by Terry Spear
“You’re not going to object to the marriage, are you?” Ian said as more of an observation than a question.
Cearnach straightened. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there.
Sounding deeply exasperated, Ian let out his breath. “Couldn’t you have worn something less… antagonistic?”
At that, Cearnach couldn’t help but smile… an evil smile. He turned to face his brother. “What? My kilt? I’m proud of being a MacNeill.”
“Aye, and the sword?” Ian said, motioning to it.
“Part of the formal dress. All wolves wear them to Highland weddings. I wouldn’t be caught dead without it.”
“Aye, but in this case they might consider you a threat, thinking possibly you have plans to steal the bride away, a time-honored tradition in the Highlands and still among wolves. Here’s hoping you won’t have to use your sword. Call me when you get there and after it’s done. I want to know if I have to send the troops out to rescue you.”
Cearnach bowed his head slightly in acceptance. “I’m off, Ian. Wish me luck.”
Ian shook his head. “You may need it, Brother.”
Feeling disconcerted about Calla and what she was about to do, but not worried about his own safety as he could hold his own against any of the McKinley clan, Cearnach stalked out of his brother’s solar. He walked down the corridor where paintings of past clan chiefs and their mates hung on the walls, keeping watch as if to guide the clan on its way.
Cearnach hurried through the great hall, shoved the massive oak door to the keep open, and closed it behind him. His boots tromping on the ancient stone pavers, he crossed the inner bailey to the garage near the stables where he and his brothers’ cars were parked.
The gray clouds were darkening, the smell of a rainstorm gathering power and a cold breeze whipping around him. He hoped the rain would hold off until after he reached the church. Two of his cousins were practicing fighting with swords, their weapons singing as steel met steel.
Another couple of men were wearing their wolf coats, lying on their stomachs, heads raised, ears perked, while they enjoyed observing the sword play, always looking for tips and techniques they could use themselves. They turned to see him and bowed their heads in greeting as the men who were sparring stopped briefly to acknowledge their second-in-command.
He nodded and continued without stopping. If he was to make it to the wedding on time, he would have to drive a wee bit faster than he’d intended. He didn’t want to think too deeply about why he was going to arrive a little late. Ian was right. He never was late to anything.
But he wanted to ensure that he wasn’t thrown out of the church before Calla knew he had arrived, and he wanted Baird McKinley to know that Cearnach wouldn’t be stopped from making an appearance.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anlan, one of their Irish wolfhounds, racing to greet him. “Not now, Anlan,” Cearnach said as one of the men and the two wolves headed the dog off. Thwarted, Anlan woofed, telling Cearnach that he wanted to go for a ride.
“Fatherhood already getting you down?” Cearnach asked. Anlan’s pups were two months old and ready for new homes as soon as Ian or his mate, who was the holdup really, offered them for sale.
Anlan whimpered, standing still and looking so longingly in Cearnach’s direction that Cearnach knew the hound wanted desperately to go for a ride with him. Cearnach could just envision the sight, him in Highland dress with his long-legged, lanky, bristle-furred hound at his side as he entered the church.
Cearnach climbed into the silver minivan, turned over the engine, and headed out of the garage wishing he had something grander and faster to drive—like a Mercedes-Benz roadster or a Ferrari. If it wasn’t about to rain, a Lamborghini convertible would have been nice.
He drove through the open castle gates and then through the outer bailey. Out on the main road, he tore off in the direction of the church and cursed the wind for impeding his progress.
Trying to get his mind off the drive ahead and the dwindling time, he thought about Calla and the regret he felt that he couldn’t have been the one for her. They just didn’t have what it took to be a couple.
No matter how many times he told himself Calla understood what she was doing, he knew Baird McKinley didn’t deserve her. She was making a big mistake.
An hour later, only halfway to the church and with the strong headwind thwarting his progress, Cearnach came around a bend in the hilly road to see a black Mercedes hogging the pavement in his lane. Since the other driver wasn’t budging, Cearnach jerked his car off the road before they collided head-on.
Hell and damnation!
With the rate of speed he was going, the car sailed over the rocks littering the terrain, ripping up the rear tires with a boom! And another boom! The tires exploded before he could brake the car enough to stop it.
Cursing a blue streak, he cut the engine and climbed out of the car to see who the idiot driver was. Probably someone who had been celebrating a wee bit too much. He grabbed his sheathed sword and strapped it around his waist.
The black car had pulled to the side of the road, the driver hidden behind tinted windows, the engine purring.
The chilly wind tugging at his hair and kilt, Cearnach stormed toward the vehicle. He was ready to commandeer it to drive to the wedding, while letting the driver sleep the liquor off in the backseat.
When the driver’s door opened, a long-legged brunette stepped out of the car. He had a hell of a time shifting his gaze from those shapely legs and a pair of sexy high-heeled pumps—her clingy red dress having risen to mid-thigh before it settled lower—to see how good the rest of her looked. Especially since he’d expected some sloppy-drunk male type.
