“How long do you think you will be?” Francis asked as they drew close to Cruikshank’s house. Although Cruikshank had made it very clear that he was not welcome, Francis had insisted on coming, to wait outside for Lindsay.
Lindsay shrugged. “Difficult to say. Don’t worry if I’m a while. He likes to play with people.”
“Hmm.” Francis sounded unconvinced but he didn’t argue. Instead, he headed for a shadowy corner of the street opposite Cruikshank’s house and settled in to watch.
Lindsay walked up to the front door and rapped it with his cane. He was dressed in sapphire blue and silver finery this evening and his hair was powdered. Dressed like this, he was less the outrageous Macaroni and more the remote, intimidating aristocrat, his clothing of a more restrained elegance.
The door swung open revealing Meek in all his awkward black-and-gold glory.
“Mr. Somerville,” he said in an uncharacteristically polite tone. “Come in. Mr. Cruikshank will be with ye shortly.”
Lindsay inclined his head and entered, watching Meek carefully.
All of sudden, he felt wary. There was something... something in the air. Something about Meek. He followed the man down the corridor and into a small sitting room.
“Would ye like some tea, sir?” Meek asked.
Lindsay frowned, discombobulated by the man’s unexpected politeness. Tea? Was this really Cruikshank’s surly servant?
“No, thank you,” he said. “Will your master be long? I’ve another appointment this evening.”
“I’ll tell him, sir,” Meek assured Lindsay and left the room.
Several minutes passed, but at length the door opened, and this time it was Cruikshank. He was dressed properly this evening, no banyan or slippers. But no wig either, just a suit of plain black that made him look like a cleric.
“Mr. Somerville,” he said. And then he smiled, revealing uneven yellow teeth that Lindsay hadn’t seen before. Lindsay hadn’t known he could smile.
“Do I take it ye were able to complete yer business with yer bankers today?” Cruikshank asked.
“I was,” Lindsay said. “I have the draft with me. Do you have the rest of the papers?”
“In my strongroom,” Cruikshank confirmed. “Come along.”
He made for the door, moving a bit quicker than usual. There was something different about him tonight. That smile, and the note of cheer in his usually dry, flat voice. It unsettled Lindsay.
Then again, he was just about to become four hundred guineas richer. That would cheer anyone.
When they reached the corridor, they encountered Meek. He wore a grubby greatcoat over his livery and was heading for the front door.
“G’night, sir.” He nodded at Cruikshank and left the house without sparing a glance for Lindsay.
Cruikshank didn’t comment on the encounter, merely led the way down the shadowy corridor. The house was very quiet.
When they reached the strongroom door, Cruikshank lifted his heavy key ring from where it hung at his waist and undid the three locks one by one. They must be getting easier with use, Lindsay thought idly. Cruikshank wasn’t having nearly as much trouble with them this evening.
Finally, the door opened, and a tangle of scents bombarded Lindsay.
The first thing he saw was Drew—his mate—kneeling on the floor.
Then he realised Drew’s hands were bound, a big, bulky man keeping him in place, with one hand fisted in his bright hair, and a glinting sword held to his throat. The man’s face was in shadow, but Lindsay knew him by his unmistakable scent.
Mercer.
Mercer stepped into the light. His smile was as ugly as the rest of him. “Good evening, cur.”
Lindsay’s wolf clamoured to shift, to attack, scrabbling up to the surface with desperate whines, making Lindsay’s heart thunder in his ears and his blood race. He held the beast back though. It was too risky—one slice of that sword and Drew was dead. Mercer grinned at the knowledge, showing strong, sharp teeth.
“Come in,” he said affably. “We’ve much to talk about.”
Drew’s head lolled. He seemed dazed, an ugly bruise blooming on his temple, his lip swollen and bleeding. He sagged a little on his knees.
“Lindsay?” He sounded confused. “What are you—?”
“It’s all right,” Lindsay said, trying to sound reassuring, as ridiculous as that was. Warily, he stepped further into the room, his gaze shifting between the two men in front of him.
Behind him, the door closed, freezing his blood.
Locks tumbled as Cruikshank sealed it.
This was it, then. A moment he’d been dreading for a hundred years.
“What do you want?” Lindsay bit out.
