"Tonight," she whispered, crying out when his hand moved once again under her plaid, cupping and rubbing her through the thin silk barrier. "At our spring. We'll be together then... but now..."
"Kirstin." Donal wrapped his arms around her waist, surrendering to her words, bending his head to her breasts and resting it there. She stroked his hair, long, silky, soft under her fingers, a lion's mane. She sensed a sadness in him, a desperation that had never been there before.
"What is it?" she murmured, cradling his head against her breasts. "Tell me..."
He lifted his face to look at her, searching her eyes, looking for something.
"Let's run away." A small smile played on his lips at the shocked look that must have appeared on her face. "I'll ask Raife t'take me into yer pack. I know it's been done before. I'll live among t'wulvers, be one of ye. We can be together, as we're meant to be. I can'na be wit'out ye. Not as long as I draw breath."
She stared at him, heart hammering in her chest. All of the scenarios she'd seen playing out in her mind, and yet, this had never been one of them. She had never dreamed that the laird of Clan MacFalon would give up everything to follow her into the wulver den.
"I can'na ask that of ye..."
"Ye do'na need t'ask, m'love." He stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "I will'na lose ye. I can'na."
"We can talk 'bout it later." She swallowed, nodding, hearing the sound of the crowd, both inside and outside the castle walls. There were hundreds of guests roaming the halls, and they would expect to see their laird sooner rather than later. "But righ' now, ye have responsibilities. People are waitin' on ye, Donal MacFalon, and I-"
She was thinking of Sibyl, of Darrow and Raife and Laina. There were more immediate fires to put out, that Donal likely did not yet even know about.
"I do'na want them." His voice was urgent, hoarse, as he turned his face up to look into her eyes. "I want ye."
"And I want ye," she assured him, wiggling in his lap to prove it. He groaned and she smiled. "But ye can 'ave both."
"No, I can'na."
Her brow wrinkled at his words. "What d'ye mean?"
The look on his face struck fear-real fear-into her heart. They'd been playing at being together, pretending they could, at some point, announce their betrothal to the world. That Donal could present her to his people as The MacFalon's new wife. It begged so many questions it made her head hurt to think of them. Her mind told her one thing, her body, heart and soul another.
She'd been ignoring her head in favor of the latter.
"This." Donal angrily grabbed one of the scrolls off the desk, depositing it into her lap. "This is what I mean."
"What?" She puzzled as she unrolled the paper. It was finely inked and signed, adorned with the English king's seal, now broken.
"Can ye not read?" he thundered, standing and practically spilling her onto the floor. Kirstin caught herself against the desk, watching Donal begin to pace the room like a caged animal, hands behind his back.
"Nuh," she confessed in a small voice, sinking into the chair he'd vacated. "I can'na... only my name, a few words..."
He gaped at her for a moment, truly shocked.
"Wulvers do'na need t'know how t'read!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "What does it say?"
Donal hung his head for a moment, eyes closed. Then he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
"It says King Henry's sendin' me an English bride," he told her softly. "And he expects me t'marry her wit'in the month."
"What?" She breathed, glad she was seated, because her legs wouldn't have held her if she hadn't been.
"Aye." He started his pacing again, back and forth. "Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe's only daughter. She's on her way t'Castle MacFalon righ' now. Will probably arrive wit'in a fortnight."
"This is..." She raised the scroll in her trembling hands. "From King Henry? Himself?"
"Aye." Donal whirled, stalking toward the tall bookcases at the other end of the room. "King Henry says I'm t'marry this stranger or forfeit m'claim to the MacFalon lands."
"How can he do that?" she cried, seeing him turn on his heel and pace back in her direction, his face nothing but scowl. "He isn't Scotland's king-he isn't yer king or mine."
"Alistair made an agreement wit' him as The MacFalon," Donal reminded her darkly. "And I'm duty-bound t'honor it."
Agreements. Duty-bound. Honor. Words her heart did not recognize or care about in the least. Her heart knew this man was hers, no matter what claim the English king thought he had on him. Kirstin hung her head, looking at the scroll in her hands, knowing it had all been too good to be true. They'd been dreaming of being together, when all along, they'd both known it was impossible.
"Mayhaps 'tis for the best," she whispered. Big, fat tears fell onto the parchment, blurring the words.
"What? How can ye say that?" Donal exploded, stalking over and grabbing the scroll. He crumpled it in his big fist with a sneer, tossing it aside. Then he took a knee in front of her, grasping both of her hands in his. His tone was pleading, desperate. "Kirstin, I love ye. D'hear me? I love ye more than any man has e'er loved a woman. I've naught interest in any other."
The thought of him bedding another woman, let alone marrying her, made her stomach clench in pain. She met his eyes, tears trickling down her cheeks, seeing the pained look on his face and knowing it was mirrored on her own.
"Donal... if ye refuse..." She swallowed, not liking to think of it. "You do'na know what yer sayin'. Yer not thinkin' clearly. Ye can'na give up yer lands, yer position as laird of Clan MacFalon, not for me, not for any woman."
"So I should keep it t'marry a woman a do'na love?"
"Mayhaps." Her own words pierced her heart and she saw them run him through, more painful than any sword. And she was going to have to break him further, now that they were facing these harsh realities. "Donal... there's somethin' else I hafta tell ye..."
"What is it?" He looked as if he was waiting for something to fall out of the sky and land on top of his head.
"I did'na wanna talk ‘bout this 'ere, now, but..." She lowered her head, shaking it, the weight of it breaking her heart in two. "I do'na know how t'say't."
"Tell me." He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Ye can tell me anythin', lass."
"Donal, e'en if we run away, as ye suggest..." She swallowed, trying to gather enough courage to say the words, to face the reality out loud. "E'en if Raife would agree t'such a thing, and we go live among me pack..."
"He damned well will agree," Donal snapped, his face a thundercloud.
"Listen t'me." Kirstin took his face in her hands, clean-shaven today, smooth. "Yer a man, and I'm a wulver. We'll ne'er be t'same."
"I do'na care 'bout that," he said with a shake of his head. "It does'na matter, Kirstin, we-"
"I'll never be able t'have yer children," she blurted out.
The words hung there between them and she saw his confusion, his bewilderment. So he didn't know, then. Didn't understand how it worked for the wulvers, the basic mechanics. It was impossible-it would always be impossible.
"What?" He shook his head again, as if to clear it.
"A she-wulver can only accept her mate's seed when she's a wolf," she confessed. "I can'na have yer bairn, because we can'na mate when I'm changed. D'ye ken?"
"Aye." He looked thoughtful, the realization slowly dawning. "But Raife... how was he conceived, then?"
She swallowed, telling him the awful truth. "King Henry took Avril when she was in heat. When she'd changed to a wulver."
"What?" he breathed.
"Some men see't as a challenge, a badge'a honor, t'take a wulver woman when she's in animal form..."
He gaped at her, clearly unaware of this part of the history between their families.
"Men like yer brother, I imagine," she murmured, hammering the point home. "Or yer grandfather."
"Och, Kirstin..." He held his arms out to her and she went to him, let him cradle and rock her. They huddled together on the floor behind his desk like children hiding from their parents. He stroked her hair, kissed her temple, whispered how much he loved and wanted her until she thought her heart would overflow with feeling for him.
"Listen t'me," he urged. "'Tis ye I want. Children would be a wonderful expression of our love together, if they were possible, but they're not necessary. Ye're the one I want."