“Flynn? Oh, aye, the rat.”

At least Heather had had her fair share of dealings with their ghostly cousin so she knew exactly what Ian spoke of.

A bolt slid aside, and he shoved at the trapdoor. It gave, and a wave of relief washed over him as he hurried up into the kitchen. Shouting down below, he hollered, “Cearnach, the trapdoor to the kitchen is open!”

And then he bolted for his chamber, praying that Flynn had indeed locked the lass in and hadn’t aided her escape. But Ian planned to track her down, no matter where she might have managed to slip off to—and would learn just what Julia had in mind to do.

***

Julia sat on the edge of Ian’s bed, suddenly more tired than she’d ever been. Her ankle hurt; her leg burned where she’d cut it on the rock; she was locked in Ian’s bedchamber; and unless she could weave a whopper of a lie that anyone might believe, she soon would be flayed alive. Trespassing, breaking and entering—never mind that the MacNeills had stolen the castle from her family in the first place—and intent to steal—even if she was retrieving something that belonged to her family originally—would be the first of the charges. Breaking the ladder rungs could be added as destroying personal property.

The rush of boots hurrying toward the door, then slowing, growing even slower, and then stopping right beyond the door made her throat go dusty dry. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it would soon take off. Her palms were sweaty and her skin chilled. She didn’t think he’d have her arrested. Not when she was one of them and putting a werewolf in a jail could have dire consequences if she couldn’t control her shape-shifting.

But even if she managed to get out of this mess and wanted to return home pronto, she had no passport, no credit cards, and not enough cash to do anything. She wasn’t one to give up, but right now, she felt like she was in her great-grandfather’s shoes—under the enemy’s thumb without another plan to fall back on.

The handle turned, but the door didn’t open. Locked. She stiffened, held her breath, and sat very still.

Then a metal key poked inside the lock and twisted. A click sounded, and the door was shoved open. Standing in the doorway, one red-faced Laird Ian MacNeill quickly scanned the room for her. His eyes widened a little when he saw her sitting on the edge of his bed.

Ian MacNeill. By ye ol’ legal contract, her betrothed mate.

She managed a small smile. “You offered for me to stay overnight.” Even though daylight was dawning and it was a little late for an overnight affair. She patted the bed. “Is this the room you had in mind?”

***

Ian stared at the breathless vixen sitting on the edge of his mattress, looking pale, scared, and dwarfed by the size of his massive bed. Her heart was pounding hard, her red curls windswept, her lips parted slightly. She was beautiful and dangerous and his undoing. A maiden in distress with something to hide.

The thumping of boots headed toward Ian’s bedchamber alerted him that his brothers, most likely, and others were on their way.

“You’ve hurt yourself, lass,” he said quietly, looking her over and seeing the rip in her jeans on the lower part of the left leg and the blood on the fabric. He stepped through the doorway and said into the hallway as Cearnach led part of the pack—his brothers and two cousins—toward him, “She’s here and fine. Ready yourselves for the film production staff’s arrival.”

Cearnach waited for further word, most likely wanting to know just what Ian intended to do about Julia and what kind of shape she was in.

“The crew will be here soon. Have your breakfast, and I’ll see you later,” Ian said. Much later, he wanted to add.

Cearnach looked at Ian’s door, although he was too far from the room to see inside. “She was bleeding.”

“Aye.”

“Do you want me to send Heather up with bandages?”

Ian shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

Cearnach gave him a stiff nod and then turned and motioned Duncan and Guthrie and their cousins to go back the way they had come. Everyone looked reluctant to be dismissed without further word.

In Gaelic, Guthrie asked Cearnach, knowing damn well Ian could hear him, “He’s not too angry with her, is he?”

“He’s in love, can’t you see?” Cearnach said lightly and laughed.

Love. Hell, Ian was in perpetual lust when it came to the little red wolf. He closed the door and locked it. Julia’s eyes darkened. Otherwise, she schooled her expression, but her back was as stiff as his breakfast table. He didn’t want any interruptions, and the only way to ensure that was to lock the world out.

“So you wished to stay the night after all,” Ian said, giving her a rough-edged smile and stalking toward her in a much too predatory way. Two could play at whatever game she had in mind.

He hadn’t been able to sleep because of her. The lingering scent of her, the feel of her soft curves in his hands, her silky hair, the sound of her voice breathless with desire, and her soft moans in the throes of passion while they had been at the falls had remained in his thoughts. Making it impossible to sleep.

