Hero of a Highland Wolf
Page 18
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“I’d love to. Later,” she said, feeling she was too tired to be the best of company. Even now she wished to put on a cheery face, but she couldn’t conjure up the warmth to back her smile. She was still thinking about dealing with Grant and what would be next as she butted heads with the man.
Footsteps headed in their direction, and she turned to see who approached. They’d only been walking in the chilly fog for about ten minutes, which in itself seemed ridiculous. Then again, the Highlanders were probably used to the weather. If she was back home, she would have found something else to do with her time. She was getting damp and chilled, and she hoped whoever approached would get her out of this predicament in a way that wouldn’t hurt Archibald’s feelings.
Grant’s man, Darby, hurried to catch up to her and said with urgency, “My Lady, Laird MacQuarrie says the morning meal is ready, if you’d like to join us.”
Hearing her referred to this time with a title, she was taken aback. So politely now, instead of the way he had taken her to task in Grant’s chamber. She wasn’t used to being referred to as “lady.” In America, she didn’t use any title. She was just Colleen, as far as she was concerned. In Scotland, it was different. Maybe using her title would ensure that some of the wolves in Grant’s pack treated her with more respect. Though she didn’t think she’d ever get used to being referred to in that manner.
She hesitated to speak. The preparation of breakfast seemed to have occurred awfully fast. Why didn’t Grant say they were getting ready to eat as a reason she shouldn’t take a walk with Archibald? She suspected they’d thrown breakfast together in a hurry in an attempt to whisk her away from him.
Was Grant trying to make amends with her, then? She doubted it.
A light breakfast might settle her stomach, but she didn’t think inviting Archibald to eat with them would help. She could imagine the tension escalating in the dining hall. Darby’s interruption was just what she needed. She didn’t even mind knowing Grant was attempting to get her away from Archibald.
At least for this morning, the way she was feeling, she much preferred Grant’s disheveled, kilted appearance to Archibald’s polished look, because she was feeling a little disheveled herself. Not in appearance, but psychologically. And, at least while conversing with Grant, she felt she knew the ground rules, somewhat. Annoyed, gruff, angry—all of it was fine with her as long as she knew where he was coming from. With Archibald, it was more of a courtship game, she thought. And she really wasn’t ready for it until she was settled and refreshed and could act more like her normally enthusiastic self.
“Thanks, Darby. I’ll be right there.” To Archibald, she said, “Maybe we can do this again sometime later. After I’m more settled at Farraige Castle.”
Archibald’s deeply knit brow softened a bit. “Of course. Would tonight be too soon?”
“Later” meant later. Much later. “How about at the end of the week? I can get in touch with you. I have your number.”
His brow tightened again. “I will call on you then.”
She got the distinct impression that he wasn’t waiting for her to call him. Maybe believing she wouldn’t. Or that Grant wouldn’t allow her to. She wondered if she’d bitten off more than she should. Yet, at the time, she had thought it was a brilliant idea.
So much for her brilliant ideas.
She walked with him back to the castle as Darby followed in their wake, not stealthily like a wolf, but noisily like he wanted them to know that he was listening in on their conversation. He would probably report everything that was said back to Grant. Not that anything much was said.
“I will call,” Archibald said again, his gaze steady on hers, ensuring he was getting his point across—that Grant wouldn’t stop him from seeing her.
She totally agreed with Archibald there. And then he left her at the back door and took off around the side of the castle to the front where his vehicle was parked.
Darby pulled the door open for her, his expression somber. She wanted to talk with him, with anyone, about how she felt, but she seemed to be the enemy in this situation. Shouldn’t “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” come into play here?
This time when Darby escorted her to the main dining hall, mahogany tables were set up. Instead of benches, they had olive-green and gold embroidered chairs with cushioned seat backs. Plates and silverware were set out, too. Much, much better. Really nice, in fact.
She smiled at Grant, who was scowling but attempting to moderate his expression a bit.
She fought chuckling. Something appealed to her about that great, growly Scot. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to men like him. Her first two mates had been even-tempered betas. She’d loved them, but they had been predictable, and when she had lost them many years ago, she didn’t think she’d ever take a mate again. Not that Grant was a mate prospect, but she did wonder how being mated to a wolf like him would measure up. She couldn’t even imagine.
She took in a deep breath, recalling the smell of him in his bed.
He was one hot Highland wolf.
That she had taken a walk with the “enemy” in the gardens had probably killed Grant. He’d shaved, in a rush it appeared, having nicked himself in a couple of spots. He would heal quickly because of their wolf genetics. But the bloodied spots made him seem so much more human and lovable. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. She missed seeing him bare-chested while he wore only his kilt.
