Francis looked up from his book. “What did you expect?” His voice was tight with judgment. “He is changing, now, even as we speak. All his reserves are being spent on that.”
“But where is the evidence of change?” Lindsay asked. “He is so quiet. It doesn’t seem right.”
“Did you think he would be writhing in the bedsheets?” Francis asked flatly. He turned back to his book without waiting for an answer.
Francis was still being cold to Lindsay, and Lindsay hated it.
“It has been two days,” Lindsay said. “I thought he would have woken by now.”
“It takes as long as it takes,” Francis replied without looking up.
It went on for another full day and night. Finally, though, on Friday morning, Drew woke.
Lindsay was sleeping in the parlour on a makeshift bed Wynne had made up for him the night before. Until then, he’d spent every moment at Drew’s bedside, catnapping in his chair only when exhaustion completely swamped him. But when Francis had pointed out he was talking gibberish and would need to rest if he was going to be able to deal with Drew’s questions when the man finally came around, he’d allowed himself to be guided into the parlour by Wynne and Francis and put to bed.
It was early the next morning and he was sound asleep when his dreams were disturbed by a creaking sound. He blinked his eyes open to see the door opening and a face appeared in the crack. Wynne.
Lindsay yawned, raising himself up on one elbow. “What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock,” Wynne said, venturing into the room. He looked nervous.
“God, did I really sleep nine hours?” Lindsay rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“Yes—and you’ll be pleased to hear that while you were resting, Mr. Nicol woke up.”
“What?” Lindsay exclaimed, sitting up. “When?”
“Briefly last night—just for a few minutes—then around an hour ago properly.”
Lindsay was on his feet and pulling on his breeches. “For God’s sake,” he snapped. “Why didn’t you wake me as soon as it happened?”
“With respect, sir, you needed to sleep,” Wynne said calmly, his gaze on the floor. “Mr. Neville and I were in agreement on that.”
“But—Oh, Christ, He must be so confused, wondering what’s happened—Wynne, where’s my shirt?”
“Here, sir,” Wynne said, handing him a bundle of white lawn. “And it’s all right—Mr. Neville has been sitting with Mr. Nicol since he woke. I believe he’s been able to answer most of his questions.”
Lindsay just stared at Wynne, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He had wanted to be there when Drew first woke. Had wanted to be the one to explain things to him. Wynne paled at whatever he saw on Lindsay’s face, muttered an apology, and fled.
Yanking on the shirt, Lindsay tucked the long tails inside his breeches and strode out after him He burst into his bedchamber, entirely forgetting to knock in his rush to see Drew, who lay in bed, his body raised into a sitting position by a pile of pillows.
Drew startled at Lindsay’s entrance, his expression hardening when he saw who it was.
“Lindsay.” That was Francis. He was sitting on the chair beside the bed. Where Lindsay should have been. Jealousy burned in his gut.
Lindsay’s gaze shifted between them. “Does he know?” he asked at last. He directed the question at Francis, but it was Drew who answered.
“Does he know what?” Drew countered angrily. “What I am now? What you’ve made me?”
Lindsay’s heart sank at the broken fury in his voice.
“I’ll let you speak privately,” Francis murmured, rising. As he passed Lindsay, he touched his elbow, a simple gesture of support which Lindsay was pathetically grateful for. And then he was gone, closing the door behind him.
Lindsay stared at Drew, lying there, at his long rangy body and that handsome, grim face, the beautiful mouth pressed into an unhappy line. He was still pale, still healing, but he was strong with life now. Perhaps more than ever before.
Quietly Lindsay said, “I had to do something. You were dying.”
“You should have let me die.”
Lindsay rubbed his chest, trying to ease the pain that comment provoked. “Don’t say that,” he muttered.
“Why not? It’s what would have happened if you hadn’t intervened. If you’d let nature take its course.” Drew met his gaze and his own was anguished. “What did I ever say to you to suggest I’d have chosen this?”
