“Mistress, every woman deserves to cry after such an evening.” Safira drew her mistress close and patted her back.
The exotic scents of Safira’s potions and her own personal perfume lulled Lil to a dull torpor. “Is that a voodoo belief?”
“No. It’s a female right. Haitian or American.”
“Thank you for coming to my aid. But I fear no one can help me with what I have to do next.”
Safira stiffened slightly. “It will do no good to go to the authorities about his lordship. I am sorry I couldn’t get there faster. Before he transformed again.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t know how I know this, but somehow, this comedy of terrors can only be resolved by myself and Ian and Thomas.”
“And the other brother?”
“I am not sure about him yet, but I suspect he’s in collusion with his brother but not a werewolf himself.”
“And you will risk your life on this assumption?”
“I’ve already risked it several times over tonight alone….We are lucky to be alive, Safira.”
And they wouldn’t be, without Ian.
“Luck had very little to do with it, this time, mistress.”
The two women shared a weak smile and sustained the comforting embrace all the way to the estate. But as the carriage clattered through the gates and Lil looked up at the dark tower, she knew the crux of her dilemma couldn’t be solved with bravado. She and Ian each had their demons to face. The ones outside. And the ones inside.
Did she love Ian enough to trust him in his werewolf form as much as she trusted the man?
This time, the pain driving Ian had nothing to do with his physical form. For the first time in his cursed existence, Ian enjoyed his fleet, four-footed form. Even if by some miracle they found a cure, Ian hoped some portion of his sharpened senses remained.
No rigidly erect human being could comprehend the joy of flying over marshy pond and low grasses on four feet. At times, he seemed a part of the wind itself, as elemental as the mist dampening his tongue. And yet, now that he had embraced the change, and better, learned to control it, he felt simultaneously weakened and strengthened. The wolf paused and licked at his wounds with a healing tongue.
But the man’s wounds lay deep where they could not be touched.
Even when he burst out of his cell, endangering both of his personas, and then risked his very life in fighting the strongest, vilest werewolf who had ever walked the marshes, Lil hadn’t trusted him. Despite all her posturing, all her little homilies of how wonderful it would be to be a wolf, Lil did not look upon his lupine form with anything but disgust and fear. She not only backed away from him when he moved forward to comfort her, dripping with the blood from his near mortal battle to save her, she even brandished that ridiculous pistol at him.
Why had he believed her different? More courageous than the other heiresses?
He must have been blinded by sexual desire. A lust so strong that his own latent romantic tendencies had dressed up nature’s base call in the frills and follies of ‘love.’
Or perhaps…the curse perverted Lil’s own softer instincts into disgust. For surely that had been disgust in those green eyes that had, from the first moment he looked into them, tugged his very soul into the verdure of that most dangerous jungle of all: desire. Desire for her seductive curves, her winsome smiles, and even her steely will.
Perhaps it would be best if he remained out here. It was certain he couldn’t go back to the tower or the village. Now everyone from the sheriff to Lil’s companion knew him as a werewolf.
Ian stopped on a tor overlooking the Druid ruins that had always held a fearsome attraction for him. Most of the stones had fallen in antiquity, but the altar remained upright.
It was here, according to family legend, that the last male Haskell heir, who began this terrible travesty, had first taken his gypsy paramour. Normally Ian avoided the place, but for some reason tonight, even with the moon behind the clouds and his keen instincts dulled by exhaustion, his feet had led him here. Ian lifted his snout and sniffed the wind. The familiar scents of rotting vegetation, a salty breeze, and the bogs themselves.
And something else.
Beneath the comforting smells, Ian sensed something more ephemeral. Ian sniffed more deeply, closing his eyes, using the way of the wolf. Instinct, not logic. It was almost as if, alone in this sacred place of his Druid ancestors, Ian scented the whiff of destiny. Here the curse began. Here, perhaps, it would end.
Snarling, he turned away from the peaceful, slumbering stones. The wolf could not afford to be as foolish and weak as the man. There was no magical elixir to heal lycanthropy. He had no choice but to squelch his softer human feelings, for they led to disaster, in both forms.
