Inking the Wolf: A wolf shifter paranormal romance (Wolves of Crookshollow Book 3)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Eat this, Mother.

  “Bianca Sinclair! What are you doing?” Something screeched in my ear. A spidery hand grabbed my shoulder and tore Robbie and I apart. I sucked in air, my body screaming in protest at being ripped from that intense kiss. “You do not canoodle on the front porch, where any of the neighbours might see. Especially not when you’re wearing that.” She glared down at my dress, the vein above her temple throbbing against her papery skin. She clutched a hand to the severe collar of her blouse, where a red stone cameo was clasped. “You look like a prostit—”

  “Gee, Mum,” I snarled, straightening my skirt. “It was just a kiss. It’s not as though we were going to throw down and consummate it right here on the porch.”

  Her lips pursed. Robbie glanced from her to me, his face confused. If he felt anything like I did, I guessed he was still reeling from the kiss. My veins thrummed with energy, a hot fire that clouded my thoughts.

  Stop it, Bianca. Don’t get distracted. Focus on the reason you’re here tonight.

  That reason loomed in the doorway, her bony figure casting a long shadow across the porch. Her outfit looked like something out of a Dracula comic – a high-collared black shirt with cream lace inserts, and a long wool skirt that flared at the bottom and must’ve itched like crazy. Her fingers glittered with dozens of rings, and that cameo against her throat. She’d pulled her hair – more silver than when I’d last seen it – into a tight bun high on her head, so tight it stretched the skin at the edge of her forehead, as though the knot was what held her whole face together. Impeccably applied lipstick curled back into a disapproving frown.

  Mother looked me up and down, sniffing as though the smell of me was somehow unsavoury. Robbie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I glared back at her, daring her to further disobey her protocols and continue to allow Robbie and I to remain standing on the porch in the cold.

  Finally, she stepped back into the entrance hall, holding the door open. “Please.” She held the door open. “Won’t you come in?”

  Robbie jumped, a little surprised at her quick change of tone. He recovered quickly, and stepped into the house. He held out his hand.

  Good idea, Robbie. Of course she doesn’t shake hands.

  Mother stared down at his outstretched hand, her features twitching with thinly veiled disgust. To my surprise, she didn’t give him a lecture on proper protocol. Instead, she leaned forward and presented her cheek.

  Robbie glanced at me, his eyes wide with panic. I nodded toward her cheek. The message got through, and he pecked my mother’s cold skin.

  “Your home is beautiful, Mrs. Sinclair,” he said. “It’s massive.”

  “Why thank you, Robbie. It’s Lady Sinclair, if you please. It’s not often I hear the word ‘massive’ in relation to our front hall.” She frowned as he started undoing his laces. “Please don’t. We do not need the smell of sweaty socks ruining our dinner. Unless they are covered with dirt.” She spat that word as though it were actually a piece of dirt stuck at the back of her throat. “If so, I shall fetch you a pair of Charles’ slippers—”

  “Oh, no.” Robbie quickly snapped his foot down, his laces still half-untied. “I cleaned and polished them this morning. We’re good.”

  “Yes, well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Follow me to the dining room. As Bianca has arrived late, as usual, we shall skip pre-dinner drinks and go straight to the table.”

  “Damn,” Robbie whispered to me as we trooped behind Mother down the hallway. “If we’d come on time we would at least have had alcohol to fortify us for battle.”

  “Trust me,” I whispered back. “You don’t want to sit around on stiff chairs trying to make awkward conversation with these people any longer than necessary. Besides.” I patted my purse. “I’ve got a flask of whisky if you need it.”

  “You’re an amazing woman.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Mother frowned at me from behind her chair at the table. “It is rude to whisper. It leaves others out of the conversation.”

  “It was nothing. I was just explaining to Robbie about how Robert Adam designed the interior to reflect the classical motifs he collected from his travels in Greece.”

