. No regret either. “The wolves killed my Janie.”
“Was she a wolf too?”
“No.”
“Are you immortal?”
Connor shook his head. “Oh I can die and I can bleed and I can starve. And I could
burn like the wolves of Craiglaren burned.”
Davy shuddered. “That is a hideous death.”
“They were hideous creatures. There is a reason they are known as the Horror of
Craiglaren. They killed on a whim. The whole countryside lived in terror of them back
then. Yet no one would act. They feared the anger of the wolves. When evil comes, you
cannot wait for it to come to you. We did. My dad, Janie and I. We paid for that.”
Davy wondered why the wolves had come for Connor. Had they no respect for
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their own kind? Or perhaps the leader of the pack feared Connor’s natural leadership
and needed his rival gone.
“Why did they come for you?”
Connor shook his head. “For the fun of it. I had an ax. I remember cutting them
down at the cabin door. I remember Janie screaming behind me. And a wolf. Its eyes
were purest evil. I remember it shaking her like a rag. I cut down wolves to get at it. I—
must have missed. I remember its fangs in my side. It lapped my blood. And I swear to
God it smiled. And then I don’t remember. My dad found us. I didna wake until Janie
was in the ground. And that’s when I and my dad took to burning.”
“Were they like you? Shapeshifters, I mean.”
“They were shapeshifters. I never think of myself as being like them. I was never
one of them.”
Davy glanced back toward the abbey where the outlaws dwelled. “Do the others
know?”
“Falleen knows.”
“Is she a wolf?”
“No. She is Merowidd.”
“Merowidd?” The Merowidd were the ancient witch folk. Davy’s understanding of
the world was crumbling. “They’re real?”
“Aye. And Falleen is one.” He said it so simply.
Davy foundered in shock. The Merowidd were dread creatures in the old tales.
“I always pictured hags and ghouls—when I used to believe in those things.”
“Most of them were foul,” Connor assured him. “Those that have power tend to use
it badly.”
“Then how do you know Falleen?”
“I wrested her from a stake on a burning pyre.”
“Because they thought she was a witch?”
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“Because she is a witch.”
There had not been a witch burning in recent history. Connor and Falleen must
have been friends for a long, long time.
“Why does she not curse the High Lord dead?” said Davy. It struck him as a
terribly obvious thing for her to do. “I would, if I had the craft.”
“There is a reason the Merowidd race has all but died out,” Connor said gravely.
“Spells of evil purpose do not travel far. Most never leave the house where they were
born.”
Davy was not sure he followed. “By house, you mean the body of the witch?”
“I do. Falleen is very careful what she weaves. Her enchantments manifest in
strange ways. She weaves very carefully and her intent must be truly benign.”
Davy remembered she had spun a spell of strength for Davy upon his leaving the
abbey. All Davy knew was that he had not been terribly strong when the abbey came
under attack. He had scuttled through the tunnels like a blind rat.
“You have lived so long. Are not you bored?”
“Bored?” said Connor, as if the thought never occurred to him. “Life is miraculous,
laddie. Those that tire of it have either their bodies failing them or their spirits are too
blunt to see the wonders of living. There is always something to fill me with awe. Such
as you. Especially you.”
Connor took him back to his bed.
There was nothing softer than Connor’s kisses. His lips traced down Davy’s throat.
His breath was a silken touch.
They lay together on the narrow bed, holding each other tight, their rigid cocks
pressed between their bodies.
Connor’s tongue ran up the side of Davy’s neck, licked his ear. He found Davy’s
mouth, kissed him long, drove his tongue into his mouth. His hands groped to touch, to
own every part of him. He slid down to taste his chest, his torso. Davy spread his
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fingers through his short hair, luxuriating under his adoration.
Connor’s mouth roved lower, moving tauntingly around Davy’s willing cock to lick
inside of his thigh where his skin was hidden and smooth. Connor’s lips were sensual,
the brush of his cheek against his balls intoxicating. Davy felt the graze of his teeth high
on his leg just at his groin. And then he bit.
Davy winced, feeling teeth break his skin. A jolt of pain like liquid fire made him
utter a small noise, the pain close to pleasure, Connor’s tongue moving on him, over the
stiff hairs of his balls and up to his smooth, begging shaft. Connor took him in his
mouth, driving him mad with his tongue.
Davy clutched Connor’s head and cried a warning, “Connor!” Any more, any
higher, he would come in his mouth, and he did not want to finish yet.
Connor rose up. He took Davy’s head between his great hands and forced Davy’s
mouth down on him.
Davy accepted him willingly. Connor’s cock was smooth and hard in his mouth.
Davy worshipped him with hands and tongue, fanning the fires of his need and lust.
Connor’s rich male scent filled his nostrils. His balls tightened in Davy’s palm, on the
brink of coitus.
Connor hauled Davy up by his hair in his fist with a growl.
Davy licked his lips slyly. Connor glared at him, his face intense, dangerous,
frowning with naked wanting.
Davy fumbled for the scented oil lamp. He knocked it over in his haste, but
managed to spill enough on his hands to cover Connor’s cock with silken slickness
between his palms. Connor’s chest rose and fell with deep growling breaths.
Davy turned round to crouch on his hands and knees to receive him. He felt
Connor’s male brush on the back of his thighs, his slick rod on his buttocks. Connor
mounted him, plunged into him. Davy needed him there, inside his body. He cried for
pleasure.
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It was a rougher, more desperate mating than before, urgent, frightening. Connor
dominated him, taking him every way he could take him, as if to own all of him and
Davy submitted, in every way. Davy felt Connor riding him and he moved with him,
his hair tossing, wild cries coming from his throat.
