Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1)

Carly just looked back at him, wishing she’d known, wishing he’d explained before it didn’t matter anymore. Because no matter what he said now, the throbbing, insistent pain in her shoulder spoke louder. It was all too late. “So you would have wished that, I guess,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “Wished we’d never met. Then you would still be free.”

“No, damn it,” Gideon snapped, raking an angry hand through his hair. “I only wish I’d accepted my feelings. That I’d told you the truth so that you could have understood your own.” He leaned forward, and Carly was unable to look away from the burning, roiling emotion in his eyes. “I wish I hadn’t wasted what little time we’ve had trying not to love you.”

She tried to jerk away from him then, shaking her head. “Well, I don’t love you,” she told him, but even to her, her protest sounded weak and unconvincing. “Whatever this is, it isn’t love. I don’t.”

“I heard you, the night we made love.” He nodded at her shocked, embarrassed expression. “You gave me the words, Carly, and I heard them. You may not want to love me. God knows, I wouldn’t. But you do. Because just as you belong to me, I belong to you.”

“I don’t want to love you,” she snapped, suddenly feeling very, very close to the edge of her restraint. She wanted to lash out, to hurt him for hurting her, for waiting until now, when she was dying, to open up to her. Violent emotion welled up like a tidal wave within her, and despite the weakness of her body, Carly felt her hands curling into claws. She fought the urge to bare her teeth at him in warning.

“I don’t want you!”

She registered the change in Gideon’s expression, something very like surprise, although her rejection of what he was telling her couldn’t have surprised him so utterly. The anger she was cruising on, however, left her incurious as to its source. He wanted to bare his soul to her? Well, there were a few things he needed to hear from her, too.

“You think that I’m just going to fall all over you, that all is forgiven because you’re telling me this now? On my damn deathbed? Nothing has changed, Gideon. I’ve never pretended to be anything with you that I’m not. I have kept nothing of myself from you. You, on the other hand, have done nothing but hold back. For every step forward I’ve tried to take, you’ve taken two back away from me. How is that love? How is that anything but the side effects of … of some unnatural, unwanted physical reaction?” She was snarling at him now, and she knew it. But to her surprise, Gideon was silent, letting her say her piece. Good. She wanted him to let her. But then she wanted him to tell her to shut up, to make her believe that he loved her the way she loved him.

Because he was right, of course. She did. God help her, but she did.

“I may love you, Gideon MacInnes,” she finally hissed, “but I hope you understand, it’s only because I can’t help it.” She collapsed back against her pillows, completely drained now. She was so tired of the push-pull between her common sense and her heart, neither of which seemed to be able to decide whether they wanted Gideon to stay or to get the hell away from her and let her die in peace.

Carly turned her head from him, staring at the wall. Minutes passed in silence, Gideon neither speaking nor leaving. She stayed motionless, not wanting to ask him to do either. Her anger had gone as quickly as it had come on, leaving her empty and exhausted. There was more light in the room now, leading her to believe that it had been just before dawn when she’d awakened. Her head ached worse than before now, and Carly closed her eyes against it, glad that at least her current level of exhaustion would allow her to escape into sleep. Still, before she could do that, there was at least one question she needed answered.

“How long do I have?”

Though he couldn’t have mistaken her meaning, Gideon waited a moment before answering. When he did, his voice was soft, his tone guarded. Carly had no idea what he was thinking, and barely had the energy to care.

“The moon rises full tonight.”

Carly said nothing. What else was there to say? She wished, futilely, for her family, for their warm comfort. She should call them later, let them know she was all right, for now. Later. She didn’t want to say anything more, but there was one thing, one last thing, she needed to hear from him. There was something Gideon owed her that she did seem to want, after all.

“I don’t want to be alone. When it happens.”

“I’ll be with you,” he said gently, his voice the caress he didn’t give her with his hands, and then she did hear him stir, pushing his chair back as he rose. “I’ll stay with you. Don’t lose hope, Carly. It isn’t certain …”

She shook her head weakly, twisting her mouth into a small, unhappy smile. “I’m more of a bunny than a wolf, Gideon. I understand what that means, and so do you. Just come back later. I’m so tired …” And she felt herself slipping back into darkness, even as she heard Gideon open the door and pause just before he left.

