But settling? For what? He’d been on the move so long, he could barely conceive the notion of rooting anywhere. Travel, he supposed, though God knew he’d done more than any man’s share of that already.
And why think of it now? His duty, his mission, his quest wasn’t done. Better to think of the next step, and leave the rest.
He came around the front of the house, looked up. He could see the good, sturdy manor his blood had built. See how Bran had used it, respected it, when adding to it, making it his own.
For a moment he heard the voices, long stilled. His mother, his father, his sisters, brothers. They’d worked this land, built their lives, given their hearts.
Grown old, grown ill, died. And he was all that was left of them.
That, just that, was beyond sorrow.
“Bollocks,” he murmured, and turned away.
The wolf watched him, eyes gleaming in the filtered light of the moon.
She stood very still at the edge of the wood—beautiful and fierce.
He lowered the hand that had reached instinctively for the sword sheathed on his back. Stood, watching the watcher while the wind billowed his coat.
“So you’re back. You worried Sasha and Annika. You understand me perfectly well,” he added when the wolf made no move. “If you’re interested, Sawyer’s healing up, and resting. Sasha was hurt more seriously than we knew. Ah, that got your attention,” he said when the wolf trotted forward. “She’s resting, too, and Bran took care of them. She’s fine,” he added. “One of the bastards gouged her leg, and some infection set in before Bran got to it. But she’s fine now.”
He watched the wolf angle up, scan the house with those canny golden-brown eyes. “The place is full of rooms, enough beds if we were twice as many. I suppose you want to go in now, see for yourself.”
The wolf simply walked to the big front doors, waited.
“Fine then.” Doyle strode over, opened the door.
Inside, Riley’s things sat in a neat pile.
“We didn’t take them up as no one wanted to choose for you. You’ve plenty to choose from.”
The wolf walked—pausing to study the living area, the fire simmering—then moved to the stairs, looked back.
“I suppose you want me to haul your bloody things up the bloody stairs now?”
The wolf held Doyle’s gaze, unblinking.
“Now I’m a porter,” he muttered, and picked up her duffle. “You can get the rest tomorrow.” He started up, and the wolf kept pace. “Bran and Sasha are down at the end there, in the round tower. Sawyer and Annika, first door there, facing the sea.”
He gestured the other way on the landing. “I’m down here, again the sea.”
The wolf went down, in the direction of Doyle’s room, stood in a doorway, moved on, another, and another, then doubled back and walked into a room facing the forest with an open-canopy bed, a long desk, a fireplace framed in malachite.
Doyle dumped her duffle, prepared to step out again and leave her to it.
But she walked to the fire, looked at him, looked back.
“What? I’m supposed to light a fire for you now? Christ.”
Muttering all the way, he took bricks of peat from a copper bucket, arranged them on the grate as he had as a boy.
It was simple enough, took only moments, and if the scent squeezed his heart, he ignored it.
“Now, if there’ll be nothing else—”
She walked to the door, one leading to a little balcony.
“You want out again? For Christ’s sake. It doesn’t have stairs.” He walked over, wrenched it open. “So if you want down, you’ll have to jump.”