Wolf Island
By
Cheryl Gorman
Copyright © 2012 Cheryl Gorman
Cover Art by Rae Monet Designs http://www.raemonet.com
All rights reserved. This e-book is not transferable. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form including but not limited to printing, faxing, e-mailing, photocopying or by any manner of information retrieval through electronic means or through the postal service without the express permission of the publisher. This e-book is a work of fiction and a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead, places, incidents, locations or businesses is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
A castle in Maine? She’d had no idea they had castles in America.
Abigail Chapel stood on the massive stone front porch of Morgan’s Keep on Wolf Island. Around her, the wind sighed, bringing with it the scent of rain-washed pine and earth. Now sunlight warmed her back and shoulders, but failed to ease the jolt of nerves edging up her spine.
Where’s the moat and drawbridge with knights standing guard, or the captured princess calling down in hopes of rescue from one of the towers?
Abby smiled at her foolish thoughts and looked at the thick stone walls. “What are you doing here?” she murmured absently to herself.
The door appeared impenetrable, made of gray metal with huge silver studs hammered into its surface. A dark iron knocker carved in the shape of a wolf’s head, with bared teeth and eyes fashioned of amber-colored stone, stared back at her.
Adjusting the strap of her purse and lifting her hand to grasp the knocker, she paused as a cloud passed overhead, blocking the sun. The shadow darkened the wolf’s eyes until they appeared black and hard. A cold draft of air crept over her slim body. A tinkling sound like chimes drifted to her ears, along with a man’s subdued but evil laugh.
Her hands started to shake, and sweat beaded her brow. The next moment, the sun’s rays streamed down warm and mellow. She blinked rapidly and swallowed. The wolf’s eyes appeared golden once again, and the chilling plume of air vanished.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up from her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and breathed deeply through her nose. A minute, maybe two, passed before the giggle dissipated and her heart stopped flopping around in her chest.
With a slight tremble in her hand, she touched the wolf’s eyes. They felt solid and unmoving beneath her prodding fingers. She saw no evidence of a device of any kind that might project the laugh she’d heard or produce an icy draft.
However, since she’d been scared out of her white leather flats, Devlin Morgan, the castle’s owner, had some explaining to do. Abby raised her hand, gripped the knocker firmly, and rapped on the door. Metal clinked against metal. While she waited for someone to answer the door, she turned and gazed at the village that spread in the valley below her.
Peaked roofs in soft colors huddled closely together along the southernmost shoreline, and craggy gray rock surrounded much of the island.
She’d lifted her hand to knock again when the door swung open. A tall man wearing nothing but a maroon towel filled the doorway.
Impressions hit her at once. Wet, wavy raven hair dripped water onto his incredibly handsome face. Brawny shoulders and arms. Broad chest. Thick, dark hair glistening with water droplets spread over hard, muscled pectorals. Slender waist. A line of black hair trailed down an abdomen rippled with muscle and disappeared beneath the edge of the towel. He smelled wonderful, like water and earth and man.
“Who are you?” His deep, masculine voice was commanding.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. I’ve never seen such a man in my life! She struggled to reply, but only managed to utter a rather pathetic-sounding squeak. What in blazes was the matter with her?
Dark brows arched over eyes the color of new leaves, and his full mouth twisted in irritation. “Well?”
Pull yourself together. Acting like a bubble-headed schoolgirl wasn’t going to help her find her sister. Abby cleared her throat. “Are you Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Abigail Chapel.”
He straightened his shoulders and frowned at her. “I told you on the phone, your sister isn’t here anymore.”
“Yes, I know, but I need to ask you some questions.”
He grasped the door. “I answered them already. Go home, Ms. Chapel. You’re wasting my time.”
Before he could shut the panel in her face, Abby reached out and laid her palm on the door. “Please, wait.”
He widened his stance, with his big feet firmly planted and the muscles in his legs cording with strength. The towel tightened, molding the maroon material to his genitals and pulling her attention downward. Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she shifted her gaze back up to his. His scowl gave way to a hint of amusement in his eyes.
The sound of a clock tower resonated from the village below and floated on the air. “I can’t. The last ferry left at four-thirty.” She’d intentionally waited until after it left to approach the castle. “I received a call from my sister’s boss. He told me he hasn’t heard from Miranda in several days. She hasn’t checked in with her workplace or any of her friends. The last time we spoke, she said she would call me back in a couple of days, but she never did. I’m very worried about her.”
He stepped back, as if to close the door, and she gripped his wrist firmly. To her surprise, the heat from his skin pulsed thick and smooth into her fingers. Abby sucked in a breath and snatched her hand away. Her heart beat so hard, she thought it might burst. “Do you have any idea where she is?”
Devlin shrugged his shoulders. “How should I know?”
His obvious unconcern irked her. He must know something. “If you don’t let me in and answer my questions regarding my sister, I assure you I’ll go straight to the police.”
He raised his brows. “The police?”
Abby lifted her chin. “Yes. I must find my sister.”
Devlin swept his gaze over her, and his eyes softened. He no doubt took in her disheveled appearance. “Rough crossing?”
