The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  A low growl escaped Pax’s throat, and in the next second he shifted into his wolf form. His fangs, dripping with saliva, hovered close to my ear and my throat. In my head, I imagined myself in my wolf form; nothing happened.

  In the next second, in a flurry of fur and fangs, a pack of nearly-black wolves entered the wood at full speed. The men with Pax shifted and the fight began. I was knocked to a tree where I fell to the ground, crouched and watched.

  I couldn’t make myself change. I was helpless.

  The melee was horrific. Bones crunched. Blood. Cries of pain. No human words met my ears, but I heard them in my head.

  Then, a large wolf with a band of white on his chest charged me. It was Pax. I knew it. And I was no match for him. I rose, my back against the tree, and kept my eyes trained on my old partner.

  Just before he lunged, a large black wolf leapt from out of nowhere and slammed Pax to the ground. They fought; fangs gnashed, massive claws raked, bodies smashed into one another. The black wolf was Lucian – of that I had no doubt. With a final agonizing cry, Pax’s neck was broken, and Lucian – God, it was awful – tore into his throat.

  Then it was over.

  Lucian moved towards me, shifted and stood naked before me. He was covered in Pax’s blood. Anger radiated off of him. Anger and relief.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and grasped my hand in his, threading his fingers through mine. “This is over,” he said, and squeezed my hand. “For now.”

  Together, we walked back to the hall where Lucian bathed and got dressed. One of Lucian’s brothers cleaned up the aftermath while Lucian explained to me what was to come. I can’t say that I was shocked.

  “I’m verra sorry about your partner,” he said, folding me into his embrace. He rubbed my back, a rhythmic motion that calmed me instantly. “He was no longer himself, you understand that?”

  I nodded against his chest. “Yes.”

  He looked at me long, searching my eyes. “There are others from all over the world, no’ just Scotia. We go where we’re needed. We fight to protect innocents. And you are one of us now, Gin. Your skills will grow and you’ll become as fast, as strong as I.” He kissed me then. When he pulled back, his gaze all but worshipped me. “But you’re not there yet, and I’ll no’ take any more chances with your life. You’re mine,” he whispered against my mouth, then brushed his lips across mine. “And I’ll no’ leave your side until you have full control over all of your new powers.” He rested his forehead against mine. “I canna lose you, Gin. You’re mine forever.”

  Lucian MacLeod then completely enveloped me in his arms, pressed his mouth to mine and kissed me long and slow, his tongue brushing mine, causing my heart to race, my breath to catch. I kissed him back. Again, he mouthed the words against my lips that he’d said the first night we’d made love. I pulled back and looked at him.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, nipping at his lower lip.

  The intense longing in his eyes made my knees weak. “It means I’ve found you, my love, at long last.” He smiled, kissed me and nuzzled my neck. “I’ve waited centuries for you, Gin Slater,” he said softly. “My warrior wolf. My mate.”

  As he drew me into another long kiss, I knew my life was forever changed. I didn’t know what it had in store, but I knew that as long as Lucian MacLeod was there with me, I could handle it. Gladly handle it.

  It was the longest, most sensual kiss I’d ever experienced.

  And he was all mine …

  At Last

  Jacquie D’Alessandro

  London, 1820

  One

  “Dear God, what is he doing here?”

  The words rushed past Sophia Mallory, Countess Winterbourne’s lips in a horrified whisper, her gaze riveted on the tall, raven-haired man who stood framed in the carved archway leading into the elegant ballroom. The sounds of Lord and Lady Benningfield’s annual soiree – laughter mixed with the hum of conversation, the lilt of the musician’s waltz, the clink of fine crystal – all faded to a dull buzz in Sophia’s mind, as did the more than two hundred guests milling about. Everything fell away except him.

  Ian Broderick.

  His name reverberated through her brain and she blinked, certain he was some figment of her imagination – not a completely farfetched notion as, in spite of her best efforts to forget him, he’d invaded her mind daily since she’d left him six months ago. She blinked again, but his image remained in the doorway, larger than life, striking panic in her heart.

