Clear morning light highlighted the tired lines around his eyes. The network of muscles along his back and shoulders were so tense that she could see them bulging beneath the excellent cut of his gray day coat. She moved closer, as cautious as one approaching a stray dog. The skin over his knuckles tightened, but he did not retreat from her.
His hands were finely made, elegant yet slightly rough, and so much larger than her own. She’d been held in comfort by those hands. And she’d been held down by them. The memory of his actions still brought forth a visceral clench of fear to her chest, strong enough that she’d flinched at his attempt to touch her a moment ago. Yet she had not lied to him; she knew the difference between men who hurt because they could and those who had made a mistake. She had made mistakes in her life. Not since she had lived with her sisters had anyone forgiven her for a blunder. She’d forgiven Northrup, but she had yet to show him. Daisy glanced down at the set expression on Northrup’s face, and she knew she must bridge the gap between them now or it would grow wider.
The line of his jaw bunched as if to tell her he would simply wait her out until she moved off, and she almost smiled at his stubbornness. Her skirt billowed in a cloud of forest green as she knelt next to him.
When she raised her arms, he inhaled sharply and shied away. “What are you doing?”
“Taking off your cravat and collar.”
From under the fan of his lashes, a painful mix of curiosity and uncertainty warred within the blue depths of his eyes. “Why?”
“You shall see.”
He hesitated for a pulse beat and then lifted his chin to allow her access. Had she fully thought her actions through, she would have asked him to do the deed, for Daisy realized that she must kneel between his bent knees to reach him. Surrounded by the warmth of his body, her hands trembled as they went to his cravat. Touching him was unavoidable, and her knuckles grazed the sandy skin of his neck where his morning beard grew. For a moment, it seemed unbearably intimate, helping him as a wife might. Though he would not meet her eyes, his awareness of her betrayed him in the stiffness of his body and his light exhale with each tug of the cravat.
He was too close, his warm breath touching her cheeks. Were she to tilt her head just so, her mouth would be on his. And it would be good, so very good. She could taste him again, slowly, the way she yearned to, with deep explorations until they both became breathless. Heat radiated over her breasts and up her neck, and the tremor in her hands increased. She felt him swallow, edge just a bit closer. She merely had to look up, and it would happen. All of her concentration went to the tie in her hands. Her finger slipped and then the knot finally came undone. The silk hissed as she slid it free, and the tension radiating from him seemed to grow.
Setting the cravat and collar aside, she stood. “And your coat.”
His head bent as he slipped it off and set it aside. Daisy moved on unsteady limbs to stand behind him, then cleared her throat. “When I was a girl, there were days when my father used to come home so weary.” Though she spoke in a hushed whisper, the sound of her voice slashed through the dense silence. “Some nights, he would ask me to rub his shoulders.” Swallowing hard, she set her hands lightly upon the warmth of Northrup’s shoulders and felt them twitch. “Permit me?”
Rigidity gathered along his muscles, turning what once felt as sinewy as corded hemp rope into tight steel bands. He inhaled and held his breath for a moment and violent tremors rippled under her palms. Then he nodded, as though having lost the ability to speak. Anxiety gathered within her breast as she began to rub the unyielding muscles. Her thumbs dug into the small hollows on either side of his spine where large knots held reign. Northrup made a noise deep in his throat. She bit her lip as her fingers worked upward, slipping over the satin of his waistcoat. With a brush of her hands, his thick hair slid forward and exposed his neck. The thick column of muscles there tensed then softened under the hard push of her fingers.
Silently she worked, easing the pained stiffness from his shoulders. Gradually, Northrup relaxed with small sighs of relief, mingled with little grunts of pain—and each of them eliciting a different sort of sweet pain within Daisy. It had been a bad idea to touch him. Her gown was too tight now, heavy and smothering against the heat radiating from her body. The desire to simply melt into him made her head light and her arms shake. Her pace faltered and then stopped, and her hands settled upon the hard caps of his shoulders as she struggled to gain purchase over her uneven breathing. She could no more move than he could speak.