He felt Connor’s spasms of passion as he poured his hot seed into him. Connor’s
orgasm drove Davy to climax like a living flame spilling over Connor’s hand. He
shuddered and gave in seemingly endless spasms of searing sexual joy.
Davy lay resting atop Connor with a feeling so profound and complete it did not
have a name. He listened to the drumming of Connor’s heart in his chest, felt his skin
damp against his cheek.
Connor ruffled his hair. “Did I hurt you?”
A little. “It’s nothing.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Davy lifted his head, saw Connor’s eyes of winter blue suffused with tenderness,
concern. Connor’s brows edged inward. He laid a fingertip on Davy’s lower lip and
said, “I’m not sorry.”
Startled, Davy smiled, nipped his finger. “Neither am I. Were you marking your
territory?”
“I—guess I was.”
Davy felt an intense warmth to have made this great power lose control.
“Are you mine, Davy?” Connor asked, earnestly.
Davy wanted to be his. More than anything. Say you love me, he thought. He said, “If
you want me to be.”
Connor held him possessively. “You don’t know what I have done.”
* * * * *
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Life had become more vivid for Davy. Even the long light of the low sun stung his
eyes with its intensity. He detected the delicate scent of snowdrops and winter
cyclamen in the forest, which he had never noticed before. The sweet tang of pine resin
came to him strong as a drug.
Yet the winter wind was not so quick to cut as it had always been. Feeling cold had
gone from a painful ordeal to a brisk sensation that met his inner warmth on a bracing
cusp. He could stand in the snow now, as long as the air was not too bitter, and scarcely
mind.
Subtle flavors came alive, which was well if he was eating Rory’s stew and not good
if there were turnips on the table.
And he could see in the dark. He had wondered how Connor did it. He guessed it
must be something that comes to you when you live out here at the edge of the
wilderness after a time. On a clear night, the stars absolutely blazed with light,
diamond-like, and the sky became velvet.
He imagined he could see heat. His companions moved with auras around them.
He could see their life energy, their breath. He smelled their moods. He could smell lust
and that was contagious. If anyone around him was randy, he wanted to get to Connor
and experience all of him.
His ears were so keen he could hear a cat walk.
His past life seemed blunt in memory, as if he had been living numb.
He was in love now, in lust and utterly alive.
* * * * *
After the bite inside his thigh healed, Davy tried to saddle Bridie to go riding. The
mare reared, her eyes rolling back. Davy needed to call the little girl Leann to comfort
the silly beast.
“My horse doesn’t know me,” Davy said, baffled.
Bridie looked at him as if he were a total stranger.
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He ended up taking another horse to go riding with Connor.
They had not ridden terribly far when Connor reined around. Davy came alongside
him and Connor pointed up toward a faint dust cloud rising over the heights.
They tied the horses in a hawthorn thicket and scrambled up the rise to peer over
the cliff down to the path below.
A horseman clad in armor, his crest of imperial red, rode a temperamental steed
within a contingent of soldiers. His red falcon emblem said he was Lord Marsh.
Foot soldiers armed with guns marched in front of him, men with torches followed
behind.
Davy cursed that he didn’t have his pistol. But even if he had, he doubted he could
pierce Marsh’s armor.
Connor pulled him back from the edge. He whispered, “They’ve come to burn the
abbey. I need to tell the others to run. Stay with them.” He nodded over the cliff in the
direction of Marsh’s men. “Shadow them, laddie. Leave the horses where they are. I’ll
be back. Don’t be seen!”
Connor threw off his clothes and transformed into a wolf. It was done so fast Davy
couldn’t say he had really seen it. One moment there had been the magnificent man he
adored standing naked before him, and the next there was a wolf falling forward onto
its paws. The red-brown animal darted away, faster and more nimble than a horse
across the rocky ground back toward the abbey.
Davy moved along the top of the cliff edge, ghosting Lord Marsh’s soldiers. He
moved carefully over the rocks, more agile than he remembered ever being. At a
treacherous pile of boulders, he had to back away from the edge and take a lower path
around the barrier.
Past the rubble, he climbed back up to peer over the precipice again. There were the
soldiers, there was the lord’s armor, there was his scarlet cape, there was his steed, but
Davy did not see Lord Marsh. Where was his lordship?
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His senses had become unearthly keen. He heard the grasses rushing. The gray sky
was so bright it hurt his eyes. He smelled the horse below. He smelled the torches.
Another smell, the smell of an animal, raised all his hair on end.
The crushing of a blade of grass made him spin round.
Stalking up on him was a wolf. Not a reddish-brown wolf. This creature was steel
gray with malevolent watery eyes. Its lower jaw hung open, its teeth bared. The teeth
were crooked and broken like Lord Marsh’s. It crouched ready for a spring.
And leapt.
Heavy paws slammed into Davy’s chest, bowling him off his feet. He gasped in hot
fetid breath as he was falling, those gaping jaws following him down.
Davy writhed sideways with a violent twist of body, driven by rage and stark terror
with a rush like a lightning current.
Davy landed on all four paws.
His jaws immediately locked onto what was before his face—the gray wolf’s
chest—inhuman snarls rising from his own throat. His sharp teeth and powerful jaws
clamped down hard and held tight.
He wrapped his paws around the gray wolf’s body like a boxer, keeping inside his
opponent’s reach to avoid its slashing claws. He heard the gray wolf’s jaws snapping
and slavering above his head, unable to bend at the angle it needed to bite him.
