Heart of the Highland Wolf (14 page)

“Aye. I'll be right back.” After he checked out the woman on the Internet, whatever her name truly was. “She'll be fine until then.” As in, leave her alone. He didn't want his brothers romanticizing about her like he'd done, and he didn't want her writing them into her next story, either.

***

Julia waited while the minutes ticked by for what seemed like hours. The oven had beeped after fifteen minutes, letting her know that the pizza was done. She'd pulled the pizza out and turned off the stove, but when Ian still didn't return after a good forty-five minutes more, she assumed the worst. Guthrie
had
been given the task of learning about her, not cooking the meal, and he had found out all about her books and told Ian—and just as she had suspected, Ian didn't like it.

She sighed. Forget spending the night in the castle. She was beat, and it was time to return to the cottage and regroup.

The great hall where she'd seen Ian's brothers gathered earlier was quiet, and if she hadn't known better, she would have suspected they all had forgotten about her and had retired for the evening. But more likely Ian was checking her out on the Internet and reading all about her. And his brothers were waiting on his return to learn what his take on the matter would be.

She knew how distracting the Internet could be and how time passed quickly when she was wrapped up in her research. She visualized him frowning and scanning and clicking on more and more links to find out all he could about her. Imagine his surprise if he found the interview she had done with
Love Romance Passion
and the catchy title:
Get into Bed with Julia Wildthorn (An Author Interview)
.

Oh, yeah, that would be a real eye-catcher. She was certain he'd love that.
Not.

The damage was already done. She sighed deeply. She probably should have told him her name was MacPherson. How bad would that have been?

Bad—if she was from an enemy clan.

Not expecting any help from Ian's brothers, as they'd be loyal to the laird and not an American troublemaker like herself, she let herself out through the kitchen door, which exited into the gardens. Dahlias, sweet spicy-smelling begonias, hydrangeas, wild orchids, and sweetly fragrant thistles, all in pinks and salmon colors, vied for attention in the expansive garden but also crowded around the cobblestone walkway she hoped would lead to the inner bailey.

She limped along a path as quickly as she could manage. When she came to a small wooden gate, she pushed through and closed it again.

Her ankle was hurting, although she knew it would get better if she could stay off it for the rest of the evening. Finally, she managed to make her way through the smaller inner bailey. Halfway across the outer bailey, she thought she might even make her escape. But then the redheaded man she'd written about at the gatehouse, and who had seen Ian carrying her piggyback later, approached her from one of the outer buildings. A stable, she thought, as she believed she heard a soft nicker coming from there.

“Where ye off to, lass?” He looked suspicious and big… make that
very big
, now that she was up close to him.

She motioned toward the gatehouse, not wanting this man's interference but unable to do anything about it. “I'm headed back to the cottage.”

He glanced in the direction of the keep and then looked at her skeptically. “No one is taking ye back?”

“I wanted to walk.”

“Laird MacNeill had to carry ye because of yer… injury.” He motioned to her ankle. He narrowed his eyes at her. “They don't know you've gone.”

“Oh, they know. Is the gate unlocked?” She limped toward the gatehouse before he answered.

“Wait here.”

She'd heard that one before.
Wait here
, Ian had said in so many words.
He'd be back.
Only this time she figured whoever the redheaded guy was, he'd get some action. She could imagine him rushing into the keep to tell on her—and all of Ian's brothers running to intercept her. Or at least, that would be the story she'd write. Ian would be stubbornly refusing to come for her, his bonny betrothed. He had discovered some secret about her and no longer wanted her, again.

What would be the secret that the heroine would be hiding?

She pondered the answer to that question as she continued to limp toward the gatehouse. A man exited the rounded tower to the left and crossed his arms in defensive mode. He was the other man she'd written about, who also had witnessed her inelegant ride on Ian's back.

“Is the gate locked?” she asked, even though she knew it had to be. She couldn't decide whether to smile sweetly or be very businesslike. She doubted anything she did would encourage him to unlock the gate. Not without him first hearing what Ian wanted.

“We're awaiting word from his lairdship,” the man said, brows raised and patting a cell phone on his belt. Even though he was trying to look all businesslike himself, a faint smile curved his lips.

She folded her arms. “I'm an American citizen. And you have to let me out.”

“American citizen, is it? Ye've no passport from what I've heard tell.”

The car, the fire. She didn't have a passport. Why hadn't she thought of that? Could they arrest her for it?

“You don't have any right to keep me here against my will. Let me out,
now
.”

A car's engine rumbled to life in the inner bailey.

The man's smile grew. “Seems you have your ride after all.”

She knew it wouldn't be Ian, and although she told herself that was best for all concerned, she was disappointed. She liked Ian and his brothers, and these men also, truth be told. But the fact was that she was a romance author who wrote about werewolves. She was certain she'd hit rock bottom in Ian's estimation of her.

