Wolf's Castle

by Madelyn Hill

  She patted her stomach when it growled. Aye, was time to break her fast. Determined to brave the world outside, she straightened and tipped up her chin as she left the chamber in search of the dining room. Darkened halls swallowed her as she tread over worn rugs toward the stairs. Pictures flanked the walls like watchful souls guarding a secret.

  Vivian stopped and backed against the wall when an eerie cry emanated from the interior of the castle. Aye, her situation ‘twas bad enough, but now she was in a haunted castle.

  “Hello?” She waited a moment for a response and then took a few hesitant steps forward. “Hello?” A chill raised the hair on her arms. Spinning around, she raced toward the stairwell until her skirt snagged on a chair.

  “Dear God,” she whispered with fright.

  Her breathing quickened as she tugged furiously to free herself, her nerves making her clumsy. The chair tumbled forward, releasing its hold and she ran. She turned down a hall, only to meet with a dead end. Heart thumping wildly against her chest, Vivian raced once again to another hall. Crazed thoughts filled her mind and she remembered the image of the half wolf-half man figure in the tapestry in her room.

  Where were Nessa and Bernard? The huge castle seemed to swell in size as she searched for anyone. Almost giving in to the horror of the situation, Vivian clung to the wall for strength as she found her bearings and caught her breath. Trembling, she followed the hall until she found a stairwell.

  A voice boomed from below.

  “They must leave.”

  A quavering voice gave weak protest. “M’laird, ‘tis too dangerous.”

  A roar vibrated the air. Vivian hesitated before easing down the stairs. Her fingers skimmed the wooden railing; scaly snakeskin textured its carved surface. She pulled her hand back and wiped it on her skirt.

  Though the voices ceased, Vivian cautiously walked across the foyer. How queer to be in a house full of anger and darkness. It was as if the very core of the castle, every wall, ceiling, and floor held a darkness that befouled the very air she drew in. Still rattled, the beating of her heart didn’t slow. It sat firmly lodged in her throat.

  “She’ll leave,” that imperious voice decreed.

  “M’laird, the weather ‘tisn’t fit for travel. Think of the lass.”

  Vivian braved the breakfast room, the air so thick with tension she nearly choked on it. Instead of bolting as every instinct warned her, begged her to do, she watched Laird Maclean pace before the breakfront.

  Like the man in the tapestry, there was a wildness to him. Something untamed like the very island where he lived.

  He was broad and tall with a leanness filled out in the breadth of his shoulders. His linen shirt, untucked from his plaid, flared around him. He looked dangerous—savage. Male. A face carved of stone with a countenance to match. It was unsettling how he intrigued and frightened her all at once.

  When his gaze landed on her, the hair on the back of her neck rose, dousing her previous thoughts. How could she stay in a house with a man who had such icy blue eyes? Eyes that rivaled the clearest gem as they pierced her with a glare that rattled her to the bone.

  “Eat quickly,” he snapped. “You may use my boat.”

  Sleet continued to pound the leaded windows, peculiar music for this unwelcome scene.

  Taking a tiny step forward, she gripped the back of a dining chair for strength. Despite her desire to be home, she realized leaving during a storm may prove to be a mistake she’d be a fool to make again. “Our deaths will be on your conscience.”

  He narrowed his gaze at her. “They will not be the first, to be sure.”

  She gasped.

  The laird’s lengthy stride put him by her side in a fraction of a second. She winced as he reached for her. The cool calculation of his eyes never wavered as he tipped her chin up with a long finger. She braved a direct look at him as he rose before her like a solid stone wall. Hard, unforgiving, devilish.

  “Our little dove seems to have spunk, Liam.” His mouth curved into a mocking smile that never reached his eyes. “Pity she won’t be staying in my castle.”

  Abruptly, he let go of her face and swaggered out of the room. “Feed her,” he called over his shoulder. The uncaring, low rumble of his voice raked over her.

  The aged man looked around uncertainly. Wringing his hands, he mumbled, “M’lady, I must be doing as he says.”

