Heart of the Highland Wolf (17 page)

He took another tack. “Guthrie says you're famous. Could be good for business to say you stayed here for a time.” He crouched in front of her and dabbed at her bloody shin. His gaze strayed to her panties—a red lace thong. Trying to concentrate on cleaning her cut and not on how beautiful her slim legs were or how easy it would be to slip off the thong—or how he wanted to remove her sweater and bra, too—he wiped carefully around her injury.

“Hardly,” she laughed tightly, wincing.

“I'd beg to differ. You've been interviewed all over the place.” His gaze returned to hers. “Lavender baths, Celtic music, and candlelight to get you in the mood for writing your scenes?”

Her lips parted slightly. Kissable full lips begging for his touch.

“You mentioned on a personal blog that you had writer's block. Is that why you're here?” He taped a bandage over her shin, smoothing down the edges to keep it in place. He had to know—was she writing about his people in this new story of hers? Was she writing about him? And if so, was he just one of the characters in her book and nothing more?

“I had writer's block, yes,” she said, pursing those beautiful lips, her eyes narrowed a little.

“But no longer?” He scooped her up and resituated her on the mattress so that her head rested on his pillow. Then he tucked another pillow under her right foot and covered her with a lightweight cashmere throw.

“Nope. The writer's block is all gone.”

He detected a hint of a smile in her expression and in her tone of voice. But he did not find it amusing that she would write about them—not as werewolves. “Is that so? What is your next story about then?”

Again, the flicker of a smile, but she attempted to remain serious. “Cowboys in Texas.”

He stared at her uncomprehending. “Cowboys?” he finally said. He didn't believe it. He folded his arms. “On your blog, you said you loved everything Scottish. That you intended to write about Highlanders of old. That you had family roots in Scotland.”

The hint of a smile faded from her expression. For a moment, she didn't say anything. Trying to come up with another story? She was a storyteller all right.

“You must have spent half the night reading everything there was to read about me,” she finally said.

“I've never known a published author before. I was curious.” More than curious. “So why come to Scotland to write about Texas cowboys? You didn't say anything on your blog about wanting to write about them.”

She shrugged. “A good friend of mine was writing about hunky Wyoming cowboys. And another, about Texas Rangers—you know, the good guys with the white hats? I just… well, changed my mind. Writer's prerogative.”

“I see.” But he still didn't believe her. “Do you have your notebook with you?”

She sighed. “No. I guess in my hurry to return here, I forgot all about it.”

“Hmm,” he said, thinking she looked dreamy-eyed and huggable. But if she could steal into his castle without a bit of remorse, he'd have one of his brothers look for her notebook in the cottage where she was staying and find out just what it was she was writing. As soon as her friend was on the premises during the shoot and Julia was incarcerated in his bedchamber, he'd send somebody. “Any other aches or pains you want me to look after before I get some ice for your ankle?”

She raised her hands and showed him her palms. They were rust-stained and red in places where slivers had entered the skin. He swore under his breath and looked over her hands, rubbing gently where her soft skin was unmarred. He shook his head. “I'll get the ice and a pair of tweezers and be right back.” When he reached the door, he said, “Stay, Julia. I don't want you injuring yourself any more than you have already. The cost of personal liability insurance is enough as it is in this place.”

She gave him another small smile, and he thought how tired she appeared. The truth of the matter was that he was damned tired also. Taking a wolfish nap with her certainly appealed, after he took care of her injuries. After that? She was his houseguest for as long as it took for him to learn the whole truth about her.

He left her, not wanting to, but not trusting her entirely so he locked the door. This time when he told her to stay, he intended to hurry and return to her, and he didn't intend for her to slip away.

When he reached the kitchen, every chair but his own at the table was filled with his brothers and cousins. They all stopped eating as half-empty dishes of porridge, black pudding, square sausages, eggs, tattie scones, and haggis littered the table.

His cousin Heather smiled brightly at him, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, dark eyes flashing with excitement. “My brother Oran said the author Julia Wildthorn was the one you were chasing in the tunnels. Was it really her? Was she researching the castle for another one of her books? I've read all of them. Where is she? Can I meet her?”

