Tempting the Wolf (12 page)

“She was dressed in rags, but she had a smile like the sunrise. Did ye see her?”

The grizzled head shook the slightest degree.

“Mayhap she ventured into one of yonder hovels.”

“I sleep beneath a wagon,” the old man intoned, nodding jerkily. “Until the rain wakes me. Or the cold. Even now it grows chill at night.”

O’Banyon gritted his teeth. “There was a maid also,” he said. “Dressed all in white, she was. Bonny as the—”

“I dreamed of a great lady in silver,” gasped the gaffer.

“Aye, well this was true life. Did ye—”

“She stood just there.” He pointed a gnarled finger toward a spot past the other’s shoulder.

“Aye,” said the Irishman, tempering his excitement. “That was where she stood. But did ye see where she went?”

“Dreams are not real.”

“What of the girl? Did ye see a girl?”

The old man shook his head. Dullness returned to his eyes. His arm trembled, but he still pointed as if habit kept him alive long after hope had passed.

O’Banyon pressed his mount forward, and leaning from the saddle, folded the coin into the twisted fingers. The rheumy eyes shifted upward, tears glistening.

***

By evening, O’Banyon had knocked on a score of doors, had questioned countless people. But none had seen the girl or her mistress.

Had he dreamed it then? Was he as daft as the old man? Was the girl he had found in the alley not Sibylla but just another tattered waif lost to poverty? Was he losing his mind?

Most probably. He glanced up, only to realize he had arrived at Briarburn, Hiltsglen’s home, just as the sun was setting. Beside the manor house, the gardens bloomed, laid out lavishly beside a towering statue of an ancient warrior astride a half-rearing steed. The Black Celt.

O’Banyon stared, transfixed. Unchanged for five hundred years, the Celtic knight remained watching over all, holding the world at bay. And behind him, nearly hidden by riotous greenery, was a wolf-like hound, eyes almost alive, as if he were forever frozen on the brink of battle.

O’Banyon sat immobile as a thousand memories accosted him. Memories of hope and loss and betrayal. He was that hound, in spirit and more. Indeed, his very soul had been encased there, trapped, locked away, until suddenly the light of life had fallen on his face once again. Until Hiltsglen’s curse had been broken by his wee Fleur and the wolf had been set free to roam once again.

From a nearby paddock, Hiltsglen’s giant steed thrust his head over an irregular fence and trumpeted at Luci. She nickered flirtatiously and spread her hind legs, bearing her master abruptly back to the present.

“I’ve no time for this now,” O’Banyon warned and reined her away from the stud, but she was transfixed and did not budge. “Have some pride, mare. Ye’ll na—”

“Irish?” The sound of Fleurette’s voice snapped his head up. She stood some yards away, her hands filled with roses, her freckled face open and honest. “I fear you’ve taken a wrong turn.”

He leaned back in the saddle, searching for nonchalance and hoping she had not seen his mount refuse his cue. “And why is that, me lady?” he asked.

“The object of your obsession is not here.”

He did not rise to the bait, but sat and watched her. She was lively and quick of wit, that was true. But he had not imagined Hiltsglen would be content to settle for the life he now lived—a placid existence with one woman and no battle. Why would any man, when there was such a bounty to choose from? When there were maids with eyes of bottle green? Delicate, ethereal lassies in white who entranced…

God’s teeth! He stopped his wayward thoughts with a mental curse.

Beneath him, Luci cocked her hips and sent forth a frothy stream of urine. In his paddock, the dark stallion shook his mane and reared, showing his round underbelly and far more. If O’Banyon had been easily intimidated this would have been the time.

“I’ve come to see yer mate,” he announced, trying his best to ignore the mare’s embarrassing behavior, and hoping to God Hiltsglen’s wife would do the same.

She watched him for a moment, her face somber, then, “Why?” she asked.

He grinned now, though his mood was far from happy. “The ol’ man is lucky indeed to have ye to protect his fair hide, me lady,” he said, “but I vow to ye, I’ll do him na harm this day.”

“Ye’ve little choice in that regard,” Hiltsglen rumbled.

O’Banyon glanced to the left. The Scotsman stood some thirty feet away. Back-dropped by the sprawling grandeur of Briarburn’s manor house, he looked out of place in his ancestral plaid and open-necked tunic. Large as oaken boughs, his muscle-bound legs were spread. And from his oversized right hand, an ax stuck out at an awkward angle, almost casual, but not quite so. ‘Twas a sobering sight… or should have been.

But O’Banyon’s spirits lifted, as did his grin.

