Wolf's Embrace Read online

  Her brain raced as she tried to find a reason for her abduction. A simple rape was not their plan, for if they had wanted that, they could have taken her in her own chamber, her sisters along with her. The glow from the tapers that still flickered in the hall permitted Sybelle to see that they had no need to rob. Each of the men, though covered with a skin cloak, wore jewels too fine for an ordinary man.

  Why, then?

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  Sybelle thought they had been riding for hours. Her body was stiff and sore, aching from the pressure the leader's hands asserted on her. Each mile took her farther from help, from the people she knew. They had stopped only once, to change horses. Hunger gnawed at her stomach; thirst invaded her parched mouth. The chill of the night was still evident, even though dawn was fast approaching. Sybelle shivered beneath the fur pelt, and, as she did, felt the tightening grip of the man who held her close.

  Who was he and why was he doing this to her? What did he want from her? Justice. He said only that he had come for "justice." Justice for what ? For whom?

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  Rolf felt the trembling form beneath his arm. Her flesh was chilled; he pulled her closer into his embrace. His right arm was securely tucked beneath the full swell of her unbound breasts. His own flesh tightened in response. The smell of sandalwood scented the hair that he'd forced her to braid while they'd changed mounts.

  She'd spoken not a word, only silently condemning him with eyes the color of a stormy sea.

  At least Derran could breed courage in his offspring, Rolf grudgingly admitted to himself. Even the girls followed orders unflinchingly after the initial attempt at escape. Rolf respected courage, especially in this situation. There would be no challenge in subduing a meek woman afraid of her own shadow. This woman would present a provocation to him while he held her.

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  "Dismount," Roll ordered Sybelle.

  Sliding from the saddle, Sybelle tried to straighten her cramped limbs.

  "Drink," was the curt command.

  Sybelle reached for the skin container, wanting to throw it back in his arrogant face, but realizing this was not a sensible idea. She must keep her wits about her until she could make good an escape.

  "Enough." The skin was taken from her hand and raised to the lips of the leader, who drank deeply.

  Now, with the sun high overhead, Sybelle could see the man and his party clearly. There were five in all. Two were dressed in rough clothes, yet all appeared of higher class than their clothes indicatedespecially the man she deemed the leader of this pack. Yet there was no hint of the courtier's demeanor about him, rather that of a tougher breed, hardy and robust, at home in the elements that now surrounded them.

  Instead of the sweetly rolling green hills around Castle Derran, the landscape here was unsparing, wild and windswept. She could smell the sea in the air that enfolded them.

  One man was at least the age of her father, Sybelle concluded from the lines that marred his face. The other four were younger, no more than thirty, she guessed. The youngest man was perhaps her age.

  She judged him to be related to the leader. Both were tall, taller than the majority of the men that she was accustomed to, each possessing broad shoulders, though the elder's seemed the wider. Each had a face that belonged to his place, although the younger man's was not as hardened as the elder's. Shining black hair, dark as onyx, was worn past their shoulders, thick and healthy. It was in the eyes that Sybelle noted the disparity in the two men. It wasn't just that their eyes were different colors; it was in the way each looked at the world. In the older man's green eyes she could see ruthlessness, pride, a will of iron; in the younger's, the golden sheen reflected loyalty, courage, and a hint of gentleness.

  Mayhap he would be the key to her release.

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  Roll called out in Gaelic again. Since they'd left the Fitzgerald holdings, he'd been sure to keep to his native tongue when issuing orders to his men. All the better to keep this outsider in confusion.

  Remounting, Roll waited for Sybelle to be placed in his arms. Bran, seeing the weary look on her face, suggested, ''Perhaps she could ride with me, brother?"

  Rolf responded curtly. "No. Derran's daughter is mine."

  "I was not challenging your authority, merely asking if you wished to be relieved of the burden of handling the wench," Bran replied.

  Rolf leaned down and clasped his brother on the shoulder. "I thank you for your consideration then, but I will take the woman with me. The quarry is mine and I will bring it to the lair on my own. Lift her up."

