Wolf's Castle

by Madelyn Hill

  “I told ‘em,” Alice proclaimed. “Kenned it would come to no good, m’laird.”

  Rising to her feet, Vivian cleared her throat and said, “Weren’t we just enjoying our dinner? Would you care to join us?”

  Why, the absolute cheek. A small smile pulled at her full, ruby lips, yet he failed to see any humor in her steady gaze. A direct challenge lay within its depths. “Nay, I will not join you,” he countered. “I want you in your chamber. Now.”

  He pointed to the doorway, arm so rigid it nearly vibrated. Rage swept through him and he struggled to remain in control. She swept from the room a little less composed, her back not quite as regal as before.

  Not finished unleashing his pent-up ire, Galen followed the impudent lass, his brisk footsteps echoing against the stone walls.

  “Stop.”

  She hesitated, then turned as gracefully as if she were showing off a new gown. His gaze raked her from head to toe. Even in the somber gray wool, she had the look of well-born lady about her and he wondered if her father had squandered his title and left her just a Miss.

  Had she received many suitors at Westington? How many had pledged their love and devotion? Unnerved by the train of his thoughts, Galen snapped the vision of Miss Stuart surrounded by attentive gentleman callers from his mind.

  It mattered not.

  She didn’t belong in the Lomarcan, a castle aptly named, for it stood for standing alone, like a lone wolf.

  With a questioning arch of her brow, she stepped before him. “Aye?”

  “You are not to eat with the servants,” he said. “You are not to leave the castle without my consent.” Sucking in a breath, he finished, “And stay out of the library.”

  With a curt nod, Miss Stuart turned on her heel and swiftly strode from his sight. He watched her retreat as he wondered at the easy compliance. She’d appeared resigned for a mere moment before she turned to leave. Rubbing the back of his neck, Galen was suspicious of her wordless retreat, then he went back to the kitchen.

  Did they think they fooled him? To be so easily turned by a lovely face reeked of disloyalty. And Galen demanded loyalty.

  He must send her away. Her influence may lead to further breaking of the rules and intrusion into his mind and sanity.

  Galen stood at the door, his body an implacable barrier to anyone wanting to escape. “Who’s responsible?”

  Alice turned as quickly as her aged body allowed; a shadow of irritation shadowed her eyes. “’Twas the lady, bright and bold she was, asking to eat with us.”

  He cocked his brow. “And you allowed her?”

  Madge put down a pan and placed her fist on her waist in brave defiance as a reddish hue of indignation tinged her cheeks. “What would you have us do, leave that lonely lady to eat by herself?”

  Galen flexed his fist, then gripped the back of a chair. “Do not speak.”

  Madge closed her mouth but remained pouty. He said, “Ye’ll do better to remember your place.”

  Madge pulled up and bristled. “You ken me place, laird.”

  Shaking his head, Galen dismissed the maid’s disobedience, knowing full well she’d act above herself at the next given chance, just as she had when his father was alive. He turned to leave when Liam’s huddled figure drew his attention. “And won’t you be defending yourself, Liam?”

  The man blanched as he inched toward Galen. His rheumy gaze rested everywhere but on Galen. “I kenned nothing of it, m’laird.”

  What was he to do, lock them all in the cells below the castle? He doubted it would make them into proper servants. Bollocks, he swore, each of them kenned him too well. Especially Alice. If it weren’t for her, he’d never have survived his mother’s death to experience his father’s.

  Disgusted, Galen exhaled a deep breath. Tamping any sympathy, he masked the weariness that must be evident on his face. “Miss Stuart is to ken nothing. Do you understand?” When all three mutely nodded, he left the warm kitchen in search of whiskey and the solace of the library. If she kenned what he’d done, how’d he’d lived—the torturous existence that weighted his soul—she’d look at him with pity and shame. He refused to allow any more shame to be hoisted upon him.

  Nay, he’d rather she hated him then felt sorry for him, to be sure.

  As he crossed the threshold, he paused, his hand gripping the wood of the door jam in a white-knuckle grip. “Did she ask about me?” he said to no one in particular.

