Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  Drew said nothing. He couldn’t seem to form words. His heart felt hot and messy and his throat was tight.

  Lindsay’s gaze was steady. His hair was free of powder now and neatly brushed back from his brow, the length secured in a neat queue. His clean clothes were elegant but rather more sombre than his usual apparel. Travelling clothes.

  Was this really the same man as the one who’d been carousing in the courtyard such a short time ago?

  “I will miss you, Drew,” Lindsay said hesitantly. “It will be… painful to be apart from you.” He paused. “Perhaps for you too.”

  Drew tried not to react to those heartfelt words, but the lump in his throat seemed to swell and he had to swallow, painfully. He hated that Lindsay saw that sign of weakness.

  “Send word to me by Francis if you need me,” Lindsay said gently. “If you need anything at all. I will always come, if you need me.”

  “I can’t imagine there will be anything I need from you,” Drew said.

  Lindsay looked stricken and Drew could have sworn he felt his pain—it stole his breath and made his chest ache. Was it the wolf inside him that made him feel that, so physically, so viscerally?

  For a moment, they simply stared at one another and all Drew could think of was how it had felt to lie with Lindsay, in his own bed, that one night before all of this happened. Of how he’d pressed himself inside Lindsay’s body, his lips reverent on Lindsay’s moon-pale skin. For all his worries about his besetting sin—his lust for men—that night had felt almost… holy. He’d thought to himself that nothing would ever be the same again.

  He hadn’t known how right he was.

  “Goodbye, Drew,” Lindsay said softly. He turned away and walked down the corridor and out the front door.

  His boot heels echoed down the stairwell as he left.

  Chapter Two

  32 years later - the present

  * * *

  London, October 1820

  * * *

  Drew glanced up from the detailed plans stretched out over his desk and met the gaze of the handsome man waiting for his verdict. Charles Norris, fair-haired, square-jawed and overconfident, offered a quirk of a smile.

  “So, what do you think, Nicol?” Leaning back in his chair, Norris crossed his long legs, and Drew’s eyes briefly dipped to observe the action. Norris was a nicely made fellow, and he liked the company of both men and women. When Drew’s eyes snapped back up, he saw that Norris was well aware of Drew’s attention. The man raised a single brow, his hazel eyes gleaming.

  Drew didn’t react to the subtle invitation—Norris might not feel so friendly in a moment.

  Drew sighed. “Ordinarily I’d be keen,” he said. “But I’ve invested in a similar scheme in Manchester this year. I don’t want to tie up any more capital in canals. I’m sorry, Norris.”

  Norris’s face fell. “Are you quite sure?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  Norris leaned forward again, resting an elbow on Drew’s desk, his expression intent. “You’re missing out on an excellent opportunity here, Nicol. You’ll regret it.”

  “Quite possibly,” Drew said, smiling faintly, and this time he rose to his feet, discreetly pulling the bell beside his desk. “But in my business, a man can’t sink too much of his capital into one thing—I’m sure you understand.”

  The truth was canals were expensive to build and there were already many of them. Some people were saying that the future was steam-powered locomotives. Of course, others argued there was no prospect of them ever becoming profitable, but Drew would rather spread his bets than own every canal in England and risk the locomotives rendering the canal routes redundant.

  Norris, obviously disappointed, stood too. He leaned over to roll his plans up, then straightened. “If you change your mind—”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know,” Drew assured him, though he knew that wouldn’t happen.

  The door opened—Drew’s senior clerk, Albert, stood there, his expression placid.

  “Sir?”

  “Ah, Albert. Will you see Mr. Norris out, please?”

  Norris opened his mouth, as though to say something, but in the end he seemed to think better of it.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said politely.

  And then, thankfully, he left.

  Once he was gone, Drew sat down behind his desk again. He glanced at the clock on the mantel, noting that it was ten minutes shy of five o’clock. He had an engagement to dine at half-past seven, so there was plenty of time to clear some of his neglected correspondence before he left for the day. That was what he would usually have done. He had always had a conscientious nature, and that had not changed when he became a wolf—if anything, it had intensified. Yet lately he had felt itchy under his skin. Unsettled. His working hours were becoming increasingly erratic and he could not shake off a building sense that he needed to be… somewhere else.

  With a sigh, Drew tidied away his papers and locked the desk drawers, then he reached for his greatcoat, the only occupant of the wooden coat stand in the corner of room, and set his high-crowned, curly-brimmed hat upon his head.

  Stepping out of his office, he found Albert still perched on his high stool, patiently scribing in his neat, careful script.

  The man glanced up, a polite question in his gaze.

  “I’m going home for the day,” Drew informed him. “Do you mind locking up? It’s nearly time.”

  “Of course, sir,” Albert said. “I’ll do so once I’ve finished this letter. It won’t take me above another quarter hour.”

  “Very good.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, will you be in tomorrow? I have this letter and four others for you to sign before dispatch.”

  Drew paused. He’d been intending to come in as usual, but something about the question had his mind racing with sudden possibilities. Perhaps he should go to check on that canal project in Manchester? He had other interests in Lancashire he could look in on at the same time—he was not the sort of investor to sit back and wait for things to happen. That way disaster lay. He made sure to check on all his investments regularly. Besides, a trip up north might to do something to ease that troublesome itch that was urging him to leave London.