He frowned. “You have her books?”

“Aye, is she writing one about
you
this time?”

He glanced at his brothers, who cast him bigheaded smirks and then continued to eat their breakfast in silence. He wondered again whether Julia was using him and his kin to write her current novel. Cowboys, his arse.

“Heather, can you get me an ice pack?” He avoided the issue of her meeting with Julia just yet and began searching through a drawer of stuff—containing everything from pliers to staples and pens. When he had a moment alone with Heather, he'd ask to see the books she had of Julia's.

“What are you looking for?” Cearnach asked.

“Tweezers.”

No one said anything right away, and he was certain they were all either trying to remember where a pair were or to figure out why he would need them.

Cearnach said, “In the blue bathroom. I'll get them.”

Duncan forked up a bite of sausage. “She wasn't too disturbed to see Flynn, was she?”

“No.” Ian took the ice bag Heather handed to him.

“Did she tell you why she sneaked into the secret tunnels?” Guthrie asked.

“I believe the more important question is—how does she know about the secret tunnels? An American? A red wolf? Never lived in Scotland before?”
Unless she had lived in Scotland before.
As many years as their kind lived, she could very well have resided in Scotland for a number of years earlier in her life.

Guthrie set his coffee mug down. “She's a writer. A published author. What if Julia Wildthorn isn't her real name? What if it's a pen name, and she's truly a Highland—”

“MacPherson,” their Aunt Agnes said, sweeping into the kitchen, her silver hair coiled up in a bun, her gray eyes surveying the crowd at the table before she sat down in Ian's vacant chair and motioned to Heather to bring her a plate of food, which would consist of fruit, fruit, and more fruit.

“You're back from your trip to London so soon?” Ian asked, astounded. “Where's Mum?”

“Still there.” She waved a dismissive hand as if London wasn't her favorite place to be, although he knew better. “Guthrie called me and said we had a little red wolf in the house. I had to see for myself.”

He wondered if her interest was something more than that. She'd said often enough that he had to mate and produce some offspring who would inherit the title. And she hadn't wanted to be here while the filming was in progress. He wondered just what Guthrie had told her that would have influenced her to return home.

“What made you think she could be a MacPherson?” Ian asked, as Cearnach returned to the kitchen with the tweezers.

Aunt Agnes waved a piece of honeydew melon at him. “Some portraits of the MacPherson family are stored in one of the tower rooms. This Julia Wildthorn? She reminds me of them. When Guthrie informed me we had a famous author here and showed me a picture of her on the Internet… well, the lass looks so much like the MacPherson woman in the portrait that I'd swear she was one of them.”

Ian was suddenly suspicious. “Why would we have portraits of the MacPhersons in one of the tower rooms?”

“I'm not sure,” she said vaguely. “But I can look into the family journals and see if I can learn anything. Or you could ask her directly.”

He didn't like where this was going. “Cearnach? I need to speak to you for a moment.”

Cearnach rose from his chair and quickly followed Ian into the great room. “What did you need me to do?”

“I want you to run by Baird Cottage when the place is vacated, as soon as Julia's friend Maria is here doing her job.”

“And?”

“Locate that notebook of Julia's. I want to know what she's been writing in it.”

“Her new story?”

“Or anything else that might clue us in about her. And grab her bags so she has a change of clothes. I also want to know about those paintings in the tower,” Ian said.

“So she's staying with us then.” Cearnach folded his arms. “I'll get the journal. As to the paintings, except for seeing with my own eyes if the woman favors them, Aunt Agnes will be the one with all the historical knowledge.”

“I have to know what's going on with the lass.”

“Is she all right, Ian?” Cearnach asked again.

“As long as she stays put, she'll be fine. I'll see you later.”

“I'll make sure everyone's in place for when the film crew gets here.”

“I'm counting on it.” Ian headed for the stairs and then turned slowly. “Have Guthrie do a search for anything on a Julia
MacPherson
.”

“Will do.”

Then Ian headed up the stairs, although he heard Guthrie ask Aunt Agnes in the kitchen, “Who were the MacPhersons to us?”

This was just what Ian was dying to know.

