Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  Marcus didn’t say anything, just nodded respectfully and stepped forward to help the coachman unloading the luggage.

  “We are rather hungry,” Marguerite told Greta as she entered the house. “Could we have an early dinner? And perhaps some tea and cake just now?” She smiled brilliantly. “You know how famished I get.”

  Greta smiled and nodded. “I’ll have that seen to right away, madame. In the meantime, there’s a letter waiting for you that Mr. Wildsmith brought this morning. He said to place it in your hands as soon as you arrived.”

  Marguerite glanced at Drew.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let me see.”

  “It’s in the drawing room,” Greta said. “If you’ll follow me, madame. I’ll show you the way.”

  She led them into a well-appointed drawing room where Wynne’s letter was propped on the mantel. In the grate beneath, a good-sized fire had been built but not yet lit.

  “Thank you,” Marguerite told the housekeeper, reaching for the letter and breaking open the seal. “You may go.”

  As Greta quietly withdrew, Marguerite scanned the letter quickly. After a few moments, she visibly paled.

  “What is it?” Drew demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  Marguerite glanced up. “Wynne says Lindsay’s health has deteriorated in the last week.” She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, gaze troubled.

  Drew felt oddly numb as he tried to absorb these words. It was all so—so preposterous. The very idea of Lindsay being unwell—Lindsay, the most vibrant person Drew had ever known. Yet it must be true, if Wynne said as much.

  He remembered Lindsay’s words in that curious letter.

  “Every day, I am freer, and if that means I have to give up a little of my physical comfort in return, I am more than willing to do that.”

  With sudden decisiveness, Marguerite said, “I want to go to Albany Street. Let us go now before the horses are unhitched. I will not be able to rest until I have seen Lindsay for myself.”

  The wave of relief that washed over Drew at those words was galling. Because he wanted that too—to see Lindsay. To reassure himself that Lindsay was all right.

  He pushed the thought aside, deliberately ignoring it, and nodded at Marguerite.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Five

  The past, part 2 – 28 years earlier

  * * *

  The outskirts of Paris, June 1792

  * * *

  “I am not sure this was my very best idea,” Francis said.

  He was gazing out of the window as the carriage lurched and bumped along the badly rutted road. The setting sun cast a pinkish glow over his face.

  Drew frowned. These were the first words Francis had uttered for at least an hour and, so far as he knew, they were apropos of absolutely nothing.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Francis turned his head, meeting Drew’s gaze. “You were right. I should have left you in Edinburgh.”

  They were on their way to Paris. Marguerite de Carcassonne, as leader of their small pack, had decreed that it was time to up sticks and leave France. The country had been unstable for some years and now the National Assembly had declared war on the Holy Roman Emperor. Marguerite felt sure that things were about to get much worse and her quiet wealth was attracting far too much attention. For the last several months, she had been quietly selling assets and planning a move to Ghent. She had summoned Francis back to France to assist her in completing the move and Francis, unwilling to leave Drew alone in Edinburgh, had insisted that Drew accompany him.

  Which made his pronouncement all the more puzzling.

  Drew gave a strained laugh, more disbelief than humour in it. “Are you serious? Don’t you think it’s a bit late to change your mind now, ten miles from Paris?”

  Francis grimaced. His thin, sensitive face wore an unhappy expression. “I’m sorry.”

  Drew just stared at him. He had argued against accompanying Francis, even though he’d been concerned about being left alone in Edinburgh with his control over his wolf so poor—which, of course, was the very reason Francis wanted Drew with him.

  Poor Francis. He’d been chained to Drew’s side for four years now. Having assured Drew he would stay with him until Drew had his wolf under control, Francis had felt honour bound to stay the course. It should only have taken a year or so, but four years on, Drew still struggled with his wolf. It had taken a summons from Francis’s beloved Mim to make him leave Edinburgh—and only then with Drew in tow.

  “Anyway, it’s high time you met her,” Francis had said. “And time you faced up to Lindsay again. You’re both part of our pack—you can’t avoid him forever.”