Sure enough, when the car drove up, she saw that Guthrie was driving. The guard hurried to open the passenger door for her, not waiting to see if that was what was going on or not.

“Your ride,” Guthrie called out to her when she didn't move to enter the car.

“She's hurting,” the guard said.

Guthrie exited the driver's side, but when he did, she started to limp toward the car. She wasn't about to be carried again. She didn't get far, however, before Guthrie lifted her up in his arms and placed her in the passenger's seat. “If you'll get the gate, we'll be off,” he said to the guard.

The other man bowed his head slightly to Guthrie and then opened the gate while Guthrie climbed into the driver's seat. “So, you're a romance writer.”

Which is how all the trouble began. She didn't respond.

“I take it your
pen name
is Julia Wildthorn.”

Uh-oh. She gave Guthrie a sideways glance, and although he kept his focus on the road that crossed the moat, she knew he was sensing her reaction. She didn't say anything. Best to leave things as they were. In one lump of a mess.

But Guthrie wasn't leaving it alone. “Iris North, is it?”

***

When Ian's cousin Oran came to him with the news that Julia was limping toward the gatehouse, planning to walk home, Ian couldn't believe it. Well he could, as far as her determination was concerned. But he hadn't left her alone all
that
long. He glanced at the computer screen. It had been over an hour since he had left her. Hell.

“Tell Guthrie to take her home,” he had said abruptly, and then when his cousin had marched smartly out of his solar, Ian had gone to the kitchen, expecting a burned-up pizza or, at the very least, a slice of it gone.

But she'd taken it out and left it sitting on the stove top. Now it was cold and hard, just like the pit of his stomach. He wasn't about to chase after her, though. He'd already done enough damage in failing to follow his rulings concerning his people associating with anyone on the film crew by taking the woman for a walk and then allowing the heat of the moment to get out of hand with her.

“She had to have gone out the kitchen door,” Cearnach said, joining him and looking a little apologetic. “Or we would have seen her and stopped her.”

“She's trouble,” Ian said, hating that she'd left and that he'd resolved the issue the way in which he had done. But how could he tell his people to act in one way and then do what he wished? It didn't matter that he was the laird. He led by what he hoped was the
right
example.

“Aye, that she is, Ian. The kind of trouble
I
wouldn't mind having. I'll see you in the morning, unless you need me for anything else,” Cearnach said.

“See you in the morning.” Ian wrapped up the pizza and stuck it in the fridge. Knowing his brothers, one of them would heat it up for breakfast. No sense in letting it go to waste.

But he only had an appetite for the red wolf. No matter what she wrote about or who she truly was. He wanted
her
.

“What happened to you?” Maria asked, her eyes wide, her voice surprised as she came out of her bedroom while Guthrie carried Julia into the cottage.

“I took too much of a walk,” Julia said to her. To Guthrie, she said, “You can set me on the couch. Thanks so much for giving me a lift home.” She was certain the fact that she didn't say anything about whether she was truly Iris North or not hadn't gone unnoticed. But she figured she didn't owe one of Ian's brothers any explanation, and he hadn't pressed the issue.

“
Ladies.
” Guthrie smiled at Julia, appearing somewhat amused, and then he hurried out of the cottage as if he might get in trouble if he lingered too long.

Maria locked the door. “So what
did
happen?”

Julia sighed. “Nothing. I took too long a walk and my ankle is swollen.”

“I'll get you an ice pack.” Maria hurried into the kitchen. “I thought you were just having dinner.”

“Ian took me for a walk.”

“Ian?”

“Laird MacNeill.”

“Ah.” Maria banged around in the freezer. “A long walk? Where?”

“To the falls. It was beautiful.” Julia sighed and closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself like Ian had done. Until his fingers had slipped her bra down and his other hand had worked its way into her panties.

“I thought you might be staying the night, as late as it was getting.”

“No.” Julia let out her breath again. “He knows I write romances. Werewolf romances. If he or anyone else had been interested in me, finding that out was the end of that. Besides, I'm not here for that.”

“The secret niche and the box hidden in it,” Maria said, returning with an ice pack. “Any leads on that?”

“No, but he's having his brothers check into who might have called you and about the accident. So maybe something good will come of it anyway. Do you realize we have no passports now?”

Maria sat down on the couch beside her. “Yes. Harold's trying to make arrangements for us to get the paperwork to file for some.”

“Did the police say anything about the car accident?”

“They want to talk to you. What are you going to do about tomorrow when we start setting up for the filming to begin?”

“I'll be there.” Julia rose from the couch, and Maria hurried to help her to her bedroom. “But for now, I'm going to sleep.”

