Wolfishly Yours (30 page)

Arthur’s Seat, Edinburgh

July 1816

If Elspeth Campbell revealed how much she wanted to leave the cold, damp cave, her coven sisters would surely think she was mad. Her plaid slipped from her shoulders, and she fought the shiver that threatened, trying to close her eyes and mind to the chilly Scottish air. She couldn’t pull the plaid back into place until the ceremony was over.

They were meeting earlier than scheduled, as Caitrin foresaw trouble on the horizon for the
Còig
, though she hadn’t revealed her fears to them yet. Truthfully, Elspeth didn’t think Caitrin was certain what threatened them. They all knew the visions were clearest for their seer when the five of them were together.

To her right, Rhiannon tightened her grasp on Elspeth’s hand while Sorcha and Blaire closed the space between them, which tightened the ring of four around Caitrin. In the middle of their circle, the seer’s eyes were closed, her hands stretched toward the heavens.

Caitrin hummed an ancient melody, passed from one generation of
Còig
witches to the next. Then she stopped and all was quiet in the cave—so quiet that Elspeth could only hear the drumming of her own heart and Sorcha’s rapid breathing to her left.

“I see a handsome man,” Caitrin began softly. Her lilting voice echoed off the dark cavern walls.

“I’d like ta see one of those,” Sorcha giggled.

The murderous look Rhiannon shot the youngest witch prevented any further levity from entering their circle.

“He bears the mark of the beast,” Caitrin continued as though she’d never been interrupted.

Chills shot down Elspeth’s spine, which had nothing to do with the loss of her plaid or the cool air in the cave.
The mark of the beast.
She’d heard those words her entire life.

“He will disrupt us. He will try ta take Elspeth from our circle.”

Suddenly Elspeth had three sets of eyes on her. It would have been four, but Caitrin’s were still closed as the vision played out in her mind.

“The beast canna be allowed ta break our coven. Disaster will fall if he succeeds.” Caitrin’s haunting blue eyes opened and she focused them on Elspeth.

Sucking in a surprised breath, Elspeth tried to snatch her hands back from Rhiannon and Sorcha, but their hold tightened. Her heart pounded faster and she felt certain she would faint.

Caitrin stepped forward and touched her fingers to Elspeth’s brow. “Do ye ken the man I speak of, El?”

A nervous laugh escaped Elspeth’s throat and she nodded. She had never thought he would actually come for her. After all, he’d abandoned her mother long before she was born. “My father,” she whispered.

Though Elspeth had never met her sire, she knew he wore the mark of the beast. So it must be him. Who else would try to take her from her coven?

Caitrin’s brow furrowed. “He felt younger than that.”

Elspeth shook her head. “I doona ken another man with the mark, Cait.”

Finally the seer nodded. “Very well. Ye must be diligent. He canna be allowed ta take ye from us. The future of the
Còig
depends upon it.”

Elspeth nodded. She’d never known Caitrin’s visions to be wrong, but in her twenty-one years, her father had never even contacted her. It didn’t seem likely he would suddenly show interest in her well-being. “I will be careful.”

Maberley Hall, Essex

August 1816

Lily Rutledge had never contemplated murder before, though she was warming to the idea. The most recent column in the
Mayfair Society Paper
taunted her at the breakfast table. The Duke of Blackmoor seemed to have plenty of time to gamble away his funds in one hell or another, race his phaeton along the old Bath road for sport, and spend every other waking hour enjoying the entertainments of one Mrs. Teresa Hamilton or visiting fashionable bawdy houses throughout Town. Not that Lily was terribly surprised. They were the same sorts of things he’d done for years, though she hadn’t cared until now.

“Aunt Lily,” called her twelve-year-old nephew, Oliver York, the Earl of Maberley, from a few seats away. “Your face is turning purple again.”

Purple indeed. Lily sighed, looking at the boy. What was she to do with him? Especially when she couldn’t get Blackmoor to even respond to one of her letters. Of course, he sent funds every time she wrote him, though that was not what she asked for. Infuriating man! Did he even read her letters?

The Maberley estate was not terribly far from London. Visiting Oliver would only interrupt his debauched lifestyle for a day or two at the most. Was that truly too much to ask of her nephew’s guardian? After all, he hadn’t seen the boy in years.

“Finish your breakfast, Oliver,” she directed, glancing again at the maddening society rag.

“I’m through,” the young earl responded. “May I be excused?”

Through
? Food had been piled high in front of him just moments ago. Lily’s eyes flashed to Oliver’s plate, only to find it completely empty, as was the sideboard behind him. Not a crumb was left uneaten. Where had he gotten this appetite? It wasn’t natural. “Yes, of course. You would do well to go over your Latin before Mr. Craven arrives.”

Oliver scowled as he pushed away from the table. “I’d rather not.”

Lily shook her head. “Mr. Craven says you need to practice, Oliver. Please do so.”

The young earl stomped from the room in a manner she was getting unfortunately accustomed to. Just a month ago, Oliver had had the sweetest disposition. Now she barely recognized him. His shoulders were suddenly broad enough to fill a doorway, and he almost had to duck to cross the threshold as he left the breakfast room. Gone was the little boy in short pants. The young earl’s valet had replaced Oliver’s clothing twice in as many months and had sent more than one pair of trousers to the seamstress to have the seams reinforced.

To make it even worse, Oliver had developed a terrible temper, with the smallest annoyances setting him off. He seemed to rumble more than talk, his singsong voice replaced by a gravely growl. Entry into adulthood was hard, but Lily had never expected it to come on so suddenly and with such force.

Perhaps things would be different if Oliver’s parents were still alive. Perhaps things would be different if Blackmoor showed even the slightest interest in the lad. Perhaps if she’d ever raised an adolescent boy before, she’d know if Oliver’s
changes
were normal—though she couldn’t imagine they were. Lily knew in her heart that something was drastically wrong with her nephew, and she was at a complete loss for what to do.

Blast Blackmoor for ignoring her letters!

An idea occurred to her. If
he
couldn’t be troubled to visit Oliver, she’d simply have to pay
him
a visit instead. His Grace would have an impossible time ignoring her in person. She was hard to miss.

Lily picked up the society rag, rereading it. Everything was there. Everything she needed to know. Where he spent his time and with whom. The Duke of Blackmoor would regret shirking his duties, if making him do so was the last thing she ever did.

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Lydia Dare is a pseudonym for the writing team of Tammy Falkner and Jodie Pearson. Both Tammy and Jodie are active members of the Heart of Carolina Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America. Their writing process includes passing a manuscript back and forth, each one writing 1,500 words after editing the other’s previous installment. Jodie specializes in writing the history and Tammy the paranormal. They live near Raleigh, NC. For more information, please visit
www.lydiadare.com
.