Heart of the Highland Wolf (2 page)

Duncan tilted his head up, took another deep breath, and then coughed. “Let's move away from the fire. I can't smell anything but smoke. But I thought…” He shook his head.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ian moved away from the burning car, but something in Duncan's voice made him take another long look at his brother. Duncan was frowning, concentrating, and sampling the air, trying to locate the women.

“Blood?” Ian asked, thinking maybe Duncan had smelled an injury and was concerned about it. The smoke and burning petrol were wreaking havoc with his own sense of smell now.

“Aye, well, that and…” Duncan looked at him with an odd expression. “…the faint scent of wolf.”

“I still think we should have stayed with the car,” Julia grumbled under her breath, limping in her heels, her ankle throbbing. She held onto Maria for support as they hurried away from the wreck as fast as possible.

The sound of an explosion at their backs made Julia jump. But they were far from there now. And they heard no more shouts, which worried Julia as her heart thundered spastically. What if the man who had come after them had been injured?

The sweet, earthy smell of rain preceded the start of a shower. Then the raindrops poured down on them in earnest, the plants and earth offering up a cleansing scent.

They would be drenched before they got much of anywhere, even though they weren't letting up on the pace, despite their minor injuries. Julia wished she hadn't taken off her pantsuit jacket to keep it from getting wrinkled by her seat belt. The jacket, being in the backseat, hadn't been on her mind, not when they'd discovered Maria's door was jammed tight and Julia had to help her over the console. Now, the shell of aqua silk Julia wore was plastered to her chest, revealing everything, she was sure. Her linen slacks were in the same shape, molding to her legs, feeling cold and wet like an alien second skin.

“We should have stayed near the car at least,” Julia griped, wiping away the steady trickle of water droplets dribbling down her cheeks. “That's what you're supposed to do when you need assistance.” She tightened her grip on Maria's arm. “With the car on fire, someone is sure to spot it eventually.”

Maria hushed her again.

Julia pulled her to a stop. “All right,” Julia whispered. “Why do you think whoever hit us did it on purpose?”

“We were better off getting away from the car before it exploded.” Maria took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But that's not the only reason. I got a death threat before we left L.A.”

Uncomprehending, Julia stared at her. “
What?
”

Maria started walking again, pulling Julia along, their shoes squishing and squelching in the mud. “A man with a distinctive Scottish brogue called me on my home phone, angry about us using Ian MacNeill's castle for the film. He said I'd live to regret it. I didn't believe it,
much
… then this happens. But it was more than that.”

When Maria didn't say anything further, Julia prompted, “More than that?”

Maria gave her a hard look. “He said you didn't know what you were getting yourself into.”

“Me?”

“He knew you had learned of the castle and passed the information on to me. But it was almost like he knew you.
Personally.
And he didn't want you to have anything to do with Laird MacNeill. He sounded like an ex-lover.”

“I've never had a boyfriend with a Scottish accent. I don't know anyone like that.”

“He said he knew your family. That if you hadn't dumped the investment advisor, he would have had to do something about it. See what I mean? It's like it's personal with him.”

Julia wracked her brain, trying to come up with anyone like that, but she couldn't think of a soul. The part about him knowing about Trevor did concern her. Not that her relationship with him was secret. But how would someone in Scotland have known of it? As to her family, they didn't even go by the same last name as she did. She was Julia Wildthorn, romance author—pen name. Real name—Julia MacPherson. But no one knew that. Not even Maria.

“It's probably just some ticked-off guy who gets off on threats.”

Maria cast her a disbelieving look. “You can't deny it sounds personal.”

Julia thought about her grandfather and father insisting that she encourage Maria to consider Ian's castle for the film production. What if bad blood existed between her family's ancestors and this person's ancestors? And now Maria was caught in the middle of it.

“Did he say anything about owning a different castle? Maybe he wanted the business instead, and MacNeill is his fiercest competition.”

“No.”

Julia grimaced as another twinge of pain rippled through her ankle. She compensated by leaning more on her other foot and on Maria's arm. “What did the L.A. police say?”

“Nothing. Without a caller ID name or number, a recording of the phone call, more threats, or anything else to go on, they said they couldn't do anything about it.”