  “I’ll be in tomorrow,” Drew informed Albert. “But I’ll be leaving for Manchester the day after and expect to be gone a fortnight at least.”

  “Very good, sir.” Albert was used to Drew’s regular absences. He had many calls on his time, not only in relation to his investments, but also to undertake services for Francis and Marguerite from time to time. They did not trouble him too often, but often enough.

  “Good night then,” Drew said, heading for the door.

  “Good night, sir.”

  Once out of the office, Drew slowly descended the three flights of stairs to the main door. As usual he was struck by how much he disliked this stairwell. The lines and proportions were all wrong. Even now, such details captured his attention. At the time of his transformation, he’d been an architect, with ambitions to design grand, beautiful buildings that would last centuries beyond his own lifetime.

  Now, he would probably outlast the buildings.

  The reality of life as a werewolf was that one could never stay anywhere too long. Humans soon began noticing when one did not age. It had taken him some time to accept that reality. After Lindsay had bitten him, he’d continued in his profession, working at the same firm, living the same life he had before, under the careful eye of Francis Neville.

  But the bite had changed him. Changed everything. After a few years, he’d accepted that. He’d left Edinburgh and, since then, he hadn’t been back. Nor had he so much as thought of designing another building. Instead, he’d travelled and learned, a new curiosity about the world driving him from place to place. In the course of his adventures he’d discovered he had a knack for commerce—an ability to spot good investments and grow capital. Marguerite considered financial security a vital part of
protecting their small pack, and since she appreciated Drew’s investment acumen, she did not complain about his preference for spending most of his time apart from the rest of the pack.

  Pushing the main door open, Drew stepped out to find the evening mild, the tinge of warmth in the air the first he’d felt in many months. It was a pleasant evening for a stroll, and he set off for home at an easy pace, willing himself to settle. He should feel perfectly calm. It was a good while till the next full moon, so his wolf had no immediate need to run. He had no other pressing obligations to attend to, and he was looking forward to an entertaining evening tonight. His dining companion was a geologist, a man with some fascinating new ideas Drew was keen to discuss and a glint in his eye that suggested he was interested in more than mere conversation.

  Despite all of that though, Drew still felt on edge. As though poised for something calamitous.

  He accomplished the walk home in a little less than half an hour and was welcomed at the front door by his housekeeper, Mrs. Rowntree. He was rather surprised to see her, since she did not live in and had usually left for the day when he got home. She was plainly ready to leave. Her habitual apron was off—presumably it was folded up inside the large reticule she had clutched between her thin hands—and had been replaced by a woollen grey shawl secured with a cameo brooch at her bosom. Her poke bonnet covered her iron-grey hair, but unfortunately did nothing to conceal the expression of annoyance on her unhappy face.

  “Mrs. Rowntree,” he said carefully. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’ve had to wait behind on account of your visitor, sir,” the housekeeper said. “You didn’t mention you was expecting anyone this evening and I need to get home to my mother.”

  Visitor?

  “I apologise,” Drew said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone as a matter of fact. Is the gentleman inside?”

  Mrs. Rowntree’s lips thinned. “It’s not a gentleman, sir. She said her name’s Madame Loup, if you please. Insisted on coming in even though I said you wasn’t here. Said she’d wait for you in the parlour. Well, I’ve not been able to leave, have I? In case she makes off with the—”

  “That’s enough, Mrs. Rowntree,” Drew said firmly, adding more gently, “I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. I will, of course, pay you for the extra half hour.”

  She gave a short nod, seeming somewhat, if not entirely, mollified. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll be off, sir. I need to see to Mother. She’s already waited too long.”

  “Of course. Good night.”

  The housekeeper left, closing the door smartly behind her.

  For a few moments, Drew simply stood there in the hall, contemplating the interview to come. He knew who his visitor was, of course. Even if he had not been able to guess from the ridiculously obvious name, he had her scent now, a faint trail of violets leading to the parlour where she waited for him.

  She would probably have his scent too.

  He wondered why she was here. Did she have an errand for him? Or was she only calling because she was in London anyway?

  Did she have news?

  It was that last possibility that caused his heart to race and the unsettled feeling that had been plaguing him for weeks to surge hard within him. Was that why he’d been feeling this way? Was something wrong?

  Was it Lindsay?

  For the last few years, it had seemed to Drew that he was finally getting more in control of his wolf and the tyranny of his bond to Lindsay Somerville. The constant, if distant, awareness of Lindsay that had niggled at Drew, even when they were apart, had begun in the last year or two to ease. As though Drew had finally managed to evict him from the space he took up in Drew’s mind.

  But then, quite recently, that unsettled feeling that had troubled him at his office earlier had begun bothering him. He hadn’t connected it to Lindsay, but now that Marguerite was here, he wondered.

  He squared his shoulders and headed for the parlour.

  She was standing at the window when he opened the door, gazing out. At his entrance, she slowly turned.

  “Drew. Mon cher,” she said softly. Her face remained grave, but her dark eyes smiled at him. “You are looking well.”

