Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(39)

Silent sympathy wasn’t helping. He could see joking wouldn’t work. What would?

She was female. He handled females well enough on Gathering nights—mating was simple. But he wasn’t used to spending time with them or giving them…comfort.

And she was definitely owed all the comfort he could give her. She’d heard Jamie scream and had run to the rescue, knowing she was headed toward a fight. She’d attacked a hellhound with a fire extinguisher.

He shook his head. Females just weren’t so appallingly courageous.

Only some were, weren’t they? “…you lump all females into a group and think we’re all equally awful.” He had the brains of a gnome, dammit. This little cat was not only bloody courageous, but had saved his life.

And now she was a mess.

Feeling as awkward as an undine out of water, he moved closer, until her hip rubbed the side of his leg. “Come here, Darcy,” he murmured and put his arm around her shoulders. Fragile bones, tiny female. He drew her closer, shortening his stride so they walked in step. Through the thin shirt she wore, he could feel the chill of her skin.

Still wasn’t enough.

She looked as pale and shaken as his two normally feisty nephews had after nearly falling off a cliff.

He’d known what to do for Luke and Tyler. Could he treat her like a cubling? This comforting business felt more hazardous than crossing the river at spring thaw with ice cracking under his paws. Barely breathing, he drew her into his arms and guided her head down against his shoulder. Unmoving, he let his body heat warm her.

She stood as stiff as a wild kitten, then sighed and relaxed against him.

With Herne the Hunter’s grace, he’d done the right thing.

Now what? His chin rested on the top of her head, and the breeze blew her silky hair against his neck. Each breath brought him the wild scent of a shifter female, but with the quiet fragrance of a mossy green riverbed and a hint of metal like Gawain.

He ran his hand down her back. Since coming to Cold Creek, she’d gained weight, making her curves more pronounced. However, the soft flesh against him was quivering. Holding her wasn’t enough.

She was female. They wanted to talk. And talk. And talk.

Well, didn’t they?

Why wasn’t she crying? Or talking?

Maybe she needed him to get her started? “Ah…did I remember to thank you for the help?”

She didn’t react for a second and then gave a half-laugh. Her throaty voice was rougher than normal. “You’re welcome.”

He understood this kind of wry humor. With a smile, he tilted his head to rub his jaw against her silky hair. “Did you know that was a hellhound?”

A long pause.

Her responses were still sluggish. Yeah, he’d been in that condition before, although not for something as mild as this fight. Still, how many fights could she have seen while she was in a prison?

“A hellhound,” she whispered. “Even though Calum said there was one here, I didn’t really believe they existed.”

“They do.” He had the scars to prove it. Thank fuck Donal rarely was out of town on the dark of the moon, or he’d have more.

“That man—hellhound—was awfully strong. Is that why Calum was worried?”

“Yeah. When a fight starts, a hellhound will go berserk and only death will stop it.” Owen softened his voice. “Is its death what bothers you?”

Against his chest, she nodded her head.

“You haven’t seen anyone die before?”

This time her laugh was bitter. “Oh, I have. I really have.”

And in the way a sunny spring day could turn to a drizzly rain, her silence turned to sobs. She never put her arms around him, simply let him hold her as she bunched his shirt in her fists and wept.

Feeling useless, he stood strong, one arm around her waist and the other—he realized he was stroking her shoulders, as if an action so useless would help what sounded very much like grief to him.

Heart-breaking grief. The little cat had loved and lost.

*

She’d cried all over Owen. Darcy couldn’t believe the way she’d lost control of her emotions. And how…nice…the huge cahir had been. Talking softly, holding her, letting her bawl as if she were a child.

At least her weeping fit hadn’t lasted too long.

When she’d pulled back, Owen had simply kept his arm around her—probably thought she couldn’t walk without his help—and simply guided her to the tavern. As she’d regained her composure, the deadly cahir hadn’t tried to make conversation, hadn’t tried to joke, and yet his silence was more of a comfort than another person’s chatter.

When he led her into the tavern, Thorson and his charges had already arrived. Face rigid with anger, Calum stood near the bar, his arms around the pregnant female and the girl who’d been in the alley.

The pregnant one had a hand on her large stomach, and all Darcy could do was thank the Mother the female hadn’t been hurt. Or the cubling, either.

Blonde and blue-eyed, the girl was about the age of Alice, the youngest of the captives.

Alice. The youngling was still a captive. Darcy hadn’t gotten the females released—hadn’t done anything—and the guilt was like a hand squeezing her chest.

“Hey.” The pregnant female motioned Darcy over. “We didn’t get a chance to talk. I’m Vicki, and this is Jamie.”