Julia waited while the minutes ticked by for what seemed like hours. The oven had beeped after fifteen minutes, letting her know that the pizza was done. She’d pulled the pizza out and turned off the stove, but when Ian still didn’t return after a good forty-five minutes more, she assumed the worst. Guthrie had been given the task of learning about her, not cooking the meal, and he had found out all about her books and told Ian—and just as she had suspected, Ian didn’t like it.
She sighed. Forget spending the night in the castle. She was beat, and it was time to return to the cottage and regroup.
The great hall where she’d seen Ian’s brothers gathered earlier was quiet, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have suspected they all had forgotten about her and had retired for the evening. But more likely Ian was checking her out on the Internet and reading all about her. And his brothers were waiting on his return to learn what his take on the matter would be.
She knew how distracting the Internet could be and how time passed quickly when she was wrapped up in her research. She visualized him frowning and scanning and clicking on more and more links to find out all he could about her. Imagine his surprise if he found the interview she had done with Love Romance Passion and the catchy title: Get into Bed with Julia Wildthorn (An Author Interview).
Oh, yeah, that would be a real eye-catcher. She was certain he’d love that. Not.
The damage was already done. She sighed deeply. She probably should have told him her name was MacPherson. How bad would that have been?
Bad—if she was from an enemy clan.
Not expecting any help from Ian’s brothers, as they’d be loyal to the laird and not an American troublemaker like herself, she let herself out through the kitchen door, which exited into the gardens. Dahlias, sweet spicy-smelling begonias, hydrangeas, wild orchids, and sweetly fragrant thistles, all in pinks and salmon colors, vied for attention in the expansive garden but also crowded around the cobblestone walkway she hoped would lead to the inner bailey.
She limped along a path as quickly as she could manage. When she came to a small wooden gate, she pushed through and closed it again.
Her ankle was hurting, although she knew it would get better if she could stay off it for the rest of the evening. Finally, she managed to make her way through the smaller inner bailey. Halfway across the outer bailey, she thought she might even make her escape. But then the redheaded man she’d written about at the gatehouse, and who had seen Ian carrying her piggyback later, approached her from one of the outer buildings. A stable, she thought, as she believed she heard a soft nicker coming from there.
“Where ye off to, lass?” He looked suspicious and big… make that very big, now that she was up close to him.
She motioned toward the gatehouse, not wanting this man’s interference but unable to do anything about it. “I’m headed back to the cottage.”
He glanced in the direction of the keep and then looked at her skeptically. “No one is taking ye back?”
“I wanted to walk.”
“Laird MacNeill had to carry ye because of yer… injury.” He motioned to her ankle. He narrowed his eyes at her. “They don’t know you’ve gone.”
“Oh, they know. Is the gate unlocked?” She limped toward the gatehouse before he answered.
“Wait here.”
She’d heard that one before. Wait here, Ian had said in so many words. He’d be back. Only this time she figured whoever the redheaded guy was, he’d get some action. She could imagine him rushing into the keep to tell on her—and all of Ian’s brothers running to intercept her. Or at least, that would be the story she’d write. Ian would be stubbornly refusing to come for her, his bonny betrothed. He had discovered some secret about her and no longer wanted her, again.
What would be the secret that the heroine would be hiding?
She pondered the answer to that question as she continued to limp toward the gatehouse. A man exited the rounded tower to the left and crossed his arms in defensive mode. He was the other man she’d written about, who also had witnessed her inelegant ride on Ian’s back.
“Is the gate locked?” she asked, even though she knew it had to be. She couldn’t decide whether to smile sweetly or be very businesslike. She doubted anything she did would encourage him to unlock the gate. Not without him first hearing what Ian wanted.
“We’re awaiting word from his lairdship,” the man said, brows raised and patting a cell phone on his belt. Even though he was trying to look all businesslike himself, a faint smile curved his lips.
She folded her arms. “I’m an American citizen. And you have to let me out.”
“American citizen, is it? Ye’ve no passport from what I’ve heard tell.”
The car, the fire. She didn’t have a passport. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Could they arrest her for it?
“You don’t have any right to keep me here against my will. Let me out, now.”
A car’s engine rumbled to life in the inner bailey.
The man’s smile grew. “Seems you have your ride after all.”