“I’ll be right here if you need me. And Carly … you’re just what I would have wished for. I only might have wished that my loving you wouldn’t have hurt you so.”

“Mmm,” was her only reply, as she took his sweet words down with her, something to hang onto in the darkness, the place where she waited for whatever padded silently behind her now, dogging her every step with excruciating patience. Waiting, she felt with every fiber of her being now, to claim her. It was from that darkness that she heard Gideon’s parting words echoing to her, though whether they were real or imagined, she couldn’t be sure.

“If you think you know nothing else of me, know this; I do love you, Carly Silver. Until the day I die, nothing will change that truth. Sleep, love. Save your strength. For me.”

And real or not, Gideon’s words flickered to life within her like hope.

Hope, however faint, that she really did have within her what it would take to make it through the night.

To take an ending, and make it a beginning.

t t t

Gideon shut the door quietly and padded down the narrow back stairs of his cottage. He’d had plenty of time to think on the long flight home, and at this point he’d decided that going minute to minute was as much as he could reasonably handle, thought-wise. He’d never felt so close to physical and mental collapse. It was sheer stubbornness that kept him going, Gideon decided, thankful that he’d had the good fortune to be sired by one of the most stubborn old goats he’d ever encountered. With that thought, of course, came a pang. Where was Duncan now? And was he all right? He could only hope that Duncan’s legendary intractability was still serving him in keeping him alive.

It had been like walking into the aftermath of an explosion, Gideon reflected. There had been a car waiting for him at the airport, as he’d requested when he’d called Gabriel to let him know of his plans. It had been a long, silent drive from Edinburgh to Fort William and the Corran Ferry, with Carly either asleep or unconscious beside him, occasionally surfacing in a groggy confusion she obviously no longer remembered. It was just as well. Two miles past the tiny village of Lochaline, down a winding, single-lane road, he’d finally reached Iargail. And with it, the complete evaporation of the warmth he’d once felt at seeing the rolling hills, their tops dusted with snow that had not been there when he’d left them. Iargail had only just begun to don the cold beauty of her winter, from the bare and gnarled branches of the oaks that Gideon knew would be transformed each time it snowed, to the still gray waters of Loch Aline reflecting the brooding sky. Whatever the season, it had always been Duncan’s domain, full of the raucous spirit and energy of that man. In his absence, there was only a mournful emptiness that hung about the bare grounds and sleeping gardens. The warm brick of the main house, the once-playful blending of medieval towers and fussy Victorian architecture held no charm. Gideon might never have believed it could be so, but so it was.

It hadn’t helped that those still there looked more like the walking dead than anything else. Cousin Harriet, normally a robust woman full of good humor, seemed a pale shadow of herself. She’d soaked his shirt through with her tears before retiring to her room, overwhelmed and tired. Malcolm and Ian, on the other hand, had stood waiting, wan but erect, like the soldiers they were. Then there was the face Gideon had been happiest to see, that of his brother. He gave them all such credit, for despite their obvious need for some rest, all three had sat up with him most of that night. They’d heard what Gideon had to say, offering up what knowledge they had and tossing out any and all ideas for where and how they might prevent whatever Malachi and Moriah had planned … and get Duncan back.

Carly, whom he had settled on a couch in one of the sitting rooms for the duration of their discussion, had their sympathy, Gideon knew. But he also knew their main concern was Duncan, and who could blame them? They didn’t know Carly as he did. He himself, however, was torn each time he had to leave her side, though up until just now, she hadn’t seemed to have any inkling he was there. Now, he wasn’t sure what was worse, the waiting for her to open her eyes, or seeing what was in them once she had.

Gideon swung to the left when he reached the bottom of the stairs, seeking comfort in the familiarity of his home. Once, when he’d first taken what had originally been the Factor’s house for his own, this set of stairs had come out into a tiny, cramped kitchen, not much different from a series of other dark and cramped rooms that comprised the choppy floor plan of the nineteenth-century house. He hadn’t cared, though. Hadn’t been interested in what was, only what he could make it into. And he had— sometimes with help, often alone—transformed the stone cottage’s old-fashioned and impractical interior into an open and welcoming modern retreat. Walls had come down, and then had come hardwood floors, granite counters in a rich burgundy that perfectly complemented the warm colors he’d chosen for the walls, the furniture.