“What about your parents?”
Again, he hesitated for too long—at least she felt as though it was for too long, as if he didn’t wish to speak of it.
“We normally don’t marry, not unless the one marrying has a title, like my parents did. Do your people?” He frowned a little, looking somewhat surprised.
Her mouth dropped slightly. She caught herself and snapped her mouth shut, then shook her head. “No, you’re right. We don’t marry. Just…”
Mate. For life. But all of a sudden it seemed like too personal a discussion.
Thankfully, Ian took up the slack. “The mating was prearranged as many for those who have titles are. But my parents soon fell in love anyway after they were married in the kirk. The exception…” He stopped speaking as if he thought better of mentioning it.
“The exception?”
“If the werewolf was mated to a human. Then some acknowledgment would have to be made of the arrangement—either a handfasting or a church ceremony. Otherwise, humans who are just looking for a roll in the heather wouldn’t need such a commitment. To carry on a title, a commitment would have to be made.”
She shouldn’t have been so nosy, but she was a royal, which meant no human roots for eons, and she wondered if one of his closer ancestors had been human. It wasn’t a bad thing; it just made it more difficult for the wolves to remain in their human form during the full moon, and they couldn’t shape-shift at all during the new moon when they would remain as a human the whole time.
“Are you a blue blood?” he asked.
“A royal?”
“Not a titled lass, if you are from America.”
“No, that’s what we call lupus garous who have very few human genes in their recent history.”
“Aye. Blue blood.”
“I’m a royal.” Blue blood sounded too much like a titled person to her. The term “royal” just seemed more suitable, maybe because that’s how her family had always referred to themselves and because the States didn’t recognize titled lairds and the like. But the funny thing was that she referred to royals as blue bloods in her stories, attempting to disguise the werewolf truths somewhat. Had she subconsciously picked up the term from her grandfather when she was a child?
“Royal sounds titled, to my way of thinking.” He smiled at her, and she got the impression he understood her reluctance to use his term for the same reason.
“So, are you? A blue blood?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“But you were thinking about a human in your line. A marriage commitment. Weren’t you?”
He let out his breath in an exasperated way. “Aye.”
All of a sudden, she got the very distinct impression that Ian was the one who had married a human. She didn’t know why that bothered her. Maybe a shortage of female werewolves also existed in the United Kingdom. She had no right to judge him, and it really wasn’t any of her business. So why did the next words out of her mouth contradict that? “What happened?”
She could have bitten off her tongue after the words slipped out.
“You’re very intuitive.”
A compliment, but no explanation.
They walked on and she felt her ankle beginning to bother her, which added to the annoyance of wanting to know more about the woman Ian had married. But it could have been very long ago, and the woman might even be dead by now. If he’d changed her, she’d have to be a werewolf, and he’d still be mated to her. For life. He wouldn’t be holding Julia this close if he had a mate, though.
“We handfasted, but we didn’t make it to the end of the year,” he finally admitted. His voice was gruff, annoyed.
The sinking feeling that the woman had died came to mind. Suddenly Julia wanted to change the topic if it made him so uncomfortable, yet she was also dying to know what had happened to the woman.
“She was titled and had lands and money,” he said, distractedly.
“You weren’t marrying her for love?” she asked, surprised. When he looked down at her, his mouth twitching, barely hiding the faintest of smiles, she could have kicked herself.
“When it comes to power and money and titles, lass, sometimes they’re all that matter. Besides, in the Highlands, my da couldn’t locate another werewolf lassie for me to mate.” He shrugged, although his nonchalant attitude seemed contrived. “I needed an heir, and her da and mine came to an agreement, so she seemed the right choice.”
“You changed her?”
He shook his head. “It wouldn’t have worked out. She didn’t even like our Irish wolfhounds. Complained they slobbered, shed fur all over our tapestries, and took more of my attention than she did. Spoilt, she didn’t even like the relationship I had with my kin. She wished to be the center of my attention. I had a pack to run, a clan.”
“So you ended the relationship?”
“I might have stuck it out for longer, for my da and her da’s sake. But when I caught her with my cousin Flynn, and not in a way befitting the woman who was handfasted to me, I’d had enough.”
