Highland Wolf Page 3

  “It’s all settled then,” Gerald clapped his hands together. “Julianna, you can follow Mrs. Carter, and we can all meet here at two.”

  “Come right this way, Ms. Julianna.” Mrs. Carter was already headed toward the grand staircase. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  “Thank you.” She followed the older woman and climbed the staircase. On the landing, they passed a magnificent stained glass window before turning right toward the east wing. For a moment, she hesitated. It was obvious that although the outside and the roads had been modernized, all the interiors and furniture were antiques. She was afraid that being here would remind her of the past and bring back that heavy, dark feeling. To her surprise, it didn’t. Maybe it was because this wasn’t Huntington Park or Hunter House, or anywhere she’d been before in 1820.

  Her wolf, too, was acting curiously. It was sniffing with its head in the air, trying to catch a scent. When she breathed in, she took in a faint scent of malt, pine, and earth.

  “Here ya go,” Mrs. Carter said cheerfully as they entered the bedroom. “Hope it’s to your liking, miss?”

  To her relief, the bedroom was nothing like the rooms she stayed in back in 1820. The bedrooms in Eleanor’s home, Hunter House, and Huntington Park were all sumptuous and elegant. This room was cozy and had a more rugged and masculine feel, decorated in rich mahoganies and reds. A tartan bedspread covered the enormous four-poster bed. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  “I’ll leave you to get refreshed, but if there’s anything you need, just give us a ring.” She nodded to the intercom on the bedside table.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carter.”

  As soon as she was alone, she unpacked, took a shower and went down for a short nap. Her alarm went off at exactly one thirty. She decided to leave her hair down, and after getting dressed in a sweater, leggings, and knee-high boots, made her way downstairs to the foyer. Gerald was already there, and once again, he was looking at her curiously. Before he could say anything, Elise and Reed came in through the front door.

  Gerald turned to them. “Did you have a nice walk?”

  “We did.”

  “Good. We can start in the library where I have tea set up.” The Beta led them down the hallway on the right. “Here we go.” He opened the last door and led them in toward a sitting area by the fireplace. Julianna’s stomach growled at the smell of fresh pastries and tea.

  “Let’s—oh.” Gerald stopped in his tracks, looked at the fireplace and then at Julianna. “I thought I had … but how …?”

  With her thoughts totally on the scones, jam and—holy shit—real clotted cream on the table, she didn’t even notice everyone staring at her.

  “Oh.” Elise’s mouth was open. “Oh my.”

  Frowning, she followed her gaze.

  Holy. Fucking. Moly.

  Her gut twisted as a dark, heavy feeling began to seep into her, right down to her bones. The painting. More specifically, her portrait.

  Back in 1820, the London clan had a guest from Italy—Signore Rossi, an envoy for the Prince of Florence. He also happened to be an artist and had begged to paint her portrait. Julianna sat for it, seeing as she didn’t really have a choice back then. She recalled all the hours she’d spent sitting still for Rossi, and the way his eyes sparkled as he exalted her beauty and features, to the point of being uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t that she thought Rossi had wanted to sleep with her or anything—no, Rossi had seemed more like an adoring grandpa. She’d been uncomfortable because she never saw herself as beautiful. She knew that her face was too angular, and compared to her mother and sisters, she was almost masculine. A plain Jane. And maybe that’s why she always strove to excel in other ways.

  But—oh—this painting. Was that really her? It looked like her, but … it was like a completely different person. This person was beautiful and sensual, and something in her smile and eyes was almost mysterious.

  “Are you all right?”

  Elise’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. “I’m great. Dandy.” Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. “I should—I need—I’m—” Spinning around, she dashed toward the door like it was her motherfucking salvation. However, before she could cross the threshold, she bumped into something very solid. Fuck!