His gentle query soothed her for the moment. “Yes, rather choppy with deep swells.” To say the least.
At that moment, a small orange kitten twined between Devlin’s legs. A pale blue cast enwrapped one of the animal’s front legs.
Devlin knelt, scooped up the kitten, then rose to his full height. The kitten nestled into the crook of his arm while he stroked its head tenderly with his fingers. The ball of fur closed its eyes and purred loud enough for Abby to hear. “This one had a rough start, too.” He ran the tip of his finger lightly over the cast. “Tree limb fell on his leg. No choice but to let the vagabond stay a while.”
If he allowed an injured kitten to stay, surely he would let her in for just a few minutes. “Does that mean I can come in?”
“You’re not a helpless kitten. If you want to go to the police, go ahead. I have nothing to hide. Check with Corinne at Wolf’s Lair. She’d love to have someone from England to talk to.”
With those last words, he slammed the heavy door in her face.
* * * * *
With the towel still wrapped around his waist, Devlin looked out the window in his office on the first floor of the castle and watched Abby as she walked to her car. Absently, he stroked his hand over the soft fur of the kitten still snuggled in his arms. Abby tossed her purse inside, then climbed in and shut the car door. He kept his eye on her until she drove to the end of the castle’s drive and turned right onto the long, twisting road that led to the village. Devlin’s mind crowded with the memory of a pair of bright violet eyes and a sweet mouth made for kissing.
Abigail Chapel spelled trouble. When she touched him, the strengt
h and warmth of her hold made him feel something he’d never experienced with another woman.
An emotional connection. And it scared him to death.
He’d been careful not to develop any serious relationships with women, especially women who were interested in love, hearth, and home. He dated occasionally and slept with a woman or two he met on business trips or vacation. Just a little fun in the sack and no strings, because no woman could ever accept the shadow of his past. He headed upstairs to change and tried in vain to put Abigail Chapel out of his mind.
* * * * *
Abby stood with Sheriff Jake Dutton outside the castle, waiting for the door to open. He wore the standard sheriff’s uniform. In his late forties to early fifties, he was still attractive; he’d probably been quite the ladies’ man when he was younger. But there was padding around his waist now, and his light brown hair was thinning on top.
A feeling of triumph at convincing the sheriff to come with her made Abby straighten her shoulders in confidence. Devlin would have to answer her questions now.
The door to the castle swung open, and Devlin scowled down at Abby from his exalted height. No towel. Jeans covered his hips and thighs, and a dark blue shirt concealed his upper body. She found him just as appealing with his clothes on. Not a good reaction to have, considering that he might know something about Miranda’s disappearance. His green gaze flicked from her face to the sheriff’s. “Jake, is there a problem?”
Sheriff Dutton placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. “Dev, Ms. Chapel seems to think you know more than you’re telling about her sister, Miranda.”
Funny, when the sheriff dropped his r’s, it grated on her, but she found it charming in Devlin.
Devlin shot Abby an irritated glance, then looked at the sheriff. “Really.”
“Ayuh.” The sheriff nodded. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
A muscle worked in Devlin’s jaw. He swung his gaze to Abby and then back to the sheriff. “Go ahead.”
“How long was Ms. Chapel here?”
“One week.”
Abby crossed her arms over her chest and began tapping her foot. Ask him something important.
“Where did she go?”
Devlin frowned at her tapping foot, spared her a patronizing look, and then directed his attention back to the sheriff. “I don’t know. She didn’t leave a forwarding address. Is that all?”
She’d had enough. Abby stepped forward. “No, that’s not all. The last time I spoke with her, she told me you had blood on your hands and chased her. Whose blood?”
Uneasiness crossed the sheriff’s face as he looked at Devlin. “You had blood on your hands? When?”
Devlin’s eyes gleamed with frustration as he glanced from the sheriff to Abby, but his face remained calm, implacable. “Remember the little kitten you saw earlier?”
Abby nodded.
“I found him that night, pinned under a fallen tree limb. On the way back from the village, I heard the little thing mewling in the grass on the side of the road. When I wrestled with the limb, I got my clothes dirty and some of his blood on my hands.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “I’d just brought him home and was about to call the vet when your sister came barreling in through the front door -- pale, out of breath and, by the looks of her, pretty spooked. I went after her to find out why the devil she was so frightened.”
Abby looked him directly in the eye. “How could a kitten have that much blood?”
“She just thought she saw more blood. Understandable, considering your sister was so skittish that night. Satisfied?”
She wasn’t even close to being satisfied. “Not hardly. Why was she frightened?”
He glanced away for a moment, then looked back at her. “There was a bad storm that night. It blew in with a lot of lightning, and Miranda got caught in it. It shook her up a bit, that’s all.”
“Miranda wasn’t one to be afraid of a storm.”
“Then maybe you should ask her when you see her.”
Abby felt down to her bones that Devlin knew why Miranda had been so frightened that night. Why wouldn’t he tell her? All the more reason for her to gain entrance to the castle.
