Gentleman Wolf

by Joanna Chambers

  As Drew rose, Cruikshank began to thrash more strongly in Lindsay’s grip.

  “Mercer!” Lindsay screamed, but Mercer was training his sword on Drew again, no use to Lindsay. With an almighty effort, Lindsay swung the twisting, squirming creature in his arms around and slammed him into the desk. Taking hold of his bald head again, Lindsay smashed it down hard on the wood. Cruikshank grunted, blood-flecked spittle spraying the open pages of a ledger, then began to struggle, hands pawing the desk in search of something, anything.

  “Mercer, help me!” Lindsay yelled, lifting Cruikshank’s head again, but Cruikshank twisted in his grip and his arm came up. Lindsay braced for a punch to the side of his head, but the cold, heavy object that smashed into his temple was not a fist.

  He fell to the floor as though into water, sliding down but feeling no impact, bright lights sparking in his vision, his head ringing like a tuning fork. Distantly, he heard Drew call his name, and his wolf whined at his mate’s distress, urging Lindsay up.

  Somehow, slowly, he managed to force his eyes open, even as his ears still rang.

  The first thing he saw was Cruikshank, slumped on his back on the desk, his head turned towards Lindsay. His bulging eyes stared glassily, unseeingly. And then Lindsay saw that his throat had been sliced open and that his blood was everywhere, a great pool of it covering the desk and dripping slackly to the floor.

  As the high whining in his head began to dissipate, he discerned voices, crashing—distant, as though he was underwater. Blinking hard he forced himself to his feet, steadying himself on the desk, heedless of Cruikshank’s blood.

  Drew and Mercer were locked together, wrestling over the sword that glinted between them.

  Lindsay staggered towards them. Drew was a strong man, but Mercer was a wolf. There was only one way this could end.

  “What are you?” Drew exclaimed as, with a roar, Mercer finally wrested the sword from him and sent him reeling back.

  “Your executioner,” Mercer hissed... and thrust the blade between his ribs.

  Drew blinked, glancing down as Mercer yanked the sword from his guts with a snarl. He seemed more astonished than anything else.

  Lindsay’s howl was a terrible, inhuman thing. At the sound, Drew looked over at him. His mouth opened as though to speak, but nothing came out, and then his legs gave out and he fell, clutching his stomach.

  Lindsay ran to Drew’s side, pulling his hands aside, a pained whine escaping him at the sight of the growing bloodstain darkening the pale grey waistcoat. His wolf pressed frantically at the edges of his skin, needing to be free, but the collar was too strong. He turned his head to Mercer.

  “Take the collar off,” he begged. “Please. I have to save him.”

  “Do you think I’m a fool?” Mercer replied.

  “I promise to come with you,” Lindsay babbled. “Please—you gave me your oath he would go free.”

  “My oath ceased to mean anything when he went for my sword.”

  Lindsay roared, surging to his feet and rushing Mercer. Despite the collar, he felt the power of his wolf in his blood, urging him up. Not enough to shift, not enough to overpower Mercer, but enough to attack him.

  “I’ll kill you!” he screamed as he punched and tore and kicked at the other man.

  “Fucking cur!” Mercer grunted, smashing his elbow into Lindsay’s face and swiping his feet out from under him.

  Lindsay landed hard but pain was nothing to him, not now that his mate lay injured, dying. He staggered back to his feet and lunged at Mercer again. “Not going with you now,” he gritted out. “You’ll have to kill me.”

  That was when he saw the first flicker of fear in Mercer’s eyes. If Mercer failed to return with Lindsay, Duncan would make him pay for his failure. And pay, and pay.

  Mercer held the sword defensively between them but now Lindsay’s plan had changed, and when he lunged this time, he grabbed the weapon by the blade and pulled it towards himself. If he died in his human form before Mercer could get the collar off him, Duncan would never be able to have him again. And if Mercer did take the collar off him, Drew might still have a chance.

  Lindsay wrenched at the sword, distantly amazed by his own actions. He could do this—he could die, by his own hand. His wolf’s instinct to survive was not as absolute as he’d always believed.

  For Drew, he could die.

  With a final surge of desperate strength, Lindsay yanked the blade under his chin, the sharp point scraping the tender skin there.

