Heart of the Highland Wolf (16 page)

A cold hand grasped her arm, and she gasped. No one was there, no one visible. But she felt the pressure of the hand on her skin as if it were real. A ghost?

Not seeing him, or something that looked ghostly, made her feel as though she was imagining the whole thing. But she didn't imagine the cold, tight grip on her arm or the way the area surrounding her had turned from chilly to icy, her hard breathing coming out in little puffs of frosted air.

Trying not to panic further, she allowed the strange force to help her to her feet. She could barely walk, her shin shrieking with pain, and she couldn't set her right foot down flat against the floor because it hurt so much. The unseen force guided her as she limped into the dark tunnel and up a long flight of stairs carved out of stone. He wasn't gentle. Instead, like a caveman with his catch, he pulled her up and up, hurrying her until she reached a trapdoor above her. The cold hand receded and the ghostly entity was gone, she thought.

She reached up to push the trapdoor open, but when she applied pressure, it didn't budge. Stuck on the stairs, afraid to return to the tunnel and try another way for fear she'd run into the men who were searching for her, she hesitated, looking down into the abyss. The men's footsteps were still distant but growing closer every second, their footfalls echoing off the walls, making it sound like a legion was after her.

The trapdoor suddenly swung open above her, and in pain, she scrambled through the opening. The trapdoor dropped back in place, and a rod slid through a notch to keep anyone from reentering that way.

The ghost had rescued her.

“Where should I go now?” she whispered, hoping he'd aid her further, although she still was having a hard time believing a ghost existed and felt foolish for trying to speak to one. She glanced around the room, spying two doors. One probably led into a hallway, and the other, maybe into a bathroom.

The ghost didn't respond, and she couldn't see any sign of him. Maybe he didn't have any other plan in mind and no way to help her out now.

She quickly scanned the room. A king-sized bed took center stage against one wall and was clothed in forest-green velvet from the bedcover to the pleated skirt. Dark green curtains draped down from the top rails as if to keep out the cold drafts or give the occupants privacy. The bed was taller than most, and she thought she glimpsed a copper pot underneath. Surely they had bathrooms in the castle.

A chest sat against one wall, wooden pegs situated above for hanging clothes. A fireplace on the opposite wall had kindling and logs in place, but it looked like they'd been sitting there for a very long time. No ashes remained from a recent fire, and the hearth was perfectly clean.

She limped quickly to the door in front of her, but the lock suddenly clicked. She twisted the door handle, but it was locked from the outside. Her heartbeat accelerated. The ghost was locking her in?

She fished in her pocket for her lock picks, but they weren't there. What had happened to them? Had she dropped them in the tunnel when she fell? Her skin prickled with fresh anxiety.

She quickly scanned the room again. Another door. To a bathroom, maybe. Or a closet?

Maria would be furious with her when she learned that Ian MacNeill's people had caught Julia inside the castle. But still, she hadn't any plans to get caught just yet.

The trapdoor behind her shuddered. She jumped, stepped painfully back against the door that she presumed led to the hallway in the castle, and groaned.

At the tunnel door, a man growled, “Hell, how did she find her way up here?”

“
Ian,
” she said under her breath, barely breathing.

“She's bleeding, Ian. Maybe Flynn came to her rescue?” Cearnach said, his voice tight.

Blood? She couldn't have left that much behind for them to have taken notice. Although her shin did feel wet and cold and burned with a vengeance. And they were wolves.

“He doesn't help strangers, and certainly not intruders, Cearnach.”

They had to be talking about the man or ghost or whatever it was that helped her into the room.

“But she's a female red,” Duncan said. “He probably wants her for his own.”

She took her first deep breath, sampling the smells in the room. She smelled Ian's faint scent in here.

“Damn it, Flynn, unlock this door!” Ian said. The trapdoor shook, but it didn't open.

Cearnach laughed. “He's aided her escape. If I know him, he's led her out of the castle by now. If he can't have her, you can't.”

The tunnel door shuddered again. “We can't even call our men to search the castle since the phone reception is nonexistent down here,” Ian said. “Come on. We'll have to go up through one of the other tunnels.”

“Which will take us to the other side of the castle, Ian,” Cearnach said. “You know which room he led her to, don't you? Think Flynn is trying to tell you something?”

She thought the room was too feminine to be a man's. The tapestries on the walls were of women sewing on benches while Irish wolfhounds slept at their feet in tones of greens and golds and reds, and floral rugs covered the floor, picking up the colors of the wall tapestries. All appeared to be feminine in design. The room's two paintings—one of the nearby waterfalls with rowan berries hanging over the water, and the other of a loch where a red deer sipped from the water—also made her believe the occupant was a woman.