  How had he, a man of no social standing, managed to secure an invitation to one of society’s premier events of the season? Her stunned gaze flicked over the midnight blue cutaway jacket that exactly matched his eyes and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. The intricate knot of his snowy cravat, the burgundy and green plaid waistcoat that proclaimed him a Scot. Perhaps his current elegant attire, freshly shaved face and neatly trimmed hair – all the complete antithesis of the rough, workmen’s clothing, day-old stubble, and untamed locks he’d sported the last time she’d seen him – might have rendered him unrecognizable to some, but Sophia would have known him anywhere, would have sensed his presence even had the room been completely dark instead of illuminated by dozens of candles. Where on earth had a groundskeeper from the small Scottish town of Melrose procured such expensive, perfectly tailored clothes?

  The questions flew from her mind and her stomach clenched when her attention returned to his face and she noted his sharp gaze intently panning the room. He couldn’t possibly be looking for her – could he? No, she’d been very careful to hide her full identity from him. Yet, the very fact he was here rippled a fissure of terror through her that his unexpected appearance somehow had something to do with her.

  Escape. She had to escape. Immediately. Before he saw her. For even if he weren’t at this soiree because of her, his discovering her here would set in motion any number of scenarios, none of which would end well for her.

  He hadn’t seen her yet – but based on the way his gaze scanned the room, those intense eyes would fall upon her within seconds. In spite of the crowd, her unfashionable height unfortunately made her easy to spot. With her heart pounding hard enough to bruise her ribs, she started to turn away, her every instinct intent upon escape. A gloved hand grasped her upper arm, stilling her.

  “Heavens, who is that utterly divine man?”

  Sophia tried to shake loose of Christine Archer, Viscountess Handley’s, hold, but her best friend’s tenacious grip tightened. As Christine was staring towards the archway across the room, Sophia didn’t question to which “utterly divine man” Christine referred.

  “I … I must go.” Sophia pulled her arm free and desperately looked for the nearest exit. Her gaze lit upon the french windows leading to the terrace and she quickly stepped in that direction. But her hopes for a fast escape were thwarted by the seemingly endless wall of revellers standing between her and freedom.

  “Sophia, are you all right?” asked Christine. She stepped directly in front of Sophia and her expression immediately turned to one of deep concern. “Darling, you’re pale as wax. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I have. In the form of a man she’d hoped never to see again. A ghost from her past she’d been trying desperately to forget, lest it cost her everything. And right now that past stood terrifyingly close. If the truth were to come out—

  She ruthlessly cut off the thought and, keeping her back towards the man on the opposite side of the room, she offered Christine what she hoped passed for a sheepish expression. “Too much champagne, I’m afraid,” she lied, praying her very observant friend wouldn’t recall she’d imbibed nothing stronger than lemonade. “I’ve the most dreadful headache and simply cannot stand the noise and this crush.”

  Christine’s gaze turned sympathetic. “A good night’s sleep is what you need. Although I hate that you’re leaving, especially since that luscious stranger just appeared in the doorway. I’ve no idea who he is, but I intend to find out.�
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  Dread rippled down Sophia’s spine. “Your husband would surely object to such fascination in another man.”

  Christine laughed. “Darling, I’m married – not dead. There is no sin in merely looking.” Her gaze shifted over Sophia’s shoulder and a mischievous grin curved her lips. “Although I’d wager that man knows a great deal about sin.” She returned her attention to Sophia. “I’m certain my Henry would object to my fascination – if that fascination was purely on my behalf. However, it is you I’m thinking of, Sophia. You need something – or someone – to lift your spirits.” Christine reached out and gently squeezed Sophia’s hands. “It’s been nearly three years since Robert’s death. It’s time to stop mourning. Time to live again.”

  An image of her deceased husband’s face, his warm brown eyes sparkling with humour flashed through Sophia’s mind, a mental picture that was instantly replaced by one of intense dark blue eyes that seemed to burn a hole through her skin.