Her expression worried, Maria watched Julia as she climbed into bed, placed the ice pack over her ankle, and then pulled the covers over herself. Julia tried not to wince when even the covers hurt her foot.

“You don't have to go with me in the morning,” Maria said.

“I do. I need to write this book, and I need to…” Well, Julia wanted to get her grandfather's permission to ask Ian to look for the box. “I need to sleep. I'll be fine, Maria. How are your wrist and your back?”

Maria gave her a disgruntled look. “Unlike you, I know when to rest. I'm doing great. Sleep well.” She padded back to her own bedroom, and when the bed next door creaked, Julia closed her eyes to sleep.

But she couldn't sleep after all. Her ankle throbbed for a couple of hours, and she couldn't quit thinking about the box and whatever was contained within. Or about Ian and his kin, and how she really wanted to ask his permission if she could look for it. Might as well keep this strictly on a business basis.

Her eyes and mind tired, she climbed out of bed. She limped into the kitchen to speak on the phone there and turned on the light. Not having her mobile cell phone was the pits. Figuring she should make up another ice pack, she grabbed the dish towel and filled it with ice cubes. Then she glanced out the window at the dark night, punched in her grandfather's number, and hoped the hour was decent for him. Her brain was too foggy to figure out the time-zone differences.

She sat down at the small kitchen table and propped her foot up on another chair, laid the ice pack over her ankle, and listened as the phone rang and rang and rang. She hated how her grandfather refused to get an answering machine. Hanging up the phone, she thought about writing a little on her story, but then the phone jingled and she jumped. She grabbed the phone and said, “Hello, Grandfather?”

But it wasn't her grandfather's voice.

“Hello, Julia MacPherson, daughter of Dermott MacPherson, granddaughter of Findlay MacPherson, great-granddaughter of Conaire MacPherson. Shall I go on?”

On hearing the cold Scottish brogue, she felt a chill snake down her spine. Instantly, she wondered if this was the man who had called Maria in L.A. The man who had threatened her. How or why he knew so much about Julia made her heart quicken with concern.

“How do you know it wasn't Maria answering the phone?” She hastily glanced at the kitchen window, no curtains, the woods dark, and another chill of concern flooded her veins. He was watching the cottage.

“I know all.”

He had to have seen her turn on the light, probably even tried to call her, but she was trying to get hold of her grandfather. She moved into the living room where the lace curtains wouldn't hide her, either. Not from a
lupus garou
's eyes. If he was a
lupus garou
. The wolf in the fog came to mind.

“Who is this?”

“You're mine, lass.”

Ignoring his comment and trying not to let him know how much his call had unnerved her, she said, “The film is taking place, whether you like it or not.”

“Do you know what this is all about?” he asked, his voice soft and deadly.

All at once she had the sickening feeling this wasn't about the filming at the castle.

If he'd been angry or shouting, she could have handled it better. But she had to agree with Maria. The man sounded dangerous. “Ian MacNeill got the contract for his castle instead of yours,” she said slowly.

“
Ian
MacNeill is it now, love?”

Hell, she'd made the slip again. “Laird Ian MacNeill,” she corrected.

“No matter. He's a Scottish laird because he owns a plot of land.”

A castle, she wanted to say. Not just a plot of land. And he had to be something, a baron or an earl or something, didn't he?

“Anyone can buy a title and call themselves a laird nowadays. Just do a Google search if you don't believe me, lass. You will find all kinds of sites that sell land in Scotland so that women can become ladies and men can become lairds. The title means little.”

She didn't want to believe him. Yet she did. Doing a search would be easy, if her laptop hadn't gone up in smoke with the car, and then she could see if what he said was true. Unless he knew she couldn't do a search. Sure, because he probably knew all about the accident. Had caused it even.

“Do you know what's in the box, love?”

Her heart dropped. The box. He knew that it existed. Why would he know about the box? Dread bunched in the pit of her stomach. Did he know what was in it?

“What box?” she asked, attempting to sound genuinely confused, not rattled.

He didn't say anything. She collapsed on the sofa and put her foot up on the pillow still sitting on the coffee table. “Hello? What box?”

“Ah, love, you try a man's patience. Laird MacNeill won't allow you to explore the castle at your will.”

“What do you think is in this box that you believe exists?”

“Why, love, you don't want to know.” The phone clicked dead.

The blood pounded in her ears as her heart continued to race. She took a deep settling breath. Maria had been right. The man sounded serious about this. The only way she could fight back was by knowing the truth. She quickly punched in her grandfather's number again.

To her relief, she heard her grandfather's voice. “Hello?”

Julia blurted out without preamble, “Someone knows about the box. About me. He warned me not to look for it. But I can't anyway, Grandfather. Not unless I'm allowed to ask Laird Ian MacNeill's permission. I can't do this.”