If his family had portraits of them stored in the tower room, the MacPhersons must have at one time lived in this castle. And if Miss Julia Wildthorn was a MacPherson, not giving him her true name, had she something more to hide?

Family history had never much interested him. The present, the future, keeping the clan afloat, hunting with a bow, and wielding his sword in mock battles—he laughed at himself over that. He did kind of live in the past—because of their long lives and because some of the activities he'd loved to do in his youth were still his favorite pastimes. But it was
his
past. Not that of his ancestors. Still, if Julia had some tie to his family's past, that definitely made his family history much more interesting.

He rubbed his chin, realizing that if he didn't shave soon, he'd be as whiskered as Guthrie. Ian stalked up the stairs, wondering why in the world the MacPhersons' portraits would have been in their castle. Had the MacPhersons pledged loyalty to his father or grandfather or great-grandfather before him? But only those who had money and importance could have afforded or would have wished to have portraits made of themselves.

So who were the MacPhersons?

Ian took way longer to return to his bedchamber than Julia had thought he would, and although she meant to remain awake, staying up most of the night, all the exercise she'd gotten from running through the woods and walking to the falls earlier, and the jet lag from traveling finally caught up with her. Somehow she managed to climb under Ian's goose-down comforter to snuggle against his soft mattress and even softer pillow. While enjoying his heavenly manly scent surrounding her, she fell asleep.

It wasn't until she heard a whispered “
MacPherson
” next to her ear and felt strong arms pulling her against a hard, hot body, that she became aware Ian had joined her in bed. Her hands touched a bare chest, and her bare leg slipped against his. Had she even heard him say the name MacPherson? Or had it just been a dream?

Figuring there would be time enough to deal with the trouble she was bound to be in once she was more awake, she snuggled against him, mindful of her torn-up shin and sprained ankle. She thought she heard him roughly groan as she moved her leg up on top of his to keep it from hurting, and then the dawning day blinked out.

***

While Ian and Julia stayed in his chamber above, Cearnach couldn't help speculating about what was going on between the two. He'd never seen his older brother so taken with a woman, and he was hopeful that this time Ian had found his match. And that she wouldn't upset him like Ghleanna had done.
The witch
.

In the meantime, while Duncan and several others monitored the film crew, Guthrie continued to look into who might have threatened the women and attempted to find anything about a Julia MacPherson, and Cearnach headed off Maria who stalked toward the castle entrance, her look grim, determined, and battle ready. But now that Maria had arrived at the castle, Cearnach had another mission in mind. Locate Julia's journal. First, though, he had to deal with her friend.

As upset as Maria appeared, he thought she was going to try to walk right through him. “Maria Baquero?” he asked, holding a hand up to stop her or grab her, whichever he needed to do to keep her from storming the castle.

“Is she here?” she asked brusquely, but worry threaded her words.

He smiled. “Aye.” Although he hadn't had word from Ian as to what he was supposed to say to the lass if she'd arrived looking for Julia. He folded his arms. “She's with Ian.”

Maria folded her arms, mirroring his stance, a scowl on her face. “I'm not speaking to one of Laird MacNeill's people. I want to see
Julia
.”

That put him in his place. Cearnach bowed his head a little. “I'm Laird MacNeill's next eldest brother, Cearnach MacNeill, and in his stead, I run things. His Lairdship does not wish to be disturbed. You'll have to come back later. Or better yet, as soon as he is free, he can speak with you while you're working here today.”

“My business is with Julia, not with Laird MacNeill.”

“Laird MacNeill has business with Miss Wildthorn. Or… is it
MacPherson
?”

Maria's mouth dropped open, and she stared at him. “What?”

He assumed then that she didn't know what Julia's real name was. Or that she did know and was surprised to learn the MacNeills knew the truth, even though they hadn't been certain. But it didn't hurt to try and learn the facts from Julia's friend while Ian was with Julia. He doubted the two of them were talking much right now.

“I don't know what you mean,” Maria said, too indignantly.

“No matter.” Cearnach smiled. “Would you like me to pass a message along to… her?” he said, not sure what to call Julia now. Was she even named Julia?

