Rage. Pain. Ian felt himself slip under. Claws lengthened. His jaw snapped and popped as it grew. Red. He saw it. Felt it as he sliced at the furry body beneath him. The beast got its hind legs under Ian. In an instant, Ian was hurled back, crashing through the trunk of a tree with bone-shattering force before landing with a spray of earth.

Blood poured from his broken nose. He couldn't smell a thing, only taste the rich, sharp flavor of his own blood. Maddened, he sprang up, catching the were by its tail before it could escape. With a roar, he swung it round and into a Grecian tomb. Mortar and old bone exploded outward. The were yelped high and pained as it landed in a tumble.

Ian heaved a breath but then the beast rose on its back paws. And looked directly at him. The hairs along Ian's arms lifted and a queer slide of foreboding went through him. Oddly, his inner wolf howled for him to stop and not fight this beast. But it was too late to run. The yellow stare was utterly insane and filled with only one objective: death.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Ian whispered before the were charged.

Chapter Sixteen.

Kill the lycan. It roared through the wolf's head as he charged. His teeth sank deep into the lycan's shoulder and the lycan screamed. The sound speared the wolf's brain, scattering shards of pain. He looked down at his prey, and his blood stilled. That face. Panic surged, choking and hot. He knew this face, this lycan man. No, no, no! His lungs seized. Memories threatened to drown him.

He lashed out, his claws. .h.i.tting the lycan's face to obliterate it, make him die. Blood splattered. But the lycan did not die as humans did. Instead, he snarled, his own wolf coming to the fore, his human body growing, twisting, and bending, bones popping, changing, fur growing thick upon smooth skin.

The wolf remembered how it felt to turn from man to beast. Agony and dread. The thought confused him and made him slow when he should be quick.

The lycan used the advantage and sank his claws deep into the wolf's belly and wrenched it open. Pain and more pain. The wolf howled and scrambled back. He did not want any more pain. He wanted her. He needed her. But her scent was gone, replaced by the burning stench of human lamp oil and verbena.

The lycan rose over him, now more wolf than man, jaw elongating into a snout, his hands deformed by six-inch claws. Lycan b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He did this. He took the wolf's woman. And he would die. The wolf lunged, his teeth bared to rip out the lycan's exposed throat, when something stabbed his side. Darts. He knew them and feared them. Howling, the wolf fell hard upon the ground.

Strength gone and gasping for air, the wolf saw the lycan's body jerk as he too felt the force of the poisoned darts. The lycan tumbled to his knees and then landed dead away on the cold earth.

Sight fading, and his body going numb, the wolf heard the man walk out of the wood, his voice familiar and maddening. His captor. "Ah, laddie, why must you insist on defying me?" A pair of boots stopped before the lycan lying on the ground. "Well, well, what do we have here? Ian Ranulf comes to the rescue." Ranulf. He knew that name. The answer came to him just before the hard kick of his captor's boot knocked the wolf senseless.

Minutes pa.s.sed. Or had it been hours? Daisy's rattled mind couldn't distinguish the difference. Her body tingled from the strain of keeping still. The sound of her own disjointed breathing filled her ears. Ink-black colored her field of vision. Maddening, when she wanted more than anything to see, and to know what was happening.

Nothing stirred. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, a quick death would be better than this. Sharp p.r.i.c.kles broke out over her limbs as she rose. Heart pounding like an anvil in her breast, she eased the door open and cringed as it creaked in the silence. Moonlight poured down through the trees, dappling the ground in celadon and silver.

The pins- and-needles sensation returned as she carefully looked outside. Dizziness threatened, and she realized she'd stopped breathing. Daisy sucked in a deep, much needed breath. All was quiet.

Just beyond the archway to the tombs was a familiar figure bathed in the ghostly rays of the full moon. He knelt on hands and knees, his broad shoulders shaking as though he'd taken a mortal chill. The expanse of his rib cage rose and fell in rapid succession. His shirt and trousers were shredded and blotchy with stains that she feared were blood. She approached him cautiously, for there was something about his state that had the hairs on the nape of her neck lifting.