“Nothing,” Lindsay admitted. He stepped a little closer, wishing he could touch Drew. If he could only touch him, perhaps everything would be all right. “But you didn’t say you wanted to die either.”
Drew closed his eyes. The anger seemed to have gone out of him—now he just sounded exhausted. “I wish I had.”
Lindsay stared at him, appalled. “What do you mean by that?”
Drew laughed without humour, eyes still closed. “What do I have to live for, Lindsay? I told you before—my family is dead. I have no intention of marrying again. Especially not now—God, how could I now?” He shook his head blindly. “For these last few years, the only thing that has kept me rising each morning is my work and—”
“Do not say that you wanted to die,” Lindsay bit out.
“I wasn’t going to,” Drew replied wearily. “But that doesn’t mean I want to prolong my existence indefinitely.”
Lindsay opened his mouth to respond to that, to argue with it, but he found he couldn’t make a sound. His throat had closed up and his heart ached with a queer, sharp agony.
“I would not have chosen this life you have thrust on me,” Drew continued. “A life I cannot even fathom the scope of at this point.” He gave a harsh laugh, edged with disbelief. “Mr. Neville says you are hundred and fifty years old. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Lindsay lowered himself to sit on the edge of the mattress, careful to maintain his distance, making no attempt to touch Drew. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it, you see. The thought of you dying. The truth is, Drew we are mates. I lov—”
“Don’t!” Drew hissed. His voice was sharp as a blade, cutting through Lindsay’s words. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You barely know me.”
Lindsay fell silent, but his wolf howled in protest. It knew its mate. Wanted its mate, even as that same mate rejected him.
After a short silence, Lindsay said, tentatively, “What did Francis tell you exactly? About your new nature.”
“That I’m a monster now,” Drew replied flatly. “Like you.”
Lindsay winced. “What else?”
“That I will transform into a wolf each month. That I will be a slave to the cycles of the moon. That I’ll want to run and hunt at full moon, and perhaps at other times too.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have believed him if I hadn’t seen it happen myself.” Closing his eyes, he added weakly, “You ripped that man’s throat out.”
“He was going to kill you—”
“You ripped my throat out.”
“Drew, please,” Lindsay said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I had to.”
“No,” Drew spat. “You didn’t. You chose to. And so help me, I will never forgive you for making that choice for me—for taking that choice from me.” His voice gave out on the final words of that declaration and he turned his face away from Lindsay to stare at the wall. After a few moments he added stiffly, “Could you leave me alone now?”
“Drew, I—”
“Lindsay, please,” Drew begged, his voice shaking with helpless fury. “I can’t even bear to look at you.”
Lindsay closed his eyes. “Very well,” he said. “I will leave you for now, but we will have to talk eventually, you know. We need to discuss what—”
“No,” Drew interrupted. “We have nothing to discuss.”
Lindsay ignored his wolf’s whimper. Forcing himself to respond calmly, he said, “Drew, we have to talk about the future. We have to—”
; “No, we don’t,” Drew said furiously. “We have no future—no shared future, that is. There is nothing between us. I hate what you’ve done to me. I wouldn’t have expected this of my worst enemy, never mind someone who—” He broke off, exhaling sharply. Tried again. “If you imagined I could ever have welcomed this, it only shows how little you know me.”
Lindsay could only stare at him. Every part of Lindsay hurt, a soul-deep agony racking him inside and out. He couldn’t even feel his wolf anymore.
Finally, moving slowly, he got to his feet. He could think of nothing else to say. No way to persuade Drew to listen.
He left the room, carefully closing the door behind him.
HE FOUND FRANCIS SITTING in the parlour, a letter in his hands.
“How was he?” Francis asked, but Lindsay could see from the soft sympathy in his gaze that Francis already knew.
“I think”—Lindsay’s voice, already hoarse, broke on the words—“I think he hates me.”