  He stepped fully into the room and sank to one knee, bowing his head formally. She stepped forward and laid her right hand on his bent head, resting it there. He felt her power and approval wash over him, soothing as a blanket. A half minute passed, then she drew her hand away while Drew slowly got to his feet.

  She was, as ever, nothing short of exquisite, with her shining sable hair, luminously pale skin and matchless elegance. Today she wore a bottle-green pelisse with military-style frogging that was tailored to show her figure to its best advantage. She had taken off the tiny, frivolous bit of a bonnet she’d been wearing—it dangled from the fingers of her left hand by its jet-black ribbons—and her hair was simply dressed.

  “It has been too long,” she said. “We missed you in Amsterdam last year.”

  “It was difficult to get away.”

  Her raised brow said she didn’t believe him, but she did not challenge him. Instead, she tossed the bonnet onto the sideboard and held her hands out to him.

  “Come. Greet me properly.”

  He took her hands and let her draw him close. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and inhaled his scent with a contented sigh, and he inhaled hers in turn, deep into his lungs.

  Violets. Green shoots in spring woods. Sap rising.

  He saw her wolf in his mind’s eye as he inhaled her scent. Despite her dark hair and eyes, she was a white wolf with eyes like liquid silver. When he closed his eyes, he could see her in the dusk, weaving between the trees, like a ghost.

  The urge to follow her where she led was strong.

  At length, she released him and he drew back from her. The look she gave him as he retreated was rueful, exasperated and strangely fond, all at once. It made him feel cared for and a disappointment both.

  “I do send you regular reports of what I’m doing,” he said, a little defensively. “And it’s all going rather well, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m making money hand over fist.”

  She laughed softly. “Well, I cannot deny that. You have quite the Midas touch. But I have not come all this way to congratulate you on your business acumen.”

  “Why have you come, then?”

  She laughed. “I wanted to see you, of course. We do think about you, you know, and miss your company, even when you are you a… sobersides.” She laughed again at that. “My English is good, no?”

  Ignoring that, Drew asked suspiciously, and a little breathlessly, “Who is ‘we’?”

  She regarded him steadily, her dark gaze grave. “Francis and me. Why, who did you think I meant?”

  He shrugged and contemplated the toes of his boots.

  “Did you think I was referring to Lindsay?”

  Drew’s gut clenched, just to hear her say his name, but he didn’t say anything—didn’t even glance up. He didn’t trust his own voice.

  Several moments passed, then Marguerite sighed. “Well, it certainly does not include Lindsay, if you want to know. I have seen you more recently than him.”

  Drew’s head snapped up at that and he frowned. “But that’s—it’s been almost three years since you and I last met.”

  “It has been five years since I last saw Lindsay.”

  Drew stared at her, astonished. Being apart from Marguerite for so long would be intolerable for Lindsay. Drew couldn’t imagine why he’d do such a thing.

  “Where is he now?” Drew asked.

  “Edinburgh,” Marguerite said. “He has been there for two years now.”

  Drew glanced at her sharply. “He’s in Scotland? But what about Duncan?”

  Duncan MacCormaic, Lindsay’s maker, had held him in wretched captivity for decades after transforming him. Until Marguerite had discovered his plight and rescued him. After escaping Duncan, Lindsay had gone to considerable lengths to stay out of his maker’s orbit, al
ways moving on, never staying in one place too long lest Duncan find him and compel him back into slavery.

  But now Lindsay had returned to Scotland, where Duncan had his main home? Staying in Edinburgh for two whole years? Was he mad?

  “Lindsay is determined not to leave,” Marguerite said wearily.

  “That is very unwise,” Drew replied, frowning.

  “It is. Very. But he refuses. Happily, Duncan is not in Scotland just now, but it is only a matter of time till he returns.”

  “Are you on your way to Edinburgh now?” Drew asked.

  “I am,” she admitted. “And Drew—I need you to come with me.”

  Drew met her steady gaze. At length he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I sympathise,” Marguerite replied, “But I am afraid I must insist—I need your help and I do not know who else to turn to.”

  “Lindsay doesn’t listen to me any more than he listens—”

  “I do not seek your help with Lindsay,” Marguerite interrupted flatly.

  Those words sent the oddest stab deep into Drew’s belly.

  “Then what?”

  Marguerite opened her reticule and pulled out a letter. “Read this,” she said, offering it to him.

  He reached out and took the letter, noting the already cracked sealing wax. He recognised Lindsay’s handwriting on the paper, that slightly antique script of his. It gave Drew the strangest feeling in his stomach, just seeing words that Lindsay’s hand had formed. Clutching the letter, he turned away, giving Marguerite his back, feeling suddenly exposed.

  He turned the paper over in hands, examining it before slowly opening it out. A subtle but unmistakable scent drifted up to meet him, bringing an unwanted lump to his throat.

  Lindsay’s scent.

  He remembered the first time he’d recognised that scent, three decades before. He’d only just woken up in Lindsay’s bed, three days after having his throat torn out, and been given the unwelcome news that he was now a werewolf—part man, part beast and so long lived as to be near enough immortal.