  Drew had replied he wasn’t part of anyone’s pack, but he hadn’t argued the point further when Francis contradicted him. Nor had he admitted how worried he was about seeing Lindsay. Lindsay, who he hadn’t set eyes on since the day he’d sailed out of Leith four years earlier.

  Francis probably knew anyway. No doubt he could scent Drew’s anxiety whenever Lindsay was mentioned. He’d certainly assured Drew—several times—that Lindsay would not seek to exert his power over Drew.

  “He knows your feelings and he will respect your views.”

  But the truth was, it was not the thought of Lindsay’s behaviour that made him most anxious. It was the unpredictability of his own wolf—his wayward, headstrong wolf—that worried him.

  All those arguments they’d had about whether Drew had to come to France. All Drew’s sleepless nights of worry. What a time for Francis to have second thoughts—ten miles from Paris.

  Why would Francis only question the wisdom of their course of action now?

  Frowning, Drew sat forward, opening up all his senses. After a moment, he caught a faint sharpening of Francis’s scent that made the pit of Drew’s stomach writhe unpleasantly.

  Dread, Drew concluded. Anxiety. And something else too. A thread of… longing?

  Drew had recently discovered that he shared Francis’s uncanny ability to read others’ feelings through the changes in their scents. When Francis had first realised, only a matter of months ago, he’d begun helping Drew to recognise and interpret his reactions to scents. Already Drew was becoming quite skilled—at least where there were clear and strongly identifiable emotions in play. It had been a relief to learn there was an explanation for the sudden physical and emotional reactions he had begun experiencing without warning.

  Meeting Drew’s steady gaze, Francis scowled, well aware that Drew was reading him.

  “What’s wrong?” Drew said quietly. “Really, I mean.”

  Sighing, Francis turned back to the window.

  “Francis?”

  “We are being followed,” he said at last, his tone weary. “By Duncan MacCormaic. In his wolf form.”

  Christ.

  Drew shouldn’t be surprised. Duncan had been hovering around the margins of his life for the last four years. Duncan was obsessed with Francis—his maker—and couldn’t seem to stay away from him for too long.

  For the most part, he maintained enough distance from Francis to ensure Francis could not compel him to do anything against his will, but he was often close by. And every now and again he would circle a little too near, as though flirting with fate. During the last few years, he had come a bit too close on two occasions. Ultimately, he had backed off and vanished soon after, but Drew had realised that a confrontation was inevitable at some stage.

  Francis’s way of dealing with Duncan was to ignore him so far as possible, only engaging with him when he was forced to do so—and he had not been during his time with Drew so far.

  Drew wondered if this would be one of those occasions, and if he was finally about to meet the notorious Duncan MacCormaic. Francis’s made wolf. Lindsay’s maker. The monster who had tortured Lindsay for forty long years.

  “He is closer than usual,” Francis murmured, as though he’d read Drew’s thoughts. “He has been getting n
earer and nearer over the last two days.”

  “You’ve known about this for two days?” Drew exclaimed.

  Francis shrugged. “I thought he would retreat eventually. It is unusual for him to take the risk of being brought under my power—but sometimes he gets careless and then he can’t tear himself away. It’s worst after a lengthy separation. And it’s been a long while since we… interacted.”

  “What should we do?” Drew asked. “We can’t let him get too close to Lindsay.”

  Francis sighed again, a heavy, careworn sound. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t see that I have much choice but to stop and confront him. Not with Lindsay in Paris and us on our way there.”

  “So we—what? Stop and wait?”

  “Yes,” Francis said, “He’s gradually closing in now—soon he’ll be near enough for me to compel him. I’ll be able to secure him in place while you go to Paris and explain to Lindsay that he and Wynne need to go ahead to Ghent now.”

  Drew bit his lip. He wanted to protest, to say, I can’t do that alone—I can’t see Lindsay for the first time without you there! But instead he nodded. He had always known he would have to face Lindsay again one day. It seemed that day had now arrived. And there was no use in trying to put it off any longer.

  He could only hope he could control his wolf when the moment came.

  They stopped at a farmhouse a mile or two along the road.