  “I’m fine,” she said, her battle to remain calm rapidly slipping away. “I’ll start living again tomorrow – after a good night’s sleep to rid me of this headache.” She slipped her hands from Christine’s and with her head down and knees bent to minimize her height, she began weaving her way through the throng towards the french windows.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise,” Christine called after her. “Expect me to call upon you tomorrow afternoon.”

  Sophia nodded without turning around and focused on fleeing. When she reached the windows, she grasped the curved brass handle and opened the paned glass panel just enough to slip outside. A gust of unseasonably chilly air, heavy with the threat of rain, swirled around her, pebbling her skin, but she barely noticed the discomfort. Heart pounding, she anxiously peered back into the ballroom, her staccato breaths fogging the glass. Dread seized her when she noted Ian no longer stood under the archway leading into the ballroom, but then she spied the back of a dark head standing on the far side of the room, near the punch bowl. The man’s height identified him as Ian and Sophia sucked in a quick breath of relief. Thank God. Now she just needed to circle around to the front of the mansion then request her carriage be sent. She cursed the delay that would entail, but intending to ask Christine and Henry to escort her home, she’d dismissed her driver. At least she’d escaped the ballroom undetected. And once ensconced inside her vehicle, with the velvet curtains drawn, she’d be safe.

  She turned. And froze at the sight of the snowy cravat mere inches from her nose.

  “Going somewhere, Sophia?” Ian’s husky voice, rich with the flavour of Scotland, filled the darkness between them.

  And with a sinking heart Sophia knew, that with those three simple words, everything she’d tried to escape had found her.

  Two

  Ian stared at the woman who, for the past six months he’d moved heaven and earth to find and two words pounded through his head, in perfect time to his thundering heart.

  At last.

  She looked at him through those huge, golden brown eyes that had grabbed him by the throat the first moment he’d seen her. He’d been taking his customary solitary walk through the cool forest that marked the border between the outskirts of Melrose and the secluded, back acreage of Marlington Hall. As he’d neared the forest’s end, where the shade melted into a golden blaze of late summer sunshine, he’d been so engrossed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice her until a mere twenty feet separated them.

  She’d stood in profile to him, framed in sunlight, amidst an explosion of colourful wildflowers, holding a bouquet of pink roses obviously picked from the abundance surrounding her. He’d halted, surprised at the unexpected sight of her, and irritated at the disruption of his solitude. A visitor to the area, he decided, as the locals all knew and respected Marlington Hall’s property boundaries.

  In no mood for company, he was about to withdraw without making his presence known when she reached up and slowly pulled the pins from her hair. Suddenly transfixed, he watched a curtain of glossy sable curls unfurl down her back. After shaking her head, she closed her eyes and raised her face. A slow smile spread across her sun-gilded features, and with a delighted laugh, she spread her arms wide and spun around in circles, her glorious hair and plain brown gown flying around her.

  The sight had enchanted him. When was the last time he’d felt such pure joy? He couldn’t recall. Couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Couldn’t remember why he’d wanted to be alone. Then, with her cheeks flushed and lips still curved in a smile framed by a pair of beguiling dimples, she’d stopped and caught sight of him.

  His first look into those warm, golden brown eyes had walloped him right in the heart. Heat that had nothing to do with the bright sunshine raced through him and in the space of a single heartbeat, he’d found himself … something. Smitten? Bewitched? Neither word seemed adequate to describe the struck-by-lightning sensation that had rendered him incapable of doing anything more than staring and drinking her in. All he knew was that catching her in that unguarded, carefree moment had touched a place deep inside him, one that had felt dead for so damn long. And that for the first time in a year he’d felt something other than bleak numbness – his constant companion since the accident that had irrevocably changed his life.

