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."

Lad. The lycan called him that when the wolf had been a man. The man inside the wolf surged to the skin for a moment, screaming his hate and rage as well. He hated the lycan, too.

The lycan's grin widened. "Ah, your rage is a glorious thing. Yet you aim it at the wrong man. Have you not been kept safe all these years? Safe from execution? h.e.l.l, you've even had a woman, as deformed as you are."

His woman. The man inside the wolf cried out in sorrow.

"Your clan cared for you." The lycan stepped near, his eyes flashing. "When he was the one that put you in the grave!"

The wolf whined, his legs wobbling beneath him. Buried in the dark. Hardwood coffin above his head. His fingers worn to the bone as he clawed his way out, through the wood and earth. Agony knifed into his skull, and he howled.

"Ah, yes, you're remembering a bit of it, aren't you?" The lycan's voice turned soothing. "Remembering how he left you behind. How he went on with his life, let your mother rot, as if she was nothing, until she too faded away."

Dizziness threatened. He remembered the lycan with the blue eyes. A calm voice. Safety. Comfort. Home. The man inside wanted to remember. But the wolf did not. The wolf ground his head into the stone wall, letting the pain lance him and take away the memories, as the man raged and rattled about within the wolf's brain.

"And now he has your woman. Likely he's f.u.c.king her right now."

Man and wolf went wild, slamming as one into the bars. The wolf's bones cracked. Blood flowed, his fangs sc.r.a.ping iron and tasting it on his tongue. And the lycan just laughed.

"Soon, Maccon. Soon ye can have yer revenge."

Daisy made her visit when she knew Miranda was out consoling Poppy, who was distraught over Winston's withdrawal. Otherwise, Daisy would not be able to face this.

Although she wasn't expected, her brother-in-law received her immediately.

"Daisy." Archer's silvery eyes traveled over her face in concerned a.s.sessment. "Are you well?"

Nerves swarmed like angry bees within Daisy's belly as she clutched the ends of her cloak. "That is the problem, Archer. I'm not sure."

His handsome face darkened. "Is it Northrup? Has he done something to upset you?"

She rather thought Ian would be in for another thrashing should she answer yes. A wobbling smile touched her lips, for despite his taciturn demeanor, Archer cared for her like a brother. "No, nothing like that. Ian is... He is good to me, Archer."

Some of the tension left Archer as he nodded, sending a thick, black curl falling over his brow. "I never thought I'd say this, but I am glad." The edges of his mouth pinched as though he fought to keep from speaking. "He was my closest friend, you know. Once upon a time."

Archer scowled down at his hand, and she wondered if he was remembering when he'd been altered, half man, half demon. Miranda had loved him regardless, and Daisy could see why. He was loyal and honest. A good man.

"Ian has changed," he said. "I see in him the man he was before."

"If he ever lets himself swallow his pride," she said, suppressing her sad smile, "I think he would ask to be your friend once more." G.o.d, she hoped it was true.

Archer made a masculine noise of ambivalence, designed, she supposed, to make her think he didn't care. Unfortunately, she needed him to care, for Ian's sake. For a moment, she couldn't breathe past the pain and terror that clutched her heart.

"He'll need you, Archer," she said when she could speak. "Even if he won't admit it, he will."

His head shot up, his eyes alert and worried. "Tell me why you are here, sister."

With a shaking breath, she unclasped her cloak. Daisy swallowed hard. "I need you to look at something. In a professional capacity," she added when Archer's eyes widened.

His expression turned to stone, and she knew he was hardening his heart, much as she prepared to do. When he spoke, his voice was calm, authoritative. "Let us go to my library."

Chapter Thirty-five.

What are you reading?" Daisy asked a silent, dour Northrup, who thumbed through a small leather notebook as they sat in a small corner table at the Plough and Harrow, where they had stopped to take supper.

She could not think of him as Ian when he was like this. Not when he brooded like a stranger. Soon after she'd returned from Archer's house, Ian's manner had changed. Just as thoroughly as his donning of new clothes. So thoroughly, in fact, she had not been able to summon the courage to tell him what she must.

Although polite and attentive when need be, Ian was distant now, avoiding her gaze and fidgeting as though his skin were too tight for his frame. It was he who had suggested they dine out. "Out" being among people and away from the threat of privacy, and the bedroom, she supposed bitterly.

She swallowed down the ball of hurt that seemed lodged in her throat. Had he regretted proposing to her? Perhaps it was for the best. She needed to tell him... Terror rushed over her so quick and cold that her breath hitched. Her fists bore down on the scarred wood of the table.

"Well?" she pressed, if only to speak and not cry. Later. She would think about the future later. "Are you going to respond? What do you have there?"

Northrup's wide shoulders hunched as far as his perfectly cut coat would let them. "Winston Lane's notebook."

"Ian! You can't steal Winston's notebook."

His brows furrowed as he read. "It appears that I can and did, luv." His fingers tapped an idle beat as the scowl on his face grew.

"It's amoral to steal from an invalid."

He made a noise but did not look up. "It's amoral to let a man's attacker go free, too. I should think the ends justify the means here."

"Bosh." Daisy sat back, her chair sc.r.a.ping a bit on the wood floor from the force. Around her was the happy laughter of men drinking at the bar and the warm scent of good food. Usually, the familiar pub was a balm when her nerves were frayed. Tonight, it served only to exacerbate her upset. She pointed to the battered notebook.

"What is in there that has caught your undivided attention? May we start with that?"

Daisy did not believe for one moment whatever it was had him in this mood. It was her. A war of emotions played over his face as they stared at each other from across the divide of the table. Fear, yearning, and frustration flickered in his gaze. His knuckles stood out bone white against the worn wood, and as much as she longed to cover his hand with hers, she did not. Not when she knew in her belly that she was the cause of his current torment.

Finally, he blinked and let go of a breath with a long sigh. "Lane was attacked at the perfumer's shack. They found Lane's a.s.sistant, John Sheridan, at the scene. According to these notes, Lane discovered that the perfumer was a Mr. Ned Montgomery, who, incidentally, was secretly engaged to Miss Mary Fenn, the first known victim of the werewolf."

"Ah, so the perfumer is our killer."

"No. The perfumer is most likely the chap we found in the shack."

Daisy repressed a huff of annoyance. "You're not making very much sense, you know."

"If you'd let me explain, I might." Northrup ignored her glare, but she saw the wry humor in his expression as he thumbed the edge of the notebook. "The perfumer had a sister, Miss Lucy Montgomery." Northrup's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Aside from being Ned's sister, Miss Lucy was also employed as a nursemaid at Ranulf House. It isn't a far stretch to a.s.sume that she had been nursing a lycan plagued with syphilis." The gleam grew deadly. "My b.a.s.t.a.r.d brother has been lying to me."

"It might be a coincidence. Perhaps Conall isn't involved at all." Daisy knew that no matter what Ian said, the notion of killing his brother ate at his heart.