It wrenched hard, but Davy kept his teeth clenched on its sternum for his life. The
gray wolf’s throat was right before his eyes, but he didn’t dare let go to try to sink his
teeth into it. Weirdly, he saw his own long black muzzle in front of his eyes. He heard
his clothes shredding.
A glimpse of a rusty brown shape moved at the corner of his eye. A yelp tore from
the throat in front of his eyes and the gray wolf was ripped clear out of Davy’s jaws.
Connor the wolf had sunk his fangs into the back of the gray wolf’s neck. He lifted
its whole body and shook it like a dog with a sock.
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When the gray wolf was thoroughly limp, Connor shook it again, dragged it to the
edge of the precipice and threw the carcass over the cliff.
Davy heard sounds from the road below—oaths and a cry, “My lord!”
A dim thought formed in the back of Davy’s head, wondering how the soldiers
knew that the broken wolf body was Lord Marsh.
It was not his foremost thought.
Davy sat, panting, naked on the hillside, shaking, staring down at his human hands.
He looked up to Connor, human again now too, naked and standing over him.
“Connor!” Davy’s voice vibrated. “What the hell!”
“We need to go,” said Connor. He transformed back into a wolf and ran.
Davy hesitated. How had he done that? He didn’t even know it could be done. He
hadn’t thought of doing it. It was just something he needed to do.
Something he needed to do.
He had to do this now.
And then he was standing on his hind legs. Davy sprang forward and followed the
red-brown wolf at a run to hide among the hawthorns. They peered out of the thicket
through the goldenrod and bristle grass as Lord Marsh’s soldiers trudged up to the top
of the cliff with their guns pointing all directions. Their furtive motions, their eyes said
they were terrified.
They found Davy’s torn clothes, did not appear to know what to make of them.
They hastily decided there was nothing up there for them and they withdrew, half of
them walking backward, guns at the ready for what horrors were at work up here.
The two wolves returned to the cliff edge to watch where the soldiers went.
Lord Marsh’s men retreated up the road. The lord’s men were not marching on the
abbey after all.
The body of Lord Marsh was wrapped in a scarlet cloak and draped over the
horse’s back. The shape of the body was clearly human. Soldiers carried their lord’s
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empty armor.
The wolves kept vigil until the men were out of sight, then trotted back to their
waiting horses.
Davy transformed. He scarcely had to think about how he did it. He just wanted it
done. He stood up naked in the wind, vibrating, glowering at Connor.
Connor the man turned to face him, opened his mouth, shut it. He really did not
know what to say.
The easier question first. Davy shouted at Connor, “You knew Lord Marsh was a
wolf?”
“No. I swear I did not. I only knew he was an evil minion of the High Lord.”
And more to the point—what had Davy leaping out of his skin—”You knew I was
wolf?”
“I wasn’t sure. I meant to ask before I— Before I changed your life for the best part
of forever.”
Connor had made him into a creature like himself. “Connor, do you love me? Truly
now. No secrets. No lies.”
“You know I never lied to you.”
“It’s a yes or no question, Connor!”
“To love is to give your soul away and never have power over yourself again.
When you love, your life is not your own anymore. And failing to speak it doesn’t
change the truth. And yes, I love you! I have loved you! God help me, I do love you. And
I have never been so terrified in my life.”
Davy calmed a little. He could face anything if only Connor loved him. All the
roiling doubt and fears ebbed away with the knowing.
And Connor was terrified?
“Of me?”
“You declared your love before you knew me, laddie. You might have been
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mistaken.”
“I knew enough. The rest of this is just stuff.”
“Stuff?” said Connor. “Funny the size of the stuff you call stuff. Stuff that I am a
three-hundred-year-old wolf.”
“Aye,” said Davy. “The little stuff.” He was naked, but the cold wasn’t bothering
him as it would have once. He felt intensely alive.
“Davy, you must know that all the wolves I ever knew were evil. That is why we
killed them all without regret. I don’t know how they first came to be—a Merowidd
curse gone desperately bad, I should think. Then the wolves made others. They made
theirs whom they chose without permission. Or they made them by accident as they
made me.”
“I thought you were born a wolf.”
“No one is born a wolf. The wolf kind are barren. We are made.”
Davy’s palm moved to the inside of his own thigh as the thought struck him. “You
bit me.”
Connor nodded. “I was a man at the time I did that. I was not sure if that—” He
couldn’t find the proper word, so he used the one he could think of, “Counted.”
Connor’s brows tightened over his winter blue eyes. He said solemnly, “I cost you
your children.”
“Connor, the way I love, there would be none.”
“I had no right to take that from you.”
“A bite does it?”
“It would seem so. I thought it required more than that.”
Connor’s own scars were deep, the wounds nearly fatal, deep tears of fang and
claw.
“The wolves left me for dead and I came very near to dying. I thought I recovered
from the attack. But next I knew I was wearing an expression a lot like the one you are
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wearing now. I had to guess the transformation happened because of the mauling, but
there was no one left to ask. We killed them. All of them.”
“Lord Marsh got away,” said Davy.
“No. Marsh was not there. He was born this century. I don’t know how he changed
or who changed him. God defend us if there is another pack.” His expression was
distant, guarded, determined. Then his face softened and he turned to Davy, touched
his black hair with the back of his hand. “I never got instructions on how to be what I
am. And I wasn’t really sure what I had done to you.”
“I’m a wolf,” said Davy. Saying it out loud didn’t make it seem more real.
“And you will likely live a very long time, just as you are today.”