  “Robert, you sit over there, opposite Charles.” Mother gestured to the setting in front of the sideboard, at the foot of the table where my brother Daniel always sat. My mother insisted on a traditional table, with folded white linens and her best Cumbria crystal glassware and an even number of men and women sitting in alternating order. Even if she’d been able to accept my bisexuality, she’d never have been able to have my girlfriends over for dinner. Heaven forbid that an extra woman would have unbalanced the table.

  Father was already sitting at the head of the table, a half-empty glass of wine in front of his place. He glanced up as I sat down, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Bianca.”

  “Father. This is Robbie.”

  “Ah, Robert, it’s lovely to meet you.”

  “And you, Lord Sinclair.” Robbie extended his hand to my father to shake, but he just picked up the wine bottle and refilled his glass. I shook my head at Robbie, and he sat down. My mother signalled to her cook to fill our glasses and bring the first course.

  The first course was a salmon soufflé. I purposefully tapped the top of mine until it deflated, then spooned the gooey contents into my mouth with relish, even adding a moan of pleasure. Mother glared at me, but I pretended not to notice. Robbie met my eyes across the table. He looked terrified. No one spoke. The mantle clock ticked away the minutes.

  Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t ask him anything for the whole meal. Maybe we’ll get out of here without—

  “Robert, you are from Scotland?” Father said.

  “Hello, Captain Obvious,” I muttered.

  Mother frowned at me, but didn’t admonish me. “Charles and I travelled there recently, to attend a shooting party of one of Charles’ colleagues. Have you ever been to Drumlanrig Castle? The Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch and Queensberry are marvellous hosts. Perhaps your family has summered with them before?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. But I’ve heard it’s lovely.”

  “Robbie comes from a less reputable family,” I said. “He was homeless for a while, and his dad was in and out of jail—”

  “Bianca, really. We don’t need your interjections. Your fiancé can speak for himself. Heaven knows, he’ll need to learn to speak up if he’s married to you.”

  “Aye, well …” Robbie’s face had turned pale. His spoon clattered out of his hand and fell on the table, leaving a small smudge of creamy soufflé on Mother’s white tablecloth. “It’s true that my family dinnae exactly own an estate, but the Maclean clan can trace our history back hundreds of years—”

  “It’s fine, dear.” My mother patted his hand. She patted his hand! Like she was trying to ease his nerves. She’d never, ever patted my hand. “We do not subscribe to the idea that children take after their parents. That’s certainly not true in this house.”

  No, it’s not, because you two are stuffy, repressed bores clinging to an outdated class system, and you have a daughter who is a tattoo artist and a son who teaches skydiving in New Zealand.

  “So, Robert.” My father put down his spoon. “What do you do for a living? Bianca didn’t say.”

  Ah, hah. Here’s my chance to gain back some ground.

  “He doesn’t work at the moment,” I said. Robbie shot me a panicked look. I would’ve kicked him under the table if I’d been able to reach. It’s okay if they hate you, remember. It’s actually the best solution.

  “I’m actually conducting some research in Crookshollow,” Robbie said, his hand shaking as he reached for his water glass. “I’m investigating an obscure family who lived here during the medieval period. There are some documents in the university collection I wanted to look at.”

  “Oh, you’re an historian?” Father leaned forward. “I dabble a little myself. Perhaps you’ve read my piece on traditional coop
erage technology. It was published in The Chaucer Review.”

  “Dad, Robbie doesn’t have time to read and remember every single article in those stupid journals.”

  “Nonsense, Bianca. Academics remember everything they read. Isn’t that right, Robert?”

  “We try, Lord Sinclair—”

  “Please, boy, call me Charles.”

  “—er, Charles, although I cannae say I recall the piece. Why dinnae you tell me what your findings were about, er, coopering?”

  As the maid cleared our plates and delivered the roast course, Dad launched into a long-winded soliloquy about his research into medieval barrel-making. I poked at the carrots, astounded by the fact that we’d managed to get to the second course without any major arguments. Sure, Mother still had her nose in the air like there was a bad smell in the room, but she wasn’t crossing herself frantically like Robbie might be a demon. Dad was gesticulating so much, his fork still in his hand, that he splattered gravy across the white tablecloth and didn’t seem to notice.

