Heart of the Highland Wolf (22 page)

Maria's mouth dropped. “Has Laird MacNeill agreed to allow you to play a part in the movie?”

Julia laughed. “Are you kidding? But it's not for him to decide.”

“Well, we have a tiny bit of a problem.”

“What's that?”

“Guthrie told me Basil Sutherland and his men are their sworn enemies, and they'll be fighting in a couple of the battle scenes. He also said that his men are the ones who attacked Laird MacNeill and you in the woods. The situation could become dangerous.”

“Basil Sutherland is the one who called and threatened you in L.A., and he's been blackmailing my grandfather and father about the betrothal agreement. So he really can't be trusted. But I need the money,” Julia said. “Not only that, I
want
to take part. Participating will help me write my book.” She motioned to the trailer where she was to select a gown for the movie. “I've got to get a costume. We'll talk later.”

“Better hurry. As soon as Guthrie enters the keep, you know he'll let the laird know you're out here. And then? You'll be back in that bedchamber of his.” Maria grinned. “Not that it would be a bad place to be, I'm sure.”

Julia groaned and then turned and hurried toward the trailer, excited about this new venture she was bound for and not about to be thwarted—by Ian or his enemy.

***

Finding Julia missing from his bed, Ian sighed, figuring she'd had to escape him just so she could eat a meal and take a break. He took a shower and dressed and then headed down the stairs.

“Ian, we have a problem,” Guthrie said, stalking into the great hall. “Cearnach asked me to bring you the news because he's dealing with another issue right now.”

“What is the problem now?”

“You said to make sure that none of Basil Sutherland's people were hired as extras. But somehow, they managed to get hired anyway. Maria said they needed more men. Basil and thirty of his men showed up at the gates today, ready to do serious battle.”

Ian stalked down the stairs and headed for the entryway, but he paused to see a portrait on the floor, leaning against the wall, that looked as though it was an old-time portrait in oil of Julia.

Guthrie chased after him. “The painting's from the tower room. Good likeness, isn't it?”

Ian shook his head. “If I had seen that before, I would have really wondered what was going on. She looks like a reincarnation of the woman.” He stalked again toward the door.

“Maria showed me the contract you agreed to. They can hire whoever they need in order to have enough actors to film the movie.”

“Can't they digitally create the masses or whatever it is they do?” Ian growled. “Basil and his men will not fight ours.”

“The director is ecstatic. The men all have their own costumes, and their garments are old enough to look authentic. They wore the costumes today to convince the man who was hiring the background performers to choose them.”

“They
are
authentic.”

“Aye. But it saves the director money. He doesn't want us using our own swords, though. Too lethal-looking.”

“That's because they
are
lethal.”

“Aye, and he said they're so heavy to wield that we'll use the lightweight movie props.”

Ian cast Guthrie a dark look.

Guthrie shrugged. “He liked that they looked authentic. But he's concerned about injuries.”

“If the MacNeills fight Sutherland's men, they'll use their own swords, and we won't go into battle with toy ones.”

Guthrie smiled a little. “You'll join us?” He handed him some paperwork.

Ian read over the script of a couple of scenes and found a contract for him to sign to take part in the movie—and he grunted. “I don't know how you could get us into this mess, but what kind of a clan chief would I be if I didn't lead our people against the Sutherlands?”

“I'm fighting also,” Guthrie said with pride.

Ian gave him a tight nod.

“The director said if you'd appear in the film, he'd give you some special roles. But there's one other thing…”

The way Guthrie said the words made Ian give him a wary look as they exited the keep and stormed across the inner bailey. “What else is wrong now?”

Guthrie cleared his throat. “Since Julia was fired as Maria's assistant…”

“Which she wasn't anyway,” Ian reminded him.

“Aye, well, the director had need of six fair maidens, and she signed up to—”

Ian stopped abruptly and glowered at Guthrie. “Julia will
not
be one of them.”

“She and Heather—”

“Not Heather, either.”

“Heather will obey you since you're the clan chief, but I doubt Julia will.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to speak with Maria.”

Duncan hurried to greet them and motioned to a metal trailer. “Julia's in that contraption changing, from what I've been told.”

“Aye.” Ian stalked off to talk to Maria, who was busily speaking with someone on the film crew. As soon as she saw Ian headed for her, she cut off her speech with the other man, dismissed him, faced Ian, and plastered on a fine smile.