  With a nod, Vivian released her iron grip on the chair along with the breath she had been holding.

  She took in her surroundings and quickly prayed to be anywhere else. Another desperately dreary room. Candles dripped over the worn tabletop, the waxy residue consuming the wood. Liam cowered when glass shattered in the distance. Although startled as well, she pitied the trembling butler.

  The sound of strong footfall resonated on the floors, moving in their direction. Vivian went to the butler’s side and wrapped a supportive arm around his hunched shoulders.

  That was how he found them.

  Was she helping Liam or bringing more fury in his direction? Laird Maclean’s obvious anger skittered past the old man and landed directly on her. Over six feet tall by the looks of him, he stood with his fist placed imperiously at his waist, feet spread in an intimidating stance. When he spoke, his teeth gleamed like those of a rabid dog. “The storm flooded the cave. You won’t be leaving today.”

  Vivian nodded, too shocked to speak, and felt the butler’s tension ease. She wished the same were true for herself, but she was suspended in a state of grief and turmoil.

  Laird Maclean relaxed his arms and brushed his hand through his thick graying hair. “You’re not to leave the castle,” he said with a low rumble. “Stay in your chambers except at meal time.”

  “What of the Farleys?” Oh, how she hated the tremor of her voice. Come, Vivian, she chided herself, stand up to this man.

  “They’ll be expected to help about, of that be sure.”

  Aye, it was an agreeable request. “I need to be outdoors. They can walk with me.”

  Weather permitting she’d often tended the small gardens at Westington, close enough not to worry her father, never too far from his watchful eye. The blooms acted as companions, their petaled faces smiling up at her in welcome. The memory brought the sweet scent of yellow roses and fragrant lavender close.

  “Aye,” she affirmed after sniffing the damp dining room. “I need to walk at least once a day.”

  He cocked a brow in her direction. “Dare you defy me?”

  She wasn’t used to this brutish type of behavior. Never had her father, Bernard, or Nessa acted so uncivil. She’d lived in a home filled with peace and laughter. Until now or, she corrected, until her father brought home an apprentice. Aye, she kenned a person who was nearly as uncivil as Laird Maclean. Luckily he was in Perth and she was far from his grasp.

  All she wanted was to stroll the moors, to breathe fresh air and find a way to escape the bedeviling gaze of the man before her.

  She straightened her spine. “Am I to be your prisoner?” she said with a softness that disguised her aggravation with this beast of a man.

  Laird Maclean’s sizzling gaze burned a hole through her. Vivian retreated a step.

  “You’ll stay indoors.” His shout pounded off the walls in a demanding echo as his chest heaved and his jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he’d strike her.

  Liam touched her arm, giving a slight squeeze. Frustrated, she looked to the old man and saw the quick shake of his head.

  “Shouldn’t you be introducing yourself, m’laird?” the butler prodded.

  He gave the old man a look as if he’d sprouted three heads. “Och, what are you blathering about, old mon?”

  With an awkward shrug, Liam added, “It would be the polite thing to do.”

  “If you insist,” he said with an aggravated wave of his hand. Bowing with the arrogance Vivian thought a dominant trait in the man, he straightened and announced his title. “Laird Galen Alexander Maclean, Earl of Lomarcan at your o
h so humble service. Welcome to Lomarcan, or shall I say Wolf’s Castle.”

  If she were anywhere else—in a castle with gilt moldings and marble floors instead of gargoyles and cobwebs—Vivian would have believed the welcoming brogue of his voice. Yet here she stood in a desperate situation, in a nightmare, and she was at a loss for words as fear lodged itself in her stomach.

  Realizing the laird was watching her with an expectant arch of his brow, she curtsied in return. “As you know, I’m Miss Vivian Stuart.”

  His eyes gleamed wickedly as his gazed traveled the length of her body. His heated expression made his eyes look like more azure, as if a light glowed from within them..

  She was being held captive by a madman. ‘Twas no other explanation.

