Francis offered him a half smile and a shrug. “Yes, and no. It’s not related to lust for me, but it is connected to other, physical feelings in a way that sounds similar to what you describe. I think the bond—that’s how I’ve always thought of it—is simply there, between you and your bond-mate. The emotions between you shape the bond and give it meaning. Sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another.”
“Bond-mate,” Lindsay repeated. Somehow the term felt right. It fit the almost physical sense of connection he experienced whenever Drew Nicol was nearby.
For a few minutes they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. And then, when they were about halfway down the North Bridge, Francis touched Lindsay’s sleeve and slowed his pace.
“Lindsay, there is something I need to tell you.”
Lindsay glanced at Francis. His friend’s expression was taut, anxious.
Francis let out a long breath, then he said, “Duncan MacCormaic isn’t heading for Paris. He’s on his way to Scotland.”
It wasn’t much of a surprise. Lindsay had known there had to be more to Francis’s arrival in Edinburgh that he’d first claimed—and yes, it had occurred to him it might for this reason. Nevertheless, his stomach still clenched tight at the news and a wave of intense fear ran through him. Just the sound of his master’s—no, Duncan’s—name was enough to provoke the inevitable panicked response. He heard Duncan’s low, rough voice in his head—Come here, cur—and saw his big, beckoning hand, the twitch of his fingers as merciless as an iron chain, reeling Lindsay in. Lindsay squeezed his eyes closed, trying to banish the image from his mind.
Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and said, “What makes you think that?” He had wanted his voice to come out steady and calm, but it sounded thin and fearful.
“We knew he’d left Granada, but we assumed he was making for Paris to find you. However, soon after you left we learned he was making for the northern coast of Spain with the intention of sailing to England.” Francis sighed heavily. “Perhaps it was never his intention to go to Paris, perhaps he was always on his way to Scotland, and he is unaware you are here. But perhaps”—Francis met Lindsay’s gaze and his own was grave—“perhaps he heard you’d left France. I do not think he would be able to resist coming after you. Especially if he was aware I was safely out of his way in Paris.”
Lindsay smiled bitterly at the irony of that. Duncan doing his utmost to avoid Francis, the very man he longed for above all others, so that he could recapture Francis’s likeness in Lindsay. God, to think of the hours Lindsay had spent listening to Duncan, telling him all the things he wanted to do to Francis... and then doing those very things to Lindsay.
His stomach heaved and he swallowed hard against the bolt of nausea.
Francis had little notion of how truly horrific Lindsay’s years with Duncan had been. Lindsay could not—simply could not—speak of what had been done to him, and Francis was too gentle to imagine such senseless cruelty.
“How close is he now?” Lindsay asked flatly.
“I’m ahead of him,” Francis said, “I’m not sure by how much—perhaps as much as a fortnight, perhaps less.” Francis’s gaze was worried. “You cannot take the risk of being in Edinburgh when he returns.”
Lindsay’s gut roiled. “Where do you suggest I go?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I only just arrived.”
“Mim and I thought perhaps a sojourn in the Low Countries for a while? God knows we could do with looking in on our shipping and banking interests there and it’s a while since any of us have been.”
As much as he wanted to get away from any threat of Duncan MacCormaic finding him, Lindsay felt a strange stubborn reluctance to leave Edinburgh.
“I can’t go now,” he said. “Not with the Naismith papers still in Cruikshank’s hands.”
Francis frowned at him. “You have no choice, Lindsay. You can’t risk encountering Duncan. If he got you alone, you’d be in his thrall in moments and he’d have you away and locked up before you could so much as blink. You know that.”
He did know it. A word from Duncan would be enough.
Kneel, cur.
Beg.
Crawl.
If told to do so, he’d put the chains on himself. Turn the key in the lock of his own cell. He’d be a slave again—the one thing he’d sworn he’d never allow.
And yet...
“But you’re here now,” Lindsay looked at Francis with more confidence than he felt. “Duncan can’t get past you.”