But then she thought back to what Cearnach had said. She didn't think a ghost would have something in mind other than rescuing her from the MacNeills. Unless he meant to play tricks on them.

“Maybe he didn't aid her escape,” Duncan said.

“What do you mean?” Ian asked, gruffly. The trapdoor gave another hard rattle, and she thought the men might break through.

“Maybe he's locked her in the chamber.”

Cearnach chuckled. “He might have. Maybe we won't have to send out the clan to track her down after all. Maybe you can just keep her.”

Keep her? The contract came to mind.

She swallowed, her throat parched. She could imagine being locked away in the dungeon once they reached her and no one being able to find her while Ian tried to learn why she had broken into their castle. If she gave in and told them why she was here, they'd search for the hidden box. And then do what?

The Scots had the reputation for being wonderful hosts. From what Maria had said about Ian and his not wanting to open his castle up to any strangers, maybe he didn't believe in Scottish hospitality.
Lupus garous
lived by their own rules.

The men tromped down the stairs, and Julia felt even more panicked as she tried the door again. She called out softly, “Flynn? If you're in here, please let me out.”
Before it's too late.
She tried to sound commanding, but she was afraid she sounded a lot more like she was pleading.

The door remained locked. She considered the other door to the room, hoping this one was a way out and not a door to a bathroom, which it probably was.

If it was the story she was writing, the door would lead to an escape route. Too bad she couldn't write herself out of this scene. With a pronounced limp, she rushed to the door and twisted the handle, which opened the door easily.

And she discovered another bedchamber. She sniffed the air. Male, gray wolf. Laird Ian MacNeill's familiar and very appealing, sexy scent. She looked at the large bed dressed in black that dominated the room.
His bedchamber.
But it had a door that most likely led to the hallway, and she hurried to the door and twisted.

Locked.

If Flynn wasn't already dead, Ian would have strangled him. He didn't believe Flynn wanted to give the wolf to him, not when Flynn had loved women, even Ian's betrothed, so much—actually, too much, in that case. If Flynn had wanted to give Julia to Ian, why lock the trapdoor? To keep her from escaping?

No, he wanted some concession, Ian was fairly certain. Forgiveness for his earlier crime, maybe.

“You know him better than any of us, Cearnach. What game is he playing now?” Ian asked, stalking back through the tunnel.

“Going outside again probably would have been quicker,” Duncan mused.

“I had our men secure the trapdoor from the outside in case the intruder tried to slip out that way. Hell, if Flynn locks us down here, I swear I'll have him exorcised. Do you hear that, Flynn?”

“It's hard to believe he wants you to have the wolf, but he did lead her to your lady's chamber and not the study or the great hall. You know how he is. No matter how hard it is to figure him out sometimes, he always has a good reason for doing what he does,” Cearnach said.

Ian gave Cearnach a dark look. “Except when it comes to women. His loyalty is a bit skewed.”

“Aye, but he's had nearly two hundred years to change his ways, and this past year he has really made a concerted effort to leave the women alone.”

“Only because they don't like his ghostly appearances and run shrieking from his presence.”

It took them another fifteen minutes to reach the next tunnel, which would exit through the kitchen. Ian yanked at the trapdoor. “Locked.” He growled. “I will kill him. We'll split up forces. Once one of us gets through, we can help the others.” He banged on the trapdoor a couple of times, partly in frustration and partly in case someone was in the kitchen and could hear them, but it was too early for that.

“Which way are you going?” Cearnach asked as Ian headed back toward the trapdoor where Julia had entered.

Ian grunted.

Duncan cast him an elusive smile. “He's going to try to sweet-talk the woman into opening up. Maybe Cearnach should try. You will probably scare the wee lass half to death after the way she left here in haste last night.”

His brothers laughed and headed off down the tunnel to try their luck at other trapdoor exits.

As much as Ian hated to admit it, Cearnach probably would have better luck convincing Julia to open up at this point. But Ian was dying to learn what she would say about what she had been up to this time.

Ian hadn't gone far down the tunnel when he thought he heard the muted sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen through the trapdoor. His brothers had already made haste down the tunnel in the opposite direction, but Ian hurried back down the tunnel and then up the stairs to the trapdoor and banged hard.

A woman squeaked.

Hell, probably gave whoever it was a near heart attack. “It's me, Ian,” he quickly called out.

“Ian?” a voice called back, sounding unsure.

“Unlatch the trapdoor, lassie,” he said, trying for more of a coaxing tone of voice.

“Ian?” she said again.

It sounded like his cousin Heather, but even he had a difficult time recognizing her voice through the stone and metal.

