Heart of the Highland Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #7)

Heart of the Highland Wolf (Heart of the Wolf #7) Page 12

Annoyed that he couldn’t shape-shift now, not with the film crew in sight, he stalked across the eastern wall walk toward the gatehouse tower on the north side of the castle.

He had thought that the sea of mist drifting into the area might keep the Americans in the village for the night, far from his castle and the cold, damp rain that threatened to spill again. Although inevitably they’d be pounding at his tower gatehouse, looking to turn the grounds into movie madness. An agreement was an agreement, no matter how much he hadn’t wanted to concur with the terms.

He listened from the walk on top of the curtain wall, the whisper of a breeze carrying the tune of the haunting melody of lilting bagpipes in the distance, stirring his blood to do battle. He wondered how in the hell he could be so close to losing their ancestral home and stuck resorting to something as low as having to cast aside his pride and allow this movie-making venture.

Fighting skirmishes with his neighbors in the old days would have been easier. But the threat of losing the castle and lands due to unwise investments in Silverman’s pyramid scheme? The saints preserve him and the MacNeills’ kin.

Then he heard them, their footfalls in the distance on the path to the castle, clomping away, five or six, he guessed. Although when he reached the northern section of the wall walk, due to the fog and how far they still had to go to reach the castle, he couldn’t see them. If they’d been wolves like him and his kin, they would have been much stealthier. But the Yanks stomped along the cobblestone road with disdain, disregarding the beauty of the quietness blanketing the land.

Then voices carried. Men’s voices, one complaining bitterly, his breath short, berating the laird of the castle—him, Ian MacNeill—for not allowing them to drive up the kilometer-long walk from the road. And another who tried to console the first.

“The laird didn’t want a horde of vehicles roaring up the path tonight, his last night before we turn the place into our movie set. You know he didn’t want any of this.”

“He agreed, and now he no longer has any say in the matter.”

Folding his arms, Ian smiled darkly. That’s why he’d made them walk.

Behind the men, a woman’s voice murmured something, as if she were speaking to someone else, gently not breaking the spell of the encroaching night. It was still light out, but with the fog and the sun descending, it would be dark soon.

With a wolf’s hearing, Ian could capture voices and other sounds nearly ten kilometers through the Caledonian Forest and sixteen across the moors. The woman was only about a kilometer away and speaking in a hush, talking softly to someone else, her siren’s voice enchanting as it garnered his full attention. Was it Julia speaking? The whisper of a voice sounded like hers. Tantalizing, seductive, no matter what she said.

Was the wolf someone else who had shape-shifted then, if Julia was with the film crew staff now approaching the castle?

Every muscle in his body filled with tension again, but not with wanting to do battle this time. No, this time he leaned over the battlement, attempting to see the vision that had such a tempting voice, like a sea nymph who would beguilingly lure the sailors to their doom. Soothing, like a warm balm on a troubled soul. If he could just catch a glimpse of her, see if it was Julia, and hear what she was saying—

“Sorry I’m late, but I saw the men from the airport. The one who took our car and another who… well, I don’t have a good feeling about him.”

“What other man? You didn’t tell me about that. What was that all about? Forget it. Tell me later what you found,” the other said, her voice having a distinctive Spanish sound to it, as pleasing to the ear as the first one’s, yet a hint of worry and annoyance laced her words.

The woman was Maria, Ian was certain.

And the other—Julia, he thought—added, “I was—”

“It won’t be so bad,” Ian’s brother Cearnach announced, drowning out the rest of the woman’s words, his lanky footfalls preceding him as he joined Ian on the wall walk, high above the outer bailey.

Frustrated beyond belief, Ian tried to catch her words again, but neither of the women spoke further. He had been concentrating on the woman’s voice with such intensity that he hadn’t even heard his brother arrive.

“Siren,” Ian growled under his breath, realizing now just how much the woman had swept him under her spell. Hell. No woman, especially one with this film crew, would distract him from his duty, even if she was a wolf. Despite telling himself this, Ian had to force himself to tear his gaze from the road, from wanting desperately to observe the woman, to see if she was Julia. He still envisioned that silky shirt plastered to her breasts and the trousers clinging erotically to her legs. With irritation, he turned to face his brother.

He swore Cearnach swaggered as if pleased with the situation. His brother wore a green muscle T-shirt, navy trousers, and a well-worn pair of hiking boots. With the breeze tugging his unkempt hair and a shadow of a beard gracing his face, Cearnach looked casual and relaxed, as he usually did.