  What on earth was happening here? I bring home an uneducated, tattooed dude with a leather jacket and prison haircut, and despite my best efforts, my parents actually seemed to like him. At least, Dad did.

  “Robert, would you like some more custard?” My mother interrupted, as she held out the jag to him.

  “Aye, please.” Robbie beamed at her. “This apple crumble is absolutely delicious. It’s rare I get to enjoy such wonderful home-cooked food.”

  “Yes, Bianca isn’t really one for the domestic life, although Lord knows I tried to teach her.”

  “Oh, I mean, because I’m so distracted with my studies, I often forget to eat.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Dad piped up, as Mother poured a generous helping of custard over his dessert, before setting it down in front of him. “After dinner, maybe you could look over my Latin translations. I have a devil of a time with the tenses.”

  “Oh, ah …” Robbie begged me with his eyes to intervene, but I shook my head. He got himself into this mess, with his fibs and his charm. He could get himself out of it.

  “That’s a beautiful necklace, Lady Sinclair,” Robbie said. “Is it an heirloom?”

  I stomped on his foot under the table; he flinched, but continued to stare at Mum with a rapt expression. We’d specifically talked about the Benedict Ring before we left my flat, and I’d told him on no uncertain terms that he wasn’t to mention it to them. But damn him, he was going to ask her.

  Mum touched the red garnet clasped at the collar of her severe shirt. “Why, thank you, Robbie. Yes, it was given to me by Charles on our 40th wedding anniversary. It has been in the family for four generations. Charles’ mother was the last to wear it, and it was one of her favourites.”

  “I love the idea of jewellery being passed down like that, from father to son and mother to daughter. Do you have any particularly old and interesting pieces?”

  I stomped on his foot again. This time, he nudged me back.

  My mother laughed, a strangled sound, foreign in this dining room. “Such a curious man. Are you planning a jewel heist, Robert?”

  “Victoria, don’t tease the boy,” Father croaked.

  My mother, teasing someone? What universe have I wandered into?

  She waved a hand. “Oh, Charles, don’t fuss. Robert must know that Bianca’s previous suitors have all been criminals.”

  “Excuse me?” I snarled. “That’s not even remotely true—”

  “No, Lady Sinclair, not planning a jewel heist here.” Robbie didn’t miss a beat. “My research is about medieval adornment. I’m always on the eye out for interesting pieces.”

  Just like that, he calmed the flash of anger in Mum’s eyes. She wiped the edge of her mouth with her napkin, and touched the choker again. “We have some rosaries dating from the thirteenth century, in a case in Charles’ study. There was an old family scandal in the 1700s – one of the ladies married a monk who’d left the monastery in Crooks Mallow. He gave her these as a gift, as well as a chalice, and her last name, as it carried more power than his.”

  There was a scraping sound as Father pushed back his chair. “I’m finished. Let us retire now. Victoria, please ring for the brandy.”

  Father led Robbie and I into his study – an enormous high-ceilinged room lined with books and display cases containing various specimens. He never usually allowed me inside – afraid I might break something, probably with justification considering the number of precious things I’d broken over the years. He’d also never invited one of my “suitors” to stay for port before. He wants to show off his collections to Robbie.

  “Wow.” Robbie stared into a glass case containing some old medieval books. I made to follow them, but my mother grabbed my shoulder and shoved me down into one of the chairs.

  Oh sure, let the men talk about “male things” and we’ll just sit here and crochet tea-cosies.

  “That’s an original Chaucer right there.” Father nodded proudly. “And, of course, you recognise those Bibles.”

  “Aye, of course,” Robbie nodded in imitation of my father. I stifled the urge to giggle.

  While Mother decanted port into tiny crystal goblets for us all, Father led Robbie to the display shelves along the back wall, behind his desk. He pointed to a small, golden chalice standing on its own shelf. Robbie bent in to look at it, his eyes dancing with excitement. Even I was getting curious. I couldn’t believe that all this time, these objects were in this house, and I never knew the significance of them, or that they would connect in some way to the existence of shapeshifters.