Mercer jerked his head at Drew who was half-slumped at his feet. Drew didn’t react—was he even conscious? “Not your usual type, is he?” Mercer sneered.
Lindsay didn’t react. “I barely know him,” he said.
“Not what I hear.” Mercer said. He nodded at Cruikshank over Lindsay’s shoulder. “Unlucky for you, he had a boy watching your friend here—before you arrived even. He was looking for a chance at blackmailing him.” He laughed, adding in a conspiratorial tone, “He’s up to all sorts, is Cruikshank. Fingers in every pie—you wouldn’t believe!”
Lindsay just stared at him.
“And then you come along,” Mercer said, grinning now. “Tripping up to this one’s rooms, and him tripping down to yours.” He gave a hearty laugh and nodded at Cruikshank again. “When that auld bastard told me about it, I said, ‘Our cur’s been fucking him, I’ll wager!’ and I see a chance, don’t I? To get you back before our master gets home.” He smiled, evilly. “So, let’s sort this out now, shall we?”
“Sort what out?” Lindsay managed, his voice scathing, fear for Drew firmly clamped down. “You can’t beat me in a fair fight, and you know it.” He sneered the words hoping to goad Mercer into shifting and attacking Lindsay, taking his attention from Drew. Mercer had always been hotheaded and quick to anger, prone to shifting before thinking.
But it seemed that Mercer wasn’t so easily manipulated anymore. Though his jaw pulsed and his pale eyes glinted with temper, he kept control of his wolf. “Apparently I was wrong, Cruikshank,” he said, addressing the old man without taking his gaze from Lindsay’s face. “Our friend here doesn’t actually care if I slice this one’s throat.” He pulled Drew’s head back again. “Shall I do it, then?”
Lindsay’s heart thundered and his mind raced, but he couldn’t think of a way out.
“Well?” Mercer prompted, “Have you changed so much? You used to be so sentimental about mortals.” He pressed the sword a little closer to Drew’s throat and widened his eyes. “Now?” he whispered.
Drew stirred, moaning, and Lindsay’s wolf howled with pain.
“No,” he said, defeated.
“Good,” Mercer replied with satisfaction. He glanced at Cruikshank. “Get the collar.”
Lindsay flinched, unable to disguise his reaction to that word, and Mercer’s grin widened. Cruikshank headed for his desk, pulling out his key ring.
Drew stirred again and tried to pull free of Mercer’s grip. “What is this?” he slurred, dazed and distressed, and Lindsay stepped towards him instinctively.
“Don’t move!” Mercer snapped, and Lindsay froze, hands curling into fists in frustration. “Not another step or I’ll end him, understand?”
Drew moaned and tried to pull away again.
“Stay still,” Lindsay instructed softly, and Drew subsided, as though soothed by Lindsay’s voice.
Cruikshank was moving towards them again, a hessian bag in his hands. He stopped a few feet from Lindsay and opened the bag, drawing out a silver circlet with a stout fastening, which he immediately dropped. Cursing, he stared at his hand, then at Mercer, a question in his eyes.
“It stings,” he said, sounding puzzled and annoyed in equal measure.
What?
“You’ll be glad you won’t be wea
ring it then,” Mercer replied. “Use the bag to pick it up, fool.”
Cruikshank dropped easily to his haunches to pick up the collar, using the hessian bag to shield his fingers from the metal.
Lindsay stared at him, noting the ease of his movements with horror. He glanced at Mercer. “You bit him? Turned him? But—but how? The Urge—”
Mercer’s grin was feral. “Our master promised Cruikshank the bite if he lured you here, and he commanded me to give that bite if Cruikshank kept his side of the bargain.” He laughed. “It seems the Urge can be created by compulsion. Perhaps after this, the master will order me to make more wolves for him.” Lindsay stared at him, appalled, but Mercer continued unabashed. “I must say though, I’m surprised the bite took with that one. He’s decrepit.”
Cruikshank rose fluidly from his crouch, the collar now shielded from his hand by the hessian bag. There was no sign now of the rheumatism that had made his movements so slow and painful before. He spared a look of dislike for Mercer, then turned his attention to Lindsay, a sneering smile on his face. “Mr. MacCormaic tells me he is well-acquainted with ye, Somerville—and very anxious to renew that acquaintance. He told me ye’d come looking for the Naismith papers. Sure enough, ye did—and I didn’t need to stall you for very long before Mr. Mercer here arrived from Perthshire to deal wi’ ye.”