Lil’s revulsion at his natural right to protect his mate had stolen his last feeble hope. When she looked into the eyes of the wolf, despite all her claims otherwise, she didn’t see the man. She saw a hairy, smelly, dangerous beast. So be it.
Be damned to the stones of his ancestors. Be damned to the gypsy girl who began this.
And be damned most of all to the last female one of Haskell blood.
For a brief, heady period, she had been his solace, his companion, and his only joy. Now, when he’d finally embraced this benighted form, she metamorphosed, too.
She was no longer his deliverance.
She was his curse. And he would avoid her accordingly. The wolf flung back his head and howled, the long, lonely lament echoing with despair.
But even as he began loping over the moors again, trying to enjoy his hard won freedom, the man’s memories haunted the wolf. And the wolf knew, with its keen instincts that saw so much more clearly than human sight, whether Lil Haskell was still his chosen mate or not, that he couldn’t let Thomas kill her.
Now that he’d proved he could defeat the alpha male, the wolf would watch. Wait. And with his new skills that combined the art of man and the power of canine, Ian Griffith, the Wolf of Haskell Hall, would yet find a way to make destiny, not be made by it.
He’d save Delilah Haskell.
Then he’d walk away, still werewolf, but cured nonetheless.
As proud as the moors he loved. And as desolate.
After the night of the ball, Lil’s already tattered reputation was reduced to shreds. But Lil had always been subject to whispers, and the Cornish folk were not as bold and brassy as the Coloradans. Besides, if Lil had lived her life according to the precepts of her social rank, she never would have come to Cornwall. She had no doubt that the source of the rumors came as much from the hosts of the ball as from the revelers. Thomas wasn’t done with her yet. But his bloody lordship would learn, to his peril, that Delilah Haskell Trent wasn’t finished with him, either.
It was Ian she brooded over.
Days passed, and still he didn’t come home. Since he’d transformed beyond the phase of the full moon, and could control the change, she could only assume that he stayed away by choice. Of course, the fact that the entire district now knew his terrible secret, another little gift from the Harbaughs no doubt, would make him wary. But couldn’t he trust her to help him?
The thought sliced her like a lash, knocking her into the chair in the salon, where she stood in contemplation. Why should Ian trust her, when she had not trusted him? Surely if he had been intent on killing her in Thomas’s stead, he could have dragged her out the broken door by the scruff of her neck. Or ripped her throat out with one bite of those dagger sharp teeth.
Or clawed his way past her fragile bones to her heart. Fulfilling their macabre destiny. But Ian had railed against that fate as hard as she. Which is why he jumped over her, when he could have so easily attacked.
Her eyes filmed by tears, Lil stared at her almost complete sampler. The amber silk she’d used for the wolf’s eyes seemed to gleam at her accusingly. Now that it was too late, Lil realized Ian fled from her fear, not from his own of the people running down the corridor. That grimace had not been bor
n of menace, but of pain. At the look on her face.
Ian had endangered himself in every way when he broke through that door. Three times now, he didn’t kill her when he’d had the chance.
He hadn’t failed her.
The brutal truth was she’d failed him.
Miserably, Lil rose to pace the salon, wondering what to do. Perhaps Ian decided to remain a werewolf, finding the ways of the wild more civilized than the hypocrisy of humanity. If so, how would she ever find him? Especially if he didn’t want to be found.
A knock sounded at the salon door. Lil dashed her tears off on a scrap of a handkerchief. “Come in.”
“My dear Miss Haskell–” Shelly broke off when she saw Lil’s face. The aloof stable manager disappeared into Lil’s mentor and friend. Hands outstretched, Shelly hurried forward.
The touch of those strong but sympathetic hands brought new tears to Lil’s eyes. “Oh Shelly, things are in such a muddle.”
“Then we shall make mud pies.”