Seeing a woman instead, one hell of a shapely woman, he hesitated, and the anger quelled in an instant.
His gaze traveled upward to take in the rest of the package. The wind blowing in her direction forced the dress’s red slinky fabric to cling to her shapely legs, hips, and everything in between. The dress screamed hot and available. At least to him.
The neckline wasn’t all that low, just enough to show off the swell of her breasts, but her reaction to his perusing her was what made him direct his attention upward while he bit back a smile. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them a little and making him wish he could do the honors, and then she let out an annoyed huff of breath.
More than anything, he loved her reaction and wasn’t beyond pushing her a bit after she’d forced him off the road and ruined two of his tires.
“Done looking?” she asked. The hint of sarcasm amused him when he should still have been furious about what she’d done to his vehicle.
She was American, not a Scottish lass, which meant she was trouble if she was anything like his brothers Ian and Duncan’s mates, except both of the women were wolves—Julia of the red wolf variety, and Shelley, a gray.
“All right,” she said, now sounding really annoyed. “I get it. You’re a big, bad Highland warrior type of wolf, and you have to present this image…”
She knew he was a wolf?
Only one way she’d know that. She smelled his wolf scent. Only one way she could do that. She was also a wolf. He didn’t hear the rest of her words as his gaze shot up to her face.
Her eyes widened, giving her a startled look as she met his gaze.
She was beautiful and elegant, not just the sweet and innocent bonny girl who lives in the cottage next door, but vibrant and ultra-sexy with dark brown eyes—granted, narrowed at him—and lush black lashes, high cheekbones, and full lips that were any man’s wet dream.
After getting over his initial shock, he crowded her as a wolf would, checking her out, sensing her response to him, learning if she truly was a wolf. She nearly folded into the car, trying to back away from him. He seized her arm to keep her cl
ose and moved his face in to get a good whiff of her. The wind was blowing in her direction, carrying his scent to her but hers away from him.
But being this close, he smelled her. She-wolf. Gray. A hint of a seductive floral fragrance.
He took in another breath, attempting to learn how she felt about him, trying to see if she was angered, intrigued, scared. Any strong emotions would be revealed in her scent. He frowned. She smelled familiar somehow. From the scent he gathered from her, she was angered, intrigued, and a wee bit scared. Just as she should be around an imposing Highlander of the Old World like he was.
“Bloody hell,” he said, quickly releasing her, not wanting to feel any interest in the lass. But he continued to remain in her space, continued to suck in the air around her, continued to enjoy the essence of the wolf. He couldn’t help it. When a female was this enticing, he was all male wolf.
Then again, something more about the woman intrigued him. She was not friendly, more irritated than anything, and he figured if she had a sgian dubh, the traditional knife worn with a kilt, hidden in that clingy creation, she would force him to back off. She slipped her hands between them and touched his chest in a way that said, “Back off,” as if she thought she could keep him at bay.
He swore the heat from her hands seared him right through his Prince Charlie jacket, vest, and white shirt, all the way to his bare chest.
She was a wolf with attitude and a total turn-on.
Large brown eyes gazed at him like a wolf who could read his every thought, every bit as welcoming and seductive as the rest of her. Dark brown hair tinted with natural highlights of red and gold softly curled to her shoulders, the wind catching it and tossing it to and fro in a playful way. Her mouth was still pursed, looking quite kissable.
One of her brows arched heavenward.
Normally he thought himself easygoing, except when someone destroyed his property. In her case, he would make a rare exception. He smiled at the realization that she wasn’t thoroughly intimidated by him. If she’d been human, she would have been. Even a female wolf outside her own territory should be. But the little American she-wolf wouldn’t give an inch.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elaine Hawthorn.” She stared him down like a wolf that wouldn’t be cowed, but she didn’t ask his name or act as though she wanted it.
He eyed her more closely, sure he had seen her somewhere before. A long… very long time ago. That was the problem with living for so many years. He wasn’t good at remembering new names and faces in the short term. Long term? Even worse.
Something about her appearance and something about her reaction to him had him wondering.
“Have we met before, lass?” He felt less hostile, but he still had a mission and her driving him off the road wasn’t going to thwart him.
She shook her head too quickly, as if she realized he couldn’t recall who she was, and she wanted to keep it that way.
“Do you know my name?” he asked, even though he assumed she’d say no. He could judge by her reaction, even if it was subtle, if she was telling the truth.
“How could I? I only just arrived in Scotland.” She was too aggressive in her response, instead of just politely saying, No, I don’t know you.
He might not be real good at names and faces, but as intriguing as she was, he remembered her from somewhere before. “I’m Cearnach MacNeill.”
She frowned a little. “How do you spell your name?”
He spelled it out for her, then added, “It’s pronounced like ‘Care-knock’ with the ‘ck’ at the end kind of sliding off to a ‘och’ sound.” He waited for some form of recognition.
