Lindsay could not—would not—go back to that.
He shook his head as though to dislodge the memories and forced himself to meet Marguerite’s concerned gaze. “So, you have business for me to deal with in Edinburgh?”
She eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “I’d intended to ask Francis to deal with it given your preference to avoid Scotland but since MacCormaic seems to be on his way to Paris, it’s as good a place for you now as anywhere. And the business I need to you to deal with is all in Edinburgh.”
That was a relief at least. He could stay in in the city, far away from MacCormaic’s Keep.
“What exactly is it you want me to do?” Lindsay asked.
Just then, there was a soft rap at the door and a dark head appeared.
Francis.
“Good evening, beloveds,” he said cheerfully. “May I join you?”
“Oh yes, do please interrupt our conversation, won’t you?” Marguerite replied tartly.
Francis just grinned and stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. He went to Marguerite first, kissing the top of her head, then crossed the floor to greet Lindsay with buss to his cheek before settling onto the sofa beside him.
Like Lindsay, Francis was dressed for an evening of entertainment, though his apparel was more understated, much like Francis himself, who managed to be simultaneously beautiful and oddly easy to overlook. His finely wrought features were as perfectly symmetrical as Lindsay’s, his hair as dark, and his skin as pale. Yet he wore those same trappings of beauty with a quiet lack of interest that made him blend into the background.
“Have you told him, Mim?” Francis asked.
She glared at him. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that stupid English name.”
When Francis opened his mouth to tease her, Lindsay cut across him. “She told me that MacCormaic’s on his way to Paris, and I’ve to go to Scotland to do something for her—but I’ve still to find out what that is.”
“I was just getting to that,” Marguerite said. She paused then turned her gaze to Lindsay. “I want you to acquire some papers for me. Witch trial records held by a man called Hector Cruikshank.” She paused for a moment then added, “They’re from around the time Alys disappeared.”
Marguerite was still searching for Alys, two centuries after her disappearance.
“Was Alys at these witch trials?” Lindsay asked.
“I don’t know,” Marguerite admitted. “She was in England the year before, and I know she reached as far as Newcastle. The Scottish border country is very close to there, and if she’d heard of the trials, there’s a good chance she would have gone there.”
Francis nodded his agreement. “Alys would have run into the heart of the fire. Wherever there was persecution, she would go.”
“The records are known as the Naismith papers,” Marguerite added. “Thomas Naismith was a printer who hit upon the idea of following a witchfinder called George Cargill all over the country and writing salacious accounts of the witch trials he conducted—I gather they sold rather well. These records are his private notes though.”
“And you think there may be information in them about Alys?”
Marguerite looked suddenly hopeless and for an instant Lindsay saw the true depths of her anguish but she soon had herself under control and when she spoke again, her voice was calm. “It’s possible,” she said. “Though I try not to hope too much. There are so few records of the time—this is the first new source I’ve heard of for some years.”
Lindsay understood her reluctance. He knew what it felt like to hope for too long and beyond all reason. Decades in a dungeon had taught him too well that hope could be the very worst torment of all.
“Do you know the contents of any of the papers?”
“All I know is that they contain detailed accounts of the trials. Some of the information found its way into the tracts Naismith sold to the public, but much of it was never published, particularly the sections dealing with the more mundane aspects of the witchfinder’s work.”
“And what do we know of this Hector Cruikshank?”
“Francis met him when he was in Edinburgh last,” Marguerite said, glancing Francis’s way.
“I did, and he’s loathsome,” Francis replied.
Lindsay raised his brows. It was unlike gentle Francis to criticise anyone. “How so?”
Francis’s expression was troubled. “He’s a ghoul. Collects all manner of morbid horrors and loves showing off his hoard. He’s astute, though, and learned, and he’s made a fortune procuring unusual items and treasures and selling them on.”