Julia pulled Maria to a stop again as she heard distant footfalls. “Whoever's following us is getting closer.”

“I know. That's why I'm trying to hurry up and find a town or people or something.” Maria started hauling Julia along again.

“You think it's the guy who hit us?”

“Maybe not, but what if it is? What with worrying that the car was going to explode any moment, with the smoke pouring out of the engine and the smell of the leaking gasoline, and you trying to help me out the passenger's side door in a hurry because my door was jammed, we both lost everything in the car,
including
our cell phones. We have no way to call for help.”

Julia patted her soaking-wet pants pockets and discovered she had four limp U.S. dollars, a handful of U.S. change, a scrunchie to tie back her hair, and… She touched the pocket of her shell, where the picture of Ian MacNeill was sitting close to her heart and the only thing still warm. She had pulled the photo out of her purse to take one surreptitious look at it, and for some reason, she'd stuck it in her shirt pocket instead of back in her purse.

In her writer's fruitful imagination, she envisioned a bond between them and that through some kind of body heat transference, the laird would know their troubles and come to rescue them. She was hopelessly romantic, which hadn't gotten her anywhere with men, but she wasn't giving up.

She glanced over her shoulder but couldn't see anything except fog and trees. “We could wander for miles and never find anyone. We should sit down and stay quiet. They'll pass us by.”

“No. For one thing, it's getting dark. And for another, I have to get to Harold's meeting. And finally,” Maria whispered back, “whoever is out there has been tracking us pretty damn well all along. Ever since the Scotsman shouted near the car, calling out to us.”

“Was it the same voice as the man who talked to you on the phone?”

“I can't tell. The phone crackled and sputtered when the man called me in L.A., lousy reception. This guy's voice was loud and clear.”

And dark and worried and sexy, Julia thought. Not at all like someone who was out to get them. The wolf again came to the forefront of Julia's thoughts. “The wolf has to be one of our kind.”

Maria asked quietly, “What if he was with the guy that hit us? What if they worked in collusion?”

Maria and her conspiracy theories.

“Highly unlikely,” Julia said, in an attempt at reassuring. But that didn't stop her own small, niggling worry.

She began to look for any signs of a wolf in the area, skulking around in the fog and rain.

The sudden rain shower slowed to a drizzle just as a flicker of light in the distance caught Julia's eye. “Over there,” she whispered, her hopes elevating, and the two changed direction. “A building.”

Distant hearty male singing drifted to them from the direction of the muted light.

“We must look adorable,” Maria muttered, glancing down. Their clothes were soaked, but at least Maria was wearing her jacket, and even though she was wet, the fabric didn't cling to her the way Julia's did.

“Road,” Julia said. “Dead ahead.”

The rambunctious sound of men singing grew louder.

“A pub, maybe,” Maria excitedly said, her voice still hushed as she dragged Julia across the deserted road, the music cheering them on. “We'll be safe there and can borrow a phone and call Harold.”

Welcoming brass porch lanterns glowed through the fog, illuminating the front of Scott's Pub. The new mixing with the old, ancient stone walls surrounded double glass doors, back-lit from the warm wash of lighting inside. Above the pub, six dark windows overlooked the parking lot, and a sign read:
Rooms for Lease.
A corner of the building wrapped around and rose three stories, but it looked ghostly vacant. A sign carved into the stone said,
Highland Inn
.

Behind the building, trees and hills loomed tall, dwarfing the place. Outside, three cars, a pickup, and a van were parked, and unless tons of people had ridden in the five vehicles, Julia assumed liquor had loosened the singers' tongues to a good-hearted bellow. In her romantic writer's imagination, she envisioned the place filled with braw, kilted Highland warriors who would save them from harm if those following them meant to hurt them.

Maria grabbed the door and opened it, then pulled Julia inside and shut the door. The aroma of juicy burgers grilling made Julia's stomach growl.

She needed food and water. And a towel, a shower, and clean clothes. The place seemed like their salvation.

To keep from tracking in mud, they eased off their muddy heels and left them out of the way on the granite floor against the entryway wall. Then they padded in stocking feet into a more dimly lit room, complete with paneled bar, several tables, a dartboard on one wall, and the painting of deer on another. The singing had continued, and the men's brogue was so thick that Julia didn't understand a word of it.