  Bran did as Rolf bid, noting the puzzled expression on the woman's face. His brother's tactic of keeping her off-guard was working successfully.

  Sybelle again felt the confining strength of the hard-muscled arm that slipped beneath her breasts. No man had ever touched her so intimately. She sensed that he was aware of this fact and did it deliberately, a taunt she had no retaliation for.

  Suddenly her weary expression vanished, replaced with a determination that she would prevail, that she would not admit weakness to this man.

  Higher they climbed up the craggy hills, the smell of the sea sharp and clear. In the distance she could make out the form of a huge castle set upon a hill that overlooked the sea. The mist whirled around them, chilling her flesh again.

  A shout from the walls of the castle produced an answering response from the bear of a man who rode next to the leader. The gates of the keep swung wide; the party rode in to a welcoming gathering of people in the courtyard.

  Sybelle was handed down to the bear, who kept a firm grip on her wrist.

  Rolf handed the reins of his huge gray stallion to a waiting groom as he dismounted. A smile of cunning crossed his face, chilling Sybelle even further, as did the words he uttered, spoken in flawless French.

  "Welcome to Wolf's Den, Lady Sybelle. Permit me to introduce myself. I am your host. Roll O'Dalaigh, Earl of Killroone, at your serviceas you shall assuredly be at mine."

  Chapter 2

  She was in the grip of a terrible nightmare. It had to be so, for there was no other explanation for what was happening to her.

  Several hours had passed since she'd been brought to the castle of this barbaric Irish lord; she was shown to a room in the upper level of the castle, and roughly shoved inside as the door was securely locked from the outside.

  A look at the window revealed no escape route there. She couldn't fit through the narrow opening in the stone, and it was too high to chance a drop to the ground below even if she could have squeezed through. The room was bare of any ornamentation; a chest at the foot of the bed contained only a collection of fur pelts for use on the bare bed. No fire was laid in the hearth to warm the cold room. She shivered and drew another pelt from the chest, throwing it around her shoulders. Her stomach again made her lack of food this day apparent to her. Was she to be denied even her basest needs? And for what?

  His words came back to her in that clear, cold voice that spoke the tongue of France as if he had been born there. What had he meant by using the word "service"? Was she to become some kind of servant to him? He said his name with all the pride that she suspected was an inherent part of his nature. Roll O'Dalaigh. Was it supposed to mean something to her?

  Sybelle searched her mind for any recollection of the name, but no such memory came to life. Questions flooded into her mind. Was this in any way connected to her father's recent trip to England? Was this Irish lord somehow linked to the Lancastrians? Most of the Irish lords, Sybelle knew, supported the Yorkist cause. The tenure of the Duke of York, Edward IV's father, as Viceroy of Ireland, was the main reason for their loyalty. Was she to be used as hostage for anothera political exchange?

  Tired of standing, Sybelle curled herself up on the wide bed, there being no other piece of furniture in the room. She must look
frightful. Her hair was a tangle, her soft nightdress was dirty, torn in spots. Her flesh was bruised in several places. The pleasant thought of how good it would feel to sink into the depths of her own tub, to wash away the grime and ease the ache in her bones, invaded her brain.

  When a knock sounded on the door, Sybelle leaped to her feet, not quite sure what to expect when it opened. A woman entered the room. She was older, perhaps nearing fifty, her hair the color of slate. She wore no head covering; instead her hair was simply wrapped around her skull in a neat coronet of braids. Of average height, she moved with an economy of motion as she brought in a tray laden with bread and cheeses and an assortment of nuts. A jug of water completed the fare.

  Pretending she didn't want to eat would be foolish, so Sybelle took the tray gratefully, placing it upon the bed. She tore off a large chunk of the dark bread and swallowed it, her wary eyes never leaving the woman. Washing the bread down with the water, she enjoyed the cool feel of it sliding down her throat. No wine had ever tasted so good. Her fingers made short work of the cheese, the taste simple and fulfilling.