She knew it wouldn’t be Ian, and although she told herself that was best for all concerned, she was disappointed. She liked Ian and his brothers, and these men also, truth be told. But the fact was that she was a romance author who wrote about werewolves. She was certain she’d hit rock bottom in Ian’s estimation of her.
Sure enough, when the car drove up, she saw that Guthrie was driving. The guard hurried to open the passenger door for her, not waiting to see if that was what was going on or not.
“Your ride,” Guthrie called out to her when she didn’t move to enter the car.
“She’s hurting,” the guard said.
Guthrie exited the driver’s side, but when he did, she started to limp toward the car. She wasn’t about to be carried again. She didn’t get far, however, before Guthrie lifted her up in his arms and placed her in the passenger’s seat. “If you’ll get the gate, we’ll be off,” he said to the guard.
The other man bowed his head slightly to Guthrie and then opened the gate while Guthrie climbed into the driver’s seat. “So, you’re a romance writer.”
Which is how all the trouble began. She didn’t respond.
“I take it your pen name is Julia Wildthorn.”
Uh-oh. She gave Guthrie a sideways glance, and although he kept his focus on the road that crossed the moat, she knew he was sensing her reaction. She didn’t say anything. Best to leave things as they were. In one lump of a mess.
But Guthrie wasn’t leaving it alone. “Iris North, is it?”
When Ian’s cousin Oran came to him with the news that Julia was limping toward the gatehouse, planning to walk home, Ian couldn’t believe it. Well he could, as far as her determination was concerned. But he hadn’t left her alone all that long. He glanced at the computer screen. It had been over an hour since he had left her. Hell.
“Tell Guthrie to take her home,” he had said abruptly, and then when his cousin had marched smartly out of his solar, Ian had gone to the kitchen, expecting a burned-up pizza or, at the very least, a slice of it gone.
But she’d taken it out and left it sitting on the stove top. Now it was cold and hard, just like the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t about to chase after her, though. He’d already done enough damage in failing to follow his rulings concerning his people associating with anyone on the film crew by taking the woman for a walk and then allowing the heat of the moment to get out of hand with her.
“She had to have gone out the kitchen door,” Cearnach said, joining him and looking a little apologetic. “Or we would have seen her and stopped her.”
“She’s trouble,” Ian said, hating that she’d left and that he’d resolved the issue the way in which he had done. But how could he tell his people to act in one way and then do what he wished? It didn’t matter that he was the laird. He led by what he hoped was the right example.
“Aye, that she is, Ian. The kind of trouble I wouldn’t mind having. I’ll see you in the morning, unless you need me for anything else,” Cearnach said.
“See you in the morning.” Ian wrapped up the pizza and stuck it in the fridge. Knowing his brothers, one of them would heat it up for breakfast. No sense in letting it go to waste.
But he only had an appetite for the red wolf. No matter what she wrote about or who she truly was. He wanted her.
Chapter 12
“What happened to you?” Maria asked, her eyes wide, her voice surprised as she came out of her bedroom while Guthrie carried Julia into the cottage.
“I took too much of a walk,” Julia said to her. To Guthrie, she said, “You can set me on the couch. Thanks so much for giving me a lift home.” She was certain the fact that she didn’t say anything about whether she was truly Iris North or not hadn’t gone unnoticed. But she figured she didn’t owe one of Ian’s brothers any explanation, and he hadn’t pressed the issue.
“Ladies.” Guthrie smiled at Julia, appearing somewhat amused, and then he hurried out of the cottage as if he might get in trouble if he lingered too long.
Maria locked the door. “So what did happen?”
Julia sighed. “Nothing. I took too long a walk and my ankle is swollen.”
“I’ll get you an ice pack.” Maria hurried into the kitchen. “I thought you were just having dinner.”
“Ian took me for a walk.”
“Ian?”
“Laird MacNeill.”
“Ah.” Maria banged around in the freezer. “A long walk? Where?”
“To the falls. It was beautiful.” Julia sighed and closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself like Ian had done. Until his fingers had slipped her bra down and his other hand had worked its way into her panties.
“I thought you might be staying the night, as late as it was getting.”
“No.” Julia let out her breath again. “He knows I write romances. Werewolf romances. If he or anyone else had been interested in me, finding that out was the end of that. Besides, I’m not here for that.”