“Basil Sutherland and his men won't be part of this fight scene or any other,” Ian said, closing in on her.

“But your contract clearly states that we can hire them. I'm sorry. It's all legally binding.”

“You're not sorry. But if we have a bunch of dead men—”

Her smile faded. In a low voice, she said, “I understand your concern, Laird MacNeill. But my hands are tied on this issue. If I'd known beforehand, I might have been able to stop Roger from hiring the men. But it's done. Unless we can prove cause that they shouldn't be on the set—criminal records, drunkenness, refusal to listen to direction—something that would allow us to release them from the contract, we can't do anything about it. And besides, that's why everyone has to use the sword props.”

Ian shook his head. “Where's Harold Washburn?”

“He's directing a scene in the forest. He can't be interrupted. Did Guthrie tell you he wants you to play some special roles in the film?”

“Aye.” And Ian would, only to ensure that Sutherland's men were kept in their place.
Saints preserve us.
He'd never planned to show his face in film. But then again, maybe no one would watch the bloody thing in the U.K. “I don't want Julia in the movie.”

“She's selecting a dress.” Maria waved at the trailer.

“Neither she nor Heather will be in the film.”

“Since Heather is your cousin and part of your clan, I suppose the poor woman doesn't have any recourse.”

Ian lifted a brow to hear Maria's choice of words.

“But Julia already told me she wants to take part in this. For research.”

“For a cowboy story set in Texas?”

Maria's eyes widened. “What? She's writing a Scottish werewolf story.”

“She's no longer writing a story about Highlanders.” At least that was the story she was sticking to, but he truly didn't believe it.

“Oh. Well, she never said anything to me about that. Writers do change their minds. She's over there selecting a dress. But, Laird MacNeill, if she wants to do this, let her. You know she won't appreciate it if you make a big scene over this.”

Without commenting, he stalked off to the trailer, intending to change the lass's mind. Now with Basil Sutherland and his men involved, Ian didn't want any of them getting close to her. He yanked open a door and walked inside. Two women were pulling long dresses on, while Julia was standing in a pale blue thong and a matching bra, her back to him.

“Here,” a woman said, handing a predominantly red-and-green plaid tartan with a stripe of yellow to Julia. “Put this on.”

Hell, anyone could walk into the trailer and see her half naked like that. He stared at the colors of the plaid.
Cameron.
She wasn't wearing that plaid, either. Not that he had anything against the Cameron clan, just that it was not
his
tartan.

The woman brushed past Julia and said, “Sir, you don't belong in here. You need to leave this instant.”

Julia turned, the skirt pulled against her chest as she saw Ian. Her eyes widened, but then her lips curved up a little. Seductive minx.

His gaze switched to the scrawny blond guy who was putting up one of the women's hair. So why was this man in the same room with the half-dressed women? At least with
one
half-dressed woman.
His
half-dressed woman.

“Out,” Ian growled. He pointed to the man. No human male was going to see his mate in such a state of undress.

The man gave Ian the once-over, smiled appreciatively, and said, “Nice bod.” Then he hurried outside with an exaggerated swing to his hips.

“The rest of you, out,” Ian commanded.

The woman who had initially told Ian to leave said, “Who do you think you are, ordering everyone about?”

But the two women wearing the long skirts grabbed their shoes, smiled at Ian, and hurried outside.

“He's Laird Ian MacNeill who owns the castle and the lands we're using for the picture,” Julia said, frowning at him. “I'm sure he just wants to wish me well in private.”

“Well, make it quick,” the woman snapped. “We have to get ready to film this scene soon. And the director won't be pleased with the delay.” She stomped outside and slammed the door.

Ian closed the distance between them and pulled the plaid from her arms and tossed it on a table. “I don't want you—”

Julia wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth, silencing his objection. “Ian, I have no money after losing my ID and purse and all in the car fire. And I want to do this.”

“To write your cowboy book?” he asked, his fingers caressing her naked arse.

She smiled. “I've changed my mind.” She slipped her hands down to his arse and squeezed. “You haven't once worn your kilt. And if you're in the movie, I could get to see you up close and personal.”

“I'll be fighting a couple of battles to ensure the Sutherlands don't hurt my men. No women are allowed in the scene. At best,” he said, wrapping his arms around her back and holding her tight against his body, “you'd only see me from a distance anyway.”