“And thanks to this one,” Mercer added, nodding at Drew, “I didn’t need to wait for our master to get here to get the collar back on you. I knew you’d hand yourself over willingly to save him.”
Anxiety rippled through Lindsay. Anxiety and sense of horrible inevitability. This moment had always been coming. Since the moment Lindsay had escaped MacCormaic’s Keep. Deep inside him, the cur cowered and whimpered, but his wolf stood strong.
His mate needed him.
He didn’t know what Mercer saw on his face, but whatever it was, it seemed to amuse the man. “He stinks of you, you know. As soon as he walked in here, I smelled you on him, and I knew right then I had you. I might not be able to take you down on my own anymore, but you’re such a fucking martyr, I knew you’d want to save him.” Mercer sighed happily. “Ah, Lindsay, this is going to be just like old times. Except this time”—his grin was wide and savage—“this time you know what you’re getting into. You know what wearing that collar means.”
And God, Lindsay did. He knew it all. Knew what it meant to be Duncan’s slave, and that Duncan would make sure he never escaped again. It would be a living death sentence and there was a small part of Lindsay that wanted to do nothing but run. He could fight his way out of this room—Cruikshank would be no challenge and he was confident he could take Mercer. His wolf was stronger now. He could fight his way out, get Francis, try to save Drew.
The only trouble was, Drew had no hope of surviving that fight. The first thing Mercer would do would be to slay him.
Lindsay could not allow that to happen.
Drew was his bond-mate. He knew it with utter certainty now.
“So, it’s me for his life, is it?”
“That’s it,” Mercer agreed cheerfully. “You put on the collar; I let him go. I have a cart waiting at the back of the house and fast horses a mile from here.”
Francis was out front—he’d scent them as soon as they were out, but with Lindsay’s wolf imprisoned by a silver collar, his gentle friend could not take on Mercer alone. Lindsay would have to go with Mercer and hope Francis and Marguerite could track him down later.
Oh God, hope. Hope was almost the cruellest thing of all.
Lindsay swallowed hard, then forced himself to speak. “I’ll need your oath that you’ll let Nicol go.”
“What? No!” That was Cruikshank. They both turned to look at him. “Ye cannae let him go!” he said to Mercer. “Not after all this—he’ll go talking to people, accuse me o’—”
Mercer’s glare was enough to silence him.
Mercer turned back to Lindsay then. “Very well. You have my oath.”
“But—” Cruikshank broke in.
Mercer turned on him, temper flaring and Cruikshank shrank back.
“Say one more word and I’ll bury this blade in you,” Mercer hissed. “I settled with you already. Our deal is done. Anything else you want, is your business. Understand?”
Cruikshank’s gaze was baleful, but he nodded.
“Lindsay—what’s happening?” Drew mumbled. He’d rallied again and was now shaking his head, as though trying to clear it.
“It’s all right,” Lindsay said softly. “You’ll be free in a minute.”
“What? Why?”
Lindsay tore off his neckcloth and threw it aside, baring his throat. His shirt gaped. He held out his hand out to Cruikshank. Cruikshank glanced at Mercer, and at his nod, handed the silver circlet to Lindsay.
“What are you doing?” Drew’s voice sounded stronger now, edged with a note of panic.
Mercer licked his lips, his eyes gleaming. “Lindsay Somerville,” he murmured. “The things I’m going to do to you.”
Lindsay’s stomach turned at the avid look in his eyes.
Drew began trying to struggle to his feet.
“Stay where you are!” Mercer barked, but Drew fought him, staggering a little as he rose groggily. Mercer sent him back to his knees with a savage kick and set the sword at his throat. “If you move again, you die,” he hissed in Drew’s ear, his gaze on Lindsay. “As you for you, cur, get that collar on or I’m ending him.”
Gritting his teeth, and ignoring his burning hands, Lindsay raised the collar and unhinged the clasp, opening it up.
“Lindsay, what the hell are you doing?” Drew demanded. His gaze was clearing now, and he looked desperate.