“H-how long?”
“God knows. I surely don’t—”
“You’re stuck with me now,” said Davy.
“But I like that idea,” said Connor. His palm was warm against Davy’s cheek. “Did I
not tell you I wasn’t sorry? Now, laddie. Now that you know me, tell me you love me.”
Davy felt a wicked grin cross his face. “I shall show you. In so many ways.”
Davy bathed in a cold pond behind a windbreak of tall reeds and cattails. Climbing
out of the water, the wind was devilishly cold. He transformed into a wolf to shake the
water from his glossy fur. Quickly dry, he regarded his animal self in the reflecting
surface of the pond. He saw a sleek, slender wolf, his coat as black and shiny as his
human hair. His eyes were still vivid blue.
“You’re vain as a peacock, laddie,” said Connor, half dressed.
“Aye,” said Davy, a man again. He lay back in the grass, his arm behind his head,
his black hair lying silkily over his arm. “Pity I have no clothes.” He moved his legs
languidly. His cock lifted, firm.
Connor groaned, knelt before him, unable to resist, and crawled over him. “We may
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never get back to the abbey again.”
* * * * *
Davy had first become a wolf because he desperately needed to. He had been
terrified and furious.
He could not say what had turned him back. He was not sure how to control
himself, so he ventured out to the woods to experiment with his new—Lord Almighty,
what to call it? His new ability? His new nature?
When he thought he had traveled deep enough into the forest, he stopped. The oaks
stood proud and shabby, clinging like beggars to the brown tatters of last season’s
leaves.
He made certain he was quite alone. Crows cawed at him from their stations atop
the tallest trees. Little birds took wing or crowded under the holly scrub. Davy heard
their little hearts drumming. A rabbit huddled under the juniper, petrified but for its
little sides and nostrils moving with terrified breaths.
No one else was about. Davy stood next to the stout mottled trunk of a sycamore
and closed his eyes.
How do I do this?
He tried to imagine how it felt to be in a wolf body, sensing his paws, his long face,
his fur, his upright ears.
He felt himself falling forward and he took a step on reflex to catch himself. His
eyes flew open, his hands splayed. He was still a man.
Or he was a man again, clumsily regaining his two-legged balance. He realized he
had done it. He had turned into a wolf. Well, he had started to turn, but backed out as
soon as the transformation had begun.
He supposed it might be wise to get down in a crouch before trying again—and to
move his trousers down below his tailbone.
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He tried to keep his eyes open as he changed this time, but that didn’t happen. His
eyes closed themselves.
He missed a moment in time, like a daydreamer’s loss of concentration. And now
his clothes were constricting. His boots were big and clunky on his paws and narrow
legs, like a small child wearing his father’s boots. His trousers bunched around his
haunches. At least his tail wasn’t trapped down one pant leg. He shook himself free.
He hesitated to walk, afraid of embarrassing himself in front of the hiding birds.
But his was not a helpless rebirth. There was no need to teach baby fish how to swim
and Davy found he could walk and run and stalk and wag his brushy tail like a true
wolf. It should not have been a surprise. He had already discovered that he knew how
to use his jaws when he bit Lord Marsh.
He bounded up a slope and back down. He leapt up in the air to snap his jaws at a
falling leaf and landed deftly again on all fours. He broke the ice covering a stream with
his paw and lapped the chill water with his long tongue.
Just for the hell of it, he dashed after the rabbit. It sprang in a furry explosion of
panic from the juniper, its heart a blur, and took off, feet flying.
Davy raced after it in sudden exhilaration at a full gallop.
The rabbit zigged. Davy’s forequarters made the sharp corner, but momentum
carried his hindquarters onward in the original direction, dragging him wide around
the turn. His rear paws skidded, shredding up leaves and dirt to catch up. He gained on
the fleeing rabbit, closing in with blood lust.
A thought quailed in the back of his mind with a human twinge that he might not
really want to chew on a live rabbit. A gag reflex constricted his throat.
And suddenly twigs snapped under his bare palms, stinging. Wet leaves stuck to
his bare feet. His knees hit the ground. Winter air was cutting cold on his naked flesh.
He blundered into a fallen log and lay in a dazed idiotic heap.
So there was a little more to this than a fish learning to swim.
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Laughter sounded from somewhere. Startled, Davy felt his skin tighten and crawl
up his back.
Behind the brambles stood a man. It was Connor, naked and chuckling.
Davy’s face burned, abashed. He was red all the way down to his shoulders. He
gestured toward the rabbit. “I meant to let it get away.”
The corners of Connor’s eyes crinkled. “And so gracefully done.” He stepped
around the brambles to join Davy at his log and help him to his feet.
Davy started to retrace his steps back toward his clothes, but the acorns, the twigs,
the roots, the icy crust on the forest litter were too much for his bare feet. He melted into
wolf form and trotted the rest of the way on four well-padded paws. A red-brown wolf
appeared to shadow his flank.
As the clothes came into sight, Connor bounded ahead, became a man first and
snatched up Davy’s trousers. He backed away with them, waggling them like a stolen
prize.
Davy transformed over the rest of his clothing. He scolded throatily, “Oh you are a
rogue.”
“Aye,” Connor admitted, winking.
Davy stood up, naked but for his unbuttoned coat. He put out a palm. “They won’t
fit you, so let’s have them.”
“Now that will cost ye.”
“Are you not cold?” Davy cried, bewildered at this game.
“Do I look cold?” Connor opened his arms to show himself plainly. His cock was
hard and seemed to be reaching for Davy from the red-brown brush at his groin. He
stalked in toward Davy, holding his trousers raised like bait. “I shall trade ye for some
fire.”