She smiled. “If you're taking the job, one of the maids gets to kiss you before you go into battle in one of the scenes, the man who hired me said, and again after you finish with the scene. The director said that normally he'd reserve such a scene for the star of the film, but since you're the laird, if you're willing to take part, he thought it might help sales. Although if you don't do a good job at it, the scene might be cut. And no way am I allowing any other woman to kiss you. Besides, we can make it look genuine.”

“Ah, Julia, we're using real swords, and my staunchest enemy and his kin will be in the battle.”

She stiffened. “I know. Maria tried to stop them after Guthrie told her the situation, but the contract clearly states you don't have a leg to stand on in this. As to another matter, please don't tell Heather she can't participate. She has her heart set on it. She says nothing ever happens here that's fun and exciting any longer. That's why she attended the university in Texas. She'll remember this forever.”

“Like with you, I don't want her to get into any confrontations with Basil or his men.”

“She only has a part screaming and running away from the battle. Nothing else. Your brothers can make sure none of Basil's men get near her. Then she's in the castle and safe.”

“And who's going to protect you?”

“You, of course.”

Outside the trailer, he heard Guthrie speaking. “Hell, who's going to tell Ian about the training?”

Duncan responded, “Cearnach, you're the next eldest brother. It's your job.”

Ian frowned and handed Julia her clothes. “Get dressed. We'll find you something else to wear.”

Once Julia was wearing her jeans and a sweater, Ian opened the door and stepped outside to see his three brothers waiting for him, arms folded, brows raised.

“We have swordsmanship training scheduled for this afternoon,” Cearnach said. “Shall you lead us in practice?” He smiled.

Later that afternoon, the outer bailey was quiet as a fight instructor prepared to teach the background performers some techniques of sword fighting. Arms crossed over his chest, Ian stood with his brothers and the rest of the males in his pack who planned to participate, while standing tall and proud, his hair nearly black, his countenance just as dark, Basil Sutherland stood across the way with his men. Everyone looked somewhat amused as they watched the instructor prepare to speak.

Although Ian hadn't wanted Julia to be here when Basil was also here, she was watching from the wall walk, notepad in hand and pen poised, scribbling notes. Basil glanced up to see what had caught Ian's interest, observed Julia for longer than necessary, and then he cast Ian a wry smile.

Damn the man.

The fight director showed them the stance to take and the thrusts they could make, and then had another man on the staff demonstrate with him. Slash, thrust, block, parry. Clang, clang, clang.

“No one will be an expert, of course. But you only need to know how to choreograph the fight scenes. No sword flourishes. They are a waste of energy and can get you killed in combat.” After showing several moves and ways to counter attacks, how to take a punch and fall properly, and how to roll and kick when the sword wasn't enough, the instructor finally asked, “Who wishes to demonstrate with me next?”

Everyone, even Basil and his men, looked at Ian.

The instructor smiled, bowed his head a little, and invited Ian over with, “My laird?”

The director was watching him, judging him, Ian was sure, to see if he could play the part well enough.

Ian walked over, drew his sword from behind his back, and took a battle stance. The fight director looked at the sword. “It's real.” He glanced at the weapons master. “Get him another sword.”

Ian shook his head. “I'll fight with my own, if it's all the same to you. As good as you are, you won't have to worry.”

A few snickers erupted from his men.

The weapons master approached with a sword in hand, ignoring Ian's comment, as the fight director tilted his head slightly to Ian. “You're right.” He motioned to the weapons master that the sword prop would not be necessary. “Let us begin. You first.” There was a significant pause, and then he added, “My laird.”

Ian only wanted to show that he and his men did not need to learn any swordsmanship techniques and to eliminate any more training sessions they'd otherwise have to suffer. They trained all the time on their own and needed no supervision from a fight instructor who had never fought a real battle. Not like his own men and Basil's had done.

Everyone was quiet as Ian bowed his head a little to the fight director and then moved forward with such ferocity that the instructor was taken aback. His eyes widening, he whipped his sword around to block Ian's and fell back several steps as Ian continued to advance on him.

Did he think Ian soft because he was a laird? Or did he think Ian had too big a head because he
was
the laird, that his own people would kowtow to him, that he truly didn't know how to fight, and the instructor would show him what a real fighter could do?

Ian's mouth curved up a wee bit. He would not suffer the arrogance of the man, especially when the overconfident whelp thought Ian was the one being arrogant.

He heard Cearnach say quietly to his brothers, “He has the right of it, eh, brothers? The fight director can take some lessons from Ian. Let
him
learn from a master.”