  She’d raised her hand to shade those Scotch whisky eyes, then moistened her lips, a gesture that riveted his gaze on her lush mouth. For several seconds she stared at him as if she too had been struck, but then her smile faded, and uncertainty, along with a flash of fear flickered in her gaze, rousing him from his stupor. Of course she’d be wary of a stranger in such an isolated spot, and God knows he hadn’t wanted to scare her off …

  * * *

  “Good afternoon,” he said, stepping from the shade into the sunlight. “Ye’ve chosen a braw day to explore the grounds of Marlington Hall.”

  Distress joined the wariness in her gaze. “Forgive me,” she murmured, her accent immediately identifying her as English. “I’m visiting this area … I just arrived in Melrose this morning, and didn’t realize I’d wandered on to private property. If you’ll excuse me …”

  She turned to leave and a sense of loss unlike anything Ian had ever experienced gripped him, propelling him forward. “No need to worry,” he assured her. “I’m well acquainted with the owner and while some might consider him a bit o’ a crabbitt, he’d have no objection to such a bonny lass enjoying a stroll on his land.”

  She pivoted back to him and her gaze flicked over his scuffed, dusty boots and sturdy nankeen trousers and shirt. Certainly not clothing that would proclaim him lord of manor, but it was his preferred attire on his long, solitary walks.

  “Crabbitt?” she repeated in a bewildered tone.

  “Aye. What an English lass would call a curmudgeon.”

  Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You’re employed here?”

  A bark of laughter rose in his throat. Bloody hell, that question marked her a stranger like no other could have. He knew he should inform her he’d been teasing and that the reason he was so well acquainted with Marlington Hall’s curmudgeon master was because he was himself the curmudgeon. Yet the words stuck in his throat. This stranger knew nothing of him, of his past, of the accident. For the first time in a year someone was looking at him without a trace of calculation or pity.

  And not just any someone. No, this someone was a bloody beautiful woman with the most gorgeous eyes and full, kissable lips he’d ever seen. Of course if she remained in Melrose any length of time she’d eventually learn the truth – gossip concerning the reclusive Earl of Marlington swirled about the village like thick fog. Yet it was so refreshing for someone to see him simply as himself he couldn’t resist delaying the inevitable. After all, what harm could possibly come of such an innocent deception?

  “Aye, I work here.” Not precisely a lie as his title came with a daunting amount of responsibility. He halted an arm’s length from her and discovered that although she wasn’t a lass in her first bloom of youth – he judged
her closer to thirty than twenty, perhaps even a wee bit on the other side of thirty – she attracted him like no younger woman, or even one his own age ever had. And those eyes – bloody hell, he felt as if he could stare into their soulful, expressive depths for hours. They held hints of secrets and sadness, laughter and happiness, hopes and dreams – an intoxicating combination that beckoned him to learn more, to discover everything about her.

  Her eyes alone branded her a beauty in his mind, rendering her high cheekbones, creamy complexion, bewitching smile and delicate brows all but superfluous. She was tall, unfashionably so, but then so was he, and he liked that she stood up straight and regal instead of slouching to disguise her height. Even her charmingly undone appearance didn’t diminish her elegance. Her gown was plain, but of fine quality, marking her as woman of some means.

  “I’m in charge of the grounds.” He shot the bouquet she held a pointed look. “I see you found the wild roses.”

  More colour bloomed in her cheeks. “I adore flowers and roses are my favourite. They were so beautiful I couldn’t resist picking a few. However, I would have refrained had I known this was private property.”

  A snippet of his favourite Christopher Marlowe poem drifted into his mind – And I will make thee beds of roses, and a thousand fragrant posies. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her. “Ye should never have to refrain from taking what your heart desires.”

  “You should if it belongs to another.”

  “Not if it is freely given, and as I am the keeper of the roses, you are welcome to pick as many as you like.”

  “Thank you, Mr …?”

  To prolong the inevitable, he offered his middle name rather than his surname. “Broderick. But you may call me Ian – all my friends do.”

  Amusement glinted in her eyes. “We’ve hardly been acquainted long enough to be considered friends, Mr Broderick.”

  “Perhaps, but the fact that ye picked my roses makes us instant friends. ’Tis a law here in Melrose.”