“Well, this fellow might be unpleasant,” Lindsay mused, “but compared to some of the things you’ve asked of me in the past, this doesn’t sound too taxing.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Marguerite said drily. “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”
Lindsay grinned. “You know I’d do anything for you, my love. But I must admit, it will make a pleasant change for me to not have to commit a robbery or fight off a gang of thugs. I’ll treat it as a holiday. Just one old man to charm.”
“If you can charm Hector Cruikshank, I will give you a medal,” Francis said.
“My love, I can be very charming.”
“Oh, I know,” Francis assured him. “But I also know that the only thing capable of getting round that old miser is the glint of gold. Don’t waste time trying to get him like you. The only question you need to concern yourself with is how much money he wants.”
Lindsay looked at Marguerite, raising his brows in enquiry. “How much will you give me?” He was only half-teasing.
“I have papers for you to present to our bankers in Edinburgh for whatever sums you may need,” Marguerite said. “But don’t get carried away. Certainly not without at least getting a look at the papers first. At this point, we don’t even know if there’s anything of use in there. Having said that, these papers are the first new source I’ve heard of for many years.” She sighed. “And I do want them.”
“So,” Lindsay said. “Money is no object?”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “Certainly not. I expect you to negotiate hard.”
“My dearest love,” Lindsay said smoothly. “You are speaking to a Scotsman, you know. I would not so much as give away a thick penny for a thin one.”
Her lips twitched. “Plainly, you have not seen your tailor’s bill.”
Lindsay sent her reproachful look. “Oh, come now. We’ve discussed this before. My wardrobe is an investment. One does not stint with such things. You may, however, rest assured that so far as these papers are concerned, I will be the very soul of thrift.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“However,” Lindsay continued, “I may need some new shoes before I leave. I quite ruined these ones tonight and fine shoes are so important in making an impression, don’t you agree?”
“Lindsay, you can’t want more shoes,” Francis exclaimed, a hint of laugher in his voice. “You must have a dozen pairs already, and Edinburgh’s not Paris, you know. They’ll be calling you a fribble as it is.”
Lindsay opened his mouth to argue but Marguerite forestalled him.
“Lindsay’s right,” she told Francis. “His wardrobe is quite a good investment. As soon as people look at him they assume he’s as rich as Croesus and it does open so many doors.” She narrowed her eyes at Lindsay before adding, “You may go to Monsieur Pascal for new shoes—he owes me a favour. He will give you a good price. But still, be sure to haggle.”
Lindsay grinned. There was his acquisitive darling. “Of course,” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “She spoils you,” he informed Lindsay, as Marguerite took out her quill and dashed off a few lines. They both watched her sand the wet ink, then fold the sheet and seal it with crimson wax before handing it to Lindsay.
“You’ll have to be quick about it though,” she informed Lindsay. “I need you to leave soon. That
note tells Monsieur Pascal to send the bill straight to me since you’ll be gone by the time he issues it.”
Lindsay smiled, but his stomach hollowed with dread at the thought of returning to the country of his birth. When he’d left Scotland, near enough a century ago, he’d been an abject, shrinking cur, unable even to think for himself.
He was terrified of becoming that wretched, crawling creature ever again.
Chapter Two
Two weeks later
Scotland, November 1788
LINDSAY'S ARSE ACHED like the very devil.
Sighing, he shifted on the carriage bench, seeking out a more comfortable position and failing to find one. Despite the padded velvet upholstery, the long days of travel were taking their toll, though thankfully, they were now only a dozen or so miles from Edinburgh.
He did not enjoy travelling. It was an altogether inconvenient and tedious business, even when everything went smoothly—and this particular journey was not going smoothly.
They had been on the road for far too long and should have arrived several days ago, but thanks to storms at sea, lamed horses and an extremely tiresome attempt by brigands to rob them, they were lagging. To make up some time, they’d hired a second coachman, and now they were travelling day and night, pausing only to change the horses.
Lindsay didn’t mind the swift pace so much—indeed he preferred it—but poor Wynne was exhausted. He’d finally fallen into a fitful doze a few minutes ago and now he was slumped on the opposite bench, his body swaying with the movement of the carriage, wig slightly askew.