A near-imperceptible shift skittered over him like a warning, or perhaps a promise. Gently, he took hold of her hand and brought it before him. The shuddering sound of her breath filled her ears as he slowly turned her palm upward and cradled it. Every nerve in her hand focused on the tip of his finger as he traced the various scrapes and cuts she’d gained during her struggles in the cemetery, a delicate and curious touch, like a scholar intent upon translating an ancient tome.
She nearly flinched when his silk-sand voice broke the silence. “Hear me, Daisy-girl. By my vow, on the grave of my father, Alasdair George Ranulf, and on the blood of Clan Ranulf that flows in my veins, I will never hurt you again.” The warm puff of his breath heated her palm as he lifted her hand to his mouth. “I will keep you safe till this business be done. Or die trying. This I pledge to you.”
He pressed a kiss into her palm’s center, and her heart skipped a beat. Northrup groaned softly, his teeth scraping over the sensitive skin before his tongue slid out to lick her. With a gasp, she wilted against him, her breasts pressing against the hard line of his back. Soft lips skimmed along the length of her finger and her breath grew rapid, anticipation hammering against her throat. He paused at the tip for one agonizing moment and then drew her finger into his warm, wet mouth and sucked it.
“Oh, Christ…” Her free hand clutched his arm, the tense heat at her center tightening to near pain. His tongue enveloped her, pulling and sucking. And she uttered a muted cry. She could not think clearly, nor find the will to move away. Her head fell to the solid strength of his shoulder. On a smooth glide, Northrup released her finger and pressed her knuckles to his lips.
For a moment, they simply breathed, then Northrup’s raw voice broke over her. “I cannot think.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the cool feel of his shirt against her hot cheek. “Why?”
“My mind is filled.”
Her free hand, heavy with languor, drifted along his arm and he trembled softly.
“With what?” she whispered.
“You. All the time. You.” He sighed. “Daisy has taken up residence here.” Yet it was to his heart he pressed her hand, to feel its pounding. “How to keep you safe. How to keep you out. How to keep… you.”
His grip tightened a fraction. “It is madness. I want…” His breath hitched when she turned and pressed her lips against the back of his neck.
“What do you want?”
Before he could say a word, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and he eased away to rise. His voice was the beast’s as he looked down at Daisy.
“Whatever may happen, do not run from them.”
Chapter Twenty
There were four of them. Tall, well-dressed, and rather attractive men who entered the large front hall to face Northrup. The physical gracefulness in which they moved, and the slightly wild gleam in their eyes, mirrored Northrup’s mannerisms in such a way that Daisy knew they must be like him. Lycan. She had no doubt that they’d sensed the very moment she’d snuck into the corridor to watch them. Daisy cursed herself for not staying in the library.
Northrup appeared calm, yet she did not miss the way his eyes took in their every move.
A ginger-haired man spoke up first. “We’ve come to take you to The Ranulf. Presently.”
“A formal invitation,” Northrup said. “I am all aflutter. Let us proceed.” He moved to take his coat from his butler, who like all good servants appeared as if out of
the ether with Northrup’s hat and coat in hand.
The ginger man stepped into Northrup’s space. “We’ll be taking the lass as well.” A pair of amber eyes focused on Daisy with stunning accuracy, and she sucked in a sharp breath. Damn.
The very air about Northrup seemed to shift and boil as his body tensed. Though he spoke calmly enough, no one in the room could have missed the steel behind his words. “She’s not important.”
“That is for The Ranulf to decide.”
“The Ranulf does not rule my home.”
The three other lycan men shifted their stance as Ginger slowly unfurled a predator’s smile. “Thought you might say that.” He scratched the back of his neck as he eyed Northrup. “Give you ten seconds to change your mind, you being MacRanulf an’ such.”
Northrup’s teeth bared, gleaming white and alarmingly sharp. “Don’t need it.”
