Table of Contents
Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet, #1)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
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About the Author
Gentleman Wolf
An elegant werewolf in Edinburgh...
1788. When Lindsay Somerville, the most elegant werewolf in Paris, learns that the man who held him in abject captivity for decades is on his way to France, intent on recapturing him, he knows he must leave the Continent for his own safety. Lindsay cannot take the risk of being recaptured—he may have been free for a century but he can still feel the ghost of his old chains under his fine clothes.
... on a mission...
While he’s in Edinburgh, Lindsay has been tasked with acquiring the “Naismith Papers”, the writings of a long-dead witchfinder. It should be a straightforward mission—all Lindsay has to do is charm an elderly book collector, Hector Cruikshank. But Cruikshank may not be all he seems, and there are others who want the papers.
... meets his match
As if that were not enough, while tracking down the Naismith Papers, Lindsay meets stubborn architect Drew Nicol. Although the attraction between them is intense, Nicol seems frustratingly determined to resist Lindsay’s advances. Somehow though, Lindsay can’t seem to accept Nicol’s rejection. Is he just moonstruck, or is Nicol bonded to him in ways he doesn’t yet understand?
Note: this is the first book of a duology – the story continues and will complete in the second book, Master Wolf.
Gentleman Wolf
Copyright © 2019 Joanna Chambers
Cover art: Felix d’Eon
Edited by: P&M Editorial Services
Published by Joanna Chambers
ISBN: 978-1-9996720-0-3
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments or organisations is completely coincidental.
PLEASE DO NOT HARM the author’s livelihood by using file-sharing sites.
Prologue
MacCormaic’s Keep, Achinvaig, Scotland
March 1682
AWARENESS RETURNED to Lindsay one sensation at a time.
First, the dank, rough stone beneath his cheek. Then the stale, chill air of the dungeon.
The pain came last—when he tried to move his thin and wasted body. The agony of movement forced an inhuman noise from him, like the whimper of a dog.
A cur.
Swallowing, he tasted blood, sharp and metallic on his tongue.
He tried to open his eyes but only managed the right one. The left stayed stubbornly closed. Not that there was anything to see down here.
The thick, soupy darkness of the dungeon was all too familiar to him. He’d lost track of how many years—or decades—he’d spent being thrown into and plucked out of this putrid hole, over and over. A plaything to be used for his master’s entertainment.
For all that time, his life had been nothing but shadows and madness and pain. And the pain was very far from being the worst of those things. Sometimes he even welcomed it. At least pain anchored him in the here and now. When it faded, there was nothing. Endless, immeasurable nothing, and no way of counting the hours or days or weeks.
An ordinary man would have perished long ago from such treatment, but Lindsay was no longer an ordinary man. Though what he now was, he did not fully understand.
When first he’d come to the Keep, he’d been a handsome, vain young officer, so fine in his uniform. So proud of his looks. He could scarcely remember that laughing, beautiful boy anymore. Over the decades of incarceration, his uniform had turned to rags and fallen from his wasted form. Now he was a sorry, naked creature, pale from lack of sun, his once shining dark hair grown matted and filthy.
He was physically stronger though. Many times’ stronger than the innocent mortal he’d once been. Now he was a two-natured creature, a man with a powerful beast inside him that the moon could draw out. A man who did not age, and whose physical wounds healed virtually overnight.
Lindsay sometimes fantasised about death. It was possible for his kind to die—a blow powerful enough to sever the spine in two would do it. But even if such a blow could be self-inflicted, part of his curse was a burning and irrepressible desire for survival, an instinct that prevented him seeking out his own end, no matter how wretched his circumstances might be.
In the end, the physical strength his new nature gave him was for nothing. He was as weak as a babe in all the ways that counted. Slave to a master he had no power to disobey, and slave to his own fierce drive to live. Unable to choose death, he was bound to his fate as surely as Prometheus to his rock with no escaping the endless, repeated torment.
Groaning, Lindsay shifted his body and began to inventory his hurts. His ribs ached on both sides. His upper back and shoulders were raw and stinging. His left hand was agony—he cradled it against his chest, the right one cupped around it. What else hurt? Oh yes, his closed left eye. And every muscle, without exception.
He slowly moved his aching body into a sitting position, his chains stirring sluggishly. Once up, he raised both hands to his face, the injured one and the good one together, tentatively probing the area around his closed left eye with shaking fingers. The surrounding flesh was puffy, his eyelashes gummed together with something sticky.
His fingers crept to his throat next, his gut twisting sickly when he felt the cold silver band there, sleek and smooth against his fingertips.
He remembered Duncan’s parting words of the night before, as Mercer had half-carried, half-dragged Lindsay’s exhausted body off to the dungeon.
“Collar him. That’ll give the cur something to think about till we get back.”