"Northrup?" she whispered.

He did not answer but continued to pant with unnatural speed. When her skirts brushed against the tips of his boots, he made a sound that was unnervingly like a growl. He whipped around to look at her, and ice crawled down her spine. His irises, shining an unholy blue, filled his eyes until there was not a hint of white. The look of it was so animalistic that she felt a prey's urge to flee.

His lips curled back in a snarl. "Get. Away."

Drying blood crusted his upper lip as though his nose had bled. Crimson rivulets of blood ran from the edges of his mouth, and she realized with a horrified gasp that he was biting his lips.

"Dear G.o.d, Northrup-"

"Now!" His shout echoed against the walls, and she jumped.

But he was hurt. She could not simply walk away. "Let me-"

He was on her in a heartbeat, knocking into her and pressing her against the cold ground with his hard body. She cried out, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. Daisy tasted his blood, hot and metallic, felt the slickness of it on her lips. It was Northrup, and not. And she felt the strange push-pull of wanting and revulsion.

His movements were rough, uncoordinated, and uncontrolled. He growled again and thrust himself against her in a clumsy move. Hard hands groped her. Fear and humiliation rushed like the tide through her veins. Held down. Forced. Shamed. Her hand wrenched free, and she struck him. Hard. Once. Twice. The slaps cracked through the air, knocking his head aside from the force, and left her hand aching.

On a shout, he rolled away from her, and she scrambled back, her feet tangling in her skirts as she fought for purchase.

Northrup lay in a heap, his shoulders shaking slightly. Daisy could only stare. Her lips throbbed. The feel of his touch did not abate but burned with a low flare that made her stomach pitch.

Slowly, he raised his head. His eyes, when they met hers, were desolate and utterly human once more. His gaze landed on her mouth, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, G.o.d, Daisy. I did not mean..." He broke off, breathing hard.

Daisy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and cringed when it came away b.l.o.o.d.y. Not her blood, but his. She did not know what to say. He had warned her. She hadn't heeded. He was not Craigmore. Not that brand of evil. She knew this. Yet her heart was still going like a snare drum within her breast.

"Did I hurt you?" It was a stark question that echoed against the tombs.

"No." She curled her legs close to her chest. "No, I'm all right."

"I did." He swallowed with visible effort. "I hurt you."

She couldn't look at him. "Let it go, Northrup." Her voice wavered. "Please."

He nodded sharply and then stood with the slowness of an old man. There was only a slight tremor in his hand as he extended it to her, asking for her permission in a.s.sisting her to rise.

Daisy stared at his hand, broad of palm and long fingered. No claws now. She knew that hand to be warm and strong. Not Craigmore.

Even so, her head shook. "No."

When he frowned, she made herself speak again. "I just..." She shook her head again.

Northrup's expression went blank, and his fingers curled into a fist before his hand dropped away.

Daisy eased to her feet alone.

Chapter Seventeen.

Alone in a room that was not her own, and tucked into a bed that was not her own, Daisy stared up at the half-tester curtains that hovered overhead. Her head ached. Indeed, the whole of her body ached. Which, she reflected wryly, was not a surprise given how she'd spent the evening. Northrup sat on the other side of her door. He'd crept up silently, but Daisy was well-versed in listening for footsteps outside her door. Craigmore never sought her out for s.e.xual attentions, but there were far worse attentions he often wanted to inflict upon her. She had quickly learned to lock her doors and keep her senses sharp.

The thick down counterpane rustled as she turned onto her side. She stared at the door, which was little more than a hazy gray rectangle in the predawn hours. A terrible awkwardness now lay between her and Northrup.

"This is your home," she had said earlier when she realized that the hack Northrup had hired was turning into an unfamiliar drive. The townhome before her was far grander than her own, with high wrought-iron gates that all but cried out Keep out.

Sitting in the seat across from her, he had flicked a glance her way, the first in the long and tense drive back from Highgate. "Yes." His voice was devoid of its usual teasing lilt.

"You intend for me to stay here?" Though she had fussed about the arrangement earlier, after tonight, the thought of going home alone made her stomach clench. Only pride kept her from crawling into Northrup's lap and putting her head beneath his ruined coat. He might have acted like a beast in the graveyard but he was the beast she knew.