  “It’s … exquisite,” Robbie remarked, putting on his “I’m a student of medieval adornment” voice. “I’m impressed by the craftsmanship and, ah, symbolism. And the curves are beautiful—”

  “It’s a cup, dear, not a centrefold,” I chirped, drowning my port in one gulp and reaching for Robbie’s untouched glass.

  The back of Robbie’s neck turned red. “Were there any other things the monk brought with him from the monastery?”

  “I don’t believe—” Dad started, but Mother held up her hand.

  “Actually, there was something. Charles, get the rosaries.”

  “Of course!” Dad set down his port and jumped up again. I snatched his glass off the table before anyone noticed. Mother – usually eagle-eyed when it came to my consumption of alcohol – didn’t even see, so riveted was she by Robbie’s interest in our proud family history.

  “I also remember June mentioning another jewel, a ring of some kind.” Robbie stiffened as she continued. “The last person to wear it was her great-grandmother, Silvia Sinclair. It went missing around the time Silvia went to Yorkshire to marry the Earl of Dartmouth. We’ve spoken to the family, of course, and they have no recollection of the ring, but as it was valuable, they may not be forthcoming.”

  “Was there ever a picture taken of the ring? A drawing, perhaps?”

  “I believe so. Mother pointed it out to me once, but I don’t remember where. There are many boxes of old papers in the attic at Primrose House, not to mention all the portraits. You’ll be able to get your hands on them soon enough. But what made you think the monk would have brought anything else with him?”

  “Oh, no reason. I’m just asking.”

  Mother tapped her nails on the table. “Charles might have a full inventory somewhere. Oh, we don’t have any cheese. Robert, please forgive me, I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as she was gone, Robbie leaned over and squeezed my knee. “I don’t know what you were worried about. They seem fine.”

  I glared at him. “They aren’t fine, Professor Maclean. They’re barmy. And they like you. If they like you, they’re never going to believe we’re getting married.”

  He shrugged. “They seem to be okay with it.”

  “That’s because they think you’re an expert in medieval history. How are you going to escape translating my dad’s Latin for the rest of your life?”

  Robbie shru
gged again. “Maybe I’ll pick it up.”

  “You are impossible.”

  “I cannae help it. I want them to like me. Besides, I’ve managed to find out more about the ring—”

  “Not everything in the universe is about that bloody ring—”

  “Here we are!” Mother announced, returning with a tray laden with cheese, crackers, and tiny dishes of pate. Robbie and I sprang apart, and I hastened to straighten my skirt, before slapping my own hand down. What is wrong with you tonight? I didn’t straighten clothes around them. I’d learned long ago that they would never accept me, no matter how hard I tried.

  It’s Robbie. He’s thrown everything off.

  While Mother handed out plates and fussed with the port glasses, Dad took one of the specimen cases from his cabinet and set it on the table in front of us. Three rosaries nestled inside, the beads dulled with time, the metal links drab with tarnish.

  “They need a good clean,” Dad said, sitting back in his chair and accepting his refilled port from Mother. “But there they are. I’m not sure why Bartholomew Winthorpe – that was the name the man took when he left the monastery – had them when he left the order, rather than giving them to the monks who were continuing on at other monasteries. Either way, they are fine things.”

  “Thank you so much.” Robbie held the case in his hands, staring at the tiny rosaries as though they held all the answers in the universe. “They’re exquisite. I haven’t seen finer in all my research.”

  “Oh.” Dad stood up. “That reminds me. I’ll go get my translations. The conjugations are giving me a world of trouble.”

  Robbie’s face paled. He set down his drink. “Actually, as much as I’d love to help, Charles, I’m afraid we’ll need to leave shortly. I have an early meeting with my advisor tomorrow, and I need to drive Bianca back to the shop.”

  “Oh, you drive?” Mother held out the cheese plate, and Robbie took a cracker.

  “Bianca doesn’t have a car. She doesn’t want to contribute to climate change.” Father laughed, as though my lack of a car was an amusement to them, and not yet another aberration they counted against me.