  The woman's voice muttering something in the Irish tongue stopped Sybelle's meal.

  "Do you speak my language, old woman?"

  The dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Aye, my lady."

  "Do you know why I am here?"

  "Aye," was all she said.

  There would be no volunteering of information from this quarter, Sybelle thought. Here was a family servant who understood the value of loyalty, just as her Alyce would never reveal anything without Sybelle's permission.

  Yet when Sybelle looked carefully into the woman's eyes, she detected a trace of sympathy there. The woman hadn't tried to hide it or pretend that it wasn't visible. What did she know?

  "What are you called?" Sybelle asked politely, keeping her voice even.

  "Siobhan, my lady." Sybelle tried the sound of it on her tongue. Her pronunciation brought the first smile to the old woman's features since she had entered the room. Siobhan pronounced her name again slowly, enunciating the syllables for Sybelle, who repeated it again, "Sshvaughn," this time perfectly.

  "Thank you for the meal, Siobhan."

  "You were not brought here to starve, my lady."

  "Indeed ?" Sybelle arched a curved brow. "When am I to know the reason that I was forcibly taken from my home? Today? Tomorrow?" she said, her politeness fading fast.

  "You will know when my lord wishes you to know."

  "Your lord? The man named Rolf O'Dalaigh?"

  "That is correct, Lady Sybelle."

  "You know my name?"

  "Aye. You are the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald, daughter of the Earl of Derran."

  "Who will move heaven and earth to get me back, of that I can assure you," Sybelle said. "He will pay any price, meet any ransom."

  "There will be no ransom," came the deep-voiced reply from the doorway.

  Both Sybelle and Siobhan turned immediately towards the door.

  Rolf O'Dalaigh stood there, one hand against the jamb, a sardonic smile on his handsome face. Sybelle's eyes registered the changes evident in his appearance. Gone were the knee boots and wools that he'd worn earlier; they had been replaced with the finery of a man who did his homage at Edward's court. Her quick glance took in the whole manthe length of his legs, covered in stockings of the finest silk to his shoes of softest kid . . . her eyes strayed upward and widened. His doublet was black velvet, trimmed with beaver fur and gold threads along the neckline and hem of the short skirt. Underneath, his shirt was a white silk trimmed in threads of gold. A brooch of heavy gold studded with a large emerald gleamed on his doublet; it matched the ring on his left hand. About his slim waist was fastened a belt of gold, the buckle emerald, as was the hilt of the dagger that he wore attached to the belt. The jewels alone could have bought and sold numerous estates. What need had he of ransom? Sybelle thought glumly.

  Before her stood a man accustomed to wealth and power, who radiated raw masculine intensity. Sybelle unconsciously felt herself comparing this Irishman to the lords of Edward's court and finding them wanting. His was a virile arrogance. It was stamped clearly in the lines of his boldly chiseled features, in the wide mouth with its top lip curled in mockery.

  She lifted her gaze higher and caught the assessing look in his eyes. Sybelle forced herself to look away.

  "The meal was to your liking?" he asked, his voice deep; he caressed her without her consent, ignoring her question about ransom.

  "A trifle plain, perhaps, but satisfying nonetheless, my lord," Sybelle stated calmly, giving no hint of the anger simmering beneath her cool exterior. He would jump on any opponent's weakness and exploit it.

  My lord. Rolf could tell just how much it pained his captive to utter those particular words. She was the kind of wench who would balk at calling any man her lord. Faith, he said silently to himself, I'll swear she has a difficult time acknowledging even her English king as lord. The hard sheen of pride was evident in the stormy blue-gray eyes she focused on him. Aye, she would be a wench who would take much taming before she would concede any man her master. His smile deepened.

  Rolf's sensual mastery of women had begun early in his life. Since he was a youth of thirteen, women had flocked to him, drawn to his tall, lean body, his dark good looks, green eyes that could seduce with the merest regard, and, he admitted wryly, his father's title. The parade of willing beauties, both highborn and peasant, had ceased to please him. He was wearied by the easiness of his liaisons; a tumble meant little except to relieve his physical needs.

