Awaiting the Wolf Killer Highlander by Alisa Adams

9

Once Malcolm and Sorcha had tied their horses to a tree and settled down on the grass to rest, it had not taken either of them long to doze off beneath the languid summer sunshine, sung to sleep by the fiddling of the grasshoppers in the field. There was a loch nearby, and likewise, the sound of its waves steadily lapping against the shores made for a delightful lullaby.

Neither of them had planned to slumber. If they had, Sorcha had no doubt that Malcolm would have insisted that they take turns so that one of them might keep watch for bandits or other threats. As it was, they had simply succumbed to all of the travel and worry they had been subjected to in these recent days.

Sorcha dreamed of a Castle Fraser with shimmering gilded towers that stretched high above the clouds themselves. The waters of its moat were filled with silver coins, which, in the peculiar logic of dreams, coalesced into the scales of giant fish swimming in impossible patterns. Its ramparts were lined with thousands upon thousands of guards, all of them smiling and welcoming. She dreamed of a Laird Nathan with a hundred different faces. Some of them were fair, while others were foul. One of them was even the hateful visage of her dead uncle Ronald for reasons far beyond her understanding.

And another of them was the face of Malcolm.

She told herself that this last image was perfectly natural. After all, since the two of them were brothers, might they not also be alike in appearance? But deeper down, she knew that such an image obviously represented her desire for Malcolm—her fervent yet hopeless wish that she might simply choose him to marry, for she had never been so taken with a man before in her life.

In her dream, the laird with Malcolm’s face drew nearer to her and stroked her cheek, looking deep into her eyes with his piercing green orbs. As he leaned forward, she felt his hot breath on her face, the pressure of his body against hers… She parted her lips, eagerly awaiting his kiss…

Then she opened her eyes and woke, and her blood froze in her veins. A scream rose in her chest and lodged in her throat, and she nearly choked upon it.

She was face-to-face with the gray muzzle of a wolf, its fetid and carnivorous breath blasting against her skin like a blacksmith’s bellows.

From this vantage point, each of its fangs looked to be the size of a sword. Its yellow eyes stared into hers with curiosity and hunger, and a growl rumbled from deep within it. Its huge paw hovered over her face, its hooked claw faintly brushing against her forehead.

She dared not move. She dared not make a sound, knowing that it would take a matter of seconds for the animal to rip her to pieces if it was frightened or disturbed.

Then again, she knew that it could just as easily eviscerate her if she remained still, depending on how long it had been since the creature had eaten.

Sorcha was suddenly keenly aware of how exposed and vulnerable the soft flesh of her throat was.

The wolf bared its teeth menacingly, the growl growing even louder and more insistent, as though it could sense her thoughts.

She wished she could risk a glance over at Malcolm to determine whether he was still asleep or if he was there at all. If he had gone down to the edge of the loch to bathe or relieve himself, then perhaps he might see what was happening on his way back and save her.

Except that she could not look away from the wolf’s eyes. She dared not, for she was certain that the moment she did, the creature would sink its teeth into her.

The moments seemed to stretch into infinity, with Sorcha keeping every muscle in her body so still that they soon began to cramp. She wondered how long she could remain motionless before she twitched the wrong way and paid a gory price for it.

Suddenly, a small silver blade flashed through the air and embedded itself in the side of the wolf’s head. It yowled in agony, tumbling off Sorcha’s chest and onto its side. Sorcha, seized by fear and reflexes, leaped to her feet and put as much distance between herself and the animal as possible, never taking her eyes off it for fear that it might choose to follow her.

But the beast seemed focused on the one who had thrown a dagger into the side of its head. Blood filled its angry golden eye, oozing down its muzzle and settling between its rows of horrid teeth. It whined and snarled, shaking its head as though trying to dislodge the knife.

Then it lunged at Malcolm, determined to inflict revenge.

Sorcha’s heart plummeted as she watched the wolf launch itself at her savior. Malcolm’s sword was sheathed; there was no way for him to draw it before the animal closed the distance.

As it turned out, he did not need to.

The creature leaped, and Malcolm ducked, producing another dagger from his sleeve with the speed of a lightning strike. He flicked the blade across the wolf’s throat and rolled to one side, then recovered in a crouch, prepared to face it once more.