For Lindsay though, the most difficult part of this journey was not the lack of sleep but the burning desire growing in him to tear back the curtain that obscured the carriage window and look upon the moon. He was painfully aware of the darkness outside, the scents and sounds of the nocturnal world they were barrelling through.
As the carriage sped onwards, he began to pick up the faintest whiff of the city, still some way off but just a hint of it on the breeze. That complex tangle of scents—a familiar reek to Lindsay—made him yearn and dread at once.
It was the smell of home.
There were a thousand layers to it: the unwashed bodies of the townspeople who lived cheek by jowl in tottering tenements. Lime and urine from the tanners and dyers. Yeast and hops from the brewers and bakers. Dung from the animals driven into King’s Stables Road to be sold alive, and blood from their carcasses, hawked in the Fleshmarket.
How could it smell exactly the same after more than a century?
Lindsay was frowning over that thought when a violent jolt to the carriage nearly threw him from his seat. It was only a passing lurch, caused, no doubt, by one of the many gaping holes in the road, but the jostling disturbed the curtain, the brass rings shifting on the pole so that a gap appeared, drawing Lindsay’s gaze.
At first, he saw nothing but clouds. But then—abandoned by a sooty cumulus on the move—the moon was revealed to his rapt gaze. The cloud scudded away, unveiling her, a fat half-pearl hovering placidly in the midnight firmament. She glowed with a warm, golden lustre that gently illuminated the darkness of the carriage interior, making Lindsay’s pacing beast still, attentive now.
“Sir? Are you... that is, are you perfectly all right?”
Distantly, Lindsay was aware of Wynne addressing him, his voice tight with worry.
“Hmm?” he responded. His gaze was still on the sky, though he felt Wynne leaning towards him.
“Forgive me, sir. I was supposed to keep the curtain closed. You were very clear about that.” When Wynne fell silent, Lindsay sensed the betraying quickening of the young man’s heartbeat. Wynne was nervous and his next words were whispered. “Shall I close it now?”
Lindsay dragged his gaze away from the window with difficulty. He regarded Wynne curiously. His servant was very awake now, and Lindsay could plainly sense his fear. He tried to say something reassuring, but as ever when his wolf was rising, found himself struggling to formulate a sensible sentence. Something about the way the beast surfaced made his mind a little slow, and often—as now—he fell helplessly into the antique speech rhythms of his youth.
“Poor Wynne,” he said softly, eyeing the dark shadows under the young man’s eyes. “Thou’rt trauchled.”
Wynne didn’t know what he meant—he could see that plainly—but with his beast scrabbling to the surface, clamouring for its freedom, he could find no better words. Cursing, he lifted his cane to rap twice at the roof of the carriage, the signal to stop. The coachman immediately began to slow the horses.
Wynne’s expression sharpened with anxiety. “Are you sure you wish to stop, sir? You were most insistent before we left that you wished to avoid this eventuality.” His gaze flickered to the window. “The moon affects—” He stopped without finishing the sentence, casting a worried look at Lindsay.
Lindsay concentrated. “My judgment?” he managed, and Wynne looked mortified.
Well, it was true. They both knew it was, and Lindsay had specifically instructed Wynne that he must be kept from any sight of the moon on this final stage of the journey. Having suppressed his wolf since they left Paris, Lindsay was desperate to shift, and even a passing glimpse might sweep away whatever fraying scraps of resistance he had left.
But really, why bother to resist? It was too late now, and already he didn’t care. Indeed, it occurred to him that shifting before he reached Edinburgh, rather than being a bad idea, was actually a perfectly sensible course of action. What better way to reacquaint himself with his home after so many years away?
He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever thought otherwise.
“Sir.” Wynne’s anxious tone interrupted his thoughts. “You were very clear that if this happened, I was to stop you—” He broke off as Lindsay made an impatient gesture in his direction.
