Master Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  Lindsay rose to his feet and walked forward, closing the distance between them, drawing his mask off as he walked.

  God, he was beautiful, tall and slim, but with that dangerous tensile strength that gave him a formidable air, even when he was dressed like this, colourful as a rainbow.

  “I didn’t know you were in Venice,” Lindsay said once they were only an arm’s length apart. “How long will you be staying?”

  “Just passing through,” Drew replied. “Delivering a package to Marguerite, then travelling back to London.” Lindsay’s scent shifted between emotions rapidly, making Drew’s head swim. The most distinct of them was anger, though whether it was directed at Drew or at Lindsay himself, Drew could not tell.

  Drew jerked his head towards the group Lindsay had just left. “Who are your friends?”

  Oddly, that seemed to have the effect of easing Lindsay’s emotional turmoil. His wary gaze grew curious, making Drew flush. He hoped his heated cheeks were not too obvious in the dim light.

  “No one in particular,” Lindsay said, shrugging. “Sometimes I just want to be with normal people, don’t you?”

  “Be with,” Drew bit out. “Fuck, you mean.”

  Lindsay’s eyes widened. Drew’s bitterness and jealousy infected the words and his flush intensified at how revealing they were. He closed his eyes briefly, mortified, then forced himself to meet Lindsay’s eyes again.

  Lindsay’s grin was sly. “If there’s a chance of a fuck, why not? I’m told Gianni—he’s the pretty little Pierrot—is a wild one in bed.”

  Drew felt sick. Through numb lips he said, “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to go without tonight. Marguerite wants all of us back at the house. Wynne too. Where is he?”

  Lindsay shrugged negligently. “Fucking someone somewhere I imagine.” Eyeing Drew, he added with relish, “Replenishing his sexual energy. That’s how he puts it. Says it helps him with his craft.”

  “Witchcraft you mean?” Drew vaguely recalled some talk a few years ago of Wynne coming from a family of witches, but he hadn’t known Wynne was a witch himself.

  Lindsay nodded. “He began practising again recently—he has quite a talent, it seems.” Lindsay chuckled. “And since sexual congress seems to enhance his abilities, we’ve spent the last year fucking our way through Greece and Italy. Christ, I can hardly keep up with him, and him a mortal of two-and-forty—it’s mortifying.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do tolerably well,” Drew said flatly, trying to ignore the writhing snakes of jealousy in his gut. “Do you know where he is, or not?”

  Lindsay eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “Follow me,” he said.

  He turned on his heel and began walking. And Drew followed, eyes fastened on his lean, colourful figure.

  Lindsay led him past the orchestra and into a side chamber where—well, there was no other word for it—an orgy was taking place.

  “He’s in here somewhere,” Lindsay said cheerfully. “Why don’t you see if you can spot him?”

  The room was very dim, but Drew could see well in the dark and after a while, he was able to make out Wynne’s figure in the roiling mass of bodies. Wynne had his face buried between the pale thighs of a writhing woman, while someone else—a man—had Wynne’s erection buried down his throat.

  “Do you want to interrupt him?” Lindsay asked innocently. “I’m not sure that I care to.”

  Drew shook his head. He cleared his throat. “He’ll be done soon enough, I daresay,” he muttered. Which made Lindsay laugh.

  It was, however, true. Within a few minutes, Wynne’s body was tightening, then seizing as he came. The man servicing him swallowed his spend, then moved away, casually stroking his own hard prick as he sought another partner, while Wynne continued with the woman.

  She gripped his hair in her fists, urging him closer, then seemed to climax dramatically, back arching, soft breasts heaving, before easing back, a look of sleepy ecstasy on her face.

  Wynne rose from between her thighs, leaned over her, kissed her mouth, stroked her hair, then fully straightened and turned.

  Which was when he spotted Lindsay and Drew.