“I spoke to Corrine at Wolf’s Lair, and she doesn’t have a room available until Friday evening. This is Sunday. She told me that Morgan’s Keep offered a haunted weekend once a month during the summer, and since there are no other rooms available on the island --”
Devlin wiped a huge hand over his delectable face. “We’ve already had guests this month. It’s always the second weekend of the month. Come back in August.”
She couldn’t wait that long to search for clues to Miranda’s whereabouts. “I’ve already taken leave from my job. Besides, there won’t be another ferry until the morning.”
“And how is that my problem?”
Abby propped her hands on her hips. “It’s your problem because Miranda was last seen at this castle.”
“I already told you what happened. Now, go home.”
“I’m not leaving until I find Miranda. If you allow me to stay two nights, you’ll have every opportunity to prove to me that your story is valid.”
“I don’t need to prove anything.”
“On Saturday, if I’m convinced, I’ll leave. I’m only asking for two days.” She couldn’t believe she was making these demands.
“Dev,” the sheriff began, “why not let her stay? This will give her some time to put her doubts to rest about you having anything to do with Miranda’s disappearance.”
Devlin relaxed his shoulders and exhaled. “Fine. I’ll even waive the fee. But you only have one night. In the morning, I’m putting you on the first ferry back to the mainland. Understood?”
Don’t bet on it. She turned to the sheriff. “Thank you for coming up here, Sheriff.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Chapel. Dev.” He gave Devlin a wink and headed for his car parked next to Abby’s rental. She leaned down for her bags, which sat at her feet. When Devlin didn’t budge, she cocked a brow and said, “Well?”
His handsome mouth pressed into a grim line. He dropped one hand to his side and turned his head. “Otis.” His voice echoed through the castle’s interior.
Abby listened to the sound of steady footsteps from inside. A rather wiry black man, with a tuft of salt and pepper hair on his head that looked like steel wool, stopped next to Devlin. From the sound of his steps, she had expected him to be large and muscular like Devlin. “What we got here?” He studied Abby with obsidian eyes. “You huntin’ up them ghosts too?”
His voice contained a lilt that Abby was able to identify as Southern, but the accent was harder to place right away. Figuring out dialects and regional influences in speech was a hobby of hers, and she would figure it out, given time. Abby attempted a smile. “No, I need a place to stay for a couple of nights.”
“Ms. Chapel will be staying with us, for one night only. Put her in one of the guest rooms.” With those last words, Devlin turned and disappeared down a darkened hallway.
Devlin’s overwhelming presence, the shadow of secrets lurking in his sexy eyes, still lingered in her mind and threatened to slide under her skin. Inwardly, she shook herself. Just because the man was drop-dead gorgeous didn’t mean she should let it go to her head.
As for Otis, he projected a palpable aura of suspicion despite his affable expression, and would probably be no help in locating her sister.
Abby remembered a snippet of the conversation she’d had with Miranda about Devlin. “Whatever is going on here, Abby, the people in the village are behind Devlin one hundred percent. They never say anything derogatory, no matter how hard I pry.”
She had to come up with a darn good reason why she absolutely must stay at the castle beyond one night.
When she walked inside, trepidation crawled over Abby’s skin. She gazed at the castle’s interior, and to her relief, Morgan’s Keep wasn’t the evil-lurking-in-every-corner castle she’d expected it to be. Marb
le floors gleamed in the foyer; walls were paneled in mahogany. No smoky torches or cobwebs trailed along the ceiling or walls. Electric sconces cast comforting light into the darkness.
As she and Otis ascended the wide, curving staircase, she studied the portraits lining the wall. “Are these pictures of the former owners before Devlin purchased the castle?”
Otis chuckled, glanced briefly at the paintings, and continued up the staircase with her small suitcase clutched in his bony hand. “The Morgan family built this place in 1702.”
“Oh, so these are Devlin’s ancestors.” Abby stopped in front of a portrait of a woman clothed in a parchment-colored dress that just covered her knees. Hair the color of golden autumn leaves flowed about her shoulders. The woman’s gaze seemed fixed on some distant point beyond the boundaries of the frame. In her hand, she held a wind chime.
Abby’s heart quivered at the sight. “Otis, why is this woman holding a chime?”
He stopped at the top of the stairs. “Not for me to say. Your room’s this way, chère.” Otis turned and walked down one of three hallways that led away from the top of the staircase. Abby wanted to question him further, but perhaps she should wait until she knew him better.
Otis set her case by the guestroom bed, which was dressed in a gold-and-white striped coverlet. Creamy moiré silk spread over the walls, and a small stone fireplace graced the far wall. A perfect room for a guest.
He gestured with his right arm. “Bathroom’s through there. We eat at six-thirty. Mr. Dev don’t like people to be late. We eat in the small dining room off the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs, take the hallway to the right. It’ll bring you straight there.” He nodded toward a phone on the nightstand. “You get scared, see a ghost or something, pick up the phone and give me a holler. I’ll come runnin’.” He chuckled and left the room.
As soon as he closed the door, Abby scooted across the room and pressed her ear to the thick wood. The sound of his laughter faded. Was it his laughter she’d heard on the porch? She waited a moment, then opened the door and looked out into the hallway. She glanced at her watch. Dinner in a half hour. No time to waste.
Wolf Island Page 1