  Chapter 4

  His prey had left. Donal Burke threw a few coins on the scarred wooden bar as he barked an order. His partner Canton had been more hindrance than help. They were hired as partners, but Canton, that bastard, turned coward and refused to travel to the Lomarcan Castle. It was haunted, Canton had proclaimed. Haunted, his arse. He clenched the glass of whiskey.

  Scratching his head with his other hand, Donal tried to contain himself until his informant arrived at the pub. Surreptitiously, he glanced over his shoulder. He’d dressed quite unlike himself. Instead of the usual formal plaid and waistcoat he loved, the abrasive homespun wool of his trews itched his arse. How did the peasants deal with the rough wool on a daily basis? Thank God he’d the funds to live in a manner to suit him—for now.

  Donal spied a ratty man striding toward him through the smoke-clogged Stromeferry pub. Chuckling at the informant’s eagerness, he ordered some ale to help ease the coveted secrets from the man in a timely manner.

  Donal exchanged a bag of coins for the information he sought. A few short sentences and they were done.

  It had taken too long to find the Stuarts. His employer was angry and that didn’t bode well for their arrangement.

  He shuddered at the thought of Robert Stuart. Hadn’t the man appeared so unassuming, harmless? So easy to manipulate when he’d asked for Vivian’s hand?

  How he’d labored over the volumes of tedious notes written in Stuart’s undecipherable script. He didn’t want to risk another mistake. Bollocks, he still sported blisters from an accident that resulted from a misread chemical combination. ‘Twas when he concocted the plan to marry the chit and have her unravel the research.

  And now his employer was demanding action.

  So few understood the magnitude of science mixed with a hint of magic—alchemy, dear alchemy. And he wasn’t eager to spread the word he sought to change ore into gold.

  He prayed to those gods, the gods who oversaw alchemy to aid him. It was in them that Donal rested his faith and with the right mantra and mix of chemicals, success was ensured.

  Vivian Stuart and her knowledge of alchemy held the key.

  Chapter 5

  “Lass, I don’t like it,” Nessa huffed, “don’t like it one bit, to be sure.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes heavenward and released a patient sigh, then tried once again to explain they didn’t need permission. The scowl on her maid’s wrinkled face made her doubt whether she’d win the argument. Nessa must be made to see she was just trying to survive and deal with her grief.

  “This is the first day since we’ve arrived that it hasn’t rained. We’ve been cooped up for five days.” She shrugged. “And ‘tis just a walk.”

  With a harrumph that rattled her shoulders, the maid bristled, her chin thrust into the air. “I’ll have no part of it. The laird says nay and that means nay.”

  She watched as Nessa, prickling with irritation, retreated toward the kitchen. Probably for her afternoon tea. The woman always was in a fierce frame of mind when she missed her tea and biscuits.

  As much as she loved Nessa and Bernard, two of the dearest people she kenned, they tended to smother her. She wasn’t a bairn in need of a governess, she thought with a scowl. Och, not that she had room to complain. They’d rallied against her father for betrothing her to Donal.

  The landscape outside the window drew her attention as kittiwakes swooped over the water, their wings nearly cutting through the waves. The vision tempted her.

  It would give her time to grieve, think in private. Her life had changed so abruptly, not only the heartbreak of her father’s death, but the wretched experience with her betrothed as well.

  She’d kept her shameful secret even from Nessa. Once, they’d shared everything in an unusual relationship that teetered between mother and daughter, friend to friend. They had debated her engagement, the way her father raised her, and even her interest in alchemy.

  During one of their frequent amiable disagreements, Nessa had tried to convince her to leave her notes and interest in alchemy behind. If only she’d listened.

  Determined to walk outside, Vivian gathered her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders to keep the light mist from her dress. Luckily Nessa had seen to the thick plaid mantle and dried it before the fire. As she searched for a door that would lead to fresh air, a queer feeling stole over her. In the numerous paintings hanging on the walls, stern-looking ancestors appeared to be watching her with accusing gazes and grim expressions. Some were refined in a plaid and waistcoat. Others looked barbaric in a plaid and little else but a sword, battle wounds, and blood. She scowled back at them. She would not be frightened by their accusing glares. Vivian proceeded forward as unease knotted her shoulders. ‘Twas the atmosphere that prompted such strange feelings, she was certain of it.

