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Prologue
The Border Lands, 1146
Rorik loved the woods. In the night the trees rose black and jagged, forming broken outlines against the starlit sky as they curved overhead in an ancient living canopy above the path he strode. They rustled and murmured with the sounds of hundreds of creatures going about their nocturnal business.
Eerie, to some. To him, it was the sound and sight of home. The Fell Wood outside of Wolf's Keep was rumored to harbor demon wolves who took human form, which served to keep poachers as well as the overly curious far away, and so he found good hunting. This night, aided by the light of the full moon, he followed a line of snares he'd set and baited the day before, checking for game.
His cousin, Simon of Northumberland, accompanied him as always. Somewhat unhappily, Rorik knew. Simon did not quite share either his love of adventure or his appreciation for the Fell Wood at night. As light in heart as he was light of hair, the dark woods held no fascination for him.
Rorik paused to smile at his companion. "Up ahead, I hear something," he said softly. He'd snared a deer, possibly, from the sounds he heard. Something large. Then he frowned as he listened more closely. That wild thrashing did not sound like a deer. He signaled Simon to be quiet and follow closely. At a soft run, he approached the snare and nocked an arrow at the ready.
Then he slowly lowered his bow and replaced the arrow at the sight that met his eyes.
"What are you doing?" Simon hissed, looking agonized. "It is a wolf. A demon wolf, come for our souls. Kill it, quickly."
Rorik waved impatiently at Simon, gesturing for quiet. There were no demons in his woods. This was but a she-wolf caught in a snare meant for other game. A small one, not fully grown. Moonlight touched the black fur, highlighting it with silver and glistening off the glowing eyes. Blood tinged the snow at the beast's feet and tipped the muzzle.
Memory flashed in Rorik's mind, tales of wolf traps found sprung, holding only a forepaw, as the creature fought so fiercely for freedom that it would pay any price. As this wolf would do.
He didn't see danger. Rorik saw only the wolf and felt the injustice, the unbearable horror of its captivity, the panic at running fleet across the snow one moment, inexplicably held prisoner the next.
Rorik slipped slowly up to the snare, holding the wolf's eyes as he did. "Easy," he whispered. "Hush, now." Making his motions careful and steady, he eased one hand to the snare then quickly sprung her loose and stepped back.
Not swiftly enough to evade slashing teeth that tore his chest before the young she-wolf fled into the night.
Simon ran to his aid and staunched the blood with shaking hands. "Rorik? Rorik, do you hear me? Speak," he pleaded.
Rorik stirred and smiled at his companion. "Did you see her, Simon? She was beautiful."
"See what? The wolf?" Simon asked. "I could scarcely miss that."
"No. The girl." Then Rorik fell back, unconscious.
Copyright © 2008 by Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
Wolf in Shining Armorcopyright © 2006 by Charlene Teglia
One
Fourteen years later...
Do you think to find it changed much?" Simon inquired, guiding his gray warhorse beside Rorik's black destrier. The two knights showed the signs of having survived many battles in myriad ways. The armor and equipment showed the lines and dents of hard use, in spite of flawless upkeep, as did the two faces. They were deeply changed, if Wolf's Keep was not, Simon acknowledged.
Rorik didn't answer. Perhaps he had changed most of all, Simon thought. Battle had hardened him. The youthful companion who had risked his life to free a wild wolf had seen too much killing. His moods had grown as dark as his hair and did not seem to be lightening as they neared home.
Known as the Fell Wolf for the bite he'd earned, the rumors that Rorik became a demon wolf had come in useful on many occasions. Absurd, but useful. In the tourneys many an opponent quailed before the black and gray banner, fear and superstition striking more blows than a lance.
As soldiers of fortune, the two had done well. Well enough to permit them to return to Rorik's home, now his by coin as well as birthright, with the full coffers and riches supplied by grateful lords whose lands and holdings they had defended. The earnings would permit them to hold and defend their own land now.
Simon frowned, thinking of that injustice. That Rorik should have to buy back his ancestral home still rankled. But his father's untimely death had allowed an unscrupulous neighboring lord to claim Wolf's Keep, and Rorik had been unable to prevent it, having only fifteen years at the time.