  He heard the swish of skirts and felt the heat of a hand on his shoulder. Turning, Alice’s all-knowing gaze stared with knowledge and compassion and a directness that startled him. Annoyed, he stepped out of her reach. “I wanted to ken if I should give her counsel on her inquisitive nature.”

  Alice sighed, resignation flashing deep in her eyes, and shook her head. One fat braid came loose of the tight bun she’d plaited every day. “Nay, m’laird, the lass kens nothing.” She turned and secured her hair, as if dismissing him from her room.

  The draw of the numbing whiskey proved too strong. Choosing to believe the woman, since her honest eyes gave him no indication otherwise, he gave a slight bow and left the room.

  The rocky coast outside the library’s window would ease his mind. It seemed strange the choppy waves that had claimed his mother brought serenity to his nights as if he, too, may find their depths a welcome respite.

  But he kenned he’d never abandon the castle and those who’d made living here tolerable. And since Miss Stuart had arrived, he gained a reprieve. As he thought of her, her lovely face and the compassion of her gaze, he wondered what she thought of him and grudgingly admitted it wasn’t a favorable opinion. Mayhap he’d do more to change her opinion. A settling, glimmer of hope flared—life beyond the stone walls and the ragged crag of the island.

  Madness weighted his shoulders and he was wrecked after all of the unusual activity as of late. Galen kenned no sort of woman would be content on the island. He was too angry, focused on science, and living in a cursed castle.

  His pace quickened to a loping run. The darkness of the halls goaded him with howls of his father’s mocking laughter.

  Vivian held her spine rigid as she mounted the stairs. She’d heard him leave, pacing back the way they’d come. Gripping the railing, she ignored the urge to race back down and give the headstrong Laird Maclean a piece of her mind. Aye, he deserved a sound thrashing.

  She entered her chamber, slightly calmed by the scent of fresh lemon oil and Nessa’s melodic voice wafting throughout the room. She grinned at her maid crouched by the fireplace, tossing in peat and brambles to rejuvenate the smoldering flame. “Done with your meal, are you?”

  The lilting brogue of her voice chased away some of the ugliness of Lomarcan. It brought back images of her father, Westington, and her beloved garden filled with fragrant herbs and glorious flowers. Piercing memories rose fast in her mind and Vivian sat to relieve the crushing thoughts. Something must be done, she thought as her earlier bravado failed her. She must leave as soon as possible.

  Her plan was dangerous, maybe even deadly. But what was worse? Being a prisoner of the Devil’s own or being free from stifling fear and the darkness that saturated the castle.

  “Aye, Nessa, I’m done with my meal.” Biting the inside of her lip, Vivian held back her plan to quit the dismal island. Putting her maid and Bernard in danger would reap too much guilt. “Thank you for taking care of the room.”

  “’Twas in rag order, to be sure. But we’ve a way with rag order.”

  Standing, the stout maid brushed her hands before her and tiny bits of peat flicked onto the hearth. She swept the marble clean with a jaunty little tune that made Vivian smile.

  Obviously pleased with her work, Nessa grinned up at her and gave a wink. “There you have it, lass. Neat and tidy like.” Walking toward the door, she turned and bid her good night. “Time to feast with Bernard. Let’s hope he doesn’t fall face first into his stew.”

  She allowed a soft chuckle as she pictured Bernard wit
h his face in the stew. Aye, ‘twas their hard work that produced a clean bedchamber that didn’t spawn night terrors.

  Sympathy ruled her actions as she quickly strode toward her maid. She placed a hand firmly on Nessa’s face and brushed a kiss across her papery cheek. Confusion and love glowed in her eyes and a blush tinged her pale skin. Obviously embarrassed by the familiar action, Nessa ducked out of the room with a muffled expression of gratitude.

  Determined, Vivian began packing a tattered valise she found stored in the armoire. Deciding less was definitely safer, she packed the bare necessities and threw in only one change of clothing from the armoire. Everything else was replaceable. Sighing, she realized she’d be leaving behind the only people that held a tangible connection with her and her father—and his books. Another wave of uncertainty washed over her and she almost swept the plan from her mind. No, she reminded herself, she still had the books. They were neatly tucked into her mind, nearly memorized from such frequent readings.