  Mating with this woman would be different, Rolf allowed. She would be the taste of tartness that he craved, the spice lacking in his life. Vengeance would add a special flavor to the satisfaction of his honorand the ache in his loins.

  Rolf broke off his soundless thoughts and muttered a few short commands to Siobhan, who bowed deeply, nodding her head as she quietly left the room.

  They were alone, two combatants in the game Rolf had chosen. The atmosphere was rife with tension, tinged with hostility. A thin layer of civilization held in check the underlayers of untamed arrogance rampant in each.

  Sybelle was tired, both physically and mentally. All she wanted was to wash and sleep, to rest her body and her mind. She needed no more evasions tonight. But she had no choice.

  "I repeat," she stated, "my father will pay any ransom for my safe return."

  "And, I repeat, my lady, that for you there will be no ransom."

  "Why ?"

  "Because money is not what I seek."

  "What is?"

  "Justice," he reiterated.

  "That is the second time you have said that. Justice for what?"

  Ignoring her question, Rolf asked one of his own. "Where is your father?"

  "In England."

  "For what purpose?"

  "The king's business," Sybelle answered briskly.

  Rolf gave a harsh bark of laughter. "'Tis what he told you?"

  Sybelle didn't deign to respond.

  "Do you know Duvessa O'Neill?" he asked, his voice a harsh, slicing instrument.

  Startled, Sybelle wondered what the shy young woman whose lands bordered theirs had to do with the situation. "Aye, I know Duvessa," she responded.

  "As does your father." Rolf delivered the words with icy contempt.

  "Of course my father would know Duvessa," Sybelle snapped. "We've been guests at her estate as she has been at ours. That is no offense."

  "No indeed," he said softly, "but abduction is."

  "As well as you should know, my lord."

  "The noble earl, your father, has abducted Lady Duvessa." His voice was even softer than before, and his eyes showed a coldness that sent chills fingering along her spine.

  "What?" Sybelle asked in a shocked tone.

  "Derran has taken Duvessa and fled to England, away from my immediate reach, for he knew that if he remained in Ireland he would be facing my blade by now."

  "What you say is ridicul
ous!"

  "It is the truth."

  "I doubt that, my lord," Sybelle stated coldly. "Truth is obviously something with which you have no acquaintance."

  Rolf, his anger rising faster, grabbed Sybelle by the arm, clasping strong fingers around her flesh, throwing aside the pelt she was using to conceal and warm her body until she stood clad only in her nightdress again.

  "Hear me, my lady. He most certainly forcibly abducted Duvessa."

  "How do you know this?"

  "Word was sent to me after the deed was done."

  "What interest was it to you?"

  "Duvessa is my cousin, child of my father's sister," Rolf explained. "She is my ward until I decide whom she is to wed. Except, wedding another is out of the question now. Your father has ruined my cousin, and for this act he must be made to suffer also."

  The cold chips of green that were Rolf's eyes spoke eloquently to Sybelle of how Rolf planned to extract his revenge against her father. Rolf believed her sire had taken Duvessa's innocence, so now hers must be forfeit in turn. What she had always thought to bestow on her legally wedded husband would be taken from her by force. Sybelle knew with a dread certainty that there was nothing she could do to talk him out of the idea. She was a prisoner on his lands, among his people. Sybelle was confined in her enemy's embrace, with no escape possible. Unless, she thought, mentally snatching at a straw, she could change his mind about her father. She had to try. ''Where is the proof?" Sybelle demanded.

  From his doublet, Rolf produced several pages of parchment for her inspection. "Do you read?"

  Brusquely, Sybelle answered him, her face tilting to lift her chin defiantly. "Of course I can. Do you?"

  Smothering the smile that threatened to crack the hardness of his demeanor, Rolf said, ignoring her jibe, "'Tis not the norm, Lady Sybelle. Even you must admit that."

  "Perhaps not amongst your people," she said recklessly. "Amongst my class it is considered important for a woman to know letters."