The king's logic was sound-if the Scots married the English, it seemed reasonable they'd stop killing each other in the borderlands. It was a plan that had been set in motion when Sibyl had come to Scotland to marry Alistair, and one King Henry seemed determined to carry through with. The woman he chose seemed to matter not as all, as long as she was an English lady. It was a perfectly rational solution-but the heart didn't always follow the logical plans set forth by the mind, even the mind of a king.
It had surprised her that King Henry had simply chosen another Englishwoman to take Sibyl's place, rather than forcing her to marry Donal instead of his brother, Alistair. But mayhaps he knew it would bring the wrath of the wulvers down on the crown, because Sibyl was Raife's, and their pack leader wasn't about to let anyone separate them, whether he was the King of England or the Pope.
Now that he'd finally stopped being angry with her for risking life and limb, at any rate.
While Clan MacFalon had welcomed Alistair's younger brother, Donal, as their new laird, and King Henry had made him warden of the Middle March-that responsibility came with more than just a title, she knew. Sibyl's heart had led her astray, from the life of a lady to living in a wolf's den, and her advice to Kirstin before they'd departed had been sensible, even if they both knew it was useless to argue with what the heart wanted.
"Come back with us," Sibyl had pleaded. "Find a wulver to love. They are all good, strong men. Any of them would make a good mate for you. Lorien has eyes for you."
Kirstin had nodded her agreement. In her head, she knew it was true. She should find a nice, wulver warrior and settle down, like the rest of the wulver women. Lorien was a fine wulver, and they'd been together a few times, before she'd left the den, before she'd met The MacFalon. She could return to the den and make a family with him. Every wulver had a true mate-but not all wulvers found them. Sometimes, Sibyl had told her, you had to settle for something else. That "something else" would be a mate that wasn't true.
She knew wulver women who had done just that. They lived comfortable, if a bit bland, lives. Other women, like Beitrus, had refused to settle. She had never found her true mate. An old woman now, she was unlikely to ever find him. So Kirstin knew she had choices. She could leave Castle MacFalon, try to find happiness with a wulver like Lorien, or some other wulver warrior.
There was just one problem with that.
None of them were Donal.
None of them were her one, true mate.
The man had found his way into her heart and she couldn't stop her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried. She'd thrown herself into caring after Darrow-the reason she'd come to the MacFalon castle in the first place-until they'd gone back to the den. Then, she'd thrown herself into helping Moira and the rest of the servants, learning the daily workings of the castle. This is what she'd done at home, after all, and came naturally to her.
But none of it had distracted her from Donal.
He was everywhere she went, everywhere she looked, that devilish smile and those dancing eyes. She told herself-often-that the man was, well, just a man. He wasn't a wulver. He wasn't her kind. He would never be able to understand, let alone tolerate, her ways. Kirstin didn't have a choice, not like the wulver men. They could change at will, could even transform into half-man, half-wolf, but wulver women didn't have that luxury.
Wulver women's bodies were tied inextricably to their moon cycles. When they went into heat, they changed into their full wolf form, and when they did, they were unpredictable. Kirstin's life had always been ruled by the moon. Unlike Laina, who had hated that fact and tried her best to find a way to change it, Kirstin had always accepted her lot in life as a wulver.
Until now.
"We are what we are," that's what Raife always said, and it was true. You couldn't spend your life wishing you were someone, or something, else. It was a recipe for heartache.
But that was just what she'd done, Kirstin realized, clinging to Donal, wishing she could stop what was coming. She wanted to blame him, for being so kind, so generous, so damned handsome and irresistible, but she knew better. It wasn't Donal's fault. The man hadn't done anything untoward, hadn't made any advances. He had been honorable-until she practically attacked him at the spring in the first den.
It was, shamefully, all on her. It was her own wild heart that had betrayed her.
Now she was tied to him, utterly in love with him, and she knew it was hopeless. Kirstin knew Sibyl's logical advice would have been easier to follow a month ago, before she'd let herself fall for this man. Kirstin should have returned to the wulvers' den with her family. She should have ignored the calling of her heart to his, should have denied her feelings, should have turned and walked away.
Kirstin remembered her home fondly, with some measure of homesickness, but she knew, in her heart, she would miss this man more. But when Donal had taken his brother's place as laird of clan MacFalon, he had, in turn, assumed his brother's responsibility to "marry the border." To join the English and the Scots, as King Henry VII had instructed him to.
Even if Donal was in love with another woman.
Or, another wulver.
That clearly didn't matter to the heads of state.
What the heart wanted had to be second to what the crown wanted.
"I should go." Kirstin tried to disengage herself from him, but he held her fast in the circle of his arms. To be fair, she didn't try too hard to get away. She spent too little time in the man's arms, and could have spent an eternity there. Since that first morning at the spring when she had fallen into his arms like some lovesick teen and confessed her affection for him, she had found herself taking every opportunity she could to be with him.
"I do'na want ye t'go, lass," he murmured, hands lost in the thick mass of her hair. "I'm n'afraid of ye. Stay wit' me."
She wanted to, more than anything, but there was more than just his betrothal to an English bride standing in their way.
Every time she thought of Lady Cecilia Witcombe, the Earl of Witcombe's only daughter, on her way to marry the laird of clan MacFalon, it made her physically ill. Not that it mattered, Kirstin knew. The king would never approve a marriage between a man and a wulver woman, even if the king himself had once bedded one. There was a big difference between bedding a wulver and marrying one, Raife had said, and he was right.
She and Donal had talked in circles about it, and they kept coming around to the same point.
"Ye know I can'na stay." Kirstin lifted her face to look at him, at those stormy eyes, his brow knitted with worry. "Y'er t'marry another."
"Do'na remin'me." He groaned, his expression pained, as if her words had stabbed him in the gut.
Because King Henry had denied the dispensation Donal had requested.
Donal sent another, but Kirstin didn't hold much hope that it would be granted after the first had been turned down. They had to accept what was, as Raife always said.
She was a wulver. He was a man. A man set to marry another woman, upon order of the English king.
"She'll arrive soon," Kirstin reminded him, reminded herself. "In another day, mayhaps two."
Donal nodded miserably. They both knew it was true, even if they didn't want to think about it.
"Ye lead yer clan, Donal," Kirstin reminded him of this, too. "Ye mus' do what's right fer the greatest good."
"Ye're m'greatest good, lass." He cupped her face in his hands, searching her eyes. "Ye're m'vera heart."
His words broke her. How could she do this? How could she feel this way, knowing she couldn't be with him, and still stand? She didn't know.
"I can'na stay wit' ye," she whispered, her lower lip trembling, in spite of her self-admonition to stay strong. "I can'na stay."
"Then I'll come wit ye."
And there it was again. They went around and around, in circles. It was impossible. He couldn't live in the wulver den with her, and she couldn't live in the MacFalon castle with him.
"Yer family's 'ere," she urged. "Yer obligation's 'ere. Yer wife..."
They both winced at the word "wife." Kirstin didn't like to think about another woman coming anywhere near this man. Even in her human form, Kirstin's instincts turned animal at the thought.
"But me mate is 'ere." He kissed her cheek, the tear that slipped down it caught on his lips. "I want ye, Kirstin. I claim ye. D'y'hear me? Yer mine. Ye'll always be mine."
"I wish t'were true," she whispered as he kissed her other cheek, another tear.
"'Tis true! We can make a life together, lass."