“Hast thou brought the...” He frowned and twitched his fingers, searching for the word.
“The satchel, sir?” Wynne offered unhappily.
Lindsay nodded.
“Yes, sir, it’s ready to be left where you instructed.”
Lindsay offered a distracted smile, hoping he looked approving rather than predatory. “Very good,” he managed.
It was plain from Wynne’s anxious expression that he was worried, but whilst that was regrettable, it was of little consequence to Lindsay now. His wolf was well pleased with the turn of events and eager to be free. Denying him was out of the question.
When the carriage finally came to a halt, Lindsay unfolded himself from his seat and climbed out into the cold autumn night. The mizzling rain was the light, dense sort that could unexpectedly soak a man. Already there were puddles on the hard-packed road and water dripping steadily from the trees.
Lindsay’s fingertips tingled.
Wynne climbed out of the carriage behind him and followed him into a copse of trees out of sight of the coach. He stood quietly as Lindsay stripped, his face tight with anxiety as Lindsay handed each item of clothing to him in turn: coat, tricorn hat, boots, breeches, shirt, stockings. Smallclothes too. Even the velvet ribbon that secured Lindsay’s dark, unpowdered locks at the nape of his neck. Lindsay removed every stitch till he was quite naked and Wynne’s arms were full of his discarded garments.
With his clothes off and the ends of his hair brushing his bare shoulders, Lindsay felt the familiar rush of life-joy that the wolf filled him with—and then his other self was expanding inside him, reaching out to the very outermost points of his skin, barely contained now.
He managed to wait till Wynne had turned away and disappeared back inside the carriage— indeed, until the carriage had begun to trundle away and he’d left the hard-packed dirt at the side of the road for the softer stuff that led deeper into the woods beyond the line of trees.
He had barely run a half-dozen steps before his transmutation began.
Sometimes a change was painful. Wretched.
Other times, it was gloriously easy.
This was one of th
e easy ones. There was no effort at all, just a rippling flow as the wolf surfaced, overtaking his human form. The cool, wet earth on the soles of his feet brought forth the beast's eagerness to run. The rain on his bare skin gave rise to an ardent desire for a warm pelt that began to materialise the instant he ached for it. He lifted his head to catch the heady scents of the forest and glimpsed his own dark muzzle. Human colour leached away and in its place was silver, iron, pewter, storm-cloud, haze-of-rain and mist-grey. The thousand greys of broken stones and lichen-rash and icy pools.
In these first moments of transformation, his longstanding curse didn’t feel like an affliction. It felt like the source of all joy, all delight.
Lindsay lifted his head to the scarred silver moon and howled.
HE WOKE IN THE COBWEBBY light of a pale grey dawn, miles from where he’d begun. He had shifted back as he slept, and his human body was cold and filthy.
Groaning, he sat up. Beside him lay the satchel Wynne had buried for him, and several feet distant, at the base of a tree, there was a dug-up hole. He was very glad the wolf had undertaken that task for him. Claws were infinitely better for digging holes than human hands.
Lindsay blinked a few times and rubbed at the back of his neck. The taste of blood was in his mouth, so it seemed he had hunted last night. He fished inside the satchel and drew out a flask of water, drinking deeply, then rinsing out his mouth. The freezing water made his teeth ache. He used more of it to clean his face and hands then slowly rose to his feet. The action of standing, stretching his long body upward, gave him an odd feeling after the hours he’d spent on all fours. Head up instead of down, nose in the wind instead of to the ground. There was nothing that felt more human than the act of rising up on two legs. At times like these, when he was close to the wolf, Lindsay would sometimes wonder how the creatures of the world reacted when they saw humans standing up. Rising, towering over them.
It must be horrifying, he thought.
Monstrous.
He felt like a monster now, stretching upwards, defying his beast’s natural form, arrogantly exposing his belly and sex organs. Gazing out at the world not as one of its creatures but as one of its masters.
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 3