That they were both away, fostered and in training for knighthood at the time, had also forced Rorik to bide his time in reclaiming his home. In his patient way, he'd earned his spurs and set out to make his fortune, first in the tourneys, then as a seasoned soldier for hire, always confident that he would return.
The Fell Wolf was returning now, some ten years later, and Simon nearly pitied Alain Devere. He'd lost the prize he thought to take, and the man could not rest easy of a night, knowing the lord's son was coming home to claim what was his.
Including his betrothed, the lady Elissa Montreade. The shy and lovely girl he recalled had also fostered in Wolf's Keep as Rorik's future bride, the marriage arranged by the old baron shortly after the birth of a daughter to dear friends. She, and no doubt her dowry, had been taken along with the fiefdom by Devere.
He frowned at that thought. They had been in no position to help her sooner, but he did not like to think of the child who had been his youthful shadow under the care of such a man.
Simon eyed his friend once more, thinking Rorik did not look in the least like an eager bridegroom, or a returning hero.
He looked battle-weary and in sore need of a diversion.
"So, Rorik, your hearth and home await, with the lovely lady Elissa soon to grace them both. Will you frighten her with that face of yours?"
Rorik roused himself from his dark thoughts and spared a glance for Simon the chatterer. In truth, it did not feel like a homecoming. Without his parents living, he did not expect to find much of a home waiting. Devere had doubtless let the place fall to ruin under his stewardship. With no lord in residence the able servants had fled, fearing tales of human wolves. Any retainers remaining did so out of blind loyalty or old age.
He did not expect to find much waiting for him. As for his betrothed...there he could find something to think on that pleased him. Marriage was a practical business. He did not love Elissa, nor did he expect to. However, enough nights in rough camps made the idea of home and a wife to see to his comfort seem more than adequate compensation for doing his duty.
A wife to make a home from a pile of cold stone. Children to fill his hall with laughter. To raise children and crops, that was a pleasant future. He'd seen enough of death and spilled enough blood.
By nightfall, Rorik had revised his opinion.
Wolf's Keep he expected to find in poor condition. What he failed to anticipate was Elissa -- whom he recalled as little more than a babe herself -- heavy with child, ravished and abandoned by Devere and stripped of her dowry and her pride both. She wept while she delivered news of Alain Devere's impending marriage to a neighboring heiress.
Simon was struck silent with fury by the news, although Rorik noted the concern in his manner as he helped Elissa find a chair and stood by her. So. Was that how matters stood? he wondered. Simon had always had a soft spot for the girl. Rorik had no objection to relinquishing his claim on her in favor of Simon. But Devere, that was another matter.
The baron had robbed him of home, and now Rorik was denied his wedding night as well while Devere anticipated his? Could the man be allowed to go his way and forget Elissa, robbed of her innocence and her wealth, left to survive however she could? Not that either he or Simon would allow her to suffer. But Devere could not have known that when he cast her off.
No. This outrage could not go unchallenged. It would serve the man well if his bride were stolen in return, Rorik thought.
By moonrise thought had grown to plan, and plan to action.
Rorik slipped through the window and slowly searched the chamber for his quarry with the patient, thorough eye of an experienced hunter and the guarded care of a veteran soldier. He spotted her easily in the bed once he lifted the draperies.
Moonlight touched her face with silver, and revealed the curve of an ivory cheek against a soft fall of midnight hair. The lady lay on her side, curled up like a sleeping child, her head pillowed on her hands. Her night rail lay twisted about her, and exposed a length of leg to the cool caress of the moon.
Rorik's breath caught as he gazed at her. He'd expected a woman, not a child. The consort of his enemy.
He hadn't expected her to look like an innocent in the arms of Morpheus.
Rorik hardened his heart and firmed his resolve. He'd have what he came for. He'd wreak his vengeance on Alain by stealing the man's bride, a fitting retribution. He'd have what was coming to him.
And he had a wedding night coming. Alain had robbed him of his. He would return the favor. Here, now, so there could be no question that he'd claimed the woman before taking her away. He wanted a wife. If he was denied the one he'd been promised, he would have this one. Ailiss, her name was. It suited her, he thought.