The most optimistic of his quadruplet brothers, Cearnach’s name suited him—victorious or warrior from the woods. Ian believed their mother had to have known something of their personalities before they were even born through some kind of innate knowledge—all except for Ian himself. He was the gift from God. And look where that had gotten them. He assumed his mother had named him as such because he was the first born of the four brothers. She was probably relieved to birth the first of them and get the whole thing over with.

The clan, the pack, their home—all of it rested on his shoulders. No matter how many of his pack members helped to manage things, he was ultimately responsible. And he had let them down.

“Silverman,” Ian growled. “True, the bastard is a thief who didn’t give a damn how many people he financially ruined along the way as long as he could build his own little empire from his ill-gotten gains. Even his mate was in on the deal, pretending innocence while trying to keep as much of the money in her own pockets as possible while he disappeared. And damn that both he and his mate are gray wolves of the American variety.”

The part about them being American had further soured his opinion of those with the film crew, even if they had had nothing to do with it.

“Silverman had been big in Wall Street. Reputable. Or had been for a time,” Cearnach reminded Ian. “He took a lot of people in.”

“Others, sure.” But Ian should have overseen their own finances better than that.

No matter the outcome, Cearnach always found a way to see whatever folly befell them in a positive manner. “I keep telling you it’s a learning experience. A way to manage our money more efficiently in the future. To be more vigilant. But more than that, it’s a way to reconnect with the outside world instead of isolating our clan our pack, from everyone else.”

“We socialize with the locals, Cearnach. We participate in the Highland fests, fish, and even show our cattle.” Ian contented himself with keeping his pack in semi-isolation, though. Had to for those who were more newly turned. Not many clans could boast werewolf lineage, and those that did, kept their identities secret. He was sure the same was true the world over, or they would have learned of it.

“I know you’re blaming yourself,” Cearnach said, resting his forearms on the rock wall and staring out at the vista of the ancient Caledonian Forest. “But you should take Guthrie to task solely for this mischief.”

Ian cast his second oldest brother a searing look.

Cearnach brushed him off with a knowing smile. “Tch, that is the problem. You don’t blame anyone but yourself. Guthrie acts without asking any one of us if we agree with his plans in regards to our money. He is the one, and he alone, who got us into this mess. Hold him responsible.”

Guthrie, like his name, could no more be harnessed than the wind, free to willfully roam where it would. He often had an uncanny ability to make money for the clan in unusual ways, but this time, the master deceiver had taken him in. Had his brother not learned that if it seemed too good to be true, it most likely was?

If Silverman had not vanished from the States, Ian would have taken him to task. Although their youngest brother had wanted to take this into his own hands, track the bastard down, and get their money back. Ian knew Duncan wouldn’t be gentle. Not that Ian would be, either.

“The Yanks will make us solvent,” Cearnach continued, cheerfully. “One took our money; another will help us to overcome.”

Ian didn’t think Cearnach ever sounded anything but cheerful. It was downright annoying at times. His look stern, Ian grunted and folded his arms. “They will not stay within the castle walls after nightfall.”

“They have some filming to do at night, Ian. You signed the consent forms.”

He had to agree, as much as he didn’t want to. It was one of the concessions he’d had to make if the movie was to be filmed here. “I’m surprised they couldn’t build a replica of the castle in their Hollywood.” Which is just what Ian should have told them, but truth be told, the MacNeills needed the damned money.

“For this movie, the production costs can be cheaper if they film on site, so Guthrie says.”

“They will not sleep inside the castle at night,” Ian reiterated. He would not be swayed from this point. “Our people have to have their privacy.” At least half a dozen had been turned during the latter half of the last century and couldn’t control shifting during the full moon when the pull was strongest.

Cearnach nodded cheerfully.

Ian shook his head. “Are you never angry about anything, brother?”

“Aye, Ian. When Cousin Flynn took off with the bonny lass I was intrigued with many, many moons ago, I was ready to cut him in two with my sword. If Duncan had not stopped me…” Cearnach shrugged and smiled.

“Duncan was madder than you were that our cousin ran off with her over the slight. It wasn’t long before you were interested in another wee lassie.”

“You’re right. The one that took off with Flynn was not worthy of my attentions. And the next one Flynn fell for was his undoing.” Cearnach’s face hardened slightly, and Ian knew his brother was thinking about Ian’s handfasted bride, Ghleanna MacDonald—a human, not a wolf—and the disaster that had been, the angry words, Flynn’s banishment from the clan and from the pack, and the termination of the contract with the MacDonald. Cearnach sighed deeply. “The next one was his last mistake. I always told him unmarried maids were the only ones to dally with.”