  “Whoa!” Her body was falling back, but a pair of strong arms wrapped around her. Her knees, however, went weak. Her wolf froze, but as soon as the scent hit its nose—peat, malt, and pine—just like the faint smell she detected earlier—it went crazy, rolling around the ground and yowling. “I—” Another deep breath. But it was no use, because when she looked up and saw a pair of bright green eyes, all the air rushed out of her lungs.

  “It’s you,” he said. “It’s really you.”

  Chapter Two

  Duncan MacDougal remembered the exact moment he first saw the painting.

  He was seven years old, visiting the London Alpha’s country estate, Huntington Park. The London and Caerlkirk clans had been close allies for generations, having been related by marriage at one point. Seeing as he would be Alpha one day, his father, Callum MacDougal, thought it was time for Duncan to meet their allies. So, he brought his mate Kirsten, and his growing brood to London to meet John Griffiths, Duke of Huntington and Alpha of London.

  The Alpha had a grandson, Oliver, who was only a year older than Duncan. As boys of their age did, they went around Huntington Park, exploring all the rooms and nooks and crannies of the old estate. They had been going around for what seemed like hours when they came upon what must have been a storage room. Old furniture, boxes, and broken-down appliances littered the dank and dusty room, and the only light came from a single window in the back.

  Oliver had dared him to go in alone, and, not wanting to appear weak to his new playmate, Duncan did it despite the chills going down his spine. He remembered wishing he had his wolf, but alas, Lycans only first shifted during puberty. The roar of his blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart in his little chest was something he would never forget.

  Deeper he went, tiptoeing through the cramped spaces, until he reached the back. The only window in the room allowed some sun inside, and a shaft of light hit a large, square object covered by a cloth.

  There was something that compelled Duncan to grab the cloth and pull it away. To this day, he wasn’t sure what, but he could remember that exact moment, when, as the dusty fabric dropped to the floor, it revealed her.

  The woman in the painting was pretty, he supposed, but being only seven years old he wasn’t quite at that age to say for sure. But he could clearly remember those eyes. One green and one blue. How peculiar. And that dark hair flowing down her shoulders, that mysterious smile. It seemed like an old painting, but whoever made it didn’t finish it, based on the unpainted portion of the canvas. Why?

  Oliver had called him from outside the room, and, fearing that he had done something he wasn’t supposed to, quickly covered up the painting and ran outside to his new friend. However, Duncan found himself coming back to the painting over and over again in the next few days, up until he and his family left.

  It wasn’t until years later that he found himself at Huntington Park again. He was a young man then, and it was the summer holiday after his first year at Eton. He was fifteen, a little later than most boys who came to the boarding school, but it was necessary for him to ensure he could control his wolf before he went away. Oliver was a year ahead of him, and the Alpha had invited him to stay for a week before heading home to Scotland.

  As the years passed by, he always thought that painting had been a figment of his seven-year-old mind’s imagination. But, once again, he found himself roaming Huntington Park, until he found the storage room. Much to his surprise, the painting was still there and looked like it hadn’t been moved at all in the last eight years. This time, he picked it up and placed it closer to the light, trying to scrutinize it and find out what it was that drew him to this painting.

  “She’s a pretty lady, huh?”
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br />   Duncan had felt himself turn red. “I, uh.” He turned around to face the Alpha himself. “Your Grace. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right, my boy.” The older Lycan smiled at him. “Ah, I remember her. My grandfather had her up in the parlor when I was young. I think my grandmother was a tad jealous and had her removed and put into storage.” The duke stepped closer and peered at the portrait. “Those eyes are unusual, aren’t they? And that grin—mischievous and mysterious at the same time. I’ve always wondered why the artist never finished painting her. Perhaps she died before he could. It wasn’t unusual in those days.”

  “I suppose not.” Still, the thought of her dying had sent his gut clenching. “Don’t you want to display her anymore?”

  “To be honest, I’d forgotten she existed,” the old Alpha confessed. “But sometimes, it’s nice to find old treasures like this.” He looked at Duncan, his dark ebony eyes piercing into him. “If you were me, where would you put her?”

