Terry Spear - A Highland Werewolf Wedding

Aye, she was, but Cearnach didn’t want to hear Ian telling him so. “She asked me to be there. I have to go, Ian. I’m already running late.”

Ian furrowed his brow at his brother. “You’re never late to anything. You’re always early or on time. Doesn’t that say something to you about this whole ludicrous venture? That you shouldn’t be going? That you don’t really want to go?”

Cearnach looked out the window at the Caledonian Forest beyond the castle walls, where the hearty breeze stirred the branches of the Scots pines while smoky gray clouds stretched across the sky. He didn’t answer.

“You’re not going to object to the marriage, are you?” Ian said as more of an observation than a question.

Cearnach straightened. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there.

Sounding deeply exasperated, Ian let out his breath. “Couldn’t you have worn something less… antagonistic?”

At that, Cearnach couldn’t help but smile… an evil smile. He turned to face his brother. “What? My kilt? I’m proud of being a MacNeill.”

“Aye, and the sword?” Ian said, motioning to it.

“Part of the formal dress. All wolves wear them to Highland weddings. I wouldn’t be caught dead without it.”

“Aye, but in this case they might consider you a threat, thinking possibly you have plans to steal the bride away, a time-honored tradition in the Highlands and still among wolves. Here’s hoping you won’t have to use your sword. Call me when you get there and after it’s done. I want to know if I have to send the troops out to rescue you.”

Cearnach bowed his head slightly in acceptance. “I’m off, Ian. Wish me luck.”

Ian shook his head. “You may need it, Brother.”

Feeling disconcerted about Calla and what she was about to do, but not worried about his own safety as he could hold his own against any of the McKinley clan, Cearnach stalked out of his brother’s solar. He walked down the corridor where paintings of past clan chiefs and their mates hung on the walls, keeping watch as if to guide the clan on its way.

Cearnach hurried through the great hall, shoved the massive oak door to the keep open, and closed it behind him. His boots tromping on the ancient stone pavers, he crossed the inner bailey to the garage near the stables where he and his brothers’ cars were parked.

The gray clouds were darkening, the smell of a rainstorm gathering power and a cold breeze whipping around him. He hoped the rain would hold off until after he reached the church. Two of his cousins were practicing fighting with swords, their weapons singing as steel met steel.

Another couple of men were wearing their wolf coats, lying on their stomachs, heads raised, ears perked, while they enjoyed observing the sword play, always looking for tips and techniques they could use themselves. They turned to see him and bowed their heads in greeting as the men who were sparring stopped briefly to acknowledge their second-in-command.

He nodded and continued without stopping. If he was to make it to the wedding on time, he would have to drive a wee bit faster than he’d intended. He didn’t want to think too deeply about why he was going to arrive a little late. Ian was right. He never was late to anything.

But he wanted to ensure that he wasn’t thrown out of the church before Calla knew he had arrived, and he wanted Baird McKinley to know that Cearnach wouldn’t be stopped from making an appearance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anlan, one of their Irish wolfhounds, racing to greet him. “Not now, Anlan,” Cearnach said as one of the men and the two wolves headed the dog off. Thwarted, Anlan woofed, telling Cearnach that he wanted to go for a ride.

“Fatherhood already getting you down?” Cearnach asked. Anlan’s pups were two months old and ready for new homes as soon as Ian or his mate, who was the holdup really, offered them for sale.

Anlan whimpered, standing still and looking so longingly in Cearnach’s direction that Cearnach knew the hound wanted desperately to go for a ride with him. Cearnach could just envision the sight, him in Highland dress with his long-legged, lanky, bristle-furred hound at his side as he entered the church.

Cearnach climbed into the silver minivan, turned over the engine, and headed out of the garage wishing he had something grander and faster to drive—like a Mercedes-Benz roadster or a Ferrari. If it wasn’t about to rain, a Lamborghini convertible would have been nice.

He drove through the open castle gates and then through the outer bailey. Out on the main road, he tore off in the direction of the church and cursed the wind for impeding his progress.

Trying to get his mind off the drive ahead and the dwindling time, he thought about Calla and the regret he felt that he couldn’t have been the one for her. They just didn’t have what it took to be a couple.

No matter how many times he told himself Calla understood what she was doing, he knew Baird McKinley didn’t deserve her. She was making a big mistake.

An hour later, only halfway to the church and with the strong headwind thwarting his progress, Cearnach came around a bend in the hilly road to see a black Mercedes hogging the pavement in his lane. Since the other driver wasn’t budging, Cearnach jerked his car off the road before they collided head-on.

Hell and damnation!

With the rate of speed he was going, the car sailed over the rocks littering the terrain, ripping up the rear tires with a boom! And another boom! The tires exploded before he could brake the car enough to stop it.

Cursing a blue streak, he cut the engine and climbed out of the car to see who the idiot driver was. Probably someone who had been celebrating a wee bit too much. He grabbed his sheathed sword and strapped it around his waist.

The black car had pulled to the side of the road, the driver hidden behind tinted windows, the engine purring.

The chilly wind tugging at his hair and kilt, Cearnach stormed toward the vehicle. He was ready to commandeer it to drive to the wedding, while letting the driver sleep the liquor off in the backseat.

When the driver’s door opened, a long-legged brunette stepped out of the car. He had a hell of a time shifting his gaze from those shapely legs and a pair of sexy high-heeled pumps—her clingy red dress having risen to mid-thigh before it settled lower—to see how good the rest of her looked. Especially since he’d expected some sloppy-drunk male type.

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…”