Part 26 (1/2)
He brought her closer, until there was no s.p.a.ce between them. ”And yet it is the only thing that has ever felt completely right.” His mouth found hers, and he drank her in. His Daisy-Meg. She would be his wife.
In the comfort of Ian's bed, Daisy smiled. I want to marry you.
She'd awoken in his arms, her fingers threaded through the strands of his hair that shone with glints of copper and bronze in the morning sun. Barbaric and untamed, his hair might be, but Daisy rather liked it long. She'd stroked the glossy mane, enjoying the feel of it running through her fingers, until he opened his eyes with a smile and a sigh. He'd canted his head into her touch and closed his eyes with a grunt of satisfaction.
”So it's true,” she'd said. ”Wolves do like to be petted.”
”Men too.” With a contented grumble, he'd moved his warm, hard body over her, and then into her, making them both sigh as he sank deep.
He made lazy love to her in the morning sun, whispering wicked things in her ear, kissing her mouth until she fell into a haze of l.u.s.t and need. He made her laugh and dive under the covers when he rang for a bowl of melted b.u.t.ter. And she'd made him cry out and beg when she followed through on her promise.
She ought to be afraid at the depth of her happiness, yet she was not. When she thought of marrying Ian, and of sharing mornings just like this with him, she felt not shame or worry but a fluttery warmth that made her lay a hand upon her belly to calm herself. And yet she was calm. Surprisingly so. He would not hurt her. He'd seen her worst and not turned away. In the comfort of their bed, Daisy smiled, too.
Now she could relax, and perhaps the throbbing headaches that plagued her of late, the sore throats, and the constant tightness in her muscles would fade. In fact, she would celebrate now by soaking in a hot bath.
Sun dappled the room with brilliant strips of gold as she padded naked over to the bathing room. Waiting for the tub to fill, Daisy brushed out her hair. A glimpse in Ian's full-length mirror stopped her short. Just below her hairline was a red b.u.mp. It might have been the odd pimple or a bug bite, but the sight of the sore sent a violent chill through her, for it lay in the exact spot where the werewolf had bitten her. With trembling hands, she inspected it.
Hard and red, just touching it made her heart flip. Dread clamored like warning bells. Daisy swallowed with difficulty and prepared to dress instead.
Chapter Thirty-four.
Ian had woken up surrounded by the soft warmth of Daisy. If there was a better way to greet the day, he could not think of it. They had continued their play, and his happiness had swelled. But when he'd finally left her to dress for the day, dark thoughts began to creep in.
She would marry him. Despite everything he'd confessed, she had agreed. The baser part of his soul wanted to haul her down here, find a priest, and bind her to him now, before she came to her senses. But he knew full well that marriage vows were not a guarantee, nor a promise, of everlasting happiness.
A feeling much like guilt writhed in his guts. He should have left things as they were and not pressed her into this rash action. Guilt and fear. Fear was gaining. Every time he stopped moving, it crept along his spine with insidious hands. What if she came to regret him? What if he couldn't stand seeing her age and die?
Dressing without the aid of a missing, and most likely surly, Talent, Ian spent the time waiting for Daisy to finish her much longer dressing ritual by going for a walk in his garden. Prowling his garden would be more accurate. He longed to run, but had no intention of leaving Daisy alone.
When he thought of what she'd endured, his blood boiled. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Craigmore weren't already dead, Ian would surely tear his cods off and feed them to him.
No closer to feeling content, he ended up in the corner of his terrace, taking solace under the shade of a potted peach tree as the sun started to rise higher in the sky and the heat of the day took hold.
Through the twitter of birdsong, he heard the light swish of skirts as a woman approached the terrace doors and then her scent as she opened them to step out into the sun. Unfortunately, it was the wrong scent. A wash of ambergris and figs touched his nose. Her golden brown hair gleamed in the light and then darkened as she walked beneath the shade of the peach tree.
”Ranulf,” Mary Chase said with a nod of her head.
He'd ignore her cheek for addressing him by his brother's t.i.tle for now. ”Miss Chase. You have news for me?”
”Yes, Sire.” Spending much of her time in her spectral form lent her physical body an effortless grace as she glided closer. ”I believe I've found your werewolf.”
Ian tensed. ”You've been following Conall.” He knew this; thus he knew what was coming. In his heart he was almost glad. Glad to have a reason to overthrow his brother that did not involve the machinations of others. Despite what sort of leader Conall was, or what he had done, he was still Ian's brother. Regret and soul-deep sorrow was the constant mix of emotion when Ian thought of Conall.
Mary Chase's luminous eyes took in his struggle, and she lowered her lids as if in sympathy. ”I believe so.” Her rosebud mouth opened to continue but she suddenly stiffened.
Ian turned to watch Talent walk onto the terrace. He'd been aware of Talent drawing near but hadn't thought that Mary Chase would realize it so quickly as well. GIMs did not possess the lycan's superior sense of smell. His curiosity grew as Talent skidded to a stop upon seeing her.
His valet's face twisted in an ill-disguised sneer of disgust. ”You.”
Mary Chase's expression remained serene. ”Yes, me. How observant you are, Mr. Talent.”
Dark clouds gathered over Talent's countenance. Any moment now the lad would go off. Ian didn't understand the animosity between them. As far as he knew, they'd met only twice before, and on both occasions hadn't exchanged more than two words, but Ian needed to hear information, not play nanny to bickering children. ”Your news, if you please, Miss Chase.”
Mary inclined her head in that floating manner of hers. ”Last night, Lyall and Conall talked about the werewolf and Ian Ranulf. I could not get too close, but I heard them say they were going to address the problem tonight.”
”How?” Talent asked.
She flicked him an irritated glance but looked to Ian when she answered. ”I don't know what they plan to do, but they are going to Buckingham Palace.”
Ian straightened. ”That little b.u.g.g.e.r.”
The palace was abandoned and so large and isolated by its ma.s.sive grounds that the howls of a werewolf might go unnoticed.
”They are set to go at midnight,” Mary said.
”Then we will go there before they can move him.”
”You can't be thinking about trusting her.” Talent's scowl twisted. ”She's an unholy body thief.”
Mary Chase bristled. ”And you? Whose ident.i.ty do you steal when you think no one is looking?”
Talent went as white as paper and then five shades of red, but he got ahold of himself and turned his back on her. ”Sir,” he said to Ian, ”let me take you in. If it is a trap, at least I'll be there to help you.”
”I need you to watch over Daisy.” Talent frowned, and Ian placed a hand upon the lad's shoulder, for he knew the tenderness of a man's pride. ”I'm leaving you to watch my heart, Jack.”
The lad appeared a bit mollified but Mary Chase's expression made it clear what she thought of Talent's a.s.signment, and the color was soon rising once more up Talent's neck. Ian stepped between them before any more squabbles broke out.
”The were dies tonight.” A surge of adrenaline lit over him at the idea. ”When we are done there, I am going for Conall.”
”As you wish, Ranulf.” Mary Chase left the terrace in a delicate swirl of skirts and flowing hair.
”I don't trust her,” Talent muttered as he watched her go.
But Ian's mind was on other things. Such as how the h.e.l.l he was going to take down the were. And what he was going to do with Daisy.
Back in his cage. The wolf cowered in the corner of it, as far away as he could get from the stink of his waste that spilled across the floor. They didn't clean the cage anymore. Didn't give him drugs to numb the pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. A chant that went through his head as he slammed his aching skull against the walls.
”Stop.”
The wolf lunged at the bars, his teeth snapping, claws raking against the thick iron in an effort to get to the lycan. But the man danced back with a laugh. Taunting f.u.c.k.
”Temper, lad.”