  He thought for a moment. “I suppose I would put her in the library, so that everyone would see her.”

  The old Alpha’s eyes sparkled, but he said nothing else.

  Duncan couldn’t remember how their conversation ended, exactly. But he did recall the next time he had seen the painting. It was two years later, and a large crate arrived at Castle Kilcraigh right after New Year’s Day. His father had been puzzled because the sender was the estate of John Griffiths. The Alpha had passed away six months before, after all. They all gathered around, and when Callum broke the top open and took out an old framed canvas, he was even more perplexed.

  “Why would the old man give me a painting?” he asked, scratching his head.

  Kirsten peered at the document that arrived with the crate and began to read aloud. “‘His Grace, the Duke of Huntington, bequeaths this painting to his dear friend, Duncan MacDougal, Viscount Warwick.’” His mother looked at him, her eyes wide. “Duncan? Did you know about this?”

  Frankly, he was just as surprised as everyone else. He had only talked to the duke that one time. Did he know that Duncan had been fascinated by this lady for years?

  In any case, as he told the old man, he displayed the portrait in the library, right over the fireplace where he could see her any time. And he did, whenever he went home during breaks between school terms or holidays when he visited while he was working in London. Now that he had been living in Castle Kilcraigh to help run the family distillery, he often took his afternoon coffee or tea under the watching, mysterious gaze of the lady.

  Some time ago, an expert examined the painting, but they could only tell him that the style was probably Italian. There was no signature on the canvas, but the date and place where it was painted was scratched on the back—1820, Huntington Park, England. Though he’d gone back to England a few times to ask about the origin of the painting, no one there knew anything about it.

  It seemed his overactive imagination was once again feeding his mind, because the lady was no longer just a painting. No, she was here, in his arms in the flesh. There was no way he was mistaken, not when he stared down at her beautiful mismatched blue and green eyes.

  “It’s you.” He could hardly breathe. “It’s really you.”

  Then it happened.

  It was as if he was struck by lightning, then at the same time hit in the stomach by a cannonball while a sledgehammer slammed into his head. Heat, then cold, and then heat again spread all over his body. The strange thing was that the sensations didn’t cause him any lasting pain.

  Then his wolf let out a howl.

  Mate, came a whisper from inside his head.

  Well, fuck me.

  But he was still staring down at her, his obsession come to life. And who, if he trusted his gut, was apparently his True Mate. He could feel her wolf, seemingly wary of him, but curious too.

  Did she feel it too?

  “Let go of me, asshole!”

  Perhaps not.

  “I—” But he didn’t get a chance to say anything as she stomped down on his foot. He let out a yelp but tightened his hold on her, afraid that she would disappear if he let go. As she tried to shrug away, he got a whiff of her scent—shortbread cookies, ginger, and honey. Holy mother of God, it sent his wolf into a frenzy.

  “Son? You all right? You’re lookin’ a wee bit dazed.”

  Duncan thought that voice was familiar. Who was it—oh, that was his father. They had arrived from a meeting in town when Mrs. Carter told them that their guests from America were here and having tea with Gerald in the library.

  “Perhaps you should let the young lass go?”

  But he didn’t want to. Despite the vicious, poisonous looks she was shooting him, he just couldn’t. “No, I don’t think so.” The damn Devil himself could crawl out from hell before he let go.

  Her eyes went wild. “Fucking asshole!”

  Callum’s brows were drawn together. “And why ever not?

  “She’s mine. My True Mate.”

  The room suddenly went silent and the revelation seemed to have shocked the young woman in his arms because she stopped struggling. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He grinned down at her. “You’re my True Mate.” Saying it out loud made his whole body feel light. Like he’d been holding a great secret his whole life, and now that it was out, it felt much better.

  However, the she-wolf didn’t seem to find that funny. Not at all, if the punch to the solar plexus he got was any indication. Doubling over in pain, he would have fallen to the floor had his father not held him up.

