A Howl for a Highlander (Heart of the Wolf #10)

A Howl for a Highlander (Heart of the Wolf #10) Page 4

When the Internet access popped up on her laptop, she searched her email messages for anything from the college explaining the money delay. Nothing.

Just an email from her best friend, Wendy.

Hey, let me know when you arrive in paradise! I’ll be going out with that guy I was telling you about. I’m not about to stew over Roland. TTYL Wendy

She sent an email off to her best friend.

I arrived, but the grant money hasn’t been deposited into my bank account yet. I’ll let you know when I hear something. Have fun on your date, but don’t fall for the guy! Shel

They always told each other the same thing. They could date a human, but not for the long run. Changing a human into one of their kind could create a mountain of trouble. If he had a family, the problems increased exponentially. So a brief acquaintance was fine. Anything longer, and it could become a real mess.

She just hoped that Wendy wasn’t going to do anything foolish. The last time she’d broken up with a wolf that she’d really cared about, she’d gotten a little wild. A werewolf out of control was dangerous, both to him or herself and to others.

Not wanting to borrow trouble, Shelley intended to unpack her bags and put her clothes away. She was excited about studying the plant life here and taking her research back to the university in west Texas for the classes she’d be teaching later next year. She could hardly wait to get started in the morning. What if she could learn of a plant in the ancient forest that could stabilize a newly turned wolf’s urge to shift during the full moon? Anytime she could visit new locations and search for such a remedy, she made the best of the opportunity. Of course, the college would never know the true interest behind all her research or why she’d become a botanist in the first place.

In some folklore, wolfsbane could be used to stop the shift. She knew this wasn’t true because she’d tested it on a friend of Wendy’s who was a newly turned wolf. But only under very controlled circumstances because the plant could kill a wolf or a person or a werewolf. Shelley had always wondered if a lupus garou could ingest a different plant that could actually stop the shift or bring it on if the person needed to turn into the wolf and couldn’t otherwise.

Wouldn’t that benefit all of her kind?

A car drove by the villa and she thought again of Duncan and his cocky alpha maleness—the way he had held his head high, challenged her with his gaze, and showed how he was intrigued with her. She envisioned what he’d look like fighting in the movie’s mock battles—bare chested, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and vanquishing an enemy fighter with lesser skills or endurance. How would he act in his native Scotland? Superior because he was a laird’s brother? Because he lived in a grand castle?

She envisioned Scottish lasses hanging on his every word, hoping for him to act chivalrous with them like he’d done with her. She suspected that if any of the women recognized him in the movie, he’d have his hands full of female admirers chasing and hounding him for more than just his autograph.

He was cute in a dark, sexy way. She loved that he’d driven the older couple to their hotel; anything to get the chance to take her to her villa. She’d been tickled by his insistence that he was staying at a place near hers, so it would be more convenient for him to drop her off last, and then his admission that he didn’t even know where his hotel was located. Men rarely did that. Often they were either boorishly brazen and turned her off, or they were too beta to make the effort to get to know her.

Fingers clicking over the keyboard of her laptop, she did an Internet search for Argent Castle. All she found was a small note concerning a castle that was not open to the public and a brief news message that it had been the site of a recent movie project. But there was no picture—it could be small and of little or no consequence, really—and no website, address, or any other information on how to get hold of anyone there. And the castle was not included among any of the important sites of ancient heritage.

Ian MacNeill was laird, and no one else was mentioned. Which confirmed what she’d suspected. His people didn’t regularly open the castle to visitors. So why did they agree to do a filming? Even more surprising, why was Duncan in the movie? He didn’t seem to have been thrilled with the prospect. She imagined once he had to fight, he’d gotten into the battle scenes with warrior-like enthusiasm. Had Ian also been in the film? She doubted it. He was the laird and would have been above such a thing.

But she’d sure love to see Duncan fighting.

Maybe if she played her cards right, she could plan a tour of gardens in Scotland and stay at a real castle—Argent Castle—compliments of Duncan, and then use what she learned about the botanical displays to show off in her college curriculum. And see if the plant she was looking for might exist in Scotland.

She shook her head at herself. He’d think she was interested in him just because his clan had a castle. Right. Her mother had always warned her about wolves like him. Shelley sensed he had a darker purpose here, and if he could, he’d be wielding a sword, ready to strike down his enemy. He was someone to stay far away from.

So why was she looking again at the clock on her computer? And hoping that seven would come in record time.