Francis did not argue with him, and for some reason, it was that more than anything that finally broke him. He sank into the chair next to Francis and buried his face in his hands. Hot tears pricked his eyes and clogged his throat.
“It is not an easy thing,” Francis said. “To have something done to you for your own good that you do not want. It may take him some time to forgive you.”
“I don’t think he will ever forgive me,” Lindsay whispered.
“Lindsay.” Francis’s tone was heavy with sympathy, but he gave no false reassurances. They both knew what Lindsay said was true.
After a pause, Francis said, “I have had a letter from Felix.” Felix was a wolf, and a particular friend of Francis’s, who lived in London. “He says Duncan has been seen in town and was talking of returning to Scotland imminently.” He met Lindsay’s gaze, saying seriously, “He will be here very soon, if he is not already. You must leave Edinburgh now.”
“What about Drew?” Lindsay said, his mind going straight to his mate. “He is not well enough to travel yet.”
Francis met his gaze squarely. “He wants to stay here.”
“You have spoken to him already?”
“I told him he should be with wolves for a while. Suggested both London and Paris and assured him we would see to his needs and comfort, as well as helping him adjust. But he was not willing to leave. He says his life is here. His work is here.”
“Drew’s work is his life,” Lindsay said bitterly. “It is all he cares about.”
Perhaps you should have thought about before you bit him. Francis didn’t say it, but Lindsay could read the thought on his face.
“He cannot be left alone, not now,” Lindsay said. “I will stay.”
“You cannot,” Francis said implacably. “And he will not be alone. I will stay with him.”
Jealousy rushed through Lindsay’s blood like a geyser. The wrongness of that, of him not being with Drew as he learned to be a wolf. Of someone else being there who was not him. It hurt him and made him want to snap and bite.
Francis’s gaze was soft with sympathy. “You saw how angry he is. He will not willingly consent to your presence. He will not go anywhere with you, unless you compel him. Even if he did, what would happen when Duncan found you? You would be putting Drew in peril.”
“What about when Duncan finds him with you?” Lindsay retorted. “You are Duncan’s real obsession. Whatever you love, he hates and destroys.”
Francis said calmly, “Yes, but I do not love Drew. Oh, I think we will become friends, in time, and you can be sure I will take the best care of him that I can, but there will be nothing between us that will rouse Duncan’s passions. You are the one I worry about protecting. I can manage Drew alone, but not you too. Not with Drew like this.”
Like this. With Drew hating Lindsay, he meant. With Drew not wanting to be anywhere near him.
“I will see him through his first shifts,” Francis said, his voice low. “I will teach him how to control his wolf, as the moon cycle progresses. How to be safe, and undetected.”
Lindsay swallowed, hard. “His first shifts? How many? Two, three, ten? What do you think will be enough? When will you leave him?”
“I don’t know,” Francis said, calm as ever. “We will have to see how things go.”
“And if Marguerite calls you back to Paris?”
Francis shrugged. “Then I will try to persuade him to accompany me.”
“And if he refuses to go with you?”
Francis’s sigh was impatient. “If he refuses, that is up to him. He is his own person, Lindsay. A free man. Your bite did not make him your property. You must not try to control him.”
“I know that,” Lindsay cried. “But I also need to know he will be safe. Francis, please, you cannot expect me to—” his voice broke with emotion.
“What? Respect his wishes?” Francis’s gaze was sympathetic but his words were unyielding. “You have no choice in that, my friend. Unless you are going to be like Duncan MacCormaic and keep him in chains.”
Lindsay closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and shaking his head violently at the image Francis’s words had conjured up, as though to dislodge the sudden picture he had of Drew in his mind, pitiable and filthy in bondage. He felt Francis’s hand on his knee, calm and soothing, settling him.
“Lindsay, I will take care of him—the best care he will allow me to give—I promise you that. I will also write to you, faithfully, to tell you of his progress and whether he has softened towards you. And if I have to leave, I will make some other arrangement. Someone to keep a watch on him. I will not just abandon him.”