Francis’s expression didn’t shift, concern knotting his dark brows together. “Even if I stay by your side night and day, it’s a risk, Lindsay. You know how it goes with me. I can stop Duncan harming others if I’m there, but I can’t”—he broke off, frustration and agony both etched on his face—“I can’t harm him. I know it’s weak of me, and I know it would probably be for the best if I just did whatever I needed to do to make him disappear, but the truth is, I cannot. And that—well, that makes it difficult to protect you as you need to be protected.”
“I know,” Lindsay said softly. And he did. In truth, Francis was incapable of harming anyone, and it tormented him to know that he was the creator of the monster that Duncan had become. A monster who harmed others but who Francis could not bring himself to destroy. Tormented him too to think of those, including Lindsay himself, who had already suffered at the hands of Duncan, his creation. Poor Francis carried an impossible burden of guilt, and he could not forgive himself.
“I’m sorry,” Francis said, and he sounded wretched. “But it really is best that you leave Edinburgh. If you can’t get the Naismith papers from Cruikshank over the next day or two, I can stay and finish dealing with that in your stead.”
Lindsay made himself nod. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see how things go today with Cruikshank. We can discuss what to do after that.”
Francis seemed relieved by Lindsay’s acquiescence. “Agreed,” he said, and they set off again in the direction of Cruikshank’s townhouse.
CRUIKSHANK WASN’T SURE if he recognised Francis or not.
He squinted at him as Lindsay introduced them, scowling suspiciously. Cruikshank was in his faded banyan and slippers again today and the nut-brown wig was absent. Instead he wore an absurd velvet cap with a long gold tassel that made him look more like a little monkey than ever.
“Have we met?” he demanded.
Francis considered, tapping his finger on his lip, the very picture of urbane sophistication, cracked face powder notwithstanding.
“I was living in Edinburgh some years ago,” he drawled. “So, it’s possible, I suppose. But I’m afraid I don’t recall you.” He shrugged in careless apology and Cruikshank’s scowl deepened.
Francis had explained that the last time he’d been in the city, Cruikshank had known him as a prickly and sometimes rude fellow with strong opinions, and that he would be required to act that part today.
“Mr. Neville is a collector like yourself,” Lindsay explained. “I greatly trust his professional judgment and would very much like him to examine the papers you allowed me to peruse the other evening. Just to get another opinion on their provenance, you understand.”
Cruikshank appeared irritated by the request, but at length, he said irritably. “Very well. If it will set yer doubts to rest. Follow me.” He turned from them creakily and made his way down the corridor towards the strongroom, moving at his usual painfully slow pace.
The laborious unlocking of the strongroom’s heavy door seemed to take him even longer than last time, but finally it was done and the old man waved them inside. Lindsay had warned Francis about the room and its unusual construction, and when they stepped inside, Francis glanced at him, his brows furrowing in acknowledgment that he too felt... something. That made Lindsay feel a little better about his own reaction which, as before, surged in him physically, a sense of wrongness that he had to suppress to make himself walk forward and enter the strongroom.
Cruikshank followed t
hem, his shuffling steps in his threadbare slippers audible. “I have the papers in my desk,” he said. “Give me a moment to look them out.” He made his slow way to the desk and Lindsay followed, trying to ignore his growing unease as he walked further into the oppressive room.
Francis had stopped in the middle of the room. He slowly turned on the spot, taking in the contents of the overflowing shelves.
“This is an astonishing collection, Mr. Cruikshank,” he said. “Have you had it catalogued?”
Cruikshank was slowly lowering himself into the chair behind his desk, lips thinning with obvious pain. When he was finally sitting, he answered Francis’s question.
“My collection is catalogued in here,” he said, tapping his right temple with one scrawny finger, his round eyes gleaming. “It might look like a guddle on the shelves, but I know exactly where every single item is. If anything went missing, I’d know the instant I walked in the room. I’d feel it.”
Lindsay felt a shudder go down his spine at the intent, obsessive look on Cruikshank’s face. Again he was struck by the conviction that Cruikshank’s interest in these things was a solitary, miserly thing. Something gloating about it.