  “No!” Mercer screamed and tried to tear the sword out of Lindsay’s grasp. The blade sliced Lindsay’s fingers and palms and his blood ran down the glinting metal, making his grip slippery. It was now or never.

  “Lindsay, don’t—”

  Drew’s voice, pleading and confused, a rattle in it that scared Lindsay.

  “I’m sorry,” he cried—then thrust up with all his strength.

  The blade punched into his throat, like an iron fist. He felt the blunt force of it first, then the sharp agony of the skewering of his tongue. His vision greyed and a dark ocean roared in his ears.

  Mercer was screaming at him, clutching him. Dimly, he felt the blade come free, a warm metallic wash of blood in his mouth and throat. He fell to his knees, Mercer going with him, taking his weight.

  He was dying, and quickly. Drew might even outlast him.

  But then fingers were fumbling at the back of his neck, a tiny scrabbling sensation that had his wolf bounding up in him, rushing to the cliff-edge of his humanity, and when the collar came free—his wolf leapt.

  The shift surged through him, so swiftly that Mercer had no time even to drop the silver collar before the wolf was tearing out his human throat. So powerfully that, even as Lindsay’s beast went back in to finish this—for it was an execution now—his own wounds were healing with astonishing swiftness.

  Mercer tried to shift. Lindsay felt the shimmer of energy in the air as Mercer exerted his wolf, but he had never been a swift shifter, and weakened as he was, his wolf was unable to manifest. He stared at Lindsay’s beast, his gaze anguished, his scent sour with fear. His vocal chords were gone already but he begged with his eyes. Did he beg to be spared? To allow to heal? Or for a swift merciful death? Lindsay’s beast neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was that Mercer was a threat to his mate. Snarling, he bent his head and finished the job, gnawing at Mercer’s throat with his powerful jaws till he severed the spine entirely, ending him forever.

  The rattling sound of his mate’s breath had him lifting his head and turning.

  Drew was slumped against the wall, watching Lindsay with wide, terrified eyes. His hands were pressed to his stomach, red and slick with his own blood. Lindsay bounded over to him. At Drew’s look of panic, he stilled, an arm’s length away, watching him—his mate—with his intent wolf’s gaze.

  The air was thick with scents but all he could smell now was Drew: his blood, his sweat, his fear.

  Drew swallowed. “L-Lindsay?”

  He padded closer, lowered his head, stood quiet as Drew lifted one bloody hand and gently touched his thick, soft fur.

  His mate’s touch was like a benediction, and he let out a low rumble of satisfaction, rubbing his head against Drew’s hand. Then he stepped closer, tenderly nosing Drew’s jaw, cheek, ear.

  Drew let out a tiny gasp, almost of laughter. “Lindsay,” he whispered. And his hand was on Lindsay’s powerful neck, caressing him, fingers twisting into the thick ruff of fur.

  Lindsay had always wondered what the Urge would feel like.

  He had never imagined it would feel like love.

  When Lindsay pulled back to look at his mate, Drew’s gaze was soft on him. He looked at Lindsay almost with reverence. Wonder. Lindsay didn’t want Drew ever to stop looking at him like that, but there was no time. Even now, Drew was taking another of those rattling breaths that told Lindsay death was coming.

  Rubbing his head against his mate’s cheek one last time, he turned his muzzle.
.. and sank his teeth into Drew’s throat.

  “No—ungh!” Drew was incapable of physical resistance and his cry of protest was weak, but the shock and betrayal in his voice shredded Lindsay’s heart to pulp. Even so, he forced himself to bite deeply, savagely—this could not be done gently.

  Drew’s blood pulsed in his mouth, a wondrous and oddly familiar flavour that Lindsay somehow knew nothing else would ever match. That he might roam the whole world in search of and never find again.

  Carefully opening his jaws, he pulled back. The wound was brutal and bloody. Drew’s eyes were open, but he was in a kind of shock, staring blankly, his face white and bloodless. Working quickly now, Lindsay’s beast licked the wound thoroughly, pushing his tongue into the gory mass of flesh to spread his spit around.

  By the time he raised his head, Drew’s eyes were closed. Whining softly, Lindsay sniffed him. He was alive still, but barely.