  Resolved, she retreated to the bed and tucked beneath the counterpane in order to gain a few hours of sleep.

  She tossed and turned—plain cowardice plagued her. Frustrated, she pounded the pillow and forced herself to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  She hadn’t slept a wink.

  She paced in front of the window as morning attempted to break through the clinging night’s mist. She could barely see a few feet out the window. With each step, her courage faded, only to be rejuvenated when she glanced about the bedchamber.

  Chills ran up her spine and goose-flesh popped up on her arms.

  Her prison. She was being held prisoner by Laird Maclean.

  During her conversation with Nessa, Vivian had surmised that her life had not been her own. She’d been content, but her eyes had been opened to the fact that her father had cloistered her at Westington, instead of losing her like he had her mother. Returning to Westington, but not remaining betrothed to Donal, was her only option. There had to be a way, she thought with determination, a way to find her father’s will, and then work to ensure that Donal Burke wasn’t privy to the contents.

  Vivian imagined opening the house for visitors and venturing into town to shop at whichever shops that would have her—ah, grand altogether.

  “Welcome,” she’d say as visitors crossed the threshold. “Welcome to Westington.”

  She hugged herself and grinned at the thought of tea and biscuits and neighborly conversation.

  And Nessa and Bernard would help her with the estate. Aye, ‘twas the best future she could think of. She’d send a rower for them after she landed in Stromeferry. Aye, that was the ticket for them to be together again.

  At the first inkling of dawn, as light caressed the fog from the landscape, she gathered her valise and crept from the room. Her future, one she owned, invigorated her step. She must hurry if she were to leave undetected. Assuming Laird Maclean’s activities were consistent, he’d still be in the library. She often wondered if he ever slept, or did he survive on the grueling energy of whatever haunted him? Och, she was determined not to find out.

  Stealing down the darkened hallway, she winced with every creak and scrape of her footsteps. At the nearest exit, she slowly opened the door and inched into the daylight. A slight fog still hung in the air, making her long hair spring into auburn corkscrews.

  She’d entered a little courtyard fenced by ornate wrought iron of scrolling ivy and wolves. Overgrown brambles and vines covered the ground in a tangled chaos. As she walked toward the gate, she brushed aside the bracken latching onto her mantle as if trying to keep her on the moor-covered island.

  She inhaled the scent of salt, fish, and earth. The chilled air left her lungs in cloudy puffs. Dangerous as it was, the choppy winter water proved to be the only escape route from Wolf’s Castle. Luckily, clear skies could be seen eastward.

  Vivian pushed the gate open, sighing with relief when it groaned with little enthusiasm. As she snuck a look over her shoulder, joy flooded her when no candlelight gleamed from the castle windows.

  When Vivian had peaked over the edge of the sea cliff two days before, she’d noticed a stairway carved into the stone. She found the cave where the boats were tethered just a short way down the narrow beach.

  This is my path to freedom, she reminded herself. She inhaled and took a step. She gripped the side of the rock face as she carefully descended the ice-covered steps. Each footstep on the beach cracked through the thin ice over the sand. Bitter wind whipped her hair across her face as forceful as Laird Maclean’s sharp demands.

  Her pulse raced as she covered the distance between the stairs and the cave’s entrance. The howling wind chased her like harsh laughter, allowing no reprieve for peace. Ducking into the dark hole, Vivian ran to the dock. She tucked her skirts behind her and lowered herself into the larger boat tethered to the dock. Summoning all strength, she shoved off from the dock and began rowing out of the cave.

  The boat glided through the water and she relaxed enough to laugh at the fear that had gripped her earlier. Soon, she’d be free of the blue-eyed wolf and his eerie castle.

  But as she left the protection of the cliffs, the placid water became tumultuous. Waves rocked the boat, nearly spilling her into the frigid sea. Despite the cold, sweat ran down her forehead, matting her hair to her face. Wind threw water into the boat. She cupped her hands and began frantically tossing it out. Stubbornly, the water spat back at her, thwarting her efforts.