Chapter 3

When Duncan arrived at the hotel on the leeward side of the island, he was instantly annoyed to see ten people waiting in line at the check-in counter to register for rooms. Probably all those waiting were from the airport, and if he hadn’t taken the older couple to their hotel first, he would have been way ahead of most of these people. Shelley was a different story. Taking her to her villa had been necessary, to his way of thinking.

He attempted not to tap his foot too much and noticed a man standing nearby who was wearing a dark gray suit and had a briefcase chained to his wrist. Duncan wondered if the man was a minion carrying illegal money or documents to one of the island’s banks, which again made him think of Silverman. Duncan gave the man a steely-eyed glower. What if he worked for Silverman? The man with the briefcase held Duncan’s glower for a moment, as if to say he wouldn’t be intimidated. Then, unable to hold the stare, the man shifted his gaze to the lobby.

Beta.

Duncan finally reached the clerk, who was trying to look upbeat although his rumpled floral shirt and frazzled expression told another story. “You have a room for me, Duncan MacNeill. My brother, Guthrie MacNeill, booked the room.” He sounded a wee bit harsher than he’d planned, but he needed to get on with business, and waiting in line to get his room hadn’t figured into his schedule. Not that a drink with Shelley Campbell did, either.

The man typed away at a computer, then typed some more, then some more. Duncan was getting a bad feeling about this. The clerk finally shook his head and motioned to the units. “No. No room for you. We’re booked solid for two months. We don’t overbook. Your brother must have made a mistake.”

Duncan wondered if in Guthrie’s attempt to get the cheapest place available, he’d erred in making reservations for this hotel. Did they often double-book in case tourists didn’t show? Or was the hotel’s online registration just not adequate in handling reservations? Even so, Duncan didn’t trust that the man was right.

“Look. Again.” Duncan’s voice was so dangerously ominous that the man quickly looked back at his computer screen.

But no matter how ferociously Duncan scowled at the clerk, and no matter how much the man tapped away at the keyboard, he wouldn’t budge about the reservations.

“No, sir, nothing for any MacNeill. I’m sorry. If I had a room, I’d give it to you.”

The clerk kept his shoulders and posture straight, stared Duncan in the eye, and attempted to look as though he was in charge. But his eyes flicked to the others waiting in line, his jaw clenched and unclenched, and a tiny bead of sweat and then two more appeared on his forehead. Duncan was certain that if the clerk could have found a room, any room, he would have offered it to him.

Scowling, Duncan said in a deep, gruff voice, “My brother would not have made the mistake.” He hefted his bag over his shoulder and turned. Everyone immediately moved out of his path as if he were a typhoon intent on their destruction as he made his way outside.

Trying to rein in his irritation but not succeeding, Duncan threw his bag into the rental car and drove to where hotels lined the beach. Tons of places were situated on the beaches—large hotels, family-type dwellings, small hotels. Surely one of them would have a vacancy.

He queried each of them systematically, hearing the same thing over and over: the rooms are all rented. It’s the beginning of the tourist season, don’t you know? He tried really hard not to look intimidating, but by the last few, he imagined he looked damned dangerous. He finally gave up and went into a bar to get a whiskey. That would likely cost him a fortune, and he had nowhere to sleep the night. Except for the backseat of the compact rental car.

He wondered if Shelley had a roommate. If not, was there any room for him? Even if it was just one night of sleeping on a sofa in the living room. It had to be less cramped than the backseat of the rental car. If she had a roommate that was another she-wolf, she might be agreeable to letting Duncan stay, if he approached them with enough finesse. Having finesse was not one of his strong suits, though.

Seemed the tables were turned. Now Shelley was the crofter descendant with the castle, and he was a member of a noble family without a home.

The bar was dark and small, a total of ten tables surrounded by four chairs apiece, the walls of the place decorated in seafaring stuff—a swordfish, fishnets, a harpoon, colorful glass balls, conch shells, and a mural of the sea, which caught his eye with its voluptuous mermaids lounging on mossy rocks. Their silvery-green tails shimmered in the sunlight, waves breaking across the weather-beaten stones. One mermaid reminded him of Shelley, her richly auburn hair curled over her shoulders, her eyes green and staring straight at him, luring him, and with a mouth that was just as appealing as Shelley’s. He could envision Shelley lying on a rock, her breasts bare, her lips damned kissable, her eyes enticing him to join her.