“Aye, aye, open the trapdoor.”

“What are you doing down there?”

She wasn't making a move toward the door, and she still sounded skeptical.

“Heather? Go fetch one of your brothers. They'll tell you we were chasing an intruder through the tunnels and Flynn locked us down here.”

“Flynn? Oh, aye, the rat.”

At least Heather had had her fair share of dealings with their ghostly cousin so she knew exactly what Ian spoke of.

A bolt slid aside, and he shoved at the trapdoor. It gave, and a wave of relief washed over him as he hurried up into the kitchen. Shouting down below, he hollered, “Cearnach, the trapdoor to the kitchen is open!”

And then he bolted for his chamber, praying that Flynn had indeed locked the lass in and hadn't aided her escape. But Ian planned to track her down, no matter where she might have managed to slip off to—and would learn just what Julia had in mind to do.

***

Julia sat on the edge of Ian's bed, suddenly more tired than she'd ever been. Her ankle hurt; her leg burned where she'd cut it on the rock; she was locked in Ian's bedchamber; and unless she could weave a whopper of a lie that anyone might believe, she soon would be flayed alive. Trespassing, breaking and entering—never mind that the MacNeills had stolen the castle from her family in the first place—and intent to steal—even if she was retrieving something that belonged to her family originally—would be the first of the charges. Breaking the ladder rungs could be added as destroying personal property.

The rush of boots hurrying toward the door, then slowing, growing even slower, and then stopping right beyond the door made her throat go dusty dry. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it would soon take off. Her palms were sweaty and her skin chilled. She didn't think he'd have her arrested. Not when she was one of them and putting a werewolf in a jail could have dire consequences if she couldn't control her shape-shifting.

But even if she managed to get out of this mess and wanted to return home pronto, she had no passport, no credit cards, and not enough cash to do anything. She wasn't one to give up, but right now, she felt like she was in her great-grandfather's shoes—under the enemy's thumb without another plan to fall back on.

The handle turned, but the door didn't open. Locked. She stiffened, held her breath, and sat very still.

Then a metal key poked inside the lock and twisted. A click sounded, and the door was shoved open. Standing in the doorway, one red-faced Laird Ian MacNeill quickly scanned the room for her. His eyes widened a little when he saw her sitting on the edge of his bed.

Ian MacNeill. By ye ol' legal contract, her betrothed mate.

She managed a small smile. “You offered for me to stay overnight.” Even though daylight was dawning and it was a little late for an overnight affair. She patted the bed. “Is this the room you had in mind?”

***

Ian stared at the breathless vixen sitting on the edge of his mattress, looking pale, scared, and dwarfed by the size of his massive bed. Her heart was pounding hard, her red curls windswept, her lips parted slightly. She was beautiful and dangerous and his undoing. A maiden in distress with something to hide.

The thumping of boots headed toward Ian's bedchamber alerted him that his brothers, most likely, and others were on their way.

“You've hurt yourself, lass,” he said quietly, looking her over and seeing the rip in her jeans on the lower part of the left leg and the blood on the fabric. He stepped through the doorway and said into the hallway as Cearnach led part of the pack—his brothers and two cousins—toward him, “She's here and fine. Ready yourselves for the film production staff's arrival.”

Cearnach waited for further word, most likely wanting to know just what Ian intended to do about Julia and what kind of shape she was in.

“The crew will be here soon. Have your breakfast, and I'll see you later,” Ian said.
Much later
, he wanted to add.

Cearnach looked at Ian's door, although he was too far from the room to see inside. “She was bleeding.”

“Aye.”

“Do you want me to send Heather up with bandages?”

Ian shook his head. “I'll take care of it.”

Cearnach gave him a stiff nod and then turned and motioned Duncan and Guthrie and their cousins to go back the way they had come. Everyone looked reluctant to be dismissed without further word.

In Gaelic, Guthrie asked Cearnach, knowing damn well Ian could hear him, “He's not too angry with her, is he?”

“He's in love, can't you see?” Cearnach said lightly and laughed.

Love. Hell, Ian was in perpetual lust when it came to the little red wolf. He closed the door and locked it. Julia's eyes darkened. Otherwise, she schooled her expression, but her back was as stiff as his breakfast table. He didn't want any interruptions, and the only way to ensure that was to lock the world out.

“So you wished to stay the night after all,” Ian said, giving her a rough-edged smile and stalking toward her in a much too predatory way. Two could play at whatever game she had in mind.

He hadn't been able to sleep because of her. The lingering scent of her, the feel of her soft curves in his hands, her silky hair, the sound of her voice breathless with desire, and her soft moans in the throes of passion while they had been at the falls had remained in his thoughts. Making it impossible to sleep.