A watery laugh betokened Lil’s appreciation of Shelly’s understanding. “That shall be a neat trick. If I dare to set foot on the moors again, I may have two werewolves out to kill me now instead of one.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
When Lil’s incipient tears became a flood, Shelly pulled Lil to the divan. “If you mean the to do at the ball, I shouldn’t concern myself overmuch about that. Safira told me what happened.”
Lil blew her nose fiercely. “Everything? That’s not possible because she wasn’t in the room when I betrayed Ian.”
Shelly sighed heavily. “That’s a very strong word.”
“It’s a very ugly act. I fear I will never see Ian again in any form. It’s been four days since the ball and I haven’t seen hide nor–”
“Hair of him?” That honking laugh was somehow reassuring to Lil’s bruised feelings, especially when Shelly continued, “Judging by the furor the Harbaughs have stirred up in the village, Ian is wise to make himself scarce. But Lil, I’ve seen his expression when he looks at you. While I have no doubt that your own quite understandable caution upset him, if I know anything of men, and I know quite a lot, we have not seen the last of the Wolf of Haskell Hall.”
Putting her kerchief away, Lil resolved to dispose of her useless grief with the same alacrity. “For my part, I’d wager that if you spent the last four days in Jeremy’s company, you know quite a bit more of men now than when you set off.”
Shelly nodded ruefully. “As usual, you are correct. And while it shames me to admit it, and if you share my dreadful secret with anyone else I’ll deny it, I rather admire men more now than when I set out. Do you know I have so far forgotten my own mature, hard earned dignity, that I’ve even grown accustomed to his dulcet Cockney tones, calling me ‘ducky’?”
The shared laugh made them both feel better. “I warned you Jeremy grew on one,” Lil teased.
Shelly shrugged. “One can grow accustomed to eating worms if one has to. But it’s still not a taste I would willingly cultivate.”
“The question is, what are we both going to do about our odd afflictions?”
Briskly, Shelly patted Lil’s hands. “Do? Why, we will be as sensible as is our wont. We shall have a hot bath, a comfortable coze in front of a fire, and a good night’s sleep. In the morning, things will not be so bleak.”
And for the next few hours, it seemed as if Shelly’s prediction would come true. Lil did indeed feel much better after her bath and her talk, but as Shelly yawned and made as if to rise to seek her own bed, Lil blurted, “Shelly, are you a werewolf too?”
Her stable manager froze, half sitting, half rising, her awkward position a dead give away to her state of mind. Shelly never did anything half formed, even something as banal as posture. Green eyes met grey, and now Shelly’s lids did not droop with tiredness. “However did you know?”
Lil was touched at Shelly’s immediate capitulation, for it spoke highly of her trust in her employer. “When we were in the cell, your eyes glowed in the darkness. Now the full moon is almost upon us, how are you feeling?”
“Like a wild woman.” And indeed, Shelly’s eyes took on a peculiar glow in the shadowy room. Just as Lil began to ease slightly away, Shelly chuckled and patted her friend’s hands. “One quite in control of her baser urges.”
“Have you…changed yet?”
“Yes. Once. Luckily, Jeremy was in a tavern at the time.”
The strange sense of unreality that had been creeping up on Lil for days almost overcame her. If anyone had told her a few months back that she would shortly be sitting in her mother’s ancestral home chatting about werewolves with another werewolf, Lil would have laughed herself senseless. But as she looked at Shelly, Lil was overcome with the old curiosity. “What’s it like?”
“I shall try to describe it to you. It is at the same time a joy and a tribulation, a blessing and a curse. Never have I felt the vibrancy of life more acutely, and yet never have I been so certain of its fragility. I have spent my entire life in the pursuit of knowledge and reason. And yet only when this malady makes me shake as if with an ague, do I understand that the true joys of life are found not in the mind’s control of who we are, but in its synergy with our entire beings. Mind. Body. Senses. Heart. And instinct. If you wish to understand what it is like to be a werewolf, try to be more in touch not with who you are, but why you are.”