  Alighting from the carriage, they approached the stout front door which, on being rapped, was opened by a harried woman in a floury apron. She regarded them with a wary expression. A small girl with a grubby face peeped at them, wide-eyed, from behind the woman’s skirts.

  Francis began to speak in rapid French that Drew could not follow very well, however, he got the gist of it. The woman’s husband, the tenant of the farm, was away somewhere. Francis offered her an absurd sum of money for the use of the farmhouse for one night. She was understandably suspicious, but when Francis produced a heavy purse of coins, her keen gaze sharpened. After a few moments, she invited them into her kitchen, where she served them cups of warm, frothy milk and coarse bread to dip in it.

  After eating, Francis leaned his elbows on the scrubbed wooden table and began to bargain in earnest. Unable to follow the woman’s heavy accent, Drew had no idea what agreement they reached, but whatever the terms were, they appeared to be mutually satisfactory. Francis handed over the purse he’d already pulled out and extracted another from inside his coat, counting six additional coins into the woman’s work-roughened hand. She opened the purse and checked all the coins carefully before tucking the money into the sizeable pocket of her apron. Then she went to the kitchen door and yelled a series of names.

  That caused children to appear—five of them in all. They appeared one by one while their mother packed a capacious basket with food. She sent them off with sharp words to fetch hats and shoes and shawls, and within fifteen minutes they were all squeezing into the carriage Drew and Francis had vacated such a short time ago.

  “We will return tomorrow morning at seven,” the farmer’s wife said crisply—Drew was able to make out that much at least. “Don’t break anything.”

  “Any breakages will be paid for,” Francis replied, executing a small polite bow.

  Her answering stare was hard, but finally she nodded and Francis gave the coach driver the signal to pull away.

  “I thought you wanted me to go ahead to Paris?” Drew asked Francis as the heaving conveyance trundled away. “How am I supposed to get there now?”

  He hoped Francis didn’t expect him to make his way to the city in his wolf form. It was only a few miles, but it was daytime and he would not be able to navigate the city as a wolf. Not to mention he had no control over the beast. Besides, how was he supposed to find Lindsay and Marguerite, using only his nose? He’d never met Marguerite and hadn’t seen Lindsay for four years.

  He was worrying needlessly.

  “Madame’s brother is the blacksmith in the village,” Francis explained. “He will be supplying your mount. It’s probably a nag, given what I’ve paid for it, but Paris isn’t too far away.” Francis clapped Drew on the shoulder. “Take your trunk inside and change into your riding clothes. I’ll find some food for you.”

  By the time Drew had changed, Francis had found bread and a round of hard sheep’s cheese which he was busy slicing and wrapping up for Drew to carry in his pocket. Hungry, Drew hacked off a chunk of the crumbly cheese and crammed it into his mouth while Francis worked.

  Quite suddenly, Francis stilled. He set down the knife in his hand and lifted his head, inhaling.

  “What is it?” Drew said.

  “He’s here,” Francis said, and went to the door, yanking it open and stepping outside. His own scent was curiously energised.

  Drew cautiously followed him, peering over Francis’s shoulder at the farmyard before them. It was quiet, only a pair of chickens scratching at the ground to disturb the peace.

  And then, at the periphery of his vision, Drew caught the slightest flutter. He and Francis turned their heads at the same moment, just as a man emerged from behind a rickety shed. He was dressed all in black but for a red and gold waistcoat and a red cockade on his tricorn hat, which he swept from his head as he performed a low bow, one leg stretched gracefully out before him.

  “Good day, Master Eunuch,” he said in a deep voice that dripped sarcasm. His gaze ate Francis up, even as his eyes burned with resentment.

  He was astonishingly handsome, Drew saw when the man straightened. Taller than perhaps anyone Drew had met before, with wide shoulders, thick thighs and a muscular neck. He reminded Drew of a stallion, all rippling power and beauty, and his scent was like a stallion too, a very male musk.

  This was Duncan MacCormaic then.

  “You summoned me,” Duncan said. He had not yet acknowledged Drew’s presence, his eyes fixed on Francis. His scent was all bright angry joy.