“What happened? Why is she here?” Maria asked, her voice low and threatening.

“His lairdship had asked if she wished to spend the night. She returned to the cottage for a while and then came back here.”

Maria looked a little pale. Had the lass known Julia was going to try and sneak into the castle? He suspected so. “She might be free around suppertime. But as I said, as soon as she's available, I'll let her know you want to see her.”

They eyed each other with wariness. Maria wasn't budging, and he wasn't, either. He'd have to give the word for someone to keep an eye on her for the rest of the day. He didn't want her sneaking into the castle and causing an uproar like Julia had already done.

Then thinking of the man who'd called her with a threat, Cearnach hoped to show he wasn't the enemy. “Have you received any more threats, lass?”

She shook her head. “I think Julia may be right. That the caller did so because he was pissed off, but that since he couldn't change things, he's given up.” Her teeth gnawed on her lower lip. “Except for the business with the car.”

“We're still looking into it. If we get any leads, we'll let you know. All right then?” he asked.

When she didn't make a move to back off, he motioned for Duncan, who was watching nearby as the scene played out. “Duncan?”

His brother stalked across the inner bailey to join him, eyeing Maria in an intimidating way.

“You know Maria, Julia's friend. If we get word from the lass that she's available to see her…” Cearnach let his words trail off. “I have other urgent business to attend to.” His and Duncan's gazes met. Duncan got the message. Ian needed Cearnach to take care of some other business, and Miss Maria Baquero was Duncan's charge until Cearnach returned.

“See you in a short while, Cearnach.”

“Aye, be back shortly.” Very shortly. While Cearnach was in charge, he didn't want anything to go wrong in his absence.

***

Julia stirred, her leg resting over Ian's thigh, her hand on his belly, her warm breath fanning his chest hair. He hoped to get some answers from her now, although the way she was touching him made him want something else entirely.

“Are you awake, lass?” he asked quietly, not wanting to rouse her if she was still not fully awake. While she'd been dead to the world, he'd managed to remove the slivers from her hands, and he hoped her fingers and palms would be healed by now.

“Hmm,” she said, dreamily, stretching her fingers against his skin.

He ran his hand over her sweater-covered back, the cashmere as soft as she was. “What were you really doing in the tunnels?”

She didn't say anything. She was awake, but she seemed intent on avoiding the issue.

“My Aunt Agnes says you look very much like one of the MacPhersons. She's positive you're one of them.” He wasn't about to mention the portraits in the tower room yet, hoping she'd tell him the truth on her own. But if Julia denied being a MacPherson, he'd show them to her. He wanted to get a look at them himself first, though, to see if there really was a resemblance.

Julia's fingers stilled. The soft touch had been driving him to distraction, but now he wished she was still plying her gentle strokes across his chest. She barely breathed and lay quietly, not saying a word. He suspected then she
was
a MacPherson. But what was her family to the MacNeills?

“Is Julia your real name? Or do you have another alias for your given name also?”

She gave him an annoyed look. “Julia. And if you must know, I go by Wildthorn. If you'll look for any documents on me, my driver's license, passport—”

“None of which you probably have now due to the accident.”

She paused. “Well, yes, but if you saw them or had access to my records, you would see I go by Julia Wildthorn.”

“But you were born a MacPherson.”

“Yes,” she said so softly that he almost didn't hear her.

So what did that mean to him? Nothing. He still didn't have a clue as to what the MacPhersons were to his family. And without something more to go on, he didn't believe he could get her to tell him the truth. They were at an impasse again.

“My Aunt Agnes is the family historian, and she's cut her trip short to London to return here and research the family journals—all because of you. I have to say I was much surprised. She never shortens her vacation when she's visiting her favorite place to shop. And what with the mess the film crew is making of the castle, she hadn't planned to return until it was all over.”

Since she hadn't allowed Guthrie to handle her own investments, Aunt Agnes hadn't gotten into the financial straits they had. She could still enjoy a vacation away from the castle for a very long time without straining her finances.

Julia swallowed hard.

That
got a response. “You might as well tell me what's on your mind, lass.”