Davy was about to say that he did not have any fire. But he did. He felt his
firebrand rising.
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Connor crossed to him and slid his arms around Davy’s body underneath his coat,
surrounding him with warmth and lifting him off his feet. Davy wrapped his legs
around Connor, moving his hips so their balls ground together and their cocks rubbed
each other. For his height and his bones, Davy was not a lightweight. Yet Connor stood
steady under him as a tree. Connor’s hands moved under his buttocks to hold him up
and Davy let his sleeved arms circle around Connor’s neck. He threw his head back, his
face turned up toward the high naked branches, giddy in the dazzling moment.
Connor murmured suggestively, “Let me see what you do on that horse of yours,
Davy.”
Davy held Connor’s torso tight between his thighs and he posted up and down,
their cocks sliding together slick and hard, heat rising between their bodies.
Fire.
Passion’s flames leapt. Davy came over Connor’s cock and wet Connor’s tightly
muscled abdomen. Connor released his ardor over Davy’s shaft. Davy shuddered
rapturously and gave again harder.
Connor’s arms pulled him in close. Davy squeezed Connor tight within the embrace
of his long legs. He kissed Connor’s face, his short hair rusty hair, near to sobbing with
joy.
Connor let him down to his unsteady feet and stayed there to balance him as he
panted into Connor’s chest, listening to his own pulse pound in his ears.
When the chill pushed back into Davy’s awareness, he got dressed, then followed
Connor the wolf back to where Connor had shed his clothes in a pile.
“Coming easier now?” Connor asked, drawing his trousers on.
“I have always come just fine, Connor,” said Davy, smug.
“Wolf to man, man to wolf I was meaning.” Connor dragged his shirt on. Davy
watched the muscles move in his shoulders, marveled at the wide reach of his powerful
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arms. Connor said, “It happened to me so long ago, I forgot there was any getting used
to it.”
“Well, let me remind you then. There is a lot to get used to! If any memory comes
back to you, I would love to hear it!” Davy rubbed his chin. He had skinned it on the
log in his rabbit chasing change-of-mind and it was beginning to ache.
Connor pulled on his boots. “I couldna tell ye. No more than I could advise a
toddler how to walk. I don’t remember learning that either.” He stood up, drawing on
his coat. “I can tell you, had you wolfed down that rabbit, you had best not have
returned to man’s form for a while. The bones and fur do not set well in a man’s gut.”
Davy felt his face wrinkle in disgust. His hand moved involuntarily to his stomach.
“Do you see my hat?” Connor asked, casting about the frozen leaf litter. “Damn, I
wish I had my hair.” The tops of his ears were red.
Connor’s broad-brimmed hat had blown over a fallen tree limb. Davy retrieved it
and slapped it across his knee to shake off the snow before returning it to Connor.
“Ever turn without meaning to?” Davy asked. “Between forms.”
“I must have.” Connor donned his hat and turned toward home with an unerring
sense of direction. “Just like you, I didna know what I had become until I was looking
down my snout at my paws. It’s second nature now. Literally.” He thought for a while,
then said, “Fear and wrath will do it. Change you to a wolf.”
“It’s hard to imagine you ever frightened,” said Davy.
“I can fear. You scare me,” said Connor. “Fear and wrath will get you there.” He
started off toward home, his heavy arm slung across Davy’s shoulders. “Love will bring
you back.”
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Chapter Seven
Connor showed Davy places in the buried abbey he had never seen.
Once again, Davy followed the red-brown wolf through the labyrinth. This time he
could see in the infinitesimal light. And he kept his sense of direction through all the
turns as if there were a lodestone in his head.
They passed through a narrow tunnel and came up from the earth at sunset outside
the rough stone perimeter that defined the abbey grounds. Davy could hear the abbey
goats bleating at a distance from back over the hill.
Connor, the guardian wolf of the Abbey of Craiglaren, patrolled the boundaries at
twilight.
Davy’s paw stepped on a clump of snow-covered grass. A mouse popped up with a
squeak and fled.
Davy’s nostrils caught a distinct odor from one of the boundary stones as they
passed. He lost his wolf form for laughing and became a naked young madman rolling
in the snow.
“What is it, laddie?” Connor changed into a man to ask him.
“You marked the abbey?” Davy cried. That rather explained why no other wild
predators were lifting goats or hens from the grounds. It struck him as terribly funny.
He could not stop laughing.
“So pleased I could give you a laugh,” Connor said low. “Just do not be so loud at
the turn of the day. I suppose you have heard the old saying ‘There is nothing in the
dark that is not in the light?’”
“Aye. I have,” said Davy, wiping away tears. His father had told him that saying.
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“Well, it’s not true,” said Connor. “Keep your wits about ye.” He changed again
into a wolf and moved warily on his route.
Davy padded quietly after him. He did not even need to think about transforming
this time, because it was true what else Connor had told him— Fear gets you there.
* * * * *
The death of Lord Marsh had not passed easily. Marsh had been one of the High
Lord’s own chosen underlords. Vengeance was coming.
Common folk began arriving at the ruined abbey from settlements all around
Craiglaren, plain crofters driven from their homes as the High Lord turned the
countryside inside out in search of Lord Marsh’s assassins.
“This is a poor place to hide,” Connor had to tell them. “In fact, it’s not a hiding
place at all. The High Lord is driving you here to burn us all at once.”
The refugees were stunned.
“He’s herding you into your pyre.”
