Heart of the Highland Wolf (8 page)

That made Ian wonder if Cearnach knew of some new folly Guthrie was endorsing. “Make sure,” Ian said to Duncan, but loud enough for Cearnach to hear, “Cearnach does not speak to the Yanks in any kind of authoritative capacity.”

Cearnach chuckled, not in the least bit bothered by Ian's concern or that he had said Duncan was to be responsible for Cearnach's behavior, despite Duncan being the youngest of the quads. Cearnach knew Ian trusted Cearnach completely.

Duncan gave Ian a dark smile. “Aye, these men look suntanned and pampered. All I had to do was give them a hard look as I passed the gatehouse to make my way up here, and they were quivering in their sneakers.”

Ian tried not to show his amusement at the image that conjured up. “As much as I hate saying it, we need them. So just keep peace. Don't give any more concessions than I've already agreed to, and don't scare them off.”

“If Flynn comes calling on them, it's not any of my doing. You know how he hates it when outlanders show up here.”

“They probably wouldn't recognize a ghost if they saw one. Go, take care of them. I'll be in Guthrie's office.” And making sure Guthrie didn't sign them up for any other ventures Ian didn't completely approve of beforehand.

Duncan bowed his head, whipped around, and stalked off, looking ready to do battle. Ian was blessed with brothers who, for the most part, could be trusted. However, if these had been the good old days, Ian would have a sword in hand and led Duncan in the charge.

As Ian approached the gatehouse from the wall walk, he glanced down and scanned the party of six, four men and two women. And stopped in his tracks. The brunette was the one with the sexy Spanish voice, Maria. She was standing quietly by the man who appeared to be in charge, his arms folded and foot tapping on the cobblestone entryway, looking damned annoyed.

The other woman was Julia, the redhead, wearing a green outfit now that blended into the woods like a hunter would. But he noted the oddest thing. A leaf and a couple of pine needles clung to the back of her sweater. The only explanation he could come up with was that she'd removed her clothes, left them in the pine needles, and shape-shifted. Or was he wanting that to be the case? Wanting her to be the little red wolf who'd watched him from the woods, half challenging him, half afraid he'd seen her?

Despite telling himself he shouldn't care, beyond not wanting anyone who was not one of their kind to learn what she was, he had to know the truth.

She was taking copious notes. No one was speaking, so what was she writing down?

He noted the way the redhead looked at two of his cousins, Oran and Ethan, and the return interest they showed her. Hell, he'd told his clan that everything between his people and the Americans would be strictly business. The business they looked to be interested in wasn't what he had in mind.

And he wondered if the fact the women were
lupus garous
had anything to do with it. Which meant he had to have another word with his men as soon as possible.

And a word with Julia also, to learn exactly what she was up to.

Mist not only coated the forest and area surrounding the MacNeill castle grounds in a supernatural, haunting, and breathtaking way, but also the keep itself and the outer bailey. Julia scribbled notes in her journal as she stood slightly behind Maria. She knew she'd have to come clean with Maria after they returned to the cottage concerning getting caught in her wolf form. But if she didn't shape-shift again while she was in Scotland, no harm done. No one would ever learn that she was the one who had shape-shifted as long as she didn't do it again and get caught.

No one had even raced out of the castle to hunt down the wolf. So maybe they didn't care. Or maybe the film business took all their attention right now.

At the moment, the director was tapping his foot on the ground, scowling and waiting for someone of importance to speak to him, when he was rarely kept waiting for anything. Two braw Highlanders watched them, arms folded and eyes narrowed, guarding the outer bailey, although as soon as they saw Maria and Julia, their mouths twitched up a bit.
Rogues
. She was certain their laird would not like it that they were flirting with the women on the film crew. The men were probably interested in them even more because she and Maria were also
lupus garous
.

Julia quickly jotted down some more notes—this time about the men of the castle and not just about the sandstone towers or the wicked-looking iron gates designed to keep the enemy out. For the first of the men, she wrote:
Redheaded male; muscular arms bulging beneath a lightweight shirt despite the chill in the air; eyes cool gray, warming a little when he spies a woman; mouth mannish, roguish, and kissable. Maybe of Norse descent. Could be a descendant of the first red werewolves.
At least for her story.

Yes, that's how she'd write the man in her historical romance.

She glanced at the other man and noted that he was now having a word in private with the redhead, whose eyes remained fixed on her. He was smiling a little more. He nodded at the other man's comment.

She ignored the blush heating her whole body and tried to concentrate on the business of describing the second man for her novel. It definitely was a lot easier to observe subjects for her stories more covertly when the objects of her note taking were unaware of what she was doing.

She wrote for the second character:
Pale yellow eyes, just as roguish; a hint of a beard; dark brown hair; tall like the redhead, just as muscled; interested, looked to be more Scottish in origin.