“Ye’d best be telling yer neighbors to lock up their sheep, lassie,” he said, not glancing at the maid. “For it looks as though the dark Celt goes a-reavin’.”

“What be ye doin’ here, Irish?” Hiltsglen asked.

Banyon shrugged. ‘Twas an excellent question. “Is it na the way of elegant gentlemen such as me-self to stop by and converse with their neighbors and friends?”

The giant snorted. “Even if we
were
friends, Irish, I’ve na time to dringle away, so if yer prissy lifestyle has na made ye too much the weakling, ye might come ‘round back and fetch a few mites of kindling for the kitchen fire.”

“Maybe
ye
can gather the sticks. As for me, I’ll be chopping the wood,” Banyon said, but when he urged the big mare forward, she refused to move. Indeed, her flaxen tail was cocked to the side and her legs still spread as she gazed adoringly at her would-be lover.

O’Banyon swore in silence and rapped her in the ribs with his heels. She grunted and laid back her ears, but adjusted her stance and lumbered toward the nearby hitching post. Swinging his leg jauntily over her broad croup, Banyon gave Hiltsglen a grin. “Indeed, I suspect I’d best instruct ye in the proper manner of—”

But in that instant the mare’s left hind swung forward with the speed and force of a trebuchet, striking O’Banyon square in the knee.

Pain shot like a tarred arrow up his leg. He grunted in agony and hobbled to the side just as the animal swung her head toward the rear.

Throwing out an elbow just in time, Banyon caught the beast a solid blow in the tender hollow of her muzzle.

Hiltsglen’s chuckle rumbled through the evening air.

Silently cursing once again, Banyon tied the reins in the ring, straightened carefully, and walked without the slightest limp toward the Scotsman.

But the giant’s eyes still gleamed with unfettered glee. “I see yon brute of a mare be too much for ye, Irish. Mayhap me wife could find ye a milding pony what would better match yer foppish attire,” he said.

“Or mayhap I could teach ye na to bait yer betters,” countered Banyon.

The Scot snorted and turned away. O’Banyon resisted cradling his knee and dropping to the ground like a felled footman, but couldn’t quite control the limp. Bloody beast. He’d been thrilled when he’d found a mount reminiscent of the days of yore, when knights rode in full armor into the glory of battle. But just about now he’d be happy as a songbird to trade the animal for a goat and a nice pint of beer.

“Are ye coming?” Hiltsglen asked, turning back.

Banyon gritted his teeth and stifled a groan. In a minute they stood beside a pile of wood that had been cut to size but remained unsplit.

“Well then…” Picking up a log as wide as his mammoth thigh, Hiltsglen thumped it atop a level stump. “Did ye have a purpose for disturbing me peace, Irish?” Swinging back the axe, he sent it slamming into the ringed circle of wood. The log cracked open like a dropped egg. He straightened, eyes narrowed. “Or did ye merely hope to ogle me bride?”

“If the truth be known…” Banyon shrugged, and retrieving a second axe from a nearby stump, swung it wide with his right hand. The weight felt good against his back and arm, stretching the muscles taut and hard. “I thought mayhap she might wish to ogle me.”

Hiltsglen stared, then snorted and set half the log back atop the stump. Once again the wood shattered.

“Ye’ve always been a lad to dream, Irish. I’ll give ye that.”

Lifting a log, Banyon set it atop the second stump. “And ye’ve always failed to believe,” he said and slammed the blade into the log’s top. It cracked like a melon, leaving the ax reverberating in the wood below. He straightened. “And ‘tis that flaw, Scotsman, what snatched us from our own time and place to land us here.”

Hiltsglen’s gaze was steady. “This be me time now, Irish. And me place is beside yon lass.”

O’Banyon shook his head and reset the log. “I did na think I would see the day when the Black Celt…” He swung the ax. “Would be bested by a wee maid.”

“Bested am I?” Hiltsglen asked and setting his own log, broke it in twain.

“But then ye always had a weakness for the lassies.”

“
A
weakness!” Hiltsglen snarled and cracked another log. ” Tis ye what could na keep yer wick in yer plaid.”

O’Banyon swung. Wood sang. “I may pleasure them. But I ken better than to trust them.”

Tossing his ax aside, Hiltsglen tore off his shirt. Muscles bulged like angry serpents as he dropped it and tested the weight of the ax once again. “Some are to be trusted, Irish.”

“Aye, some may well be,” Banyon agreed, discarding his own shirt. “But the golden lady was surely na one of them. Any cappernoited half-wit should have realized that.”