Lindsay dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t know how to put his pain and desolation into words. Leaving Drew was going to break him. His wolf would never recover from the loss. He would prefer to lose a limb.
“It can be borne, you know,” Francis said quietly. “But you must have distance. The more miles the better. It will not break the bond entirely, but it will make his absence bearable.”
Bearable.
Was that the best Lindsay could hope for now?
Chapter Nineteen
Dordt, South Holland, January 1789
LINDSAY CONSIDERED the little stone nestled in the palm of his hand. It was small and rough and grey, with a faint glitter on the surface. He carried it everywhere these days, and for the last several hours he’d been staring at it, letting the fire burn down in the grate.
“Sir?”
A familiar voice interrupted Lindsay’s thoughts. He glanced up, blinking.
Wynne stood in front of him, a tray in his hands that held a steaming dish, beef stew by the smell of it, a jug of ale and some bread. Lindsay’s stomach heaved in protest.
He sighed, shoving the stone into his pocket. “I told thee, Wynne, I’ve no wish for aught.”
Wynne regarded him for a moment, expressionless, then stepped forward and set the tray down on a side table well away from where Lindsay sat, and made his way to the fire where some embers still glowed.
“The fire is low,” he observed.
“What of it?” Lindsay said wearily.
Wynne stood quiet for a moment, watching him. At last he said, “It is cold this evening, and you have been sitting in here all day, barely stirring.” When Lindsay did not respond, Wynne carefully moved towards the fire, reached for the basket of logs, and set two fresh ones down on the glowing embers. The new green wood spat a little,
“You should eat something,” Wynne said, as he stirred the fire to excite the embers.
“I have no appetite.”
“I know, sir,” Wynne said gently. “But you should still eat. You are getting thin.”
Lindsay made an irritated sound. “Thou’rt trying my patience, Wynne.”
Wynne turned then, fixing Lindsay with a look of such penetrating pity that it made Lindsay want to cover himself and turn away.
“You have not slept in two days, nor have you eaten.” Wynne paused and smiled sadly. “And you ar
e thee-and-thou’ing me again.”
Lindsay closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair in surrender. “I am fine,” he said. “Go, Wynne. Leave me be.”
Wynne huffed out a breath and walked to the door again. But before he left, he turned. “Will you at least eat?” he said. “Please? Just a little something?”
“Don’t fret,” Lindsay said. “I will be going hunting soon. I will eat then.”
Wynne sighed and left the room.
Lindsay watched as the two logs Wynne had set on the fire gradually burned, blackening first, then glowing red, then finally turning white and collapsing to nothing. The cottage was quiet now and the world still. Rising, he dropped his clothes where he stood and silently left the room. Moments later, he was unlatching the kitchen door and stepping out into a cold, wet night.
He looked up at the night sky, searching. The moon was little more than a bone-white, crooked finger, beckoning him. Her call was weak, but it was enough. Enough to shift by. His shift was slow and painful though, in no little part due to weakness from lack of food. Wynne was right that he needed sustenance.
When the shift was over, he was lying on his side, panting hard, his ribcage rising and falling quickly. Getting to his feet, a little shakily, he began a trotting run towards the Biesbosch. The cottage was on the outskirts of Dordt, so he was soon in open fields.
After a short, hard run, he ducked into a patch of willow forest. The land here couldn’t be more different from Edinburgh’s hills: flat wetlands, soft, muddy ground under his paws as he ran, great clumps of reeds and grasses brushing his flanks. His progress was greeted with the muted calls and flapping wings of agitated waterfowl. After a while, he stopped to hunt, catching a couple of mallard and making a swift, desultory meal of them. Then he ran again, on and on, under the weak, distant moon.
At last, exhausted, he lay down, setting his head on his outstretched paws.
He had always been able to find some solace in his shift—until now, now when he needed solace most of all. But how could he find solace in this self? This part of him that most unequivocally and unreservedly needed its mate?
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1) Page 22