Not that Ian was always on top of a situation. With Basil and some of his men, he truly had a fight on his hands. But with the fight instructor, aye, he was good, but he hadn't the centuries of experience in real fighting. And from the looks of it, he'd never come up against a man who knew what he was doing when wielding a sword.

It didn't take long for the instructor to hold up a hand in truce. His heart was pounding and his breathing was hard. The man was sorely rattled. “I see you know what you're doing with a sword.” To the rest of the men gathered, he said, “Let's pair up, and we'll practice.”

Ian's brothers slapped him on the back and then paired up with their own people as Basil's men did likewise.

The director approached Ian as he stood aside, watching Basil's men and not trusting them.

“Good showmanship,” Harold said. “I've never seen Barker caught off guard like that. The man was really sweating.” He watched the rest of the men and shook his head. “Hell, looks to me like Barker can go on home now. We've already got a cast of warriors. Good show.”

“No more practice then?” Ian asked, his gaze alighting on Julia as she feverishly took notes. With the wind tousling her fiery hair about her shoulders and the sun attempting to brush away the clouds, its golden rays streaming down upon the stone walls and Julia, she looked like a winsome fae creature standing on his wall walk—who needed a good tumble, and he was ready to return her to his chamber at once.

Harold said, “Waste of time to have any more sword-practice sessions.”

The sun shone more boldly like a brilliant golden sphere coming to claim the castle, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look up.

Harold glanced heavenward.

Then several of the men sheathed their swords and began pulling off their shirts.

“What…?” Harold said.

“No more practice.” Ian stalked off as his men bared their chests to the sun.

Julia rushed down the tower steps to meet Ian in the bailey. “What's going on?”

“Worshipping the sun. This may be the only chance they get. And once we use up our quota of sunny days for the year, that's it.”

She chuckled. “And what about you?” She slipped her hand inside his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest.

God, her touch was like heaven. He wrapped his arm around her waist and headed for the inner bailey. “I'd rather worship you.”

She smiled. “You say the nicest things, and I have to tell you that you were brilliant when you fought the instructor,” she said on a sigh.

“Aye.”

“And you're always so humble about it.”

He grinned at her.

“I think you embarrassed the instructor, though.”

“If he can't deal with it, he shouldn't be teaching sword fighting to battle-hardened warriors.” He glanced at her journal. “Get some good notes for your Texas cowboys? I thought they only used guns.”

“I might change my mind again.”

He scooped her up in his arms and quickened his pace. “I'll change it for you.”

The smile she gave him said she was ready.

“I have something to show you,” Ian said. Her raised brows made him think she believed he wanted to show her something naughty. He laughed.

She blushed beautifully, and he kissed her nose. “I would love to know what you're thinking.”

But when he walked her inside the keep, he carried her to where the portrait leaned beside the wall. He would swear it was a portrait of Julia, wearing a dress of silks of an earlier age, an
arisaid
of the MacPherson plaid wrapped around her. The portrait had to have been painted long before Julia was born. It looked just like her, though, with the same fascinating green eyes, the same ivory skin, and the same red hair.

Mutely, Julia stared at the portrait. Then she whispered, “Who is she?”

“Fiona MacPherson,” Aunt Agnes said, coming from the direction of the kitchen, her gray eyes switching from the portrait to Julia to Ian. “See why I knew she was a MacPherson? She looks just like her.”

He put Julia down, but her knees gave a little, and he held her arm. “This is my Aunt Agnes.”

“The family historian,” Julia said. “I'm pleased to meet you.”

“Hmm, are you now? What might I discover as I sort through the family journals?”

Julia's spine stiffened regally. “That at one time, the castle was
mine
.”

For a fraction of a moment, his aunt just stared at her. Then her lips curved up a wee bit. “Do tell. Weel, we shall see, won't we?”

Then his aunt swept out of the room toward the stairs.

Ian shook his head and led Julia to the kitchen. “I had no idea you had it in you. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone cut my aunt down that quickly.”

Julia smiled up at him. “I might not be able to fight with a sword, but give me words,” she said and swept her pen in the air as if she was writing, “and I can stand my ground.”

“Ah, and as soon as I have some time, I intend to read these books of yours to see if your pen is as mighty as a sword.”

Before they reached the kitchen, he heard Heather whispering near the garden door leading into the kitchen, “I'll meet you tonight after everyone's retired for the evening.”