  He didn’t appear the least embarrassed. Simply raised a hand in greeting and began walking towards them, wiping the dampness from his face with the heel of his hand, seeming quite unconcerned by his own nudity. He looked oddly alert for a man who’d just spent. Rather than being sleepy and loose-limbed as Drew would have been, he had the bouncing step and bright-eyed mien of a man setting out for the day after a good night’s rest.

  Wynne was not the lissom youth he’d once been, but he was wearing well, for a human. His thick brown hair was untouched by any grey and his body remained trim and tight. Idly, Drew wondered if his appearance owed anything to witchcraft.

  “Drew Nicol,” Wynne said when he reached them, his curious and not-quite-friendly gaze flicking between Drew and Lindsay. “I did not expect to see you this evening. It’s been a while. When did you arrive in Venice?”

  “Only a few hours ago,” Drew confirmed. “Marguerite sent me here to fetch you both.”

  Wynne’s expression did not change, but the quiver of irritated excitement that the mention of Marguerite provoked did not escape Drew.

  “Why?” Wynne demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Drew admitted. “Only that she wants you.”

  “Oh, well we must jump and answer her whistle, I suppose,” Wynne said coolly. “Give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

  “We’ll meet you outside,” Lindsay said and tugged at Drew’s sleeve, drawing him away.

  They left the orgy chamber, strolling back out into the main ballroom.

  “Do you want to say goodbye to your friends?” Drew asked as Lindsay led him past crowds of masqueraders.

  Lindsay shook his head. “No need.”

  “Won’t they wonder what happened to you?”

  “My dear, if they never saw me again, they would not wonder what happened to me. They are not my friends, merely… playmates.”

  He led Drew out of the ballroom and down the long, narrow corridor to the stairs, which they descended, side by side. The two men at the front door nodded a polite farewell and let them out.

  Outside, the night air was cool. The ballroom had been warm and oppressive, and Drew breathed in gratefully. Pulling off his hat and mask, he welcomed the evening breeze that ruffled through his fair hair.

  Feeling Lindsay’s gaze on him, he turned to meet the man’s eyes, the familiar push and pull of attraction and resentment already simmering in him.

  Lindsay was staring at him with naked longing, though he quickly averted his eyes. It was a look that wrenched Drew’s heart. It made him want to storm away and it made him want to go to his knees for Lindsay, right there.

  Abruptly, Lindsay said, “He is doing it for me, you know.”

  The statement was unexpected. Drew frowned. “Sorry, I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Wynne. He is resuming his craft. Restoring his power. For me.”

  There was something in Lindsay’s expression, something that made Drew realise that this was important somehow.

  Quietly he said, “Why? What do you need that he can do for you?”

  “He is going to scry for me. Find a solution.”

  “A solution to what?”

  Lindsay frowned as though Drew had failed to grasp something hopelessly basic. “To you.”

  “Me?” Drew’s voice was incredulous, astonished.

  “Well, not just you. To Duncan too. To the bonds between us. To the thing that links me to Duncan, and you to me.”

  Drew laughed, an ugly sound. “That’s not possible.”

  Lindsay’s mouth twisted wryly. “Probably not,” he agreed. “But Wynne has decided to resume practising a craft he swore never to even speak of again, just to see if he can help me.” He paused. Gave a crooked little smile. “He is a good friend. The best a man could wish for.”

  A stupid pang of jealousy pierced
Drew’s chest. Lindsay’s regard for Wynne was honest and pure—no need for envy there—but there was a part of Drew, or perhaps his wolf, that resented every person Lindsay smiled upon. He could have cheerfully slaughtered that pretty Pierrot tonight.

  God, he hated himself. He was a surly dog, guarding a bone he did not want. A lonely, friendless cur. He had no one like Wynne Wildsmith, making sacrifices for him, and why would he? His soul was withered, incapable of inspiring such love. Such devotion. He was a cold and reserved man who could not reach out to other people—who had never been able to do so. His reserved habits went back to his earliest days, when he’d been handed to his uncle, an orphan boy, a burden to a man who did not want him. As a husband and father, he’d been perfectly useless too. He had nothing to offer anyone. Lindsay Somerville was probably the only person who had ever wanted him. And even then it was only because of a bond he had no power over.