Julia didn’t even want to know what he might have done to his relation. But her curiosity was piqued. Where did he catch the woman and his cousin? She envisioned Ian stalking out to his stables, dogs at his side, wanting to take an early-morning ride and catching his bride-to-be with his cousin, both naked, rolling in the hay.
Then she considered the story she wanted to write. She’d have her hero and heroine start out with a handfasting, at the hero’s request, but shortly afterward, he’d decide he couldn’t live without her and wanted to wed her in the kirk. Julia wouldn’t include the cousin, or maybe she would as an interesting side character who was often in the barn dallying with the lasses.
But then again, if lupus garous didn’t marry here in Scotland, just like they didn’t in the States… No, he’d be titled, so that was the reason for the marriage. And maybe, the hero was a lupus garou and the heroine was not. Maybe that was what was bothering her story hero to such an extent about marrying the woman. He would have to go along with the lawful ceremony to satisfy her family and other human types, but then ultimately, he’d have to turn her. What if she objected? Not everyone could handle such a feat. Some went mad. Sure. That could work.
Yet as they continued to walk to the falls, she kept pondering where Ian had caught his cousin and his handfasted bride in the throes of passion, and tried to envision how Ian would have handled it. And was dying to ask him the truth. But she was certain it was an unpleasant memory, even if it had been a very long time ago, and this time she kept her mouth shut.
They walked forever, it seemed, and although she was thoroughly enjoying being in the woods with the hero of her story, the dogs running around excited and happy, her ankle was beginning to bother her more. But she was afraid to say anything and spoil the hike. She kept envisioning that the falls were just a few feet away, since the sound of the rushing water had been growing closer forever. She tried not to lean against Ian, to give away that her ankle was hurting. She would rest the remainder of the night once she retired to bed at the cottage, but she so wanted to do this.
Turning back now would be like climbing the Himalayas only to be stopped near the summit and forced to go all the way back down without reaching the peak. A deeper reason was the fear of being a failure in her own estimation and, worse, showing the Scotsman she wasn’t hardy enough to make it.
The roar of the falls was deafening to her lupus garou’s ears, and she walked more quickly to get to the spot.
Ian chuckled. “Not anxious, are we?”
“Oh, yes.” But she couldn’t tell him how much so.
By the time they reached the falls, and she saw the water cascading over rocks, creating white foam, and the rowan trees laden with bright red berries leaning over the stream, Julia was hot. And spellbound by the beauty of the area. She sat down next to the water and began removing her boots.
“The water’s cold, lass.” To her surprise, Ian crouched in front of her and helped remove her boots.
Before she knew what he was up to, he gently peeled the sock from her right foot, making her feel as though he wanted to strip off the rest of her clothes and make wild passionate love to her. Instead, he lifted her foot, considered both ankles, and tched. “It’s swelling.”
She realized then that he wasn’t considering wild abandoned sex but just checking to see if she’d hurt her ankle further. So much for red-hot kilted lovers. And for a little red American wolf who had only one thing in mind. But his concern for her endeared him to her.
She sighed. “It’s swelling just a little. The cold water will do it good.”
But now, the way he looked at her, his eyes smoky and dark, he gave her the impression he wasn’t as unaware of her as she thought he had been. Then he pulled off her other sock with such a gentle touch that his tender action made her think again of him undressing her the rest of the way.
She couldn’t help it. If he didn’t keep looking at her with such keen interest while his thumb stroked her good ankle, she wouldn’t be having this problem! Yet the way their gazes collided and froze, she couldn’t help but believe he was thinking along the same lines as she was.
His gaze slid to her lips. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. And she wanted to kiss him back. She licked her lips, anticipating, wanting. She knew it would mean nothing more than a little wolf intimacy. Nothing long-term, no commitment to anything further, and she was willing, if he was.
But he seemed hesitant. Probably because she was American and with the film production staff—or so he thought. His gaze searched her eyes as if looking for an invitation. But he was still crouched at her feet too far away for her to make a move quickly in his direction, to grab hold and kiss him, not when her ankle hurt. He had to make the first move.
“Are you sure you want to stand in the water? To press weight on your ankle then?” he asked, and God, his voice was husky and sexy and more erotic than any man’s voice she’d ever heard. If he did voice-overs for films, he’d have the women swooning in the aisles.