A Highland Werewolf Wedding (Heart of the Wolf #11)

Seeing a woman instead, one hell of a shapely woman, he hesitated, and the anger quelled in an instant.

His gaze traveled upward to take in the rest of the package. The wind blowing in her direction forced the dress’s red slinky fabric to cling to her shapely legs, hips, and everything in between. The dress screamed hot and available. At least to him.

The neckline wasn’t all that low, just enough to show off the swell of her breasts, but her reaction to his perusing her was what made him direct his attention upward while he bit back a smile. She folded her arms beneath her breasts, lifting them a little and making him wish he could do the honors, and then she let out an annoyed huff of breath.

More than anything, he loved her reaction and wasn’t beyond pushing her a bit after she’d forced him off the road and ruined two of his tires.

“Done looking?” she asked. The hint of sarcasm amused him when he should still have been furious about what she’d done to his vehicle.

She was American, not a Scottish lass, which meant she was trouble if she was anything like his brothers Ian and Duncan’s mates, except both of the women were wolves—Julia of the red wolf variety, and Shelley, a gray.

“All right,” she said, now sounding really annoyed. “I get it. You’re a big, bad Highland warrior type of wolf, and you have to present this image…”

She knew he was a wolf?

Only one way she’d know that. She smelled his wolf scent. Only one way she could do that. She was also a wolf. He didn’t hear the rest of her words as his gaze shot up to her face.

Her eyes widened, giving her a startled look as she met his gaze.

She was beautiful and elegant, not just the sweet and innocent bonny girl who lives in the cottage next door, but vibrant and ultra-sexy with dark brown eyes—granted, narrowed at him—and lush black lashes, high cheekbones, and full lips that were any man’s wet dream.

After getting over his initial shock, he crowded her as a wolf would, checking her out, sensing her response to him, learning if she truly was a wolf. She nearly folded into the car, trying to back away from him. He seized her arm to keep her close and moved his face in to get a good whiff of her. The wind was blowing in her direction, carrying his scent to her but hers away from him.

But being this close, he smelled her. She-wolf. Gray. A hint of a seductive floral fragrance.

He took in another breath, attempting to learn how she felt about him, trying to see if she was angered, intrigued, scared. Any strong emotions would be revealed in her scent. He frowned. She smelled familiar somehow. From the scent he gathered from her, she was angered, intrigued, and a wee bit scared. Just as she should be around an imposing Highlander of the Old World like he was.

“Bloody hell,” he said, quickly releasing her, not wanting to feel any interest in the lass. But he continued to remain in her space, continued to suck in the air around her, continued to enjoy the essence of the wolf. He couldn’t help it. When a female was this enticing, he was all male wolf.

Then again, something more about the woman intrigued him. She was not friendly, more irritated than anything, and he figured if she had a sgian dubh, the traditional knife worn with a kilt, hidden in that clingy creation, she would force him to back off. She slipped her hands between them and touched his chest in a way that said, “Back off,” as if she thought she could keep him at bay.

He swore the heat from her hands seared him right through his Prince Charlie jacket, vest, and white shirt, all the way to his bare chest.

She was a wolf with attitude and a total turn-on.

Large brown eyes gazed at him like a wolf who could read his every thought, every bit as welcoming and seductive as the rest of her. Dark brown hair tinted with natural highlights of red and gold softly curled to her shoulders, the wind catching it and tossing it to and fro in a playful way. Her mouth was still pursed, looking quite kissable.

One of her brows arched heavenward.

Normally he thought himself easygoing, except when someone destroyed his property. In her case, he would make a rare exception. He smiled at the realization that she wasn’t thoroughly intimidated by him. If she’d been human, she would have been. Even a female wolf outside her own territory should be. But the little American she-wolf wouldn’t give an inch.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Elaine Hawthorn.” She stared him down like a wolf that wouldn’t be cowed, but she didn’t ask his name or act as though she wanted it.

He eyed her more closely, sure he had seen her somewhere before. A long… very long time ago. That was the problem with living for so many years. He wasn’t good at remembering new names and faces in the short term. Long term? Even worse.

Something about her appearance and something about her reaction to him had him wondering.

“Have we met before, lass?” He felt less hostile, but he still had a mission and her driving him off the road wasn’t going to thwart him.