  A bond that he now wished to destroy.

  “Drew?”

  Lindsay’s voice was sharp with concern.

  Drew realised suddenly that his eyes were closed and that he was braced against the wall of the mansion house, his forehead pressed against his arm, his heart galloping.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked another voice.

  Wynne.

  Drew took a deep breath and straightened. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, his voice somewhat strangled. “I’m fine.”

  Wynne’s expression was sceptical, Lindsay’s worried. But Drew paid no attention to either of them, just turned away and began walking. “Come on,” he said. “Marguerite and Francis will be waiting.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The present

  * * *

  Edinburgh, November 1820

  * * *

  In the days following his banishment from Albany Street, Drew spent his time reacquainting himself with the city of his birth, exploring how it had changed in the years since he’d left.

  Since Marguerite did not ask him to accompany her when she went to visit Lindsay and Wynne, it was plain that she had heard about Drew’s last conversation with Lindsay. Thankfully she did not mention it to Drew directly.

  He was relieved when Friday evening arrived. Begg and Bainbridge would be coming for dinner and they could finally make some progress.

  Marguerite wore another of her daringly low-cut gowns, this one a midnight blue affair. Her impressive décolletage was complemented by a breathtaking diamond necklace that encircled her pale throat.

  “You look lovely,” Drew said when she entered the drawing room.

  “More importantly, I look wealthy,” she replied. “We want our guests to see that.”

  Their guests arrived promptly, Begg’s eyes nearly popping out of his head when he saw Marguerite. Even Bainbridge—who struck Drew as something of a dry stick—couldn’t stop himself looking, then looking again.

  Dinner was delicious and plentiful, and Marguerite made sure that both wine and conversation flowed. She sat beside Begg and made it her business to flirt with him outrageously, while being sure to also give plenty of attention to Bainbridge and Drew.

  Once dinner was over and the gentlemen had all declined her admittedly unenthusiastic offer to leave them alone to their port, Marguerite led the party through to the music room. She manoeuvred Begg to sit beside her at the pianoforte on a too-small bench that required her to press herself up against him and began to monopolise his attention, playing ditties and telling him outrageous stories. Begg was soon laughing uproariously and trying not to look as though he was staring down her gown.

  Drew and Bainbridge had little choice but to sit on the chairs on the other side of the room, conveniently out of earshot.

  Drew replenished the brandy glass Bainbridge had brought through from the dining room and watched him sink half the spirit in one gulp. Smiling, he filled the glass again.

  “Damned fine brandy,” Bainbridge said. “It’s not easy to get the French stuff these days.”

  “That’s true,” Drew said. “But my wife has some useful connections in that regard.”

  They both glanced at Marguerite who was simpering up at Begg quite revoltingly. Begg was lapping it up, his meaty face flushed with pleasure.

  “Your wife is very beautiful,” Bainbridge said.

  “She is,” Drew agreed. “Very.” He waited a moment, then sighed and added, “Though she is also very exhausting.” Bainbridge’s brows went up at that admission and Drew chuckled softly before adding in a confiding tone, “She is a passionate woman. It is not easy to satisfy her, I admit, but I do my best. I am certainly too tired to even look at another woman!”

  Bainbridge cleared his throat uncomfortably, lifting his hand to cover his mouth—and Drew saw his chance.

  Fixing his gaze on Bainbridge’s hand, he said urgently, “Good God, is that—” Then he checked himself and, lowering his voice, continued, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bainbridge, but if I am not mistaken, your ring bears the symbol of the Order of the White Ravens.”

  Bainbridge’s eyes widened with palpable shock and he dropped his hand, his fingers curling into a loose fist by his side. “What makes you say that?”

  Drew shook his head, frowning. “I apologise. I should not have spoken—certainly not so bluntly. But it was a shock. I haven’t seen that symbol in years.”

  “What do you know of it?” Bainbridge demanded.