In the cool dampness, Julia shivered and heard male voices up on the allure, the wall walk on top of the curtain wall. She moved away from Maria and the others to get a better view of the wall walk and made out three brawny Highlanders conversing there.

Dark-haired Duncan was scowling and looked ready to start a war. He was dressed in black, paramilitary style, as if he was an FBI agent but without the white lettering across the shirt to identify what he was. All he needed was a sword. No need even for a shield because she assumed he'd never fall back to a defensive mode as he battled his way through a fight, staying on the offensive the whole time.

In the fading light, the other was smiling and looked of good humor. His hair was fairer, a tinge of red streaking it, and an emerald-green muscle shirt showing off the right kind of muscles—not bulky but hard enough that he looked as though he got a lot of exercise. Maybe wielding a sword, although more in fun rather than in combat. He appeared relaxed, like he was listening to a bard's tale.

And the last, the one who garnered her attention the most, was Ian, the laird. He was all business and in charge, as far as she could tell from the way the others came to him to speak. He motioned for the one, then the other, to go about their business as if he was issuing orders. With a rugged face and a stern look, he was the one who caught her imagination.

The two men disappeared, while her hero remained on top of the curtain wall for a moment more and then stalked off in the opposite direction. Two more men approached him, both bowing their heads in greeting.

She sighed, pen in hand, clutching her notebook to her chest and trying to appear as though she was with those who were meeting with the MacNeills to iron out arrangements for the filming to begin.

Duncan exited the tower stairs and stalked toward them with two other muscular men flanking him as if they were medieval types ready to do battle, except that the other men were wearing black trousers and light sweaters rather than kilts and tunics. Fascinated, she watched Duncan address the director and production manager and set down the terms forcefully, while the manager nodded agreeably, if not a little shakily. The director remained stoic, as if he were a clan chief from another location and wouldn't bend to any man's rule.

“No one is allowed inside the castle before production begins. Except for the great hall, the tower prison or the dungeon, the outer bailey, the inner bailey, the stables, and the wall walk, most of the castle is off-limits to the film crew,” Duncan said.

Dark and Dangerous made it clear that the private quarters wouldn't be accessible. And that's where Julia needed to be. Every deviation from the plans had to be preapproved by Ian MacNeill himself. From what Duncan MacNeill said, there would be no deviation. She figured that meant her—also.

After laying down the law, Duncan cast a glance at the party of men and then at Maria and Julia, as if punctuating his rules to each and every one of them, and measuring them to see if any would cause the clan any difficulty. His gaze briefly stopped on Maria. He frowned. Straightening her petite stature, Maria stared right back at him, not one to be intimidated. But Julia wondered why he was considering her for longer than was necessary—maybe he was interested in her after all?

Then his attention shifted to Julia, and the furrows in his brow deepened further. A shiver of warning penetrated her bones, but she held his dark gaze, trying to brush off the unwelcome feeling. He didn't like it that Ian seemed to be interested in her, she figured.

Duncan's forbidding expression didn't waver, but he returned his attention to the director, gave a stiff nod, ignored the production manager, turned, and stalked off with his men-at-arms. At least that's the way Julia considered them, like lethal bodyguards if they'd been in the States, guarding some very important person. Even though he didn't look like he needed
anyone's
protection.

She sighed. She felt at home in Scotland already, despite Duncan's attitude. Her ties to the Campbell and MacPherson clans through her father's roots, and the Fraser clan through her mother's, had stirred an interest in all things Scottish all over again. Everything about the castle felt right as far as the atmosphere, the look of the handsome Scots, and the feel of the stone fortifications with green moss clinging to them and softening their rigid look.

Now, she just had to get inside the keep and take notes about the rest of the place, find the secret niche while she was at it, and she'd be done.

As long as she didn't get caught.

After standing on the wall walk issuing orders, Laird MacNeill hadn't even bothered to come down to speak to the production manager. Not even to see her up close, which told her the way of things. Once she was here in the capacity of working with the film crew—at least that's what he'd assume—she was bad news. Was coming down here to at least meet with the director beneath his lairdship? But how long would that last once the filming began?

She imagined there wasn't any way Laird MacNeill could control everything that went on during the filming. Would he stand on the castle wall walk, as he did now, way up above with his arms crossed over his broad chest and wearing a mighty scowl while he watched the proceedings? And if things didn't go as planned, perhaps he would motion to the archers lining the wall walk and a rain of arrows would pour down upon the movie crew.

She had too vivid an imagination.

Miscalculating the human equation, she had falsely assumed the people living here would be excited to have a film produced at their castle and would greet the director with enthusiasm and support. Where movies had been filmed at other castles, websites had proudly proclaimed the fact. Up until now, at every place the film crew had been, the Scots had been generous and friendly. She imagined there would be none of that here. In fact, Maria had said that the MacNeills didn't even have a website. After doing a little research, Julia had found that the castle had never been open to the public. Under siege and breached a few times during major strife, yes, but never
willingly
open to the public.

