“Ouch!” Tara gave her a sympathetic wince. “If it makes you feel any better, my parents don’t like how I dress either.”
Daphne scoffed. “You see the way of it there, don’t you? Parents! Can’t be born without ‘em. Can’t punch in ‘em in the nose like a cheeky bastard, right?”
“Right,” Tara said, laughing as she grabbed her pale yellow Strathberry bag off the purse hook she’d attached to her desk when she first started working at RSB.
She would genuinely miss it here. And she’d miss the people even more. Daphne, and the rest of her human friends. It had been a real pleasure to live among them without a care to what other wolves did.
As she rode down in the elevator, Tara wondered if blowing up her life would really solve her problem with the arrogant alpha she’d accidentally done the nasty with when her wolf was in the driver’s seat.
However, her musings came to a screeching halt as soon as she stepped into the parking garage.
Tara froze and cautiously sniffed the air.
It was a wolf. Not Magnus, but one who smelled similarly of ancient pine trees and lake.
Chapter Four
“What have you done, Alban?” Magnus demanded as he pulled another jumper over his white t-shirt. This one was blue-gray and his fifth wardrobe change so far. “You’ve gone too far, cousin—not to mention disobeyed my orders. I specifically told you not to bother the lass any further.”
Magnus waited for a response while checking his refection in his bedroom’s antique standing cheval mirror. But none came.
“Da…” he prompted, looking over to where his father, Lachlan, sat on the deep red velvet couch closest to the room’s stone fireplace. There were those in the village who claimed Magnus was the spitting image of his father. Even though there were 21 years and a head of gray hair between them, he and his father looked more alike than Magnus and his own brother, Iain. But right now, his father couldn’t have looked more different from his son. Unlike Magnus, Lachlan didn’t seem at all concerned about the future of their kingdom. In fact, he seemed more interested in the fire’s roaring flames than in responding to his son’s prompt.
“Da…” Magnus said again, his voice growling with impatience.
“If you’re asking for my opinion about the jumper, I say that is the one,” Lachlan answered in Gaelic. He then switched to English to add, “The color brings out your eyes and matches your kilt without being overly matchy-matchy.”
Magnus shook his head. It seemed his father had been spending too much time at Iain’s house again. Taking advantage of his brother’s electricity and flat screen to watch too many reality programs.
“It’s your line, Da,” Magnus reminded his father, turning from the gold-plated oval mirror to give him a censorious look.
Lachlan responded with a heavy sigh. “Ach, king of mine, I’ve never been one for play acting.”
“Neither have I,” Magnus answered. “That’s why I must needs practice.”
Lachlan shook his gray head. “I don’t know about this plan of yours. Seems dodgy at best and likely to end in complete disaster.
“It’s also the only thing standing between us and Iain becoming king—at least for as long as it takes him to design an algorithm to run the place so he doesnae have to,” Magnus answered. “Just give us the line, will ye, Da?”
Lachlan heaved another sigh and then said in a monotone, “But your majesty, she punched you, our beloved king. And as your faithful beta, I could not let that lie. She must be punished—Ach! This would be far more believable if it weren’t Alban doing the talking. Do you reckon he’ll even be able to pull off these lines?”
“She had her reasons, Alban, and that’s not for you to decide,” Magnus answered, ignoring his father’s argument. “Now as your king, I command you to withdraw these charges and release her.”
Magnus waited a few ticks, but no answer came. “Da…” he prompted again.
Lachlan rustled the script. “Next line’s not Alban’s. Says it’s meant for some bloke named Jaime.”
“Aye, he’s the current pack alpha of the Edinburgh wolves—the one in charge of dispensing justice if any of them step out of line.”
Lachlan’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “But I thought you said she was living fully among the humans and didn’t hold any affiliations with the Edinburgh pack.”
“Doesnae matter. As long as she lives in Edinburgh, she’s subject to the laws of the city and my lands.”