  “I thought you’d be pleased. You always complain when I ignore you,” Francis replied. His voice was cool, but Drew could smell his nervous excitement.

  Francis raised his arm and made a beckoning motion with his fingers. “Come here,” he said mildly.

  Duncan glared. “I don’t like being ordered around like a dog,” he gritted out, even as his feet began to move.

  Francis ignored that. When Duncan was just over an arm’s length away, he said, “Stop there,” and Duncan did. So abruptly he stumbled a little. His eyes flashed with temper.

  “Listen to me,” Francis said quietly. “You will come inside the farmhouse. You will follow me into the parlour where you will sit down. You will keep your hands by your sides. You will not touch me or my friend in any way.”

  Duncan stared at him, his expression malevolent and resentful. He towered over Francis but could only vibrate with impotent rage.

  Francis turned on his heel and walked back into the house. The big man followed, his whole body radiating fury. Drew brought up the rear.

  When they reached the parlour, Francis pointed at a high-backed wooden chair next to the fireplace. “Sit.”

  Duncan’s eyes burned, but he did as he was bid, crossing the floor and dropping into the chair while Francis sat on an identical chair on the other side of the fireplace, angled towards him.

  Duncan turned his gaze on Drew. “Help me get free,” he bit out, and there was so much determined will behind that command, Drew felt it like a physical shove. The power in it was extraordinary. Shocked, Drew backed up a step.

  “It’s all right,” Francis said calmly. “He can’t do anything to you. Not with me here.”

  “Fuck you!” Duncan snapped, his head swivelling back to Francis. “I should have—”

  “Shhhhhhhh,” Francis soothed, and Duncan lapsed into furious silence, forced to obey Francis’s gentle command. Francis was calm but Drew could scent his misery. He took no pleasure in exercising his power over Duncan MacCormaic.

  Drew studied Duncan carefully. So,
this was the man who had kept Lindsay in captivity for decades. The mighty wolf who could only be bested by the far too gentle, far too trusting Francis Neville. And yes, he had been bested. Even though he was sitting, he seemed to strain with effort, as though he fought against invisible bonds. His powerful thighs bulged, drawing the fabric of his breeches taut, and a muscle in his cheek pulsed.

  His facial features were as big as the rest of him—big and dramatic. His mouth was wide, his cheekbones high and slashing and his eyes extraordinarily bright. Their colour was an almost otherworldly ice-blue, uncanny and mesmerising, fringed with long sooty lashes. The darkness of those lashes was matched by hair as black as a crow’s wing, which—now Duncan had his tricorn off—Drew could see was cut close to his well-shaped head. A day’s beard growth covered his face making him look both disreputable and carelessly handsome. Like a pirate.

  And that was exactly what he was—a pirate. A pirate and a slave master and a thief. A brutal, merciless scoundrel who had already inflicted long, painful years of abuse on Lindsay and would do so all over again given half a chance.

  Duncan had quieted as Drew examined him, and now his improbably blue eyes narrowed with interest. “You’re Lindsay’s pup,” he observed, a sudden grin curling his mouth. Evidently Francis’s gentle shushing only lasted so long.

  When Drew did not answer, Duncan said. “Are you aware that your master is my slave?”

  Tersely Drew said, “He is my maker, not my master.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they were out. Duncan only grinned wider. “Don’t be a fool,” he chuckled. “If Lindsay was here, I could order him to kill you and he’d be powerless to resist. As would you be if he ordered you to bend your neck for his blade.”

  “You’re wrong,” Drew muttered, the words escaping before he could stop them. When Duncan laughed outright, he felt a flush of shame crawling up his neck.

  “Foolish pup,” Duncan mocked, his voice heavy with mock sympathy. “Your master would do exactly what I told him. It’s the nature of our beasts. Just look at me. Not a rope or chain in sight, but I’m as fixed to this chair as surely as though my master over there had nailed me in place. Only his will holds me.” He inclined his head in Francis’s direction, as though bestowing a compliment, though his lip curled in contempt.