Cruikshank was unlocking one of the drawers of his desk now, rifling through the contents then drawing out the same packet of yellowed papers he’d shown Lindsay before, tied up with the same greying ribbon. He set them on the desk and Francis moved closer, pulling the packet towards him.
Francis untied the ribbon and unfolded the first of the papers. Unlike Lindsay, he spent little time reading it, but quickly scanned both sides, then reached for the next paper, and the next, unfolding each in turn and spreading the papers over the whole surface of the desk. When they were all laid out, albeit overlapping, he bent down to examine them—and, Lindsay saw, to scent them.
Lindsay, standing to the side, waited quietly for Francis to finish. Cruikshank was rather less patient, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair.
Francis ignored him.
At last he straightened, and began folding up the papers, settling them back into order and tying them up.
“Well?” Lindsay said. “What do you think?”
Francis looked unimpressed. He gave a negligent shrug. “They are of the period and therefore authentic in that sense,” he confirmed. “But I have my doubts as to the authenticity of the claims of the author. For that reason, I judge them to be of little real interest to a serious collector.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “What nonsense!” he exclaimed, then, turning to Lindsay, snapped, “I can assure ye, Mr. Somerville, that my opinion on such matters carries a deal more weight than yer friend here.”
Francis didn’t react to that, merely said, “Remind me what sum you are asking for them.”
Cruikshank’s gaze was challenging. “Five hundred guineas.”
“What?” Francis scoffed. He turned to Lindsay. “That is a very steep price, my friend. Are you sure you want them so badly? That is far more than they are worth. Ten times as much, I’d venture.”
They’d discussed this on the way over here. Francis would be the voice of reason, talking down the asking price, to see if Cruikshank might offer to drop it in the face of more apparent expertise than Lindsay could pretend.
“What do you think they’re worth?” Lindsay asked
“Nowhere near what this gentleman’s asking,” Francis replied, then glancing at Cruikshank, added insincerely, “No offence intended.”
“None taken,” Cruikshank bit back, his evident irritation giving the lie to his words. “But let us be clear on this, gentlemen. I set my prices according to commercial principles: supply, demand, risk. As Mr. Somerville knows, I already have a customer for these papers. If I break my agreement with him, there may be consequences for me, and that factors into the price I have set.”
“I see,” Francis replied waspishly. “In short, if you’re to break your word, you need more gold. Is that right? You have an interesting view of what is good business, Mr. Cruikshank.”
Cruikshank’s eyes sparked with anger at that and his lips thinned till his mouth looked stitched together. “You may take it or leave it,” he snapped.
Francis turned to Lindsay. “If it were me,” he said, “I’d offer a hundred guineas and be done with it. They’re not worth half that.”
“I already offered him two hundred and fifty guineas and he refused,” Lindsay said. He gave a sulky pout. “And I want them.”
Francis sighed theatrically. “Your trouble is, you have too much money.” He turned to Cruikshank, his gaze sharpening. “Two hundred and seventy-five.”
“Five hundred,” Cruikshank bit back.
“Three hundred, final offer.”
Cruikshank glared at him. “No. Five hundred.”
Francis made an angry noise. “This is absurd. Come on, Somerville.” He grabbed hold of Lindsay’s arm and began marching him to the door.
“Four hundred.”
Francis halted first, Lindsay an instant later, jerking back in his firm grasp. Together they turned.
“Not a penny less,” Cruikshank added, his expression curiously flat now.
“Done,” Lindsay said, before Francis could speak.
Francis stayed quiet and Cruikshank wouldn’t even look at him, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Lindsay.
“Do ye have the money with ye?” Cruikshank asked.
“No,” Lindsay admitted. “I will have to call upon my bank for a draft. I can write you a note by own name now of course, but—”
“That wouldnae be acceptable,” Cruikshank said quickly. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s near six o’clock now and Friday besides so it’ll have tae be Monday that we complete our business. I’m busy all that day, but I could see ye in the evening, after dinner. Shall we say eight o’clock? Will a day be enough for ye, to speak with yer bank?”