  A gale lifted the cresting waves, its shadow marking her like prey as the huge swell descended on the hapless vessel. Holding on for dear life, Vivian screamed and clutched at splintering planks as the water swallowed her.

  Daylight was still visible in the murky water as she struggled to reach the surface. Her sodden wool clothing dragged her downward. Her breath scorched her lungs as she attempted to hold it. To swim proved impossible as the cold water sapped her strength, invading her skin, muscles, and bones. Vivian wanted to scream for help but kenned the effort pointless and futile.

  There was no one to hear her.

  She’d made certain of that.

  He must find her.

  Galen had been in the library when he’d seen the boat splinter from the crash of a wave. He raced from the castle and to the beach.

  He searched the last spot where he’d seen Miss Stuart, his heart pounding hard against his chest. It seemed an eternity since the tiny boat capsized, crushed beneath the waves and the unforgiving boulders along the rocky coast.

  He dove into the turbulent waves, ignoring the intense iciness of the water. Galen searched desperately for the lass, even as the jagged rocks bit into his skin. After surfacing for air, he dove again, refusing to let the sea take another life.

  A gray mass slithered by him. Galen ignored the sleek mammal as it cut through the water with speed and grace. Cursing, Galen turned to search near the mouth of the cave. His arms ached as the cold water drained his strength.

  The seal slammed into his side, pushing the breath from his lungs. Water flooded his mouth. The surface loomed out of his reach and thoughts slid through his bleary mind. Would he meet his death and doom Miss Stuart to hers?

  No!

  Galen drew on reserved strength and broke through to the surface of the water just as the seal rammed into his back.

  A glimmer drew his attention. She was but a few feet from him. Draped over a jutting mass of stone just off the shore was Miss Stuart’s limp body, a pin rimmed in gold glinting like a beacon. The water undulated, repeatedly whisking her from his view. Stark terror gripped him as he raced to her.

  He must save her.

  He mounted the rock and gathered her still form into his arms. Blood from a jagged gash across her forehead stained the flesh around a dark, ominous bruise. A faint pulse beat beneath the deathly pale skin of her neck. Her drenched weight ebbed his strength to that of a young lad.

  Galen heaved a sigh and scaled the rocks lining the coast. The thin stretch of beach felt as
if it went on for miles. The raging sea and cacophony of barking seals seemed a distant roar to that of the emotions swirling in his mind.

  Cradling her closer, he rested his cheek against the pallor of hers. “Be brave, mo gràidh.” My love.

  More words formed, a litany of endearments he’d heard from Alice during his youth. Repeating them made him secure and strong. He hoped they reached through Miss Stuart’s unconscious haze.

  He crossed the sluggish bog that lay between the coast and Lomarcan. Beside himself with worry, he kissed her brow, spoke softly, demanded she open her eyes. He needed to see their brilliance, their splendor.

  He must save her.

  He kicked open the scrolled iron gate of the herb garden, then burst through the kitchen door.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!” Alice scrambled to aid him, her night wrapper billowing as she rushed to his side. “To her chamber, lad. Now.”

  Galen left the kitchen, slightly reassured he was headed toward the bedchambers and not the internment room below the castle. As he heard Alice shout to Madge, the loud, gravelly voice of his former nursemaid helped bring an ounce of normalcy to his mind.

  Not waiting for assistance, Galen removed her sodden clothes, leaving the thin shift and petticoat. Since Miss Stuart’s arrival, he’d didn’t want to think of her as a woman, but only as a lass in need of a guardian. The linen shift clung to her body like a second skin and left all for his viewing. The curve of her full breasts vanquished all innocent thoughts. His gaze traveled along her womanly figure and rested on her face. Despite the bruises upon her brow, her beauty left him breathless. Never had he thought such a lovely creature existed.

  Alice interrupted his thoughts when she entered the chamber to tend Miss Stuart. Galen moved aside and busied himself by stoking the fire.

  Alice cleaned around the cut on Miss Stuart’s brow slowly and deliberately. “’Tis in a bad way, she is.”