A man dressed in a black polo shirt and steel-gray slacks poured drinks from behind the bar, and two others dressed the same way sang along with those sitting at the tables. Julia was disappointed not to see any kilted warriors in Scott's Pub. The six men were wearing trousers and shirts—everyday variety, nothing noteworthy for her manuscript. But they looked like a hearty lot, smiling and singing and swinging their mugs of ale.

Until a pretty blonde woman—petite and midthirties, wearing jeans and a tank top, and serving another tray of drinks to one of the tables—turned to look at Maria and Julia. The waitress's smiling mouth instantly dropped open. She nearly spilled a man's ale in his lap, and he quickly grabbed her hand to steady it.

“Sarah, lass…” But he and the other men quit singing one by one and turned to see what had startled her so.

***

“The women probably went inside Scott's Pub, as quiet as the place suddenly got,” Ian said to his brother as they reached the road, rainwater running down their faces, their clothes soaked.

Torn between reaching the women before they found the pub and hanging back to allow them time to locate it, Ian had figured the women would feel safer with others about. He could still determine if they were all right without appearing to be a threat. He truly had no need to do other than that.

“Do you want me to walk back down the road and get our car while you check on the women then?” Duncan asked.

“Aye. Bring the car, and we'll have a whisky.” Ian jogged across the road as Duncan headed back to where Ian had parked the car. They still had to reach Argent before that producer arrived, but they had plenty of time.

Ian pulled the door open, stalked inside, and saw the two drenched women seated at a table. His quarry.

They were even more appealing than he could have guessed.

One was darker-skinned, had dark hair and eyes, and looked Spanish. The other was a natural redhead with deep red-orange curls resting on her shoulders, her skin translucent ivory, and green catlike eyes that made her appear Scottish. The Spanish woman was dressed in a black suit, jacket and slacks, wet and spattered in mud. She was all curves, but the fabric didn't reveal all of her attributes like the redhead's did.

His gaze fastened on the redhead as if she might vanish in the blink of an eye. An aqua-blue, sleeveless silk shirt clung to pert breasts, her rigid nipples pressed against the fabric, her arms covered in chill bumps. He took a hell of a lot longer look than was good manners, then saw that her matching blue trousers were just as wet, just as clinging, showing a good deal of toned leg. Seeing her nearly nude body made his tighten in response.

Annoyed with himself for having such an intense reaction, he paused to consider what to do next.

Both women were sipping water and looking dismayed. The redhead saw him, her eyes widening. As if prompted, the other looked back at him, too, her eyes suddenly wary. He wondered if they were
lupus garous
. The air was still, and unless he drew really close, they wouldn't notice his scent because of the aroma of burgers grilling nearby. In truth,
he
couldn't even smell their scents in here.

“Laird MacNeill,” several men said, raising mugs of ale or whisky glasses in greeting.

He acknowledged them each by name, all locals from the area, none of them
lupus garous
.

He wanted to ask the women who they were, where they were from, what they were doing here, and what had happened to them on the road, but their concerned expressions gave him the impression they feared him. He was afraid they'd bolt if he drew any nearer.

The redhead's gaze swept over him from his face downward, and he realized what a mess he was, his jaw sporting a stubble of beard, his trousers muddy. And without a rain jacket, his damp, white cotton shirt and khaki trousers stuck to him, much the way the redhead's clothes clung to her. He probably did appear a wee bit threatening.

The men glanced at the women and back at Ian. More than one raised a brow, but no one spoke. Did they think he and the women had been caught in the same wreck? Most likely it looked that way.

He pulled out a chair at a table nearby, sat, and ordered whiskys for both Duncan and himself.

“What happened?” he asked the waitress as she returned to his table with a couple of drinks, subtly motioning to the two women with his head as they leaned close to each other and whispered.

Sarah looked like she wanted to ask the same of him. “Americans, had an accident in the fog. Lost their carry-on luggage, money, passports, cell phones, laptops, everything that was with them,” she responded in a hushed voice. “They only had a few U.S. dollars to get anything to drink or eat, but we couldn't take the money. I gave them some water. Scott said to give them a meal, but they refused, saying they weren't hungry. Which I don't believe. The redhead's stomach was grumbling.