“And you got the pack alpha to agree to this?” Lachlan asked with a disbelieving frown.
“Aye, he’s a massive rugby fan. Now could you give me the next line, Da? I need to be on the road in less than fifteen minutes.”
Lachlan made a disgruntled sound but eventually continued, “But Alban brought her into my pack jail cell for good reason. Are you saying we’re meant to let her go after she committed a crime against our beloved king?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Magnus answered, his voice becoming hard with intimidation.
“Well, I suppose we could let her go with probation. Say one month of good behavior to be cleared of the charges. Of course, she’d have to live in your kingdom village during that time—really, Son, don’t you think this is a little too specific? She’d have to be all sorts of daft to fall for this.”
Magnus didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed with his father, but because he’d well and truly run out of options.
He was fair to certain Tara hid from him when he’d stopped by her work last week. And he had no clue how else to get near her. According to Alban, she’d been driving straight to work from Iain’s heavily secured apartment every day since the full moon, and then back, without so much as a stop at the grocery store or pub. And he doubted she’d return a text message, even if he’d bother to send one.
Magnus had woken naked and alone in her forest dell. But it only took a single sniff of the scent she’d left behind for his cock to come to full stand. Being an unheated she-wolf, she hadn’t felt the same tug of erotic attraction he did. She couldn’t have or why else would she have left that morning without so much as a by your leave?
Yet, her unique Canadian smell of snow and wool lingered in his nose long after it should have faded. And he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Even though his time would be better spent looking for another she-wolf to mate.
Nae, he had to do this. He began pulling on his socks and Ghillie boots. It was like jumping for the goal line when you only had a few seconds left of play. A desperate “hail Mary” as his American football counterparts called it. That thing you did when you were left with no other options.
“I’m going now, Da,” he told Lachlan as he headed for the door. “Dinnae wait up.”
“I will not,” Lachlan answered in Gaelic, his tone as disapproving as that of an old gran. Magnus stopped mid-stride. Not because of his father’s patent disapproval, but because of who he scented on the other side of his door.
It was Alban, his beta enforcer. The one who was supposed to have put his future mate in a special Edinburgh jailhouse for wolves an hour ago.
What. A. Dick.
Tara stewed in a room lit by beautiful antique brass lanterns. One she had already spent time in when she was shoved in it just last summer. It was the Scottish king’s official study, with intricately carved columns, an oversized heavy pine wood desk, and a stone hearth. Gorgeous and supple leather armchairs sat in front of a well-built fireplace. They’d probably been sourced from one of the beautiful Highland cattle she’d sighted grazing in the fields during her last trip to the Highland kingdom village of Faoltiarn. There were also three walls of built-in bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound books she doubted Magnus had ever read. Anyone else would have considered the room quite impressive.
However, for Tara it was anything but. Especially after being shoved—albeit more gently this time—into Magnus’s study for yet another forced visit. A jail cell was a jail cell no matter how many fancy museum a
rtifacts you stuffed into it. And Tara knew she had to escape this room somehow or she would be stuck in Magnus’s backward ass village forever.
Tara could hear soft voices outside the door whispering to each other in Gaelic, a nearly dead language few actually spoke outside of school in Scotland. She only understood one word: banrigh. Gaelic for queen. They were already calling her that…as if it had been decided she’d spend the rest of her life in Faoltiarn, a village that still continued on like a never-ending production of Brigadoon, forever stuck in an ancient era no matter what else happened to the world around it.
That old trapped feeling set in, like a shadow squeezing her heart. And she could sense her freedom slipping through her hands like freshly tilled soil.
Tara carefully scanned the room. She wasn’t interested in any of its impressive artifacts. She was searching for anything that could help her escape. There was zero technology that she could see: no computers, no routers, not even a landline. No surprise there. She could smell the homemade methane coming off those exquisite brass lamps, and she doubted the castle was wired for electricity.