  Exhausted, Lindsay collapsed onto the floor.

  The shift back to his human skin took several long minutes. At last, though, he was on his feet and at Drew’s side, checking he still lived. The pulse in his neck was feeble, but the bite was already closing, the flesh around it bright red and hot—good signs all. Gently, Lindsay pulled Drew’s hands from his stomach. There was no more blood slugging out of the sword wound, which was good, though he’d already lost far too much for Lindsay’s liking.

  He needed Francis, and Wynne. First, to get Drew safe, then to deal with this mess.

  His whole body ached as he rose to his feet and crossed the room, stepping over his own shredded clothes to where Cruikshank’s body lay splayed across his desk. He quickly found the key ring and ripped it from the chain securing it to Cruikshank’s waistcoat, carrying it over to the heavy, locked door. There were too many keys on the ring, but at last he had the door open. It swung, heavy on its hinges, hitting the wall on the other side with a dull thud.

  He wove his way unsteadily towards the front door, hoping he would not have to go too far to find Francis. Hoping the scents released by the opening of the strongroom would reach him quickly.

  There was no sign of Meek or anyone else as Lindsay staggered, naked and blood-streaked, down the corridor. Scenting the air, he discerned the house was empty—presumably, Cruikshank had dismissed his servants for the evening. Mercer would likely have demanded as much. Lindsay hoped none of them would return for the next few hours.

  Lindsay opened the front door and the night air chilled his naked body. He gazed out onto the brand-new, empty street. The street Drew had built. So clean. So elegant and rational.

  A sleek black wolf emerged from the shadows and ran towards Lindsay, silent and swift.

  Francis. Thank God.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They dressed in clothes they found in Cruikshank’s bedchamber, Lindsay’s skin crawling at the familiar papery scent that clung to them.

  While Francis located the Naismith papers in Cruikshank’s desk drawers, Lindsay wrapped Drew in a thick blanket he’d taken downstairs. Together, they lifted Drew tenderly, all swaddled up like a baby, and took him out to Mercer’s cart. He didn’t so much as stir. Francis noticed the bite on his neck but didn’t say anything. His soft brown gaze rebuked Lindsay though, making Lindsay feel ashamed and defiant at once.

  “Put him in my bed,” he told Francis. “Wynne will take care of him.” Francis nodded and drove off without a word.

  While Francis conveyed Drew to Locke Court, Lindsay laid out Cruikshank and Mercer’s bodies, wrapping one in a Turkish rug and the other in a quilted bedspread. He dragged the two bodies out into the corridor and set about cleaning up the blood, soaking up the worst of it with piles of linens he’d found.

  By the time Francis returned, he’d made good progress. They finished the job together, washing everything down and settling the disturbed furniture to rights, gathering up all the broken bits and pieces and bloodstained things, wrapping everything up in all the linen they could put their hands on, then stashing everything in the cart—the two bodies, and all the other detritus of the night.

  When they were finished, they checked the house one last time. There was no sign of any disturbance now, though the house was emptied of many things that had been there before. A mystery, to be sure, but not one that anyone would guess the true answer to.

  “It smells like a slaughterhouse,” Lindsay said, as they closed the study door and locked it, heading towards the kitchen and the back entrance.

  “Only to us,” Francis said. And then they were out of the house, and in the mews. Francis tossed Cruikshank’s key ring into the cart.

  “Come on. Let’s get rid of this.”

  They drove west. Out to St. Cuthbert’s Kirk, next to the surviving undrained section of the Nor’loch.

  It was almost two o’clock now. The fat yellow moon drifted in and out of the clouds, bobbing placidly in the sky. It was as well Lindsay had already shifted this night, or he couldn’t have withstood her call. As it was, he’d have to change when they were done, at least for a while.

  Francis brought the cart to a halt next to the water. They pulled everything out, disposing of the linens and broken things first. The bodies, they unwrapped, added heavy stones to weigh them down, then rolled them up again in their coverings, tying them this time with strong rope that Francis had brought from Locke Court.

  When Francis saw Cruikshank’s smashed-in, misshapen face, he flinched.