The fight happened with such speed that they were a blur of white shirts and the length of trouser-clad legs. Northrup used the momentum to his advantage and rolled one man over with a snarl that sent chills skittering down Daisy’s back. In a flash, Northrup swung out, slashing at a dark-headed man. Crimson blood sprayed Northrup’s face. That was all she saw before the moving mass of men converged on Northrup, and he disappeared beneath them.
She could not see what was happening but she could hear the sickening sounds of flesh being pounded and skin being torn. The floor swayed beneath her feet as the memory of that night in the alley came back. Flesh ripped open by long black claws, the metallic scent of blood soaking the air.
Daisy slumped against the doorway. She knew that smell, mixed with something wild and rangy. Wolf. Her muscles seized, her breath ratcheting as the urge to run consumed her. Do not run from them. He’d commanded it of her when they’d come. And she knew to the depths of her marrow that he’d been literal in the directive. She was not to run, or her life would be forfeit. Despite instinct, she trusted him more, even if the memory of death made her knees shake.
But Northrup was already up, his feet as light and quick as a pugilist’s as he bobbed and weaved between three men. His coat was gone. Blood covered his exposed shoulder and flowed from a deep gash across his collarbone. The ginger man lay limp upon the floor, his head resting a few feet away from the body. Blood flowed from the stump of his neck and colored the white marble crimson. Daisy fought to keep from fainting.
Before her eyes, Northrup was changing. Fangs gleamed in a mouth that seemed wider, his jaw larger, while his eyes had shifted position in his face, tilting up at the corners and glowing. The men who attacked him had changed the same as he, with claw-tipped fingers and fang-filled mouths. Fear made her insides recoil, yet Northrup was beautiful in his savagery. Sinewy muscles, showing through the rents in his shirt, bunched as he lunged and took a man down with a punch to the jaw. Despite herself, Daisy felt a surge of something that felt unsettlingly like pride.
The feeling snapped abruptly as a large, rough hand curled around her neck and squeezed. Crying out, she struggled only to find herself wrenched against a hard body. Claws bit into her skin, deep enough to feel their sting.
“MacRanulf,” shouted a coarse voice from behind her. “Shall I take her head then?”
Northrup drew up so quickly that the man he’d been fighting fell flat on his face. Panting lightly from exertion, he glared at the man holding Daisy. Groans came from the floor as the men around him struggled to stand. One fiend grabbed his own jaw, which skewed oddly to the side, and wrenched it. A crack rang out as the joint snapped back into place.
The man holding her stepped slightly to the side, and Daisy caught a glimpse of him. Whipcord lean, he was only a few inches taller than she, but powerful. Blond hair curled about his head in angelic fashion. But his features were coarse and brutal. “I’m here ta fetch. So come like a good dog, eh?”
“Lyall.” Northrup’s lip curled, revealing bloodstained teeth. “Come over here and fetch me yourself.”
Hot breath hit her cheek as Lyall laughed. “ ’Twas a good try, MacRanulf. But I think I’ll be keeping hold of these sweet goods for now.” He turned to regard Daisy. Amber eyes gleamed in interest. “Seems a shame to let loose such a luscious morsel before takin’ a bite.”
Northrup’s hands curled into fists but he didn’t move.
Lyall chuckled again. “As I thought. Come. Ranulf awaits.”
Daisy did not expect to be taken to Mayfair. Nor to be taken there in a luxurious town coach with a strange coronet and the Ranulf coat of arms emblazoned upon its black lacquered doors.
She sat stiffly upon the crimson leather seat and tried to keep from catching Northrup’s eye. It was clear he wanted no part in looking at her. He hadn’t said a word since entering the coach and accepting the clean clothing Lyall had tossed to him with the order to “get dressed.” Daisy had been rather proud that she hadn’t gaped at the display, for Northrup’s chest had been… stunning. There was no other word for the network of sinew and muscle that made up his arms and torso, the taut, smooth skin, or the way it all flowed in perfect harmony to his movements as he washed himself off with the wet rag they provided. He’d dressed quickly and proficiently. And never once looked her way.