Lil was much struck by Shelly’s words, for she spoke so eloquently the same feelings Lil had sensed in Ian’s touch. He had obviously wanted to both embrace and reject the terrible power that had him in its grip, and yet it was a power that gave as well as took.
One more thing Lil had to know. “Shelly, are you able to control not only your actions, but your instincts and your fears? Do you keep your sense of self even when you walk on all fours instead of erect?”
“Not only do I keep my sense of self, I have a much better sense of my surroundings and the presence of others.”
Lil considered this, but Shelly was without a doubt the most powerful intellect Lil had ever encountered. If anyone could harness the power of the werewolf, and make of something savage something wonderful by sheer force of will and mind and spirit, it was Shelly Holmes. Lil stared out the window at the moon playing hide and seek with the clouds. Ian was very smart too, but he’d lived with the terrible weight of his fate his entire life, so it was only natural that it would be much more difficult for him to see anything positive in his destiny. If only she had followed him out of Thomas’s study, done as Shelly recommended and listened to her instincts rather than her mind, she’d know the answer to this gnawing question.
But as she exchanged a gimlet glare with the moon, her persistent rational side taunted her, Yes, and the price of trusting your instincts could be your life. But did that really matter? The life she’d have if she ran home to Colorado now would be a living hell. There was too much of her father in her. Papa had inhaled the scents of sea water and bilge in steerage for the entire Atlantic crossing–on a hunch. On a gamble as he set out for the gold fields of America.
The same hunch that made his daughter make the same crossing in the opposite direction, in much greater comfort. For a better life. Happiness. Something useful to do with one’s destiny that would also improve the lot of others in some small way. Papa had succeeded because of the odds, not in spite of them. Even after her repeated brushes with death, Lil knew she carried the legacy of her braw Scots ancestors as much as her mother’s analytical English.
Run away? Never!
Lil looked back at Shelly’s attentive face. “I can’t say I fully understand what you are trying to tell me, but I promise to try and heed your advice. And you? Did you have any luck finding a cure?”
The animation faded from Shelly’s expression. Looking away, she shook her head. “At least not anything tangible. Now my dear if you’ll excuse me, even werewolves need sleep, and I’ve been mastering my urge to run naked across the moors with increasing difficulty. I h
ad heavy black shutters nailed over my windows upon my return, so with any luck, I’ll awaken safe and secure in my own bed. Goodnight. While I can’t wish you sweet dreams, I can certainly wish you ones you can remember. And heed.” The door closed gently behind Shelly.
Lil sat on the edge of the bed, staring out at that curiously eloquent Cornish moon. It soon drew her to a chair by the window. And for the remainder of that night, she stared out at the moors, trying to feel what Ian felt.
Listening to her instincts, not her mind, or even her heart.
For therein lay their salvation….
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next day, when Lil kept her vow of putting flowers upon the gypsy girl’s grave, she felt watching eyes upon her. She glanced up at her shadow–Jeremy–who stood alert over her, armed with shotgun, rifle and pistol, but he was looking toward the village, not the woods. Bowing her head again, Lil told herself she was imagining things. But her reverie was broken. She stood, dusted off her dress, and looked down at her handiwork. She’d cleaned the last headstone today. Tomorrow, she’d bring extra flowers. Put them on each–
“Good afternoon, Miss Haskell.”
Lil gasped at the sound of that smooth voice, looking over her shoulder at the source.
Jeremy spun around, alarmed, and pointed his shotgun toward the woods.
Thomas stood there, fair hair gleaming in the sunshine, broad shoulders impressive in Bond Street tailoring, legs well-formed in tight breeches and tall boots. A blue-blooded nobleman through and through, by all appearances. Gallant. Handsome.
And as deceptively harmless as the moors themselves. Beneath the peaceful facade lurked seething hungers that had consumed many an unwary traveler.
Except Lil was no longer unwary. She only had to look in Thomas’s eyes to see him for what he was. But for some reason, maybe because she was backed up by Jeremy’s stalwart protection, maybe because it was daylight, or maybe just because she hated Thomas so for what he was trying to do to Ian, Lil wasn’t afraid.
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