“It’s my fault you’re here,” Lindsay said. “I’m getting you out.” For a moment, he just stared at the wide-open silver jaws of the circlet, terror and hopelessness churning in him. Then he set the collar about his throat and pressed the fastening closed with a soft click. Immediately, he gasped, both at the sucking burn of the metal on his skin and, worse, the imprisonment of his wolf. He felt his slavedom settle upon him, heavy and terrible and inevitable.
“Take it off!” Drew shouted. “What are you doing?”
“He’s returning to his master,” Mercer said with satisfaction. “Where he belongs.” He thrust Drew away from him and the man fell to the ground on his side, his bound arms behind him. “Go,” Mercer snapped. “Get out.” For a moment, Drew just stared at him, flinching when Mercer lifted his sword and brought it down, only realising a moment later that Mercer had severed the rope binding his hands.
Drew scrambled to his feet but he stayed where he was, glancing now at Lindsay, now at Mercer, or rather, Mercer’s sword.
“Lindsay,” he said. “Take that thing off your neck. Come with me.”
Lindsay met his gaze, his own calm. “I can’t. I have vouchsafed your freedom but in return, I must go with him.”
“What? No!” Drew cried.
“It’s time you left,” Mercer told him in a deadly voice, twirling his sword in lazy circles. “Cruikshank, open the door.”
“I c-c-can’t,” Cruikshank said. His voice was oddly thick and when Lindsay looked at him, his face was contorting strangely, as though he had some kind of palsy.
Mercer let out a bellow of rage. “Open it now!”
Cruikshank dropped to his knees, head bent and began making retching noises. Something cracked and Cruikshank let out a howl of pain.
“What’s happening?” Drew whispered.
“I’m surprised the bite took with that one...
Mercer was laughing now, watching as Cruikshank writhed face down on the floor, whimpering and moaning. “I warned you you were too old,” he sneered, then advanced on Drew again, sword high, saying to Lindsay, “Get the keys and open the door, cur. Then we can let your lover go and be on our way.”
Lindsay obeyed, crossing the room to crouch beside Cruikshank, jerking his coat aside to find the key ring at his waist. As he fu
mbled through the folds of fabric, Cruikshank went still and quiet, the spasms that had been racking his body finally ceasing.
Lindsay grasped his shoulder and turned him over, only for Cruikshank—or what had once been Cruikshank—to launch itself at him, tackling Lindsay onto his back with an unholy growl that sounded like nothing Lindsay had ever heard before. Like an animal trying to speak human words, a horrible distortion of a voice.
Lindsay’s breath whooshed out of him, his landing winding him so badly he was gasping for air. The silver collar at his throat felt like a garotte and Cruikshank’s face looming over him was terrible. His nose and mouth had stretched into a half-formed, lopsided snout. A jumble of old and new teeth protruded from the misshapen jaws and drool fell from his stretched, cracked lips. His little round eyes bulged crookedly.
“Gaawrroo dunnnmmeeee.”
What have you done to me?
Gasping in air and cursing the collar at this throat imprisoning his wolf, Lindsay braced his hands against Cruikshank’s chest to shove him off, only for the man to be wrenched off him by someone else—Drew—and thrown to the ground again. Lindsay scrambled to his feet, taking in Drew’s horrified expression as he stared at Cruikshank’s monstrous face. “What is he?” he whispered, but before Lindsay could answer, Cruikshank was on his feet and throwing himself at Drew with unnatural agility, his deformed jaws wide to bite.
Drew fell back under the unexpected assault. Even as he toppled, Cruikshank covering him, Lindsay was launching himself into the fray, while Mercer stood watching, rage in his eyes, his sword raised to swing.
Drew landed on the floor with a crash, his head knocking hard into the solid wall. Cruikshank was at his throat immediately, growling and snapping and trying to bite. Lindsay grasped the old man’s hairless skull and yanked his snarling jaws away from Drew. Cruikshank snapped madly and let out more of those unholy animalised words, his aged body writhing with unnatural strength. He was not as strong as a normal wolf though. Even in his human skin, and collared, Lindsay was just able to hold him, adjusting his grip to pull him fully off Drew’s body and turn him to Mercer.
“Finish him!” Lindsay yelled, but Mercer just stood there, his gaze moving between Lindsay and Cruikshank and Drew who was sitting up now and slowly, dazedly pulling himself to his feet.
Gentleman Wolf Page 20