That made her think maybe her family had taken the castle over during a siege. Maybe then they had been overwhelmed at a later date and had to scurry out of there. Not good. If Ian learned about her Scottish roots, would he hold a grudge against her?

She glanced back at the wall walk. Ian MacNeill had stopped to watch them now and hadn't left the curtain wall as she had thought he would. At first, his attention was on the director, as if he was measuring him, the perceived enemy in his midst. His attention settled next on Julia and caught her gawking back at him. She smiled. Couldn't help herself.

Ian's masculine lips parted slightly, and she believed she'd actually surprised him with her smile. Maybe unsettled him a little.

Maria whispered, “Coming, Julia?” She glanced up to see what had gained Julia's attention. “Hmm, hot stuff. And despite what you say, I think he has a thing for you. Not to mention your interest in him.” She grabbed Julia's arm. “Come on. The crew is already headed back. The Highlanders watching us look as though they want someone to entertain them tonight.” She motioned to the wall walk. “Think the laird might be good for a tumble?”

Julia laughed, her thoughts running away from her again. “Yeah, really hot stuff,” she murmured. And if she got too close again, she could be scalded. “But definitely not good for a tumble.” In that he was a wolf, and that meant a permanent commitment.

She could just imagine what it would be like to be under the MacNeill's spell. More of his hot kisses, his hard body pressed against her, his dark, hungry look while he carried her inside the stark castle, but nothing but his heated body would fill her thoughts as she melted against him, wanting so much more.

If he hadn't been a wolf, she would have been very tempted to have a tumble with him as Maria had suggested. Just to get the feel for one of her more… sexy scenes. For the
lupus garou
, it was perfectly acceptable to have human lovers before they found their lifelong mate. But he wasn't
strictly
human, and as hot as Ian was, she should have guessed he was a wolf.

She shook her head at herself, never having had the need to act out her scenes in real life before she wrote them, until now. It was as though the ties she had to the ancient woods and masonry, to her deep family roots in Scotland, Ireland, and even Wales had never been severed when her people left the region so many centuries ago.

With a lift to her step, she walked back through the gatehouse where not one, but three portcullises kept invaders out.

“I thought they only had one of these iron gates at the entrance to a castle's outer bailey,” Maria remarked, pointing at one of the gates.

“Some did. But some, like this one, used them to trap invaders in between gates if their enemy was unfortunate to get caught that way.” Julia's arms prickled as she glanced up at the castle arch above them and pointed to the entryway where gaps in the stone existed above the entrance and along the length of the curtain wall.

“Machicolations, murder holes,” she explained to Maria. “The rectangular openings provided a place for the defenders of the castle to pour boiling water down on their enemies who were attempting to breach their defenses.”

Maria shuddered. “I thought they used boiling oil.”

“Hollywood's version. It would have cost too much.”

Maria reached out and touched a place on one of the stone walls where repairs had been made to the mortar. “Can you imagine how much this place must cost to heat? Or the upkeep on these old stone fixtures? Every time I turn around, something's wrong with my condo. And it's practically new. But can you imagine the expenses in maintaining something this big and ancient?”

“No, not really.” Julia hadn't given it much thought. “I wonder if the MacNeills are having financial difficulties and that's the reason they agreed to this venture, albeit reluctantly. But why wouldn't they open their doors to having bed-and-breakfast kind of affairs or wedding receptions, or both, like some of the other castles or manors are doing? Maybe this is such a short-term endeavor and not so much like a long-term invasive venture, so it seems doable.”

“Yeah, that could be,” Maria agreed.

That softened Julia's view of the prideful MacNeills a bit since she was having money troubles of her own with her new book delayed by writer's block.

She glanced over her shoulder and watched Duncan MacNeill walk through the gates of what probably was the innermost bailey. The inner sanctum. From there, he'd go inside the keep. She sure wished she could get inside it without anyone knowing.

Duncan walked with a regal but deadly air, and she imagined he always looked like that. His outward appearance today probably wasn't anything different from any other day, which made her wonder why he was like that. Character studies intrigued her. They were useful to draw on for her own characters in her books.

But then one of the clansmen stalked toward Duncan, spoke to him, and motioned to Julia. The warrior turned to look in her direction. His expression was dark as his gaze focused on her. Not anyone else, just Julia. Her stomach twisted into a knot.

“Lass!” he shouted at her in a commanding way. He couldn't know who she truly was or what she planned to do here. He motioned to her to come to him as he quickly ate up the ground with his lengthy stride, heading for her as if he was afraid she'd escape before he reached her.