“We don’t know where to go,” said a farmer who lived in the hollow below the
dismantled dam.
“Leave something of yours here to make it look as if you are here,” Connor told
him. “Something you can live without, something too heavy to carry. If the High Lord
succeeds in burning the abbey, he will suppose you are dead and will not hunt you
more.”
“Where are you going?” the farmer asked.
“I am staying here.”
“To do what?”
Connor said simply, “It looks like I have to kill the High Lord, doesn’t it?”
The outlaws made sure there were tracks of many people coming in. They took
their visitors out over rocks to a tunnel out the back of the ruins so there would be no
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sign of their ever having moved on.
To all appearances, a lot of refugees crowded behind the stout wooden door set in
the jumbled stone wall.
The common hall was the abbey’s weakness. “This room is all wood,” said Connor.
“If it catches fire, all the gases will sweep through the catacombs.”
Davy and Connor climbed the long way around to get to the roof of the common
hall. Over top of the wooden ceiling lay a thick pile of earth on which wild grasses grew
and the goats grazed.
The goats watched them curiously.
“Why is the High Lord so incensed over someone killing Lord Marsh?” Davy
asked. “Marsh was no kind of proper lord. Folk pay tribute to a lord so he will protect
them. He was not a lord. He was a parasite.”
“And when have you ever seen concern for common folk from the High Lord?”
said Connor.
“Did no one tell him that Lord Marsh was one of the wolf breed?” said Davy.
“Marsh’s own soldiers saw his dead body change from wolf to man.”
Connor nodded sideways. “Means the High Lord already knew Marsh was a wolf.”
He knelt by one of the skylights positioned over the outlaws’ dinner table and took a
crowbar to it.
“What has the High Lord to do with one of the wolf kind?” Davy asked, hauling up
a thick pane of glass.
“What indeed,” said Connor.
A chill traveled up Davy’s spine.
Connor pried up two of the stout glass panes from the skylights over the common
hall. The openings would let in the rain. They would let the outlaws out in case the
High Lord’s men got through the door.
A rampart of haphazard rocks, left behind from the mudslide that buried the ruins
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of the abbey long ago, shielded anyone on the roof from view from the ground so long
as they stayed low.
Connor called down through the open skylight to Falleen, Katie, Bernard, Hugh,
Lorens, Rory, Arven and Terrel, “When the High Lord’s men set fire to the door—and
they will set fire to the door—you can climb up this way and out the back. You will
have time. It’s a big door. Rory, Hugh, go turn out the horses and get Leann in here and
bolt the door. They’re coming.”
A small ominous rising of dust appeared over the horizon.
Lorens, clearly frightened, called up to the skylight, “Connor, what will you do?”
“I’m going to talk to the High Lord.”
The High Lord came with a lot of men. Davy smelled them before he saw them.
They came with guns and spears and pikes and swords and horses. The Esvenold colors
flew high, the High Lord’s pennants snapping in the wind.
Davy and Connor lay on the roof, peering out through small spy holes in the piled
rocks of the ramparts.
A large man on a jet-black horse led the way. He was sturdily built, a cruel sort of
handsome. His hair was long and flowing white, but not brittle as in age. His hair was
just very, very fair. His cloak was made of winter lynx.
The High Lord dismounted and Davy heard him laugh. “They did it! The imbeciles
took refuge in the damn abbey! How ironic.” He strode to the door, cupped his hands
and shouted through the thick oak, “Do you simpletons not know this is a tomb!”
He stepped back from the door. The High Lord looked far too young to have been
High Lord for these last fifty years. His skin was fair and taut, his hands smooth.
Davy remembered what Falleen had said. The High Lord’s skin had been supple
and young thirty years ago.
Connor backed away from the edge of the roof. His eyes were wide. Davy crawled
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back with him. Connor whispered, “I know him.”
Davy saw the short hairs on the back of Connor’s neck rise like hackles.
The meaning caught up with Davy in a moment. Connor had known him a very
long time ago.
“Your High Lord was one of the original wolves of Craiglaren,” said Connor.
“You said they were all dead,” Davy protested. “You killed them.”
“One did get away, it seems. This captain did not go down with his ship. The so-
called High Lord is not noble. There is no House of Esvenold. His name is Voucair and
he is common.”
“And three hundred years old,” Davy added.
“Aye. Listen to me, Davy. Don’t let yourself be seen. Stay low. If it comes to it, get
everyone out.”
Davy fought down panic. His nerves were buzzing like a bowstring after the arrow
is loosed.
The High Lord’s voice carried from below, a sharp command to his men, “Burn it!”
The soldiers touched torches to the door.
The flames were reluctant to catch. The soldiers propped the torches against the
door and let them burn there.
Connor murmured low to Davy, “It’s a stout door, laddie. Stay calm.”
Thrown torches came arcing up into the air with a rain of sparks, landing on the
grassy roof next to Connor and Davy.
The torches immediately went lofting back down, scattering the High Lord’s men.
The soldiers were making signs against witchcraft when Connor’s stern deep voice
sounded from above, “Voucair!”
The soldiers looked among themselves, confused. Which of them was Voucair?
The High Lord looked up with a smile, trying to find who spoke. “My name is
Esvenold.”
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“No, it’s Voucair, the potter’s third son,” Connor declared.
The High Lord’s back stiffened in insult and suppressed rage.
His soldiers listened intently, intrigued. The High Lord was son of a potter?
“There is no such house as Esvenold,” Connor continued. “You made it up. You
could not dirty your hands with your father’s honest name. If it is such a high house,
tell your men who else bears the name Esvenold?”