As much as Lindsay hated his beast nature, being unable to shift into that form was even worse. That was what the collar did, imprisoning the animal inside him. Until the silver collar was removed, he would be stuck in his human form. The realisation made him raise his head and howl with desperation and grief, his human voice a sad imitation of his beast’s. Bad enough to be imprisoned in this dungeon. Being collared was a second, more horrible incarceration. One that deprived him of the full healing power of his shift, leaving him to mend his hurts in the slow human way.
Anguish overwhelmed him as he thought of the long misery-laden days and nights ahead of him. Dropping his head to his chest, he let the tears fall, not attempting to hold them back. He was glad of them, in truth. They would bathe his injured eye, and he needed all the help he could get to heal while his master was gone.
He wondered how long Duncan would be away. Had he mentioned that last night? Lindsay raked through the ashes of his memories, trying to recall some detail that might give him a clue. He hated probing his memory even more than he hated probing his injured body—couldn’t bear to recal
l the long hours of humiliation and agony. Duncan was never satisfied till he brought out the cur in Lindsay. The pathetic, cowardly, shrinking part of him that lurked deep inside. The part that would do anything to live, to be spared pain... to please his master.
“Ah, now see, Mercer. We have coaxed him out at last. Come here, cur—”
Lindsay closed his eyes tightly but still he saw Duncan’s hand, lazily beckoning him as he belly-crawled forward. Mercer’s hot stare as he stood at Duncan’s side, watching hungrily. Duncan’s laughter, soft and delighted. A cruel curl to his lips.
No. No. No.
Sickened, Lindsay shook his head fiercely from side to side, as though to dislodge the hateful pictures. Squeezing his eyes closed even tighter, he forced them away, pushing the images into the dark place he’d made for them in his mind. Unwilling to probe his memory further, he locked the door on that place up tight and told himself he’d just have to wait as long as it took for Duncan’s return.
It was then that he heard it... a skitter of tiny stones on the dungeon steps. The brush of leather sole on stone. Not the heavy clump of the guards, but a tread that was secret and careful.
Someone was descending the winding stone staircase down into the dark, cold belly of the Keep.
One someone? Or two? Lindsay held his breath, listening intently.
Two, definitely two.
Lindsay’s stomach churned unpleasantly.
And then he heard the voice. Just a whisper, but discernible.
“I have his scent.”
The whispered voice was female. Lindsay froze. He had not heard a female voice in years.
As the woman drew nearer, and the first tendrils of her scent began to reach his imperfect human nose, he realised... she was a wolf. And so was her companion.
Wolves.
A horrible, clawing fear rose in him. What did they want?
A low, terrified moan escaped Lindsay’s throat and immediately, the footfalls stilled.
Panicked now, he scrabbled backwards, naked buttocks scraping the cold, wet ground, till his knobbly spine pressed hard against the rough stone wall, making the raw welts on his back scream. He bit the inside of his cheek against the urge to cry out, his heart thundering.
More footfalls, slower this time, and the weak flickering light of an approaching lantern. Then, finally, someone rounded the last turn of the staircase and descended the remaining steps, pausing at the bottom.
Now he could scent her fully. She smelled of violets. For some reason, that made tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
Lindsay couldn’t make himself look at her, keeping his gaze downcast. He saw, though, that she wore boots and breeches, like a man. The boots were of the finest leather, black and supple, with glinting spurs at the heels.
“Nom de Dieu,” she whispered above him. “Look at the state of him.”
Another pair of boots appeared in his line of sight, older and less elegant. Lindsay shrank in on himself, stirring his chains to clank against the flagstones.
“Dear God,” the man whispered. He said it like a prayer, not a curse, his voice soft and filled with pity. Lindsay chanced a quick glance up.
The man and woman who stood before him looked like a pair. Brother and sister, perhaps? They were both pale-skinned and dark-haired and slender.
Meeting Lindsay’s wary gaze, the woman dropped to her haunches beside him, taking hold of his chin before he could dip his head again and hide his eyes. Her grip was surprisingly firm, and her gaze was very dark, black and glittering. Despite the silver collar encircling his throat, Lindsay felt his beast react to her. It quaked inside him, falling to its belly in submission. When he tugged his head out of her hold, she let him go, let him drop his gaze as he needed to, merely reaching out her hand to touch his downbent head. Her fingers were firm but gentle, stroking his matted hair.
Her touch was unbearably kind, and there was something powerfully necessary in it. He wanted to lean into her hand, but he shrank further back instead, pressing against the wall ever harder and turning his face away in shame.
“Do not fear,” the woman murmured. Her voice was soothing, but compelling. “Look at me, little one.”
She was not a big woman, in fact her frame was fine-boned and delicate. It should have been comical, her calling him “little one,” but it was not. Helpless to do other than obey her, Lindsay slowly turned his head back and lifted his gaze to her, his heart pounding.
“We have come to free you,” she said. “You can trust us.”
Lindsay swallowed against the hard, painful lump in his throat.
“What is your name?” she asked. When he stayed silent, she frowned and said, more urgently, almost sharply, “He has not removed your tongue, has he? Tell me, if you can.”