She didn't say anything for a long time. He knew from the way her heart was beating way too fast that she was thinking about what she was going to say to him.

He let out his breath, about to try yet another tack, when her fingers lightly caressed his chest again. “I'll tell you what I know if you promise me something.”

“It depends on what it is.” He wasn't about to give in to the lass without knowing what this was all about. He twisted one of her curls around his fingers, his gaze on hers.

She seemed to ponder that notion and then finally said, “You don't love me.”

He was so surprised at her comment that he just stared at her.

She gave a little shrug. “I'm a romance writer.”

“
Ah
.” That explained it.

“No,
listen
. In the olden days, men and women married for lots of reasons—because they had to, because it was convenient, for financial reasons or status, maybe because they loved each other. None of that matters. All that is important is that we live today, now, in the present, and the past isn't crucial in the scheme of things.”

Her voice had taken on an almost desperate quality, still soft, still sexy, but she seemed afraid.

“Aye,” he agreed, yet he thought even that concession might be a little premature, depending on where this dialogue was going. “For the most part,” he countered, just to give himself some leeway if he needed it.

“Not for the
most part
. It's as it should be. People should marry for love.”

“Even in this day and age, people marry for reasons other than love.”

Her fingers went very still again.

“For the sake of argument,” and because he damn well wanted to hear where this was going, he said, “all right, so the man and woman marry for love and…?”

“Not the man and woman. Us.”

He raised his brows.

“I mean, you don't love me, and well, I don't know you at all, and so…” She shrugged again.

He fought laughing. But she sounded serious, which put a damper on what he thought should have been funny. “All right, so I don't love you,” although lust was definitely part of the problem, he thought, because even now he wanted her. He tried to think with his other head and continued, “and you don't love me and…?”

“Well, if there was an agreement that said you had to mate me and I had to mate you, there would be no reason to do so. Because we don't love each other.”

“A betrothal agreement?” He frowned and gave a gentle tug on her curl. Her believing in relationships that had all to do with love had to be a by-product of writing romance novels, but the notion of a betrothal agreement between them made him wonder what was truly going on. “What if, for the sake of argument, I did love you?”

Her eyes grew big. “Well, you don't. You already said you don't. And since we have no other reason to mate, then that's that.”

She wasn't making any sense, so he thought he'd go about it another way to attempt to get at the crux of the matter. “Let me tell you the way it is. You were aware of the location of the secret entrance.”

She let out her breath, and the heat of it stroked his chest. Hell, he was already halfway aroused. He was ready to forget the interrogation, assume she had wanted to return to him and the gate had been locked, forget that she had known where the tunnel was and had sneaked in for some other nefarious purpose, and get on with more pleasurable business.

“I dropped my boot on the metal door and heard a clunk.”

His hand settled on her shoulder and then he caressed it. “All right, but you were looking for the secret passage, and don't deny it.”

She lowered her gaze to his chest and teased a nipple with her fingertip.

He stifled a groan. “Why were you looking for the secret entrance?”

“It seems rather obvious. To get inside.”

“You were already inside the castle earlier in the evening. You could have stayed the night at my invitation. Why use the tunnels?” The thought that kept coming to mind was that she meant some misdeed, that she was the enemy, and in any other situation, he would have fought that enemy before giving in. But her sweet, torturous touch gave him other notions, and he was ready to yield to the sensation and forget whatever reason she had tried to slip into the castle unnoticed. Was that her ploy? If so, he'd met his match in battle.

She sighed. “I had the notion I could describe it for my story.”

That part of her story he believed. “You're writing about cowboys, remember?” Which he didn't accept as true one wee bit.

“
Okay
, I'm sure if your Aunt Agnes is going to go through the journals recounting your family's history, you'll find out eventually. The God's honest truth is that your family stole the castle from mine. So,” she said, poking a finger at his chest, “if it weren't for the MacNeills,
I
would be living here, not you. And it would be at
my
invitation that you could stay with me in
my
bedchamber, not the other way around.
But
the coverings on the bed would be a pretty pale blue, not this dark.”

His mouth gaped. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, particularly since the lass seemed so sincere. Argent Castle had been her family's? Positively ludicrous.