The High Lord sneered. “What need has a god to breed!”
A god. He meant himself.
“Show yourself,” the High Lord commanded.
Connor stood up and stepped over the rocks to the edge of the roof.
The High Lord’s eyes lifted and widened. Davy expected the High Lord would be
horrified, but saw instead bright excitement and blood lust, like a hunter sighting a
buck bigger than anyone has ever seen. His delight made Davy’s courage turn to water
inside him.
“Donnaugh!” said the High Lord, excited. “It is you, Donnaugh. Randall
Donnaugh!”
“I am not Randall,” said Connor. The calm strength of his voice comforted Davy.
“No?” The High Lord’s brows drew together, doubtful. “No. Not Randall. I see that
now. Randall was never one of us. You are the other. Son of the Wolfslayer.”
“You weren’t in the abbey to die with your pack,” said Connor. “You ran, Voucair?”
The High Lord said coldly, “Others die for me. I die for no one.”
The faces of the High Lord’s guards remained stony at that pronouncement. But
those were not the sort of words that instilled loyalty or made anyone want to follow a
leader into battle.
Still the High Lord’s guards had all their guns trained on Connor. The High Lord
waved away the guns, annoyed. “Oh put those down. We go way back, Donnaugh and
I.” And to Connor, “Do you know who I am?”
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Obviously Connor did know him, so the question struck Davy odd. Connor said, “I
remember you, Voucair.”
“But you don’t know. I see you don’t,” the High Lord laughed cruelly. “Come
down, son of Randall. You and I are not done.”
“If I come down, you will not burn the abbey?” Connor proposed.
“On my word,” said the High Lord silkily, with an inclination of his head.
Davy, pressed flat on roof, hissed urgently up to Connor, “He’s lying. Don’t go!”
Connor did not look down at him. “Take your torches from my door,” Connor
commanded the High Lord.
At the High Lord’s signal, his soldiers retrieved their torches from the stout oak
door. The wood had been slow in catching. It had not caught at all.
“Your turn, son of Randall.”
Connor strode across the roof to a tumbled pile of rocks that sloped jaggedly down.
Connor jogged down the rocks, sure-footed as a mountain goat—or a wolf.
The High Lord nodded to his soldiers, then to the abbey door. “Burn it.”
Davy gasped. Connor did not look shocked at the treachery.
Torches again came arcing up to the roof. Davy scrambled on his belly to the
torches and snuffed them head down into the dirt on the roof.
Davy crawled back to the edge to peer between the rocks. He needed to see what
was happening below.
Connor was chiding the High Lord in front of his men as they set torches against
the door. “Your word, Voucair,” he said in irony.
The High Lord gave a flippant shrug, “I don’t give my word to rabble. You burned
my people. I shall burn yours. And you are not in there. This has a nice symmetry. And
now, son of Randall, you owe me your life. I made you. I made you! I can do with your
life what I will because your life is mine.”
Davy could not guess how the High Lord figured that debt. Nor did Connor’s face
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show any comprehension.
Of course, it was a self-proclaimed god who spoke.
The High Lord turned to his guards, “No matter what you see, you shall do nothing
‘til one is dead.” And to his foe, “That one will be you, son of Randall.”
And the High Lord transformed into a wolf, as white as his flowing hair.
The soldiers gasped and bowed low, afraid to gaze upon the avatar. The High Lord
was widely known as a powerful wizard.
The change that came over Connor’s face at the sight of the white wolf alarmed
Davy. Connor had already figured out that the High Lord had to be a wolf, so Davy
could not understand his look of deep shock. Something had undercut Connor’s
certainty. Davy’s heart felt cold.
“You,” Connor rasped.
At that, Davy realized this wolf, this particular white wolf, must have been the one
who killed Connor’s wife and left Connor for dead.
I made you.
The High Lord was the one who made Connor what he was.
You owe me your life.
Connor had said that the wolf that mauled him had seemed to smile. Davy saw that
smile now on the white wolf, with eyes of purest evil.
Connor looked shaken. But the brush of fear quickly passed. Connor hardened into
galvanized wrath, cold, determined, expectant. Lethal.
Connor spoke to the bowing soldiers in a growling voice. “Your Lord is no great
wizard. He knows only one trick and it is not even a good one.”
Connor transformed himself. He dropped down on four paws, snarling.
The High Lord and Connor circled. Everything else seemed to stop. The soldiers
were staring. Even those trying to start the fire dropped their torches at the door and
watched. There was nothing but the white wolf and the rusty wolf, circling, growling.
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The white wolf was the soul of villainy, its lips pulled back in a savage smile, its
lower teeth bared.
Even as a wolf, the timbre of Connor’s growl was unmistakable, dead serious,
defending his own.
Davy’s knuckles were white, clenched in fists, fighting the impulse to leap down
there and help Connor. But he knew if he did, the soldiers would just shoot the both of
them.
The white wolf feinted, lunged and dodged. The great red-brown animal sprang
straight up, twisting in the air not to come down on the jaws that rushed in below him.
They clashed in a whirl of fur and fang. They parted, snarling hatred, blood on both
their faces.
The breath felt like a solid lump in Davy’s lungs. He could not exhale.
A gash appeared as a streak of crimson on snow on the white wolf’s face. The
wound was his. The face was not smiling now.
The white beast charged into Connor, they both went down barking, thrashing.
Connor was thrown onto his back, his rear claws slashing.
They both scrabbled in the dirt, came up to their feet.