She heard her grandfather's breathing on the phone so she knew he was still there, but otherwise silence filled the airway.

“Grandfather?”

“You can't ask his permission,” he finally said, his voice gruffly stern.

“What's in the box? Why would this man be threatening me?”

Again prolonged silence.

“Are you still there?”

“It's a betrothal contract. For the Lady MacPherson to mate with the Sutherland, and failing that, the first female direct descendant born to Conaire MacPherson to the current laird of Argent Castle.”

Julia knew there had to have been at least a half a dozen or more female descendants of Conaire MacPherson through the years. But if Lady MacPherson had mated with a Sutherland, was Julia one of them? That was an awful thought because she would now be Ian's enemy. But if the first one had not satisfied the agreement, had one of her kin mated a MacNeill since they had ruled the castle for some time?

She suddenly felt sick to her stomach, thinking of how Ian had touched her so intimately. In a voice that was barely audible, she said, “Ian MacNeill isn't distantly related to me, is he?”

As if he hadn't heard her, her grandfather said, “
You
are the first female descendant in a long line of male descendants.”

With her lips parted, she stared at the table and leaned back hard against the couch, not believing that could be true. Trying to remember any talk of females born on her paternal side of the family, she came up blank.

“The contract would have been drawn up so long ago that no one in this day and age should have to honor such an agreement. The contract
can't
be valid today.” If her grandfather was saying what she thought he was saying, she was Ian MacNeill's betrothed.

“You know our ways,” her grandfather said. “
Lupus garous
live long lives. We honor our commitments.”

“So…” She cleared her suddenly very dry throat. “So I'm supposed to be betrothed to Ian MacNeill?”

“The current laird of Argent Castle. As long as he's the laird, then yes.”

“Then if we're to honor this contract, why are you having me locate it in secret?”

“I meant to destroy it, Julia.”

She frowned. “But you said we honor our commitments.”

“So many years have passed, and we have had no females in the family tree for all that time, so the later generations seem to have forgotten the contract. I assumed no one would know of it, but if someone locates it, then we'll have to agree to the terms. I don't want you tied down to someone that you don't care for, Julia.”

Something
was being left unsaid. Her grandfather had been too concerned about this. “Why now?”

“I can only assume he learned of the document recently. Whoever it is has been blackmailing your father and me. He doesn't want the agreement found. He doesn't have a copy. The only one that exists is in that box. Conaire meant to take the box when he left the castle, but he didn't have enough time. Getting his family out safely was his primary focus. So now, once I destroy the contract, it's done.”

That sent a chill rocketing up her spine. “But who would…” She stopped to think of the men she'd met: Ian, his brothers, the couple of men standing guard, a handful of others who acted as bodyguards or had spoken to Ian on the curtain wall. How many were part of Ian's pack, his clan? Then there were the two men she had seen in the woods. The same ones she'd seen at the airport.

“Ian's family is short on money,” she said under her breath. What if that was the reason one of them was blackmailing her family?

She barely breathed. Her family had done well, but they hadn't made enough money to keep a blackmailer in riches. “So this man believes you sent me to try and get the contract.”

“You haven't gone by the name ‘MacPherson' since you were little. I didn't think he'd connect you to the family.”

“Okay, so is he someone in Laird MacNeill's clan? Assuming the guy is a werewolf. But what would his reason be? The MacNeills are having some major financial problems, or I'm sure they wouldn't have agreed to filming the movie here. Not being
lupus garous
. What if the laird himself, or one of the men on his behalf, was attempting to blackmail you because of their financial woes?” Julia asked.

“I don't know who it could be.”

“He has to have gotten wind of it somehow. What if one of Ian's brothers didn't want the laird to mate with an American so the title could go to one of the brother's offspring?” Then she reconsidered what the man had said about Ian's title. “Can you do a search for me on the Internet?”

“Let me turn on the computer. What are you looking for, Julia?”

“If you can buy a title in Scotland. The man said that Laird MacNeill had the title because he owned land. That anyone can be titled if they purchase land.”

While she waited for her grandfather's computer to boot up, she tapped her fingers on the sofa. “If there is a marriage agreement, would that information have been written down in family journals?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“In ours?”

“Your grandmother destroyed ours when you were born.”

Julia swallowed hard. “Is that why you insisted I change my name to a red name when I was little? To Julia Wildthorn?”

“In hopes that our past would never catch up with us, yes.”

“Julia isn't a Gaelic name. I looked it up. It means young in Latin, youthful in French.”

“You're named after your great-grandmother who was French from Selencourt.”

She let out her breath in frustration. “What if I walk up to Laird MacNeill's castle door and demand he mate me—
because
I am his betrothed?”

Ian would laugh her off the grounds. That would be the end of the blackmailer's hold over them. Even if Ian was behind it.