They now sat at opposite sides of the coach, Northrup’s gaze withdrawn and brooding. The man at his side sent leering glances at Daisy now and again. He had not been provided with a change of clothes but sat in a shredded shirt that was more red with blood than white. However, both he and Northrup had already started to heal, and what were once gashes now were little more than seeping cuts. As to the unfortunate fellow who had his head taken courtesy of Northrup, they’d left him where he lay upon the floor of Northrup’s front hall.
The coach rounded onto Park Lane, and the grip on her arm tightened. Having enough, she shook her arm free and glared at the man called Lyall. “What do expect me to do?” she snapped. “Throw myself from a moving coach? I see no need to paw me to excess.”
He uttered a short laugh. “We wolves like to paw. Lick and bite too. Or hasn’t your lover shown you?”
She wouldn’t look at Northrup to see his reaction. Instead, she shrugged and made a show of inspecting her nails, which unfortunately had gone quite ragged after last night. “If you know Northrup at all, you’ll understand when I do not blush at your coarseness.”
He grinned and let a finger run down her arm, making her skin crawl. “You like it coarse then?”
Perhaps she was the only one who saw Northrup’s fist curl. She rather thought Lyall shouldn’t see it so she leaned back against the squabs as though in complete comfort. “Baiting Northrup isn’t working, and it is boring me.”
He laughed again, but his nostrils flared, his amber irises growing slightly larger as he did. A shiver ran down her spine. She turned her gaze to the window. They’d come upon the grand residences that housed London’s finest. Daisy worried her lower lip. Who was this Ranulf? And how was he tied to Northrup?
The coach stopped before the gates of a house so grand that she couldn’t see it all at once.
“What is this place?” Daisy asked Northrup, to break the unbearable silence and, admittedly, to force him to look at her, damn him.
Azure eyes flicked to hers. His mouth was flat, the dark slashes of his brows drawn as if in annoyance over her presence. “Ranulf House.”
“Ranulf? That is your name.”
He didn’t look at her but stared out of the window. “It was my father’s house, long ago.”
“Your father?” Daisy’s fingers dug into her thighs as she leaned forward. “Tell me what is happening, Northrup.”
He sighed, and she couldn’t help but notice the lines of exhaustion that bracketed his mouth, or the gravel in his voice. “My father was The Ranulf, King of the Lycan Clan for Western Europe and Scandinavia.”
A strangled sound escaped her. “But I thought he was the Earl of Rossberry.”
“Those titles are our human ones. But here, among the lycans, I am simply
Ian Ranulf or MacRanulf for formal occasions.” A bitter smile pulled up his lips. “In truth, the title inheritances are a farce.” He looked at her sidelong. “One tends to question when a man doesn’t age or expire. My father had been Northrup and I Rossberry since my birth in 1753.”
She still could not wrap her thoughts around the fact that he was so old. Not when he exuded the physical beauty of a man in his prime.
“Viscount Mckinnon is a newer title,” he said, not seeing her disquiet. “We would let the titles revolve between us, disappear for a number of years into Scotland, then return as a grandson, father, son, what have you.”
“It’s all quite the show, is it not?” said Lyall with a laugh.
Northrup ignored him. “My father’s burns were going to be a problem, however. No getting around that sight. So eventually, I’d have played the part of Northrup anyway.”
Daisy remembered the old Lord Rossberry. Scars had covered over seventy percent of his body, giving his skin the appearance of oak bark. She had never met him but heard that his temper had been mercurial, running from taciturn to violently rude. She couldn’t say that she blamed him.
Heavy iron gates pulled back, and the coach drew inside.
“So then who is The Ranulf now?”
“Conall,” he said. “My little brother.”
Lyall snarled. “He is The Ranulf.”
Northrup’s straight brows tilted upward. “So we are often reminded.”
Lyall bared his teeth, showing upper and lower fangs that had lengthened to long points. Daisy took a small, bracing breath, but Northrup merely reclined against the seat back as if he owned the coach and gave him a bland look.
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