She shook her head too quickly, as if she realized he couldn’t recall who she was, and she wanted to keep it that way.

“Do you know my name?” he asked, even though he assumed she’d say no. He could judge by her reaction, even if it was subtle, if she was telling the truth.

“How could I? I only just arrived in Scotland.” She was too aggressive in her response, instead of just politely saying, No, I don’t know you.

He might not be real good at names and faces, but as intriguing as she was, he remembered her from somewhere before. “I’m Cearnach MacNeill.”

She frowned a little. “How do you spell your name?”

He spelled it out for her, then added, “It’s pronounced like ‘Care-knock’ with the ‘ck’ at the end kind of sliding off to a ‘och’ sound.” He waited for some form of recognition.

She gave it, even though she fought to keep her control… a subtle change in her scent, worry, maybe. Not a strong sense of anxiety. Just something vague. She licked her lips nervously, not in a seductive way. Glistening with fresh moisture, they looked too appealing.

She dropped her hands from his chest, as if she didn’t want to touch him any longer and maybe trigger some deeper memory. Or maybe he was looking too interested in her in a feral way.

He hated losing that intimate touch, even though she had used her hands as a barrier to his being so close to her. The exchange felt like so much more to him.

Suddenly remembering why he was here in the first place—to attend Calla’s wedding—he said, “You’ll give me a ride to the wedding I’m attending. I’m already late.” At least he assumed he was late. He hadn’t calculated any extra time into his travel plans, and he’d already figured he’d arrive about the time everyone else took their seats in the church.

“Wedding? Don’t tell me…” She put a finger to her chin, the skin beneath her eyes crinkling with wry amusement. Then she pointed at him, the point of her fingertip hovering so close to his chest that he was just waiting for her to make the intimate connection again. This time she didn’t, to his disappointment. “It’s your wedding.”

“If it was, would that make a difference?” He watched her expression, seeing the sparkle of humor in her eyes. He didn’t know why he’d asked, except that he could smell the way he intrigued her, just as much as she intrigued him. He really wanted to know—did it matter to her?

“It depends. I might be saving the bride from a fate worse than death if I delayed your marrying her.”

At that, Cearnach grinned. He loved a woman with a sense of humor. “It’s my friend’s wedding.”

“Ah, then that’s a different matter. Can’t disappoint a friend.” She truly sounded sympathetic. “Why don’t you have a spare tire? I guess it would be inconvenient to change a tire in all this wind while wearing a kilt.” This time she raked him up and down with a sassy viewing of his whole body, her expression one of pure feminine delight.

His body tightened with need.

She was just as diligent in looking him over as he had been with her. It was as if they were sparring. Her thorough job of looking was enough to turn up the heat already making his blood sizzle.

“I would have no difficulty changing a tire in or out of my kilt.” He motioned to the car where the rear tires were perfectly deflated. “As you can see, lassie, you ruined two tires. I only have one spare. Now I’m later than before, and you’re driving me to the wedding.”

“I’ll be late for my appointment. You’ll have to call someone else to help you out.”

Ignoring her plans since she’d ruined his own and she owed him, he said, “If I had to wait for assistance, I’d miss the whole ceremony. So you’ll take me to the wedding since my car isn’t going anywhere and you helped to put it there.”

Cearnach decided the only way to make the woman see his position was to escort her to the passenger side of the car and help her in, if she needed the assistance. He was always a gentleman when with women. “Only I’ll be driving so we get there in one piece.”

She balked, glanced down at his legs, frowned, and motioned to his right leg where the top of the handle of his sgian dubh poked out of his kilt hose. “You’re already wearing a dagger.”

“Part of the Highland formal dress.” He bowed his head slightly, his face growing so close to hers that they almost touched.

“I know, but why the big sword also? Expecting to go to war?”

He smiled a little. “Wolves tend to carry on their traditions from long ago. We all carry swords to wolf weddings. It’s… strictly for show.” At least that’s what he hoped it would be. Just like he hoped all the other guests at the wedding would be so attired.

She finally let out her breath but yielded, albeit reluctantly, climbed into the car in a huff, showing off a lot of leg, and quickly yanked her skirt down. She folded her arms and stared up at him as he towered over her, her expression mutinous. “You were driving way too fast. That’s why you ran off the road.”