The order achieved what her coaxing could not. Compelled to reply, Lindsay opened his mouth. “L-l-” he began. Then, more determinedly, “L-Lindsay. My n-name is Lindsay S-Somerville.”
The woman smiled at him then, and it was a bright, dazzling smile that made Lindsay blink, as though he’d looked into the sun by mistake.
“Lindsay,” she repeated, her accent making his name new and exotic. Leen-zay. “You will come with us, Lindsay, yes?”
For a moment, hope blazed within him. In an instant, though, that hope turned to ashes. Duncan MacCormaic, his master, would never allow him to escape. If he so much as tried, the punishment would be severe. Unbearable. And he had already suffered so much. He could not bear it.
He made himself speak, the effort of forming syllables almost impossible after so many years of almost constant silence. “H-h-he will not allow—Th-that is, my m-master—” He held that last word in his mouth like bitter venom, unable to go on, or even to spit out the poison. His face worked.
“It’s all right.” That was the man this time. His voice was soft, lighter than Lindsay had expected. When he leaned forward to rest his hand on Lindsay’s bare shoulder, his touch felt good in a different way from the woman’s touch. Less compelling, gentler.
How long had it been since Lindsay had felt any touch that was not painful?
Years.
Decades.
“I know you’re afraid,” the man said. His accent was English, with a slight burr to it. “But distance will break your thraldom to MacCormaic. He cannot force you to do his bidding when he is not here.”
Lindsay flushed at his words—so, they knew about his inability to disobey his master’s commands. His mind flashed to the night before and Duncan’s hateful handsome face, bright with cruel amusement, white teeth glinting in the candlelight.
“Beg for my mercy, cur. Beg like the dog you are.”
And God, how Lindsay had begged.
“I can’t escape,” Lindsay said now, his voice hoarse. “Where would I go? He w-will find me. He will always find me, he says.”
“He won’t,” the woman said fiercely. “Not when you’re with us. And you will stay with us as long as you need to.”
Lindsay turned his good eye to her again, cradling his hurt hand against his chest. Just looking at her reassured him somehow, as did the certainty in her tone. Could it be true? Could they protect him from Duncan?
The man said, “From here it is but a few miles to the coast—a boat awaits us there. As soon as we board, we will be on our way to France and safety. You need only trust us. Will you do that?”
Lindsay stared at them for several long moments. In truth, he had no choice. This was likely going to be his only chance to escape his slavery—he had to seize it.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, I will.”
The woman smiled at him then, that wide and dazzling smile. Then she reached past him and casually wrenched the end of one heavy chain from the wall as easily as if she’d just picked a daisy. Chunks of rock and dust fell to the filthy floor.
“Come,” she said, reaching for his collar. “Let’s have this off. You’ll need to shift, mon cher. We are making our way to the boat on four legs.”
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Chapter One
A little more than a century later
Paris, October 1788
LINDSAY CONSIDERED the uninspiring hand he’d just been dealt—a six of hearts and a seven of clubs—and tried to conceal his boredom.
“Monsieur?”
At this prompt, he glanced up. The dealer, who had a fine pair of flashing black eyes and an even finer arse, stroked the topmost card of the deck with his forefinger, eyeing Lindsay with subtle interest.
Lindsay sighed. He’d have liked nothing more than to shove the lad up against the nearest wall—but that was impossible this evening. He gestured for a further card to be dealt and the young man obliged.
The queen of spades.
With a grunt of disgust, Lindsay tossed his cards onto the table and leaned back in his chair, feigning a disappointment he could not feel, while beside him his guest, Monsieur Aubrière—a man of little charm and less grace—laughed uproariously at his defeat, spraying the table with his spittle.
“Ah, you’ve no luck with the cards tonight, mon ami!” Aubrière exclaimed delightedly. “Perhaps you will have more with the ladies. Shall we retire upstairs?”
Lindsay smiled at the man whose company he’d been courting for the last fortnight. He had no wish to spend any more time than he absolutely had to watching Aubrière pawing the tired whores who plied their wares upstairs.
“Shall we have another bottle of wine first?” he suggested smoothly.
Aubrière’s rheumy eyes gleamed at this suggestion. “Why not,” he agreed with a grin that revealed an unfortunate collection of brown and yellow teeth arranged in no discernible order. “Another bottle of Bordeaux and a few more hands of vingt-et-un and then we’ll see to those nymphs, eh?”
“Quite so,” Lindsay replied, scanning the gaming room in hopes of finding a manservant.
So far as these sorts of establishments went, the Perle Noir was on the shabbier side, but it had been Aubrière’s suggestion to come here and since the purpose of this evening was to secure the man’s good favour, Lindsay had naturally agreed. Now, though, Lindsay wished he’d suggested somewhere else. He should have done so as soon as he’d clapped eyes on the décor. The brocade wall hangings looked to be at least a century old and quite nibbled at the edges, and the once crimson velvet upholstery of the armchairs had long ago faded to a dismal and spotted pink.
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