Mistaking her query, he'd looked away as if pained, and the light of the coach lamp set off his features in a sharp study of golds and brown. "I can't let you go," he whispered before clearing his throat and speaking with more strength. "Not yet."

In his hand, he twirled one of the long, wicked-looking darts that he had pulled out of his chest before they'd left the cemetery.

"What is that thing?" Daisy asked.

"Lycans use them to hunt down werewolves. The tips are poisoned with a drug that will weaken us." The twirling dart stilled between his fingers. "Use enough of them and we'll be knocked into oblivion, only to awaken confused and disoriented."

Daisy had sucked in a sharp breath. Confused and disoriented. I am not myself. Cold shame filled her, for Northrup had warned her to keep back. And she had ignored it to both of their detriment.

"Lycans did this to you? There are more of you around here then?" He gave her a speaking look, which made her feel foolish. "Precisely who are these lycans?"

Northrup hadn't met her eyes, but studied the dart. "They are the Clan Ranulf. My people." The scowl on his face grew fierce then. "Before I chose exile."

The thought of him in exile made her sad. She ought to not care, but Northrup was such a social being. To be cut off from his people must have hurt him, at least on some level. "Why did you leave?" she asked softly.

The glossy locks of his hair hid his expression, but his voice was low and clear. "Because I no longer wanted to be like them."

And what could she say to that? An uncomfortable silence filled the coach before she broke it. "Does this mean that your clan captured the werewolf? Is it over?"

Northrup had laughed then, short and humorless. "If it were over, they would not have shot me as well." He sighed and his blue eyes became as opaque as sea gla.s.s. "Instinct tells me that we are in more danger than ever."

"Why?" It was more of a plaintive cry than question.

Northrup's scowl returned but this time there was a bite to it, as if he'd gladly tear into a Ranulf clan member should one appear. "Because they now know I'm involved."

She'd been too tired and battered to say anything further then. Northrup had handed her off to the care of Tuttle as he stalked off with his valet, a young man whom he'd introduced as Jack Talent. Mr. Talent was a suspicious sort, who looked at her askance, as if waiting for her to do something foolish. She refused to be cowed by him, or hurt by Northrup's curt good-night.

Now, warm and clean after a hot bath, she lay coc.o.o.ned in a bed he provided, as he stood guard outside her door. A sense of desolation filled her. The memory of his hands so rough and wild upon her made her stomach turn. Had that been Northrup, or the beast within him? Did it matter? Stretching her hand out toward the door, she drifted off to sleep, heartsick yet knowing that he would watch over her.

Chapter Eighteen.

Spring had well and truly arrived in London. A soft breeze touched with warmth danced over the new green gra.s.s carpeting Hyde Park. Winston closed his eyes to the sensation and felt the sun upon his face. Rare indeed for him to feel the sun. The places his work usually took him were cramped, ugly tenements that light and fresh air forsook.

It was early yet, vendors having just arrived to claim the choice spots near well-trodden paths. Along the streets, drays rumbled past as milkmen and grocers made their deliveries for the day. Maids beat rugs in the small alleys between the grand houses, and here and there, boys swept up horse droppings and rubbish. The pampered gentry, however, were still tucked in their silk-lined beds, no doubt sleeping off their excessive, late-night revelry.

For all the glamour and comfort their world promised, Winston had never wanted to be part of it. A man was not his own keeper when he must kowtow to the mores of a society poised on the edge of their seats to see him fall. One mistake, and you were nothing. A sham. As if a man's worth could be quantified by etiquette. Hard work, the use of one's mind, that is what made a man's life worth measure. Such things gratified him more than the lure of being waited on hand and foot. He knew this with the certainty of a man who had lived on both sides of the velvet curtain.

He tipped his hat to a pretty young girl who loitered near a coffee stall. The smell of chicory and baking bread sent his stomach rumbling. Winston eyed the vendor making a show of cleaning a row of porcelain mugs.