Footsteps headed in their direction, and she turned to see who approached. They’d only been walking in the chilly fog for about ten minutes, which in itself seemed ridiculous. Then again, the Highlanders were probably used to the weather. If she was back home, she would have found something else to do with her time. She was getting damp and chilled, and she hoped whoever approached would get her out of this predicament in a way that wouldn’t hurt Archibald’s feelings.
Grant’s man, Darby, hurried to catch up to her and said with urgency, “My Lady, Laird MacQuarrie says the morning meal is ready, if you’d like to join us.”
Hearing her referred to this time with a title, she was taken aback. So politely now, instead of the way he had taken her to task in Grant’s chamber. She wasn’t used to being referred to as “lady.” In America, she didn’t use any title. She was just Colleen, as far as she was concerned. In Scotland, it was different. Maybe using her title would ensure that some of the wolves in Grant’s pack treated her with more respect. Though she didn’t think she’d ever get used to being referred to in that manner.
She hesitated to speak. The preparation of breakfast seemed to have occurred awfully fast. Why didn’t Grant say they were getting ready to eat as a reason she shouldn’t take a walk with Archibald? She suspected they’d thrown breakfast together in a hurry in an attempt to whisk her away from him.
Was Grant trying to make amends with her, then? She doubted it.
A light breakfast might settle her stomach, but she didn’t think inviting Archibald to eat with them would help. She could imagine the tension escalating in the dining hall. Darby’s interruption was just what she needed. She didn’t even mind knowing Grant was attempting to get her away from Archibald.
At least for this morning, the way she was feeling, she much preferred Grant’s disheveled, kilted appearance to Archibald’s polished look, because she was feeling a little disheveled herself. Not in appearance, but psychologically. And, at least while conversing with Grant, she felt she knew the ground rules, somewhat. Annoyed, gruff, angry—all of it was fine with her as long as she knew where he was coming from. With Archibald, it was more of a courtship game, she thought. And she really wasn’t ready for it until she was settled and refreshed and could act more like her normally enthusiastic self.
“Thanks, Darby. I’ll be right there.” To Archibald, she said, “Maybe we can do this again sometime later. After I’m more settled at Farraige Castle.”
Archibald’s deeply knit brow softened a bit. “Of course. Would tonight be too soon?”
“Later” meant later. Much later. “How about at the end of the week? I can get in touch with you. I have your number.”
His brow tightened again. “I will call on you then.”
She got the distinct impression that he wasn’t waiting for her to call him. Maybe believing she wouldn’t. Or that Grant wouldn’t allow her to. She wondered if she’d bitten off more than she should. Yet, at the time, she had thought it was a brilliant idea.
So much for her brilliant ideas.
She walked with him back to the castle as Darby followed in their wake, not stealthily like a wolf, but noisily like he wanted them to know that he was listening in on their conversation. He would probably report everything that was said back to Grant. Not that anything much was said.
“I will call,” Archibald said again, his gaze steady on hers, ensuring he was getting his point across—that Grant wouldn’t stop him from seeing her.
She totally agreed with Archibald there. And then he left her at the back door and took off around the side of the castle to the front where his vehicle was parked.
Darby pulled the door open for her, his expression somber. She wanted to talk with him, with anyone, about how she felt, but she seemed to be the enemy in this situation. Shouldn’t “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” come into play here?
This time when Darby escorted her to the main dining hall, mahogany tables were set up. Instead of benches, they had olive-green and gold embroidered chairs with cushioned seat backs. Plates and silverware were set out, too. Much, much better. Really nice, in fact.
She smiled at Grant, who was scowling but attempting to moderate his expression a bit.
She fought chuckling. Something appealed to her about that great, growly Scot. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to men like him. Her first two mates had been even-tempered betas. She’d loved them, but they had been predictable, and when she had lost them many years ago, she didn’t think she’d ever take a mate again. Not that Grant was a mate prospect, but she did wonder how being mated to a wolf like him would measure up. She couldn’t even imagine.
She took in a deep breath, recalling the smell of him in his bed.
He was one hot Highland wolf.
That she had taken a walk with the “enemy” in the gardens had probably killed Grant. He’d shaved, in a rush it appeared, having nicked himself in a couple of spots. He would heal quickly because of their wolf genetics. But the bloodied spots made him seem so much more human and lovable. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. She missed seeing him bare-chested while he wore only his kilt.