The wolf, however, was quite finished.

It staggered forward a few more steps, choking, its blood staining the grass beneath it. Then its eyes rolled up into its head, and it slumped onto its side, dead, its red tongue lolling out.

Panic caught up with Sorcha, and her entire body began to tremble violently, her teeth chattering. Malcolm strode over to the wolf and retrieved his thrown knife from the side of its skull, wiping it on the grass before he slid it back into a sheath at the back of his belt.

“How many of those do you carry on your person?” she asked.

“In truth, my lady, I have long since lost count,” he replied with a crooked grin, walking over to her. “I daresay I have daggers hidden in every nook and cranny of my body that you might imagine...and a few you might prefer not to.”

A laugh escaped Sorcha’s lips, followed by a sob. Her fright was overcoming her—not just from having been threatened by a wolf, but from McKenna and the plague and the angry mob and all of it.

“There, there,” Malcolm soothed, putting his arms around her and rubbing her upper arms briskly. “I have felt enough fear in my life to know that it comes on cold. Take deep breaths and think warm thoughts, my lady, and it will pass right enough.”

“You may call me Sorcha, you know,” she said in a quivering voice. “I am quite certain you have earned the right to do so.”

His mouth tightened into a grim line, and he released her, even though she most definitely did not wish to be released. “No,” he responded quietly, “I believe it would be best for me to keep addressing you as my lady. To keep from…confusing things. You understand.”

She wished she could pretend that she didn’t so that she might press him to say more, to confess his feelings for her so that she might be prompted to do the same. She wished the two of them might continue to ride together without ever looking back. That she might find happiness far removed from the responsibilities of leading a clan, as her brother Dand had.

But she knew it was not possible. Her people were depending upon her. If Davina was to be believed, only Sorcha could lift this plague.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I understand. I suppose we had best continue on our way, then.”

“Er, before we do,” he replied wryly, “might I clean this blood off my person? It does give me a manly air, and I have no doubt that it will be a compelling cause for conversation should we encounter anyone on our travels. Plus, well, I’m quite fond of the color. It’s just the smell, you see, is most revolting, and it’s rather sticky besides.”

He had a point. The creature had bled on him a great deal indeed when he’d slashed its throat.

“Of course,” she said, blushing. “By all means.”

“Thank you. I shan’t be long.” Malcolm walked toward the edge of the loch, whistling to himself.

The moment he was out of her line of sight, Sorcha felt herself begin to shiver again, gripped by sheer terror. Though there were no wolves in view, her eyes saw packs of them closing in on her from all sides, their muzzles snarling and foaming.

Her rational mind told her that such visions were untrue. But the more primal voice beneath it insisted that a predator could easily savage her before her screams traveled to the shore of the loch and compelled Malcolm to return. She dared not remain so far from him in case the worst occurred.

But he requires privacy when he bathes, you wicked girl!she thought, blushing fiercely. If he were to see that you followed him…

Then he would not see, she decided. She would be as stealthy as it took to avoid detection and to ensure her own safety. It was the only reasonable course of action, she told herself. She had almost been devoured by a ravening beast just moments before. No sane person could expect her to remain on her own, unguarded, unarmed.

She crept to the shore on tiptoe, keeping behind rocks, stumps, and tall grasses whenever possible. At last, she came upon the loch, and when her eyes found Malcolm, she gasped, her face turning even more red than before.

The contours of his broad back and firm buttocks glistened as he stood hip-deep in the water, singing to himself quietly. He scrubbed at his wide chest with his hands, then cupped them and caught some water within them, splashing it into his beard.

He looked magnificent, the curly hairs on his torso beaded with moisture, his muscles as sculpted as a statue of some ancient god.

Sorcha’s jaw hung slack. She had never seen anything so gorgeous in her life, and the sight made her tingle in the deepest recesses of her core.

Malcolm turned in her direction, and she threw herself down on the ground, praying he would not see her. It seemed as though her prayers were answered, for he continued to bathe a while, then waded out of the water to retrieve his clothing.

She snuck one final peek at him, admiring his exposed manhood.

Then she scurried back to where the horses were tied, knowing that she would treasure the memory of what she had seen for the rest of her life.