"Top you off, sir?" The vendor lifted a basket top enticingly, releasing a cloud of steamy, scented air. "I've currant rolls fresh from the oven. 'Tis me wife's special recipe."

"Keep them warm for me," Winston said. For as much as he wanted one, work came first.

He turned the corner, and the grand mansion he wanted came into view. A colonnade in the cla.s.sic Greek style fronted the mansion. Ma.s.sive pillars of polished black marble ran along its length. At both ends, triumphal arches held up pediments of limestone carved with the crest of Ranulf and surrounded by a frieze of fearsome wolves.

It rankled Winston that he knew virtually nothing of this Lord Ranulf, who was listed as the Duke of Ranulf in Debrett's Peerage book, and apparently owned a great deal of Scotland. In all his years, Winston had never come across the man. When he'd asked his superiors for permission to speak to Ranulf, they'd been adamantly against the idea, almost fearfully. Ranulf, they warned, was an intensely private man and a favorite of the queen. He also happened to share a name with Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Which might be a coincidence, given that every Scot whom Winston met seemed to be related to one another in some fashion. But Winston did not like coincidences and intended to call upon Northrup as soon as he could.

Winston's steps slowed as he spied a man walking down the front walk of Ranulf House.

The cut and cloth of his suit claimed the visitor as a gentleman. Indeed, the man walked with a bearing that spoke of pride and utter confidence. However, it was unfashionably early to pay a call, which had Winston on alert. As did the way the man watched the world about him, fierce eyes scanning the street for possible trouble as he walked.

They drew abreast of each other, and the man's cold eyes met Winston's. For all the fine attire and regal posture, this man did not look like an English aristocrat. For one thing, he was too dark, with nearly black eyes, thick black hair that curled at the temples, and olive-toned skin. The man's features were too boldly carved to be British. Deep-set eyes over a strong brow, a nose that would look too big were it not for his square jaw. An Italian, if Winston had to guess.

Winston took it all in a glance, as he was trained to do, and then lowered his eyes. The sunlight touched upon the man's wine silk waistcoat and his watch fob glinted bright, catching Winston's eye. It was a pretty piece of work, intricately wrought silver shaped into an angel perhaps. The man moved away before Winston could be sure, having only discerned the shape of outstretched wings and a woman's figure.

Something chilled Winston's gut. Defying basic manners, Winston turned to watch the man depart. An unexpected jolt hit him as he met those dark eyes once more. Caught out, he could only stare back as the man touched the brim of his hat before turning to stroll away.

The feeling of being judged, cataloged, and dismissed by the man, while ironic enough to warrant a smile, left Winston distinctly edgy instead. Shaking the feeling off, he made his way to the servants' entrance of Ranulf House and found a maid in the midst of descending the back stairs, probably hurrying to fetch coal from the chute.

"Good morning, miss," he said, making himself appear as harmless as he could under her wary gaze, "I am Inspector Lane of the Criminal Investigation Department."

Beneath the heavy fringe of her dark hair, her eyes went wide. He stepped in closer. "I need to ask a few questions to a parlor maid employed here. A Miss Lucy Montgomery."

"I'm sorry, sir." The young woman made a furtive curtsy. "But as I said before, Lucy don't work here anymore."

Winston paused in the process of pulling out his notebook. "What had she done to warrant dismissal?"

"Oh, no, sir, nothing like that. She's been let go on account of illness. I hear tell she's living with her brother now." The young lady frowned. "An' she wasn't a parlor maid. Not when she left, anyhow. She was personal nurse to one of Lord Ranulf's guests."

The telltale tinge of pink on the maid's cheeks and the way she avoided Winston's eyes set the cogs in his mind turning. So Miss Montgomery's rise from lowly maid to nurse had the servants talking.

"And do you know whom this guest might be?"

"Oh, no," she said. "We don't ask such questions."

So they were afraid of this Ranulf as well.

"At the risk of being indelicate, Miss...?"

"Lauren." She gave a quick curtsy.

"Miss Lauren, do you happen to know the nature of this illness?"

The maid's cheeks burned bright, and she glanced over her shoulder. But the yard was quiet and still.