But then her nose picked up a scent she hadn’t noticed the last time she’d been held captive in this study. Sniffing, Tara went over to the inner wall of books and squinted at one row in particular. It smelled not only of books, but of something else. Something dark and smoky.
Thinking of all the Sean Connery-era James Bond films she’d binged on before moving to Scotland, Tara started pulling on the book spines. Sure enough, the fifth book in the row was harder to pull than the rest. She pressed down hard, tilting the spine towards her, and heard a metallic click. Then the entire row of books shifted down, revealing yet another ancient artifact.
One that made Tara’s eyes light up.
“Bloody Christ! What in the hell were you thinking, man?” Magnus demanded as he stormed down the hallway towards the king’s study where Alban had stowed Tara.
“Now, now, Son, do not let your temper get away from you,” Lachlan said in Gaelic. “I am sure Alban has a perfectly good reason for bringing Tara here. Again. And locking her up. Again.”
Magnus gritted his teeth. Ever since his cousin returned from Afghanistan in a state one could only describe as borderline rabid, Lachlan spent more time defending his nephew than wondering, as Magnus often did, if perhaps the fellow just wasn’t cut out to be a beta after everything that had happened to him.
“I do,” Alban agreed. His cousin was a miser with his words. However, Magnus knew his beta well enough to hear what he didn’t say: I have my reasons. Your father is right. I didnae bring your almost mate here on a lark.
To which Magnus answered, “What reason could you possibly have to deviate from the plan? What’s more, how am I supposed to play the chivalrous king now? She’s bound to think I’m a nutter who gets his jollies locking women up in my study. Like James McAvoy in that film, Split.”
“Did you see that film, then?” Lachlan asked. “Because I’m not entirely convinced he was supposed to be a Scot. In fact—”
“I don’t care!” Magnus roared at his father. “The point is this wasn’t the plan! He shouldn’t have brought her here. For any reason!”
And Christ, look at that. There was a gaggle of castle servants clustered together outside his study door, whispering in Gaelic about the she-wolf in the study.
Could this night get any wor—?
Magnus stopped short, a single scent slicing through all the others in the castle and effectively silencing every disparaging thought in his head. It was Tara. He could smell her loud and clear, even through the heavy wood and iron door of his study. But she no longer smelled like the aggressive lone wolf he’d met in the forest dell.
“Is she…?” he heard his father say behind him.
“Told ye I had my reasons,” Alban answered.
“Unlock the damn door!” Magnus commanded the servants. The women started to drop into a curtsey, but he cut them off, “Don’t bother with the formalities. Just get the door open!”
They did as commanded, jumping out of the way when Magnus barreled into the room.
Tara stood directly in the door’s path. And aye, her scent...instead of the intoxicating combination of snow and wool that had haunted him in the months since he’d met her, a new odor permeated the room: hers mixed with another. One he instantly recognized because it was his.
Tara smelt like them both, with a heavy dose of hCG—the pregnancy hormone—thrown in for good measure.
“She is with child!” Lachlan exclaimed behind him in Gaelic, as if narrating his son’s thoughts.
“Tara…we are wolf-mated then?” Magnus asked, his voice husky with wonder.
Tara didn’t immediately respond. And when she eventually did, it wasn’t with words. Magnus heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking. Then Tara raised his great-great-great grandfather’s Lebel military rifle and pointed it straight at him.
Chapter Five
Tara woke with a jolt. She was in her own bed back in Edinburgh.
Oh, God. Tara released a huge breath and sat up. It had been a dream. A terrible, messed up dream. Thank goodness—
But the feeling of relief screeched to a halt when she spotted the long rifle resting on top of the tufted ottoman at the foot of her bed. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Tara recalled being ambushed and abducted by Magnus’s beta goon, Alban, who at least had the courtesy to tell her his name. This time.
She recalled the long drive to the castle in Faoltiarn. She had never once visited Ontario’s kingdom town. Yet here she was, at Magnus’s kingdom town twice in one year.