He’d never craved having a woman as much as he did Miss Julia Wildthorn. After the disastrous attempt at fitting into society and handfasting with a titled human woman, he’d stuck to commitment-less trysts with human females. But Julia was something else. She was desire personified.

She was the enemy, sneaking into his castle with who knew what kind of agenda, and he had the unbiddable urge to conquer her, to keep her, to bring her to heel like one of his Irish wolfhounds. But he didn’t think she’d be the least bit trainable, and the challenge intrigued him.

Her hand clenched the bedcover, her eyes widening and darkening further.

“I regret having left you alone for so long last night that you decided to return to the cottage because of my neglect.” He reached her and towered over her, intimidating.

She stared at his crotch, and he felt the stirrings of yearning all over again. Hell, he was supposed to be a battle-hardened earl, clan chief, and pack leader, and the woman was winning the skirmish without a fight.

He crouched at her feet and then untied the boot on her right foot, being careful not to hurt her and worrying that she’d put too much strain on her ankle again. When he pulled off her sock, he saw that the ankle was indeed swollen. He tched. Then he worked on her other boot and sock. “I suppose you changed your mind and wished you had stayed the night at the castle after all. For the unique experience.”

He tried to maintain an aloof air befitting an earl and a pack leader. But his voice was too raw with need, and he was certain she could recognize what she was doing to him.

Her other hand tightened in her lap in a small fist. Her heart beat rapidly. His gaze rose to meet hers. She looked like she was resigned to her fate, willing to do anything to get herself out of this predicament. He had ideas about that, certainly.

He wanted to ask her how she’d found the secret tunnel entrance, which he presumed she had already known about. He wanted to ask why she’d known about it and why she’d sneaked in that way. But instead, he stood and rested his hands on her shoulders, and then gently encouraged her to lie back against the mattress, her legs still dangling over the bed. “You no doubt discovered the gate to the castle was locked, and unable to gain access that way, you located another entrance. Although I’m wondering why you would not have called me. I would have come and let you in.”

“My cell phone was burned up in the car accident. And if I’d had one and called you, you would have sent one of your men to open the gate. You wouldn’t have come to get me.”

He smiled at her last comment. “Aye, I would have. To save you the scrutiny that my men would have given you, had you returned to me in the middle of the night.” He towered over her, watching her eyes, large and now nearly black, one hand clenched in a fist on her stomach, the other still clinging to the cover.

“So you sought another way in and fortunately managed to locate the trapdoor.” He didn’t bother to mention that it had been buried for a couple of centuries or more and that her finding it had been either fortuitous indeed or due to the directions given to her. Which made him wonder if one of his men had confided in her, or if someone else, his enemy maybe, had learned of it and had paid her to enter in that manner. But for what purpose?

“Fortunately for you, you had some assistance in finding the right tunnel to the room adjoining mine, or you could have been wandering around in the cold, damp passages for a very long time.” He leaned over and unfastened the button on her trousers and then pulled down the zipper.

She barely breathed, yet she didn’t resist. “A ghost,” she whispered.

“Aye. Flynn. My cousin. The one who’d had his way with my handfasted bride. Dallied with one too many married lassies after that, and an angry husband made him pay for it. He didn’t frighten you?”

“I saw a… light up ahead. And heard unnatural footsteps behind me. But they didn’t… sound right somehow, like they were produced on a movie set, unnatural.”

Ian smiled a little. “That’s Flynn. He usually attempts to terrify, not rescue, an intruder. Wonder what he was thinking?”

Gently, he tugged her trousers down her hips and lower, trying not to scrape the fabric against her bloodied shin. He laid the trousers on the floor and said, “Stay.”

She stared up at him, a wee smile on her lips. “I wouldn’t run around the castle without my pants on.”

He gave an almost inaudible snort back. “Not with your ankle giving you pain again.” He went into the bathroom and gathered up bandages, a wet cloth, and a hand towel, and returned to her.

“You’re not too mad about what I write?” she asked, her words spoken softly. She sounded as though she was afraid to hear his answer.

What difference would it make what he thought about her writing? Was that the real reason she had taken off last night, not because he’d rudely neglected her?

Surprised that was the issue she’d bring up and not the one about the fact she’d been running through their tunnels, he paused to consider her sincerity. She truly looked like she had to know the truth. He couldn’t deny that the thought she wrote about werewolves bothered him. Although he’d warned himself that he’d reserve judgment until after he’d read some of what she’d written. Maybe her stories were like the tales of werewolves of old. Hideous, monstrous beasts and nothing more.