He did acknowledge that the woman he'd come to steal might not be pleased with his plan. Simon was forever telling him that his fearsome reputation and hard ways would not win a lady's love, but if she had been willing to marry Alain Devere, she could hardly consider him a worse husband. She might even view him as an improvement.
Rorik stripped and then set about securing his prize, his movements swift and sure in the darkened chamber. A length of silk served to gag the wench. Another covered her eyes, and still another bound her wrists together. The other end Rorik tied to the bedpost and he smiled at the convenience. By now his quarry was awake, although barely a minute had passed since he first set foot inside the bedchamber.
She struggled and managed a few good kicks before he caught her feet and ruthlessly tied them wide apart. Her strength both surprised and pleased him. He drew his small ornamental knife, used mainly for eating, but which now served to slit her garment from top to bottom. She froze at the cold touch of metal. Then Rorik stripped away the cloth, his eyes devouring the naked flesh revealed to his gaze.
She was a vision of erotic beauty, naked and spread for his pleasure, and Rorik burned to claim her. He would take those perfect breasts, that small waist, the graceful curve of her hips. He would take the softly furred mound between her thighs that lay exposed and unprotected, his to plunder. He would spend his seed in her body. He felt hunger rising, like none he'd ever known. A dark hunger, a need to dominate and demand submission.
Beneath the animal haze of his hunger, Rorik realized she was afraid. He could feel her fear like a living thing in the night as he lowered himself over her, trapping her with his weight. He could feel it as surely as he felt her soft breasts against his skin, and it didn't please him. Her breath came too fast, her heart pounded too fiercely and Rorik frowned, recognizing the signs of panic. He intended to seduce her into cooperating, not brutalize her.
She lay frozen beneath him until she felt the hard shaft of his cock against her thigh, seeking out and probing at the entrance to her body, and then her fear found expression in violent struggle. Rorik was hard-pressed to hold her down with his weight. As small as she was, she nearly succeeded in throwing him off.
Then he realized something else.
She wasn't fighting him. She had no fear of him. Her skin burned against his and the rich scent of her arousal filled the air. He knew if he tasted the pink flesh between her thighs, he would find her cream flowing for him. But she was fighting the silken bonds as if they were the living embodiment of every dark horror she knew or imagined. She fought so wildly that he feared she'd injure herself.
He wanted her bound. More than that, he wanted her submissive. But he couldn't allow her to hurt herself.
Rorik hesitated then removed the cloth that cut off her vision. Her wide eyes met his. Feral, golden eyes that sent a jolt of recognition through him. Dimly, he remembered seeing this before. Golden eyes in wild panic. Blood running from trapped appendages. Black hair that blended into the night.
A she-wolf, caught in a trap, another night long ago. The wolf had torn at herself in a frenzy to be free. She would have injured herself if he hadn't stopped her. To spare her that, he'd risked coming forward to free her. He hadn't been able to explain the impulse that drove him, but he couldn't see the creature suffer for the desperate need to be free.
He'd taken pity on the wolf and gained a vicious wound for his trouble. When he recovered, he found he'd gained something more. A dark legacy that slept inside him and awoke when needed, lending strength and instinct and heightened senses that had helped Rorik survive countless battles.
Every full moon it rose to ascendancy. The moon would be full in one more night. Already the wolf within prowled and pushed, awake and wanting to break free.
The hunger for this woman belonged to the wolf, Rorik realized. Not his human self. Was it the near-full moon or the woman who had woken his wolf? Her scent drew him like no other. Instinct demanded that he claim her.
He had known other women, but none had ever made the beast within him rise and demand to mate. It burned in him like a fever, and Rorik realized the touch of her skin against his had triggered this animal need to mate and to be acknowledged as the dominant one.
He stared down at her and she stared back at him, a trapped wild creature touched by moonlight. What was she?
Even as the question formed, he knew the answer. The woman and the wolf who'd torn his flesh that long-ago night were one.
Copyright © 2008 by Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
Wolf in Shining Armorcopyright © 2006 by Charlene Teglia
Excerpted from Naughty Nights by Charlene Teglia, Tawny Taylor, Dawn Ryder
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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