“Mayhap if ye had told me of yer time with her and the…” Hiltsglen paused as he eyed Banyon up and down. “… troubles what ensued, I would have been more cautious.” Lifting the ax, he slammed it into the wood. It jumped and flew.

“I told ye she was not like other women.”

“Like other women! She changed ye into a damned cur.”

“Only now and again.”

Hiltsglen snorted. “Had I seen ye lifting yer leg to the nearest oak, I would have stayed far clear of her, but I had na way of knowing ye were aught but yer usual irritating self.”

“I tried to warn ye, ye ungrateful gargoyle.” O’Banyon’s axe sang. Wood exploded. “But when have ye ever listened to good sense?”

The Scotsman’s axe blurred in the air. “Surely na when I listened to ye.”

“The true answer be never, Scotsman.”

Iron met oak with resounding finality. “I dunna ken what yer whinin’ aboot, Irish. She convinced me to turn from our dark master, and aye he was a mite unhappy but—”

“A mite unhappy!” O’Banyon pointed to the statue that overlooked the garden. Even from that distance, it seemed he could feel the wolf’s haunting gaze. “Aye, I had me own troubles after me time with the maid, but at least I did not lie with her. At least I was… mobile.”

“Aye well…” Hiltsglen’s voice was guttural, perhaps a bit shamed. ” Tis because of me ye yet live and breathe.”

Banyon’s muscles jumped and tightened as he swung. “In the wrong time. In the wrong place.”

Shards of kindling burst from beneath Hiltsglen’s ax. “But breathe ye do, lad. The same would na be true if ye had na been following so close to me heels when our liege spat forth his curse.”

“I was but trying to keep ye safe.”

“Yet it was me who saved ye.”

“Saved me!”

“Aye.” Hiltsglen straightened, gargantuan chest rising and falling, eyes narrowed. “Ye have lived these many long years to see wondrous new sights. Me thinks ye but complain because the countess invites another to her bed, while ye roam aboot sniffin’—”

O’Banyon’s ax seemed to sizzle sideways of its own accord. The air crackled between them. His blade halted mere inches from Hiltsglen’s face. “Dunna sully her name, Scotsman.”

For a moment the Celt remained absolutely still, a look of amazement on his broad features, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

Anger roiled through O’Banyon. He gritted his teeth against it, held the spell at bay, and dropped the ax a hand’s breadth to poke the Scotsman in the chest.

“Shut yer mouth, Scot,” he growled. “Ye look like a braying ass.”

Sobering slowly, Hiltsglen lifted his ax and tapped it against the other’s. “What’s this then, lad? Might the Irish hound be finally leashed?”

O’Banyon swung his weapon in a tight circle, knocking Hiltsglen’s away from the other side. “Na leashed, Scotsman,” he said as the Celt braced his legs and fisted both hands about the handle. “But unlike ye, I was na raised by wild beasties. Me mum, rest her soul, taught me better than to besmirch a lassie’s name.”

Swinging up and around, the Scot crashed his weapon into O’Banyon’s, driving him back.

“Nay, ye’ll na besmirch them,” he said, grinning at his advance. “But ye’ve na qualms against—”

O’Banyon drove forward, swinging hard. His blade struck the other’s. Sparks danced in the night sky. Iron rang against iron, until they rested, blade against blade, rasping for breath.

“Dunna say the words, Scotsman.”

Hiltsglen laughed again. O’Banyon growled and swung. The Scotsman parried.

“What the devil has come over ye, Irish?” he asked and parried again. O’Banyon danced backward, fighting hard.

“The devil,” Banyon rasped, swinging an upper cut toward the Scotsman who just barely caught it an inch from his crotch. “That may well be the case.”

“What be ye blathering about?” Hiltsglen grunted, thrusting Banyon’s blade aside.

“The black arts,” breathed Irish, swinging again.

“The black arts,” Hiltsglen said and chuckled as he advanced, muscles jumping like pugilists. ” ‘Tis na such thing.”

O’Banyon stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open. Hiltsglen’s axe whizzed like lightning past his nose. “Are ye entirely daft, Scotsman?” he asked and lifting his ax, pointed it again toward the garden’s ancient statuary. “Do ye disremember the Black Celt what stands in yer verra courtyard? You were him!”

“I dunna forget,” snarled Hiltsglen, raising his ax again. “But that was long ago, when the world was new and the shadows dark.”

“Tis still dark!” snapped O’Banyon and slammed the other’s weapon aside.

“Na longer.” Their axes crashed. Sparks exploded. “Na again.”