“Yes, of course,” Lindsay said. “We will return then. Mr. Cruikshank.”
Cruikshank nodded, but added, “I would prefer ye to come alone, Mr. Somerville. Yer friend”—he studiously ignored Francis—“is no’ welcome to return.”
Lindsay glanced at Francis, who shrugged but said nothing.
“Very well,” Lindsay said smoothly. “I will come alone.”
FRANCIS WAS QUIET AFTER they left Cruikshank’s house. For a while, Lindsay left him to his thoughts, but at last he asked, “What did you make of that?”
Francis glanced at him. “I’m not entirely sure, but one thing I know—despite his protests, Cruikshank wanted to sell you those papers. I could smell the desperation on him from the first.”
“Is that why you were haggling so hard?”
“I wanted to see how far he’d allow himself to be pushed.” Francis admitted. “Not as far as I thought, as it happens—but in the end I was right. He did not want us to leave without making the bargain.”
“He’s greedy,” Lindsay pointed out. “And we’re paying him an awful lot of money. The thought of losing that would not appeal to him.”
“Hmmm,” The noise Francis made signified agreement, but it was laced with dissatisfaction. As plausible as Lindsay’s explanation was, Lindsay could see Francis was unconvinced and his expression remained troubled.
“I wish you didn’t have to stay in Edinburgh any longer to finish this,” Francis muttered. “Perhaps if I’d been less abrasive, that old devil wouldn’t have insisted on you going alone, and I could have dealt with matters on Monday.”
“It’ll be fine,” Lindsay said firmly. “The chances of Duncan reaching Edinburgh by then are surely slender. And you’ll be here to watch over me.”
“I won’t be at Cruikshank’s.”
“Oh, come on!” Lindsay scoffed. “What possible harm could I come to at his hands? You’ve seen him—he’s decrepit, and so’s his servant.”
Francis’s unhappy expression didn’t shift. “Yes, he’s physically weak—but Lindsay, what I felt coming off him today. It’s rare to fee
l such malevolence.” He shook his head. “If Cruikshank had the strength to act on his feelings... Hell, it made my skin crawl, just being in that room with him. The hatred pouring off him. I don’t like the idea of you being exposed to that. My wolf doesn’t like it either.”
Neither did Lindsay in truth, but what else was there to do? Cruikshank needed to be dealt with, and however poisonous he might be, he was still just a weak old man, albeit one who’d be several hundred guineas richer after Monday. Perhaps that would make him a bit more likely to pay his debt to Drew Nicol—if so, then some good might come out of his enrichment.
“Well,” Francis said, “I’ll not be letting you out of my sight from now on. And as soon as your business with Cruikshank is concluded, you’re leaving this town. We’ll tell Wynne when we get back so he can start making arrangements to depart first thing on Tuesday.”
Lindsay nodded his agreement, but his wolf was not happy. It paced inside him, anxious and unsettled. It didn’t want to leave Drew Nicol.
Chapter Sixteen
The next day, the weather was awful. Endless sheeting rain. Lindsay and Francis stayed indoors all day and by evening Lindsay was pacing the floor. When the rain finally stopped, close to midnight, Francis suggested that he and Lindsay shift and run.
“The full moon is still two days off,” he said. “But your beast is terribly restless. It would be unwise to go to Cruikshank’s without letting it free beforehand.”
Lindsay stared into the flames of the parlour fire, nursing his untouched brandy glass. Francis was right, but in truth, it wasn’t only the moon bothering him.
“You will need to stay close to me if we shift,” he admitted tightly.
“Why?”
It was not an unreasonable question. This was not something Lindsay had ever had to ask of Francis before.
He sighed. “Given a chance, I suspect my wolf will run straight to Nicol. It... wants him.”
Francis eyed him with concern, then he nodded. “I’ll stay with you,” he promised.
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 17