  The woman looked around, confused, as if trying to find another exit. Fortunately for Duncan, the only door was located behind him, and there was no way he was going to let her get away. “You didn’t feel it?”

  Her adorable chin jutted out. “Feel what?”

  “Och, why are you being daft, woman? You’re my True Mate and that’s that. Now,” he grabbed her hand, his skin tingling as they made contact. “Tell me your name, darlin’.”

  “I am not your darling.” She pulled her hand away. “And I am certainly not your mate.”

  “What are you saying?” Duncan ran his fingers through his hair. Did she not feel it too?

  “Er, my boy.” Callum stepped up beside him. “Remember what I told you? It doesn’t work the same way for just any Lycan. Just our family.”

  Oh. Right.

  Apparently, the wolves of Caelkirk recognized their mates immediately, and as far as they knew, it was a quirk that didn’t exist in any other Lycan family. It had been the same for his parents, his uncles and aunts, as well as his grandfather and every member of the Caelkirk Alpha’s family before that.

  It wasn’t something they talked about or anyone studied, but it was just a fact. He remembered his father telling him that his mother didn’t believe him at first either, and that was after he had kept quiet, trying to ease her into the idea. In fact, she wasn’t really convinced until it turned out she was pregnant—the only other way to tell if a pair were True Mates as their first coupling always resulted in a pregnancy.

  Well, too bad, cat’s out of the bloody bag now.

  Callum must have had a good look at the girl, because his eyes went wide and his face turned confused. “But … you … how?”

  His eyes drew back to the familiar portrait above the fireplace. The lady was still there, giving her mischievous smile. But somehow, with the real thing in front of him, the painting’s beauty had faded. But, did she step out of the painting, like magic?

  “Who are you?” he finally thought to ask.

  Gerald, his father’s younger brother and Beta, cleared his throat. “Callum, Duncan, these are our guests from America.” He nodded to the other occupants in the room—a man with dark hair and an obviously pregnant redhead. “Mr. Reed Wakefield and his wife, Elise, daughter to the Alpha of San Francisco. And, uh, over there is Ms. Julianna Anderson, sister and envoy to the Alpha of New York. This is my Alpha and my brother, Callum Mac
Dougal, Earl of Caelkirk and his son and heir, Duncan MacDougal, Viscount Warwick.”

  “Alpha,” Reed came forward to greet Callum. “Thank you for allowing us into your territory.…”

  As they went through the formalities, Duncan found his gaze drawn to her again. Julianna. It fit her somehow. That face of hers, he knew well. But here, in the flesh, she seemed different. Her lips seemed plumper and rosier, and she was much taller than he would have imagined. She was slender and athletic, but the sweater dress she wore clung to her soft curves and his eyes traced the high, perky breasts, the dip into her small waist, and that ass—

  The little chit hissed at him.

  Looks like she wasn’t going to come to him too easy. And damned if the thought of a challenge actually made him want her even more. He wiggled his eyebrows at her, which only seemed to infuriate her.

  “… you’re very welcome here,” his father said. “It’s an honor to host you.” He turned to Julianna. “And uh, I believe Lucas Anderson had said he was sending you so we could talk alliances.”

  She stiffened her shoulders. “Yes, Alpha. As you know, the matter with mages is a sensitive one. He thought it would be best if I were to come in person to explain.”

  Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but his father put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. “My son and I have business to attend to. Why don’t you continue your tour and then we’ll meet at dinner? Come along, sonny.”

  His wolf was loath to leave Julianna, but he knew she wasn’t going anywhere, being that she was a guest and the envoy he and his father had been expecting. Besides, from the way his father practically dragged him out of the library, he knew there was no saying no to his old man.

  “What was that all about now?” he exclaimed when they were far enough away for anyone to hear them.

  “What was that all about?” Callum shot back. “Haven’t you been listenin’ to anything I’ve said over the years?” He gave his son a gentle smack on the back of his head. “I told you, when you meet your True Mate, you cannae just be shoutin’ it at her like some eejit in love.”