  She snuck out the nearest door, stopping outside the threshold and soaking in her surroundings.

  The rain had stopped and the crisp weather infused her with a new sense of hope. Inhaling deeply, she grinned as the briny air filtered into her lungs with a heavy, moist coldness. Walking over the frozen ground, her soft leather gillies crunched the icy blades of moor grass with each step. She wanted to move quickly in case Nessa alerted the laird. Vivian may not have survived one more minute in the depressing castle, which felt as if the walls had eyes and whispered of secrets.

  Didn’t her grief already constitute enough sadness? The thought of her father’s death nearly ceased her stride. She choked on a sob. Aye, if only she were to be fetching his chemicals and supplies, logging in changes to a mixture or formula. To share with him her secret fascination with all he created and the hours she’d spent reading his treasured tomes late into the night. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she pressed on.

  Waves crested below the cliff, calling her, luring her to them. The movement of the dark water crashing and falling away in frothy waves was hypnotic. The seals barked in the distance and small puffins perched on the rocks along the coast.

  She tipped her face upward. How she wished for sun. The gleaming rays would warm the frigid air and burn away the mist that hovered low on the ground.

  As if in a trance, she continued toward the edge of the cliff. Jagged rocks marred the horizon. Her gillies squelched in the stiff mud of the moor. As she peered over the tip of the precipice, rolling waves drowned the eerie cries of the kittewakes and all thought of longing for her father and Westington.

  Looking for a break in the cresting waters, Vivian tried to calculate if a boat were able to navigate the roughness.

  “Step away from the edge.”

  Startled, Vivian nearly lost her balance. She turned slowly, cringing as she did so. Laird Maclean had spoken with a harsh, displeased rumble. “Please. Let me explain—”

  The look on his face stopped her from continuing. Never had she seen an expression of such pain and misery. Taking a step toward him, she held out a hand to touch his sleeve. He seemed unaware of her. His brow creased into a deep furrow, then recognition flashed in his eyes as if he sensed her presence once again.

  “Why are you here?” Without giving her time to answer, he grasped her hand and pulled her in the direction of Lomarcan.

  Vivian held her tongue so as not to question
his manhandling and concentrated on walking on the uneven ground. Laird Maclean lost his grip when she slipped on a rock. He tried to catch her as she toppled to the frozen ground, and then simply stood over her, looking down his patrician nose, his gaze a study in contempt as she laid there. Och, the laird had the manners of an ox!

  Expelling an unladylike grunt, she refused to accept his outstretched hand and hoisted herself up. The arrogance of the man. And look at him. He didn’t even wear a cloak, as if he were impervious to the frigid air. The wet linen of his shirt molded to his body, outlining his muscular chest and taut abdomen. His plaid was splattered with sleet and mud, as were his bare legs.

  Vivian compared his masculinity to the lankiness of her betrothed. Laird Maclean was broad where Donal was lean. Aye, the laird was a handsome man. She watched him scowling at her. She fleetingly wondered what he’d look like with a smile on his wide mouth. Would his eyes crinkle in the corners?

  He arrogantly lifted a brow at her inspection and wordlessly walked away. Oh dear, it was as if he read her thoughts.

  Feeling the fool, she followed, expecting him to go in the main entrance. His long strides paced by the broad oak doors and continued around the east wing into an isolated courtyard. She continued after him, uncertain where else to go.

  She stopped at the entrance of the courtyard in awe, marveling at the scrolling latticework, marble statues, and benches. Dormant rose bushes surrounded the yard, reminding her of the glory of Westington’s blooming gardens. Aye, she missed her gardens and the comfort they afforded her. But hidden amidst the gloom and brooding darkness sat this sparkling gem of normalcy.