  By way of answer, Drew turned the narrow gold band on his own hand, revealing the signet of Cruikshank’s identical ring, which he’d been wearing with the crest concealed, turned to the underside of his finger.

  Bainbridge startled at the sight and, visibly pale, said, “Where did you get that? You are not—”

  “A member of the Order?” Drew said. “No, but I have been hoping to find someone who is for a long time.”

  “How did you learn of the Order?” Bainbridge whispered, glancing around to check that the others were not listening to their conversation.

  Drew did the same, making it clear he too saw this conversation as secret. Quietly he said, “My uncle—my mother’s brother—was a member. He never spoke of it, but he had diaries. I believe he meant to destroy them before his death, but he passed away quite suddenly and never got the chance. I was his heir, though I only came upon the diaries some years after his passing.”

  “He should not have been keeping—” Bainbridge began to hiss furiously, then broke off, pressing his lips tightly together.

  “Yes, I know,” Drew said. “The diaries said as much. But I can assure you, I have never shown them to another. I have always hoped that one day—”

  Bainbridge, who was frowning, spoke over him. “What was his name?”

  “Robert Frobisher,” Drew said, without hesitation. “Youngest son of Sir William Frobisher.”

  Most of the details Drew had just given regarding Mr. Frobisher were perfectly true—other than the fact that the he was no uncle of Drew’s. Marguerite had acquired the scattered and very dull remains of his rather self-regarding diaries a good twenty years before, which, to her disappointment, had done little to shed light on the activities of the Order. At least they were proving to be of some use now. A light had certainly dawned in Bainbridge’s eyes—the name of the dead man was clearly familiar to him.

  “Why did you say you’ve been hoping to find another member of the Order?” Bainbridge asked sharply. “To what end?”

  Drew met his shrewd gaze and said firmly, “Because I want to join. I understand there will be formalities, and that I may have to show my commitment. But I am well able to do so—I am willing to give both my time and my money. And I can assure you, Mr. Bainbridge, I have great deal of both of those commodities.”

  Something in Bainbridge’s eyes flickered, his scent shifting slightly.

  Avarice.

  “When I heard of the skeleton,” Drew went on, “Naturally I thought of what my uncle had written. And when I saw it.” He stepped closer and said softly but eagerly, “You don’t believe
that skeleton was a man with a bone growth disease any more than I do. You know what he was, don’t you?”

  Bainbridge said nothing, just kept watching Drew with an unflinching gaze, waiting.

  “The fangs, the elongated skull, the placement of the eye sockets—he was a werewolf, wasn’t he? Like the creature my uncle wrote about?”

  Bainbridge stared at him for several long, penetrating moments during which Drew began to feel sure that the man had somehow seen through him. Could see to the beast beneath his skin.

  But then Bainbridge’s eyes glittered strangely and he whispered, “It’s possible.”

  “Only possible?” Drew frowned, then shot Bainbridge an apologetic look. “I beg your pardon. I assumed you would have—” He broke off. “Never mind.”

  Bainbridge eyed him warily. “What?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me,” Bainbridge insisted.

  Drew sighed. “I just thought if I ever met a White Raven that they would have at least seen a wolf before.”

  “Seen a wolf?” Bainbridge retorted in harsh whisper. “I have more than merely seen one, Mr. Niven.”

  Drew leaned closer. “Have you?”

  Bainbridge’s aggrieved expression softened and his pale, almost colourless eyes gleamed. He didn’t answer immediately though, his gaze returning to the ring on Drew’s finger which he stared at fixedly, seeming to consider.

  Finally, he said, “You wish to join our Order, Mr. Niven? And contribute to our work? I will warn you now, our efforts come at a high cost and there is no return on the money you give—not in financial terms. We are working towards a higher purpose.”

  “I know,” Drew whispered. “You seek the secret of eternal life, do you not? I would gladly contribute to such a cause.” He paused, then added deliberately, “Provided I was convinced that I would benefit from it, of course. And that it was no sham.” He met Bainbridge’s eyes. “I am no gullible fool, Mr Bainbridge.”