A Howl for a Highlander (38 page)

The air rushed out of her lungs, and she felt light-headed. She grasped the side table to steady herself. Gathering her wits, she responded with outrage. “You did not even ask
me
! I will not marry that arrogant, conceited wolf! He has never been interested in me. Never! Not until he thought he might gain my parents’ properties!”

That made her wonder if
he’d
had anything to do with her parents’ carriage accident. Wasn’t it a little too convenient? Her family had been in competition in the pirating business with Kelly Rafferty all these years—and suddenly her parents die when Elaine is old enough that Kelly can mate with her and take over her parents’ estates.

“Take me with you. Let me see the world first. Then when we return to St. Augustine, if I have not found my own wolf mate by then, we will see if Mr. Rafferty is still interested.”

Over her dead body.

After much arguing with her uncles, Elaine convinced them to allow her this one boon. With great reluctance, they had their solicitor arrange to have her estates managed until she returned.

***

Two days into the ocean voyage, Elaine heaved the contents of her belly into a bucket while attempting to rest in the captain’s quarters, sicker than she had ever been.

Everything went from bad to worse as soon as they arrived at the port city of St. Andrews, Scotland. The ship carried a new name and her uncles dressed as respectable merchants, but someone must have recognized them for who they truly were.

Word soon reached the authorities that the notorious, pirating Hawthorn brothers had returned. As armed men hurried toward them, her Uncle Tobias signaled to one of his sailors, who shoved her to the cobblestones as if she was in their way.

Men grabbed her uncles and several of their crew, led them away in chains, and tried them with barely any representation. To her horror, her uncles were hanged in the town square at the behest of Lord Harold Whittington who owned a fleet of merchant ships and claimed her uncles had sacked three of them.

Scared to death that someone would see her, believe she was part of her uncle’s crew, and hang her, too, she hastily wiped away the tears rolling freely down her cheeks and tried to slip away unnoticed in the chilly breeze. Her best hope was to return to Florida and her family’s estates.

As she started to steal away, she spied a broad-shouldered man observing her. He was wearing a predominantly blue and green kilt, the plaid gathered over his shoulder and pinned, a sporran at his belt, and a sword at his back—and he looked fierce. Her heart did a tumble.

She had dressed as plainly as she could in a dark-green muslin gown with a fitted jacket and a petticoat of the same color. With a cloak covering these and the hood up over her head, she had hoped to be shielded from the view of the men and women milling about. She thought she had been obscure in the crowd, but the stranger was watching her as if he knew she had been involved in her uncles’ pirating ways. As if he thought she should be swinging from the gallows alongside her uncles and some of their men.

He appeared to be a Highland warrior of old, someone who had fought in ruthless clan battles and come out a survivor. Maybe a loyal friend of Lord Whittington who would want a noose around her neck, too.

He lifted his nose and appeared to take a deep breath. As if he was trying to scent the wind. As if he was trying to smell her. Which immediately made her think of a wolf. Her skin prickled with unease.

He
couldn’t
be a wolf. Maybe that’s what made him appear so dangerous, feral, and determined.

His eyes widened and he headed in her direction. The other men he’d been with followed him.

Her heart pumped wildly as she tried to reach an alleyway, thinking she had gotten away. She was slipping down the narrow brick alleyway when a large hand grabbed her arm and effectively stopped her.

Barely able to catch her breath, she bit back a scream.

“Lass,” the man said with a distinctive Highland burr, his voice low, “where are you going in such a hurry?”

His dark brown eyes were narrowed, focused on her, yet a small smile curved his lips. As if he was amused that she thought she could evade a wolf. Because that was just what he was.

A gray wolf, tall, muscularly built, but more wiry than bulky. His hand was holding her still, not bruising her but with enough pressure that she knew he was not about to let her go. He was handsome as the devil, the crinkle lines beneath his eyes telling her he was a man who liked to smile, his masculine lips likewise, not thin and mean like Kelly Rafferty’s, but pleasingly full with a curve that made her think he enjoyed life in a jovial rather than a cruel way.

His wind-tussled hair was an earthy shade of dark brown with streaks of red, and he had no hint of facial hair, as if he had just shaved. He was lean and hard, not an ounce of fat, and determined, his jaw set, his brows raised a little now as he examined her more closely. He was taking a good long look, not in a leering way but in a way that said he was memorizing her distinctive appearance, maybe comparing that to her uncles’, and not speaking a word as if she’d stolen whatever he was going to say right from his lips.

The three men who had been trailing behind him were now immersed in a brawl outside the alley, fists swinging as they were caught up in the fight.

“Are you here alone, lass?” the man asked, his voice seductively low. He was an alpha, in charge, wanting answers.

“Let… me… go,” she growled. She was trying not to make a scene in case any of Lord Whittington’s men were nearby and could overhear her and grow curious about her.
If
this man was not already one of Whittington’s men.

“Come with me and my brothers, and I will protect you,” he offered.

A shiver stole up her spine. He must know she was related to the hanged men. The fight was growing closer—she could hear men’s shouts and cries of pain, scuffling, and thuds as some went down.

“If Lord Whittington learns you were one of the Hawthorns’ kin, it willna go well for you,” the man said. “My name is Cearnach MacNeill, and those behind me…” He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to her and amended, “Who
were
following me are my brothers. We will see you to safety.”