He'd never craved having a woman as much as he did Miss Julia Wildthorn. After the disastrous attempt at fitting into society and handfasting with a titled human woman, he'd stuck to commitment-less trysts with human females. But Julia was something else. She was desire personified.

She was the enemy, sneaking into his castle with who knew what kind of agenda, and he had the unbiddable urge to conquer her, to keep her, to bring her to heel like one of his Irish wolfhounds. But he didn't think she'd be the least bit trainable, and the challenge intrigued him.

Her hand clenched the bedcover, her eyes widening and darkening further.

“I regret having left you alone for so long last night that you decided to return to the cottage because of my neglect.” He reached her and towered over her, intimidating.

She stared at his crotch, and he felt the stirrings of yearning all over again. Hell, he was supposed to be a battle-hardened earl, clan chief, and pack leader, and the woman was winning the skirmish without a fight.

He crouched at her feet and then untied the boot on her right foot, being careful not to hurt her and worrying that she'd put too much strain on her ankle again. When he pulled off her sock, he saw that the ankle was indeed swollen. He
tched
. Then he worked on her other boot and sock. “I suppose you changed your mind and wished you had stayed the night at the castle after all. For the unique experience.”

He tried to maintain an aloof air befitting an earl and a pack leader. But his voice was too raw with need, and he was certain she could recognize what she was doing to him.

Her other hand tightened in her lap in a small fist. Her heart beat rapidly. His gaze rose to meet hers. She looked like she was resigned to her fate, willing to do anything to get herself out of this predicament. He had ideas about that, certainly.

He wanted to ask her how she'd found the secret tunnel entrance, which he presumed she had already known about. He wanted to ask why she'd known about it and why she'd sneaked in that way. But instead, he stood and rested his hands on her shoulders, and then gently encouraged her to lie back against the mattress, her legs still dangling over the bed. “You no doubt discovered the gate to the castle was locked, and unable to gain access that way, you located another entrance. Although I'm wondering why you would not have called me. I would have come and let you in.”

“My cell phone was burned up in the car accident. And if I'd had one and called you, you would have sent one of your men to open the gate.
You
wouldn't have come to get me.”

He smiled at her last comment. “Aye, I would have. To save you the scrutiny that my men would have given you, had you returned to me in the middle of the night.” He towered over her, watching her eyes, large and now nearly black, one hand clenched in a fist on her stomach, the other still clinging to the cover.

“So you sought another way in and fortunately managed to locate the trapdoor.” He didn't bother to mention that it had been buried for a couple of centuries or more and that her finding it had been either fortuitous indeed or due to the directions given to her. Which made him wonder if one of his men had confided in her, or if someone else, his enemy maybe, had learned of it and had paid her to enter in that manner. But for what purpose?

“Fortunately for you, you had some assistance in finding the right tunnel to the room adjoining mine, or you could have been wandering around in the cold, damp passages for a very long time.” He leaned over and unfastened the button on her trousers and then pulled down the zipper.

She barely breathed, yet she didn't resist. “A ghost,” she whispered.

“Aye. Flynn. My cousin. The one who'd had his way with my handfasted bride. Dallied with one too many married lassies after that, and an angry husband made him pay for it. He didn't frighten you?”

“I saw a… light up ahead. And heard unnatural footsteps behind me. But they didn't… sound right somehow, like they were produced on a movie set, unnatural.”

Ian smiled a little. “That's Flynn. He usually attempts to terrify, not rescue, an intruder. Wonder what he was thinking?”

Gently, he tugged her trousers down her hips and lower, trying not to scrape the fabric against her bloodied shin. He laid the trousers on the floor and said, “Stay.”

She stared up at him, a wee smile on her lips. “I wouldn't run around the castle without my pants on.”

He gave an almost inaudible snort back. “Not with your ankle giving you pain again.” He went into the bathroom and gathered up bandages, a wet cloth, and a hand towel, and returned to her.

“You're not too mad about what I write?” she asked, her words spoken softly. She sounded as though she was afraid to hear his answer.

What difference would it make what he thought about her writing? Was that the real reason she had taken off last night, not because he'd rudely neglected her?

Surprised that was the issue she'd bring up and not the one about the fact she'd been running through their tunnels, he paused to consider her sincerity. She truly looked like she had to know the truth. He couldn't deny that the thought she wrote about werewolves bothered him. Although he'd warned himself that he'd reserve judgment until after he'd read some of what she'd written. Maybe her stories were like the tales of werewolves of old. Hideous, monstrous beasts and nothing more.