Ian's blood heated, and he stalked off to see just who his cousin intended to meet in secret after dark.

***

Julia sighed. Ian hadn't caught who the man was who had been speaking to Heather. She gave a name, John Smith. An American. Human. With the film crew.

And Ian was furious. He stalked out of the kitchen and through the gardens and went to speak with Maria before she left, to locate this John Smith, and to tell him in no uncertain terms what would become of him if he even dared to see Heather again.

Heather was upset, rubbing her arms and staring out the kitchen window at the gardens. “I went to college in Texas because I needed to get away from Ian and his brothers and my own brothers who watch me like the wolves they are. And so what did Ian do? He sent one of my brothers with me, and when he wasn't around, either Ian's brothers or my other two brothers would pop in and watch over me. Not once was I able to slip away to date an American.” She let out her breath in heavy exasperation and then appealed to Julia with darkened eyes. “Can't you speak to Ian?”

Julia shook her head. “Not about this. You're his responsibility. I'm sorry, Heather.”

“Was your pack the same way?” Heather shook her head. “It can't have been since you came here alone and didn't have anyone to watch over you.”

“My pack is…
different
. It's just my grandfather and father and me.” She realized then that she hadn't even told her father and grandfather what had happened between Ian and her—that they were now mated—and hoped that they wouldn't be too upset with her over it.

“What would you do if you were in my place?”

Julia smiled. “Well, it would depend. If I really like the guy…” She shrugged. “But I'm not giving you any advice.”

Heather smiled and then nodded. “Thank you.” Then she opened the kitchen door and hurried into the gardens.

Uh-oh
.

Julia saw a cell phone lying on the kitchen counter and hoped Ian, or whoever owned it, wouldn't mind her calling her grandfather. She punched in his number. The phone rang and rang and rang. She took a deep breath. Her grandfather would undoubtedly figure it was one of the MacNeills again—because of the caller ID—and not want to talk to him. But not only that, he was probably still mad at her for telling Ian the truth about the betrothal contract.

She disconnected the phone. Why couldn't her grandfather have an answering machine?

She glanced around the kitchen, realized she was totally alone, and thought about the secret niche. Ian planned to have his men look for it. She was part of the family now. Why couldn't she look for it in the meantime while he was busy trying to scare off a potential bad boy who wanted to see Heather?

Her skin prickling with tension, she stalked across the great hall, glanced at the portrait that looked eerily like her, and then headed up the stairs until she reached the third floor. These were the family's bedchambers. But where would her family have hidden the box? Where would her family have stayed? In all of the rooms. The castle had been theirs.

She peered into the first of the rooms. She smelled mostly Guthrie's scent and then slipped inside. The bed curtains and bed coverings were done in navy blue, the walls covered in paintings of the ocean and sailing ships. The room contained a dark wood chest, a wardrobe container, and bedside tables, but the secret niche would undoubtedly be in the walls somewhere. A stack of financial reports sat next to Guthrie's bed. Poor guy to have to read that stuff before he tried to sleep. She peered behind paintings and tried to see at the rear of the wardrobe chest and the tall headboard at the head of the bed. Unless the niche was at the back of the wardrobe chest, she didn't think it was here.

Next, she found Cearnach's room. Every wall was covered with swords and dirks and shields and made her think of an armory. All he needed was a stand of armor to make the room complete. She examined every inch of wall that she could reach, except where large, bulky pieces of furniture blocked her view.

She really thought this was going to be easier to find. She should have known better. If it had been that simple, Ian's people would have learned of it long ago.

She discovered a woman's room next and thought she might have found Aunt Agnes's chamber, but the fragrance was not hers or Heather's, although it reminded Julia that Agnes had gone in this direction earlier and probably was in her room. On the dresser stood photos of Ian and his brothers, Heather, and three men that Julia assumed were Heather's brothers.

Maybe this was Ian's mother's room. The furniture was less massive, the legs curved in the Queen Anne style and easier to see around, the bed drapes and coverlets pale green, and pictures of heather and floral gardens filled the walls. But no sign of a hidden niche.

Disappointed, and afraid Ian would catch her at any moment, she found Duncan's bedchamber. She'd expected dark, black, like Ian's room. But instead, his bed was covered in forest green and everything was big. Big dresser, big bed, big shelf unit, big wardrobe container. Big. Massive. Like the castle itself. And the paintings on the walls? Hunting scenes. Men, Irish wolfhounds, horses, and wolves, but hunting what?