She shook her head. “You are mistaken about me, sir. Release me at once.”

He did not seem inclined to do so, but a beefy half-drunken man came up behind him, skirted around the Highlander, and slugged Cearnach in the jaw. He immediately released Elaine so that he was free to pelt the drunk.

She darted down the alleyway, glancing back to see Cearnach struggling to rid himself of the brigand. He took a swing at the drunk, and when he had knocked him back several steps, Cearnach looked for her. And spied her getting away. Her heart did a flip. He appeared both troubled and exasperated.

She ran out of the alley, dashed down the street until she found another alley, and ducked down it. She would find a ship and return home on her own.

Somehow she had to figure out a way to deal with Kelly Rafferty next.

***

Present Day, Scotland

Cearnach MacNeill had promised Calla Stewart that he would show up at her wedding to lend moral support. Friends did that for friends. He would attend because she had asked him to. Even though he knew his being there could stir up real trouble.

Why did she have to marry into the McKinley clan? Pirates, every last one of them. Even though the pirating stopped a century ago. As far as he was concerned, they were still a bunch of ruthless brigands.

He drove through the open castle gates and then through the outer bailey. Out on the main road, he tore off in the direction of the church and cursed the wind for impeding his progress.

Trying to get his mind off the drive ahead and the dwindling time, he thought about Calla and the regret he felt that he couldn’t have been the one for her. They just didn’t have what it took to be a couple.

No matter how many times he told himself Calla understood what she was doing, he knew Baird McKinley didn’t deserve her. She was making a big mistake.

An hour later, only halfway to the church and with the strong headwind thwarting his progress, Cearnach came around a bend in the hilly road to see a black Mercedes hogging the pavement in his lane. Since the other driver wasn’t budging, Cearnach jerked his car off the road before they collided head-on.

Hell and damnation!

With the rate of speed he was going, the car sailed over the rocks littering the terrain, ripping up the rear tires with a boom! And another boom! The tires exploded before he could brake the car enough to stop it.

Cursing a blue streak, he cut the engine and climbed out of the car to see who the idiot driver was. Probably someone who had been celebrating a wee bit too much. He grabbed his sheathed sword and strapped it around his waist.

The black car had pulled to the side of the road, the driver hidden behind tinted windows, the engine purring.

When the driver’s door opened, a long-legged brunette stepped out of the car. He had a hell of a time shifting his gaze from those shapely legs and a pair of sexy high-heeled pumps—her clingy red dress having risen to mid-thigh before it settled lower—to see how good the rest of her looked. Especially since he’d expected some sloppy-drunk male type.

His gaze traveled upward to take in the rest of the package. The wind blowing in her direction forced the dress’s red slinky fabric to cling to her shapely legs, hips, and everything in between. The dress screamed hot and available. At least to him.

The neckline wasn’t all that low, just enough to show off the swell of her breasts, but her reaction to his perusing her was what made him direct his attention upward while he bit back a smile. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them a little and making him wish he could do the honors, and then she let out an annoyed huff of breath.

More than anything, he loved her reaction and wasn’t beyond pushing her a bit after she’d forced him off the road and ruined two of his tires.

“Done looking?” she asked. The hint of sarcasm amused him when he should still have been furious about what she’d done to his vehicle.

She was American, not a Scottish lass, which meant she was trouble if she was anything like his brothers Ian and Duncan’s mates, except both of the women were wolves, Julia of the red wolf variety, and Shelley, a gray.

“All right,” she said, now sounding
really
annoyed. “I get it. You’re a big, bad Highland warrior type of wolf, and you have to present this image…”

She knew he was a
wolf
?

Only
one way
she’d know that. She smelled his wolf scent. Only one way she could do that. She was also a wolf.

After getting over his initial shock, he crowded her as a wolf would, checking her out, sensing her response to him, learning if she truly was a wolf. She nearly folded into the car, trying to back away from him. He seized her arm to keep her close and moved his face in to get a good whiff of her.

She-wolf. Gray. A hint of a seductive floral fragrance.

He took in another breath, attempting to learn how she felt about him, trying to see if she was angered, intrigued, scared. He frowned. She smelled familiar somehow. From the scent he gathered from her, she
was
angered, intrigued, and a wee bit scared. Just as she should be around an imposing Highlander of the Old World like he was.

“Bloody hell,” he said, quickly releasing her, not wanting to feel any interest in the lass. But he continued to remain in her space, continued to suck in the air around her, continued to enjoy the essence of the wolf. He couldn’t help it. When a female was
this
enticing, he was all male wolf.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elaine Hawthorn.” She stared him down like a wolf that wouldn’t be cowed, but she didn’t ask his name or act as though she wanted it.

He eyed her more closely, sure he had seen her somewhere before. A long…
very
long time ago. That was the problem with living for so many years. He wasn’t good at remembering new names and faces in the short term. Long term? Even worse.

Something about her appearance and something about her reaction to him had him wondering.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my fans who asked for more of the Highland wolf hunks before anyone had a chance to read the first of the Highland wolf stories,
Heart
of
the
Highland
Wolf
. To my editor, Deb Werksman, who makes it possible for me to share more of my wolf tales, and now even some jaguar shifter tales! To Danielle, my publicist, who is my marketing inspiration, and to the editorial staff and the cover artists who design such beautiful covers, creating praise for the characters well before they’re even available to the world, and make me proud to say that these books are mine.