Tara recalled finding the gun in that jail cell of a study. It was a masterpiece of polished mahogany and well-oiled steel. It smelled—not exactly ancient, like much of the castle—but definitely old.
She quickly pulled down the weapon and grabbed the wooden box of bullets beside it. Tara could hear and smell Magnus as he approached. She carefully loaded the gun and was ready and waiting when he crashed through the door.
As soon as she raised the gun and aimed it at him, he commanded her to, “Put the rifle down, Tara! Put it down right now!”
His voice was harsh, but not with anger. Magnus was afraid. She could see it in his face along with another emotion: concern, and his gray eyes were fixed on her still-flat belly.
“Careful there, Tara,” said an older man, who Tara remembered from the last time she’d been brought here against her will as Magnus’s and Iain’s father, Lachlan. “That is a very old military gun—and it’s not entirely dependable. None of us want to see you or the bairn hurt…or worse.”
Lachlan looked a lot like Magnus. Tall and strong, with only his gray hair and a few additional decades of sags and wrinkles to differentiate them. But unlike his son, he didn’t command her. Instead, his voice was low and gentle, the way someone sounds when they are trying to calm a spooked horse.
Guilt twisted Tara’s stomach. She hated the idea of having to use force on Lachlan or anyone else, for that matter. Even if Magnus did order his goon, Alban, to kidnap her from her office parking garage.
But she had been kidnapped, she reminded herself. That was a fact. And this rifle was the only leverage she had. Magnus wanted to talk, but how much talking would he have been willing to do if she hadn’t found the rifle?
Not much, she bet. He’d have kept her against her wishes, completely ignoring the fact that she had a life she needed to get on with.
No, she had to get away. She would not let herself be trapped again, like in Canada.
So instead of lowering the gun, Tara began to walk resolutely forward. When she reached the threshold, the three men parted for her like the Red Sea, Lachlan still murmuring warnings about the gun.
Out in the hall were three older she-wolves. They wore long brown skirts with a swatch of the Faoltiarn tartan overlaid. The females regarded Tara with teary eyes and happy smiles, seemingly oblivious to the loaded rifle in her hands.
There ha
sn’t been a baby born in Faoltiarn since the end of the last century…
Tara remembered Iain’s explanation about why the villagers held his pregnant mate in such high regard. Now they were staring at her in the same way. As if a walking miracle had manifested in the hall.
“Banrigh! Banrigh!” they cried and then began spewing a bunch of Gaelic in her general direction.
“Get back,” she warned, even though she knew she would drop the gun before she’d ever fire on three older she-wolves.
From the side, she heard Magnus tell the women to, “Stand back. Let her go. Give her no reason to fire the gun.”
The she-wolves did as he asked and moved out of her path. That was all the leeway Tara needed. She dashed down the partially carpeted white marble stairs, still carrying the rifle, and escaped the castle.
Tara stole the Land Rover she’d been driven here in. Alban unwittingly aided her when he dropped his car keys into the center console before escorting her into the castle. Other than a brief issue negotiating a three-point turn—the Land Rover didn’t have power steering—Tara was home free.
The last thing she saw as she peeled out of the gravel parking area beside the stone bridge was Magnus standing in front of his ancient castle. His hair whipping in the wind, and his father and staff standing behind him. Tara couldn’t make out the details of his expression, but she felt certain he watched her retreating vehicle like a hawk.
Her wolf whined. The beast didn’t understand why her human refused to allow her the one thing, the only thing, she’d ever asked for. But Tara pushed the wolf into a heel as she peeled away down Faoltiarn’s only road.
We are free, she reminded her wolf, and nothing can top that.
Eventually, after a long, anxious drive back to the city, Tara returned to the safety of Iain’s high-security apartment. She set the antique gun on an ottoman and collapsed into her bed, not even bothering to change out of her work clothes.
Her Scotttish King: (Howls Romance) Loving World Page 3