The white wolf barreled into Connor again, rolling him over and stepping on his
chest to keep him belly up. The white wolf’s jaws spread wide in smiling wrath over
Connor’s throat for the kill.
The eerie howl of a wolf filled the air, startling everyone. It made them all flinch
and look.
The sound startled Davy—and he was making it. He was a wolf and he was
howling. Soldiers clutched at their weapons in sudden fright, looking all around.
Another wolf. There was another wolf.
Even the white wolf jerked with a start, lifted its head for a split instant.
Fangs drove into the white throat with the clenching of powerful jaws.
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The High Lord’s soldiers gripped their guns, uncertain.
They just watched as the russet-colored wolf shook the white one like a rag. They
all heard the horrid snap.
The great red-brown wolf kept shaking, making certain the white animal was dead
and quite dead again. He gave another vigorous shake, one for wrath and one for grief,
one for vengeance and one more for the complete hell of it.
He let the limp body drop, hung his head over it, letting his jaws drip clean.
The dead white wolf blurred into the figure of a broken man.
Another blur and Connor, the big man, naked and bloody, rose to stand on two
feet. He gestured to the smoldering fire at the abbey door and ordered the High Lord’s
men, “Put that out.”
They quickly obeyed, lifting the firebrands away from the door and throwing dirt
on the nascent flames.
For the High Lord’s soldiers, instead of grief and vengeful fury, there was only
shock, submission—and relief.
They removed the metal bars they had laid against the door, meant to trap the
inhabitants in.
Davy came to his senses and he returned to his human form. He scrambled to get
his clothes back on before anyone could look up through the skylight and see him
naked up here with goats cringing away from him in terror.
Down below, the heavy crossbars were lifting away from the inside of the oaken
door. The door opened.
Falleen appeared in the smoking doorway, an ethereal figure in her long robes.
She stepped out with a spectral walk that made no sound.
Behind her, the other outlaws stared out, confused to see all the soldiers still there
and not charging at them, and to see Connor spattered with blood, naked and alive.
Falleen crossed to where the High Lord lay. She stooped over his body and
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dropped seven copper pieces, one by one, into the dead man’s mouth.
“Fare for the boatman,” she said.
A soldier shifted uneasily. “One coin is customary, ma’am.”
“To make certain he gets where he is going,” said Falleen.
The soldiers were lost. They looked to the strongest among them for direction.
Connor nodded down to the High Lord and bade his soldiers, “Take that and go
back where you came from.”
After the soldiers had gone, the outlaws ventured outside. They had not been able
to hear anything through the oak door and the thick rock and earth walls, but some
sounds had carried in through the two open skylights—confusing muddled sounds that
made no sense.
“I heard a wolf howling on the roof,” said Rory, mystified.
“I too,” said Lorens.
They looked to Davy, who had been out there. “Did you see it, Davy?”
“Not really,” Davy said truthfully. “No. But I heard it. Believe me, it was a real
shock.”
* * * * *
In the days to follow, gifts began to appear at the abbey door, dried fruit and wine
and live geese, like offerings to wild gods. The crofters in the surrounding areas
returned to their settlements.
Falleen came riding back to the abbey on Davy’s white mare, her hair as silvery
white as the sky. She had gone to the city to listen for talk of vengeance for the High
Lord’s death.
“Nothing,” she reported, reining in. “There is nothing. The land has never been so
peaceful.”
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Connor helped her down from the saddle. “Falleen, you didn’t happen to weave
this, did you?”
Snowflakes were falling like bits of lace.
“You know I don’t dare. I work only the wool anymore, except that I wove strength
for Davy. And I wove true love and protection for you.”
“You wove that for me a hundred years ago.”
“Magic is timeless. And so is true love,” said Falleen. She left no tracks in the snow.
If her wish for strength for Davy and love and protection for Connor came together
to destroy Lord Marsh and the High Lord, well, Falleen’s enchantments always did
express strangely.
Connor’s big hand felt warm at the base of Davy’s neck. The life he used to know
was over. His life was new and dazzling.
Bright serenity shone in the stone gray sky over the blanket of softly falling snow.
Connor’s voice was low and crumbly, “You could go back to Blackleigh now.”
“No, I don’t think I could,” said Davy.
Connor’s breath was hot against the shell of his ear, “Will you stay with me then,
laddie?”
Davy turned, looped his arms up around his powerful neck. “Just how long would
you have me stay, Connor?”
Connor brushed snowflakes from Davy’s midnight hair. “For the best part of
forever.”
“And the rest of it too?”
“Aye and that.” He kissed a snowflake from his face. His lips were soft and
splendid.
“Then aye, Connor, I will stay with you,” Davy answered, sharing his breath.
Connor’s strong arms circled him. “It’s good you said yes, Davy, because I’ll not be
letting you go.”
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Davy tilted his head. “And how did you intend to hold me?”
“I shall show you,” said Connor, pressing him close. “In so many ways.”
And he made love to him for the best part of forever.
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About the Author
Jez Morrow is a Scorpio with Scorpio rising. The eyes are gray. The hair is blonde at
the moment. Rather than the traditional cat, her writing familiar is a large black dog.
She is published internationally under several names.
Jez is married to her true love, a combat veteran. (She has a thing for a military
man.) Jez and her husband (and the dog) currently live in Ohio, but their hearts are in
the Smoky Mountains.
The author welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email
address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
Tell Us What You Think
We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at
Comments@EllorasCave.com.
Also by Jez Morrow
Lover and Commander
Shadow of a Wolf
Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning
publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC
on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you
breathless.
www.ellorascave.com
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