Maria was still stewing about the laird who was in charge of Argent Castle. The laird was surrounded by his men and a couple of women, so the detective snapped one shot right before the laird took part in a sword-fighting demonstration. According to the P. Bad blood has existed between them for centuries.
The fighting looked so real, he thought organizers of the show might step in and stop the demonstration. Not his broad shoulders or firm stance or unsmiling mouth, either. In the photo, the man was prime hunk, wearing a predominantly green and blue kilt, an ermine sporran belted in front, and a sword sheathed behind him.
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From the looks of the hilt partially peeking over his shoulder, the sword served as a warning that he was armed and deadly, much more so than just his looks. He wore a shirt belted, hanging open to the waist, and revealing sexy abs a woman would love to caress. At least this woman would.
Just as rugged, his castle sat in the background, formidable, commanding, and resilient. Maria shook her head. Maria was probably right.
That would ruin her image of him as the hero type. And if he looked at her the way he did in the picture, she feared he would see right through her. Just then, they topped the hill and faced a sea of white, curly fur blocking their way. Maria gasped and slammed on the brakes.
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Like a pastoral scene from an old-time painting, the mob of sheep was making its way to the other side of the rocky glen. Several sheared sheep—ewes, a curly horned ram, and lots of lambs—crossed the road, along with a sheepherder with a gnarled walking stick in hand and his collie. Harold Washburn, the producer of the film, and most of the staff were staying at a local mansion. Maria had insisted on leasing Baird Cottage, citing its closeness to the castle.
Julia strained to see into the distance, searching for another road sign, but the fog that had parted in places for her to glimpse the trees was again too thick to see a thing. Maria gasped and slammed on her brakes. The headlights barreled on top of them. It was too late. Rubber and brakes squealed behind them. Heart pounding, Julia braced for the crash, the wolf forgotten.
The rental car flew off the road like an airborne mini-plane. Then it landed hard, tearing down the incline.
Heart of the Highland Wolf (Heart of the Wolf, #7) by Terry Spear
Teeth jarring. Before Julia could process what had happened, the white air bag deflated, and a snaking wall of rocks loomed before them only a couple of feet away in the fog. As soon as he heard the explosions ahead, Ian MacNeill slowed his car and watched the road and the shoulders, looking for signs of a collision.
Some poor fool must have been driving too slowly in the fog, while another had been driving too fast, hence the horrendous noise in the distance. His youngest brother, Duncan—which being quadruplets meant only by minutes—peered out the passenger window. Their wolf hearing was so enhanced that the sounds made could have been some kilometers distant. Not a thing.
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No tire skids, no broken glass. But the explosive sounds were loud enough that the vehicles had to have damage. Duncan leaned against the passenger door and then motioned toward the incline. He pulled off onto the soft shoulder, turned off the ignition, and exited the vehicle. With Duncan at his side, he hurried down the incline toward the cherry-colored fog.
He took a breath and swore he smelled a hint of the acrid odor of gunfire. No one answered his call, and another trace of unease wormed its way into his blood. Then he heard a moan. Ian hoped to hell no one had life-threatening injuries. Then smoke. Glass everywhere sparkled like diamond shards on the ground. White sheets of material covered the shattered dash—deflated air bags. The two rear tires had blown out, and the rear bumper was smashed and the metal torn from its moorings, one end now touching the ground.
Yet after considering the rear bumper, he assumed someone had to have hit the car hard. He peered in through the window as Duncan reached him. No one inside the vehicle. He glanced around, raised his nose, and smelled… petrol, hot and burning. The forceful explosion threw them several meters away, heat singeing their eyebrows and zapping the moisture out of the cool, wet air.
His ears ringing, hearing deadened, eyes and nostrils filled with smoke, Ian lay still in the grass, dazed. Then he jerked to a sitting position and looked for his brother. Duncan was sitting nearby, shaking his head as if clearing the fog from it. The driver had better sense than we did.
They both watched as orange flames consumed the car. No worry of anything else catching fire, as damp as it was. Ian stood and wiped the mud off his hands and onto his trousers. Your voice sounds a million kilometers away. And my head is splitting. Come on.
Ian slapped him on the back, and the two made a wide circle around the car, looking for any indication of where the driver would have gone. Heel marks. Not one, but two sets of prints. Was there something else you smelled then? Duncan tilted his head up, took another deep breath, and then coughed.
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Duncan was frowning, concentrating, and sampling the air, trying to locate the women. In the rugged highlands of Scotland, romance writer and red werewolf Julia Wildthom has a serious case of writers block. But when handsome gray wolf Ian MacNeill catches her trespassing on his property, the chemistry between them in downright inspiring! Modern day werewolf laird Ian MacNeill reluctantly allows a film production company to use his castle, but he knows his secretive clan has a big problem when a beautiful red werewolf female who insists she's working on the film keeps showing up in the wrong places Julia Wildthorn is not who she says she is—she's sneaking into Argent Castle to steal an ancient relic for her grandfather and to do research for her next werewolf romance novel.
When she catches a glimpse of Ian, she realizes he's the perfect hero.