  “Mercer’s bite didn’t take,” Lindsay said. “I don’t believe he had the Urge. Duncan used compulsion to order him to give a transformative bite but whatever he turned Cruikshank into, it wasn’t a wolf.”

  Without looking at him, Francis said flatly, “Well, let’s hope your bite takes. Only time will tell.”

  “Francis.” Lindsay sighed. “I had no choice. Drew was dying.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  Lindsay looked away, his gut churning.

  “Did you?”

  “There was no time. I—”

  “For God’s sake!” Francis cried. “You should have asked him.”

  “He is my bond-mate!” Lindsay exclaimed. “I could not let him die! My wolf would not allow it—I would not. I know you’ve never wanted this life, Francis, but perhaps Drew will feel differently. He—”

  “You should have asked him,” Francis interrupted, his voice shaking. “He is the only one with the right to make that decision.”

  “I didn’t have time to shift back and ask him. He would have been dead by the time I was human again!”

  “You have thrust this upon him, Lindsay. And now you will pay for your rashness. You know how hard it is to adapt to this existence. You’ve done it yourself. It’s unnatural for men to live so long, outlast so much. It’s hard to keep on being—”

  “I will help him!” Lindsay cried. “I will dedicate my life to him.”

  But Francis just shook his head and his gaze was hopeless.

  THEY BROKE UP THE CART with an axe Francis had brought and put the pieces in the Nor’loch. They took off their borrowed garments, wrapped some around the axe, others around heavy stones, and put those in the stinking waters too. Naked, they shifted and chased off Mercer’s horse, nipping its rump till it went galloping off down the Queensferry road, eyes rolling white with panic.

  Then they ran, letting the moon have their beasts.

  When they got back to Locke Court, they stole into the close to shift back, then sent fistfuls of grit up to the windows of Lindsay’s rooms to alert Wynne to their arrival. Wynne came to the door, grey with exhaustion. Silently, he held the door open, welcoming them in and led the way upstairs.

  “How is he?” Lindsay managed when they were inside. His voice was gruff.

  “As well as can be expected,” Wynne replied, thrusting a banyan at him, and another at Francis. “I stitched and dressed the wound in his belly—it’s ugly but looks clean. He’s rather feverish, but not as much as I’d expect given what he’s contending with. The wound a
t his neck has closed already.”

  “Has he woken?” Francis asked.

  Wynne shook his head.

  “I must see him,” Lindsay said, moving past Wynne.

  “You should wash first, sir,” Wynne said softly behind him.

  Lindsay whipped round. Wynne was keeping his gaze averted, as Lindsay had told him he must when Lindsay’s wolf was close. Lindsay forced himself to take a deep breath.

  “Thou’rt right, Wynne,” he managed. “I will wash. Bring a basin to the parlour, and clothes.”

  “I will,” Wynne said. “And something for you to eat and drink.”

  “I don’t need—” he began, but when Francis’s hand fell on his shoulder, he broke off, sighing. “Very well.”

  DREW SLEPT LIKE THE dead. Very quiet, very still. No moving or thrashing or talking. He lay on his back, his hands resting at his sides, and slept, only the slight rise and fall of his chest to show he was alive.

  “This is unnatural,” Lindsay said, again.

  Francis looked up from his book. “What did you expect?” His voice was tight with judgment. “He is changing, now, even as we speak. All his reserves are being spent on that.”

  “But where is the evidence of change?” Lindsay asked. “He is so quiet. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Did you think he would be writhing in the bedsheets?” Francis asked flatly. He turned back to his book without waiting for an answer.

  Francis was still being cold to Lindsay, and Lindsay hated it.

  “It has been two days,” Lindsay said. “I thought he would have woken by now.”

  “It takes as long as it takes,” Francis replied without looking up.

  It went on for another full day and night. Finally, though, on Friday morning, Drew woke.

  Lindsay was sleeping in the parlour on a makeshift bed Wynne had made up for him the night before. Until then, he’d spent every moment at Drew’s bedside, catnapping in his chair only when exhaustion completely swamped him. But when Francis had pointed out he was talking gibberish and would need to rest if he was going to be able to deal with Drew’s questions when the man finally came around, he’d allowed himself to be guided into the parlour by Wynne and Francis and put to bed.