She gave it, even though she fought to keep her control… a subtle change in her scent, worry, maybe. Not a strong sense of anxiety. Just something vague. She licked her lips nervously, not in a seductive way. Glistening with fresh moisture, they looked too appealing.
She dropped her hands from his chest, as if she didn’t want to touch him any longer and maybe trigger some deeper memory. Or maybe he was looking too interested in her in a feral way.
He hated losing that intimate touch, even though she had used her hands as a barrier to his being so close to her. The exchange felt like so much more to him.
Suddenly remembering why he was here in the first place—to attend Calla’s wedding—he said, “You’ll give me a ride to the wedding I’m attending. I’m already late.” At least he assumed he was late. He hadn’t calculated any extra time into his travel plans, and he’d already figured he’d arrive about the time everyone else took their seats in the church.
“Wedding? Don’t tell me…” She put a finger to her chin, the skin beneath her eyes crinkling with wry amusement. Then she pointed at him, the point of her fingertip hovering so close to his chest that he was just waiting for her to make the intimate connection again. This time she didn’t, to his disappointment. “It’s your wedding.”
“If it was, would that make a difference?” He watched her expression, seeing the sparkle of humor in her eyes. He didn’t know why he’d asked, except that he could smell the way he intrigued her, just as much as she intrigued him. He really wanted to know—did it matter to her?
“It depends. I might be saving the bride from a fate worse than death if I delayed your marrying her.”
At that, Cearnach grinned. He loved a woman with a sense of humor. “It’s my friend’s wedding.”
“Ah, then that’s a different matter. Can’t disappoint a friend.” She truly sounded sympathetic. “Why don’t you have a spare tire? I guess it would be inconvenient to change a tire in all this wind while wearing a kilt.” This time she raked him up and down with a sassy viewing of his whole body, her expression one of pure feminine delight.
His body tightened with need.
She was just as diligent in looking him over as he had been with her. It was as if they were sparring. Her thorough job of looking was enough to turn up the heat already making his blood sizzle.
“I would have no difficulty changing a tire in or out of my kilt.” He motioned to the car where the rear tires were perfectly deflated. “As you can see, lassie, you ruined two tires. I only have one spare. Now I’m later than before, and you’re driving me to the wedding.”
“I’ll be late for my appointment. You’ll have to call someone else to help you out.”
Ignoring her plans since she’d ruined his own and she owed him, he said, “If I had to wait for assistance, I’d miss the whole ceremony. So you’ll take me to the wedding since my car isn’t going anywhere and you helped to put it there.”
Cearnach decided the only way to make the woman see his position was to escort her to the passenger side of the car and help her in, if she needed the assistance. He was always a gentleman when with women. “Only I’ll be driving so we get there in one piece.”
She balked, glanced down at his legs, frowned, and motioned to his right leg where the top of the handle of his sgian dubh poked out of his kilt hose. “You’re already wearing a dagger.”
“Part of the Highland formal dress.” He bowed his head slightly, his face growing so close to hers that they almost touched.
“I know, but why the big sword also? Expecting to go to war?”
He smiled a little. “Wolves tend to carry on their traditions from long ago. We all carry swords to wolf weddings. It’s… strictly for show.” At least that’s what he hoped it would be. Just like he hoped all the other guests at the wedding would be so attired.
She finally let out her breath but yielded, albeit reluctantly, climbed into the car in a huff, showing off a lot of leg, and quickly yanked her skirt down. She folded her arms and stared up at him as he towered over her, her expression mutinous. “You were driving way too fast. That’s why you ran off the road.”
“You were driving in my lane.”
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“There’s only one lane out here,” she retorted, brows lifted, waiting for him to disagree.
He shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t win this argument, then slammed her door. He stalked around to the driver’s side and got in. Despite knowing she was in the wrong—although she was not a local and obviously hadn’t known the rules of the road—he did feel a twinge of regret that she would miss her appointment. Or… date, maybe. She looked as though she intended to meet someone special. Another wolf? Or just a human? Then again, if so, she probably would have called it a date, not an appointment.
He glanced at her as he started the engine. “Where were you going?”
“Senton Castle.”
He pulled onto the road and continued to the church, driving even faster than before. “It’s in ruins.”
“I know that,” she said icily.
“It’s located about a quarter of a mile from here in the opposite direction from the way you were traveling. You must have missed the road that would take you there.” Or she wasn’t really going there and hadn’t wanted him to know where she was truly meeting up with the bloke.
She frowned and looked back over her shoulder as if she could see the road leading to the castle that way. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. Then she folded her arms and glanced down at his kilt. “Is it a Highland wedding?”
“Good guess. We’re in the Highlands and I’m going to a wedding. Aye, it’s a Highland wedding.”
She took a deep, exasperated breath. “I meant is everyone wearing traditional Highland dress at the wedding, or are you the only one who will be dressed like that?” She motioned to his kilt, sounding as though she thought he was being foolish even though she had appeared to like the way he looked when she had given him the once-over.
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?”
This time she smiled. “It’s kind of cute, really.”
