The Taming of the Wolf (19 page)

“Promises, promises,” she teased back.

She assumed the thunk she heard was his fist hitting the door.

***

Mentors should be useful, or what was the point in having one? Dash knocked again on Forster’s door. Where was the man, for God’s sake? Then he heard the old Lycan shuffle up the steps. Dash turned around and watched the shipbuilder stop on the final step, a twinkle in his green eyes.

“I assume everythin’ turned out well with yer betrothed.”

Dash scowled at him. “I need your help, Forster.”

The man shook his head and gestured for Dash to enter his room. Then he joined him and shut the door behind them.

“What help do ye need, Dashiel? It sounded as though ye had everythin’ well under control.”

Control
. He said the word as if it was a curse. “I’m marrying Caitrin tomorrow.”

“Aye, I heard. Congratulations.”

Dash raked a hand though his hair. How could the man not see his anguish? “What do I do, Forster? When I have Caitrin all to myself?”

The old man laughed. “I’m sure ye’ll figure that part out, lad. Do ye really have a journal of debauchery?”

Dash groaned. So Forster had heard every word Cait had said to him, not that he should have been surprised. “That was a lifetime ago.”

Forster dropped into a wooden chair by a window and shook his head. “Ye’ve clearly been with women in the past, Dashiel. I doona ken what ye’re askin’ of me.”

Dash scrubbed a hand across his face. Niall Forster was going to be the death of him. “I have had my share of whores, sir. But Cait…”

“Before, in yer previous lifetime, how did things go with the lasses ye bedded?”

No one had ever asked such a question of him before, and he’d really rather not discuss the details. The old man shook his head, a look of impatience crossing his face. Though Dash didn’t think Forster had any right to be impatient about a bloody thing.

“Were ye able ta control yerself, or did the beast inside ye take over?”

That’s what he was asking? Dash breathed a sigh of relief. “I struggled to be in control.”

Forster nodded his head. “I figured as much, just wanted ta be sure.” He drummed his fingers atop the arm of his chair. “Ye have ta accept what ye are, Dashiel. Yer Miss Macleod seems as though she accepts the truth about ye. Try takin’ a page out of her book, so ta speak. Doona shield yerself from her. Let her in ta every part of yer soul.”

“You’re saying to let the beast have its way.”

Forster sighed. “Ye talk about it as if it wasna a part of ye.
Its way
. Ye
are
the beast, Dashiel. Embrace it.”

The man was daft. Embrace it. What a bunch of drivel. The beast would hurt Caitrin, and Dash could never allow that to happen.

“When was the last time ye had a refreshin’ run?”

Dash shook his head. Forster truly
was
daft. “A refreshing run?”

“Aye, just ye runnin’ through the forest or across an open meadow, the crisp air whippin’ through yer hair?”

“I ran all the way from County Durham to Glasgow.”

A beleaguered sigh escaped Forster. “That was no’ a refreshin’ run.”

“Hardly,” Dash agreed.

“That’s no’ what I’m askin’ ye, Dashiel. Ye were in a bit of a hurry when ye ran from England. What I’m suggestin’ is a wild run through the park. Helpin’ ye get in touch with the beast inside ye. Let him loose in a safe place.”

“A safe place?”

Finally, Forster smiled. “I ken just the place. Arthur’s Seat is the highest point in Edinburgh. It’s what’s left of some ancient volcano. Anyway, legend has it that the place has magical properties. Healin’ ones at that.

“Go ta the base of the hill at Dunsapie Loch, and have yerself a refreshin’ run. Doona think about reinin’ in yer beast. Doona think about yer impendin’ nuptials. Doona think about the trouble ye left behind in England. Just listen ta the breeze. Watch the gentle lap of the loch. Close yer eyes, absorb the nature inta yerself, and run ta the top of Arthur’s Seat.”

Go for a run. That was his mentor’s advice? Dash’s shoulders sagged forward. He was truly doomed. He needed to learn to make the beast do his bidding. To learn to rein it in. To learn to control it.

He didn’t need to
become one with it
. He didn’t need to
accept it as part of himself
. What nonsense. Obviously, Major Forster had sent him on a fool’s errand when he sent him to his cousin. Perhaps that was his penance for torturing Lord William and Prisca Hawthorne the way he had. He sighed deeply.

“Stop thinkin’,” Mr. Forster urged as he spun Dash around and gave his shoulder a none-too-gentle shove. Dash stumbled forward, a growl in his throat. He turned back toward the old shipbuilder, so frustrated he was ready to bare his teeth at the wizened Lycan. But before he could even raise his lip, the old man raised his hand and thumped Dash right in the middle of his forehead.

“Ow!” Dash cried as he reached up to rub the offended area. “What did you do that for?”

Mr. Forster shook one finger in Dash’s face. “If ye think ye can intimidate me with yer scowl or yer snarl, ye have another think comin’, pup.”

“You didn’t have to hit me,” Dash mumbled as he absently rubbed his head.

“Ye should be happy I dinna take some rolled-up newsprint ta ye, ye ungrateful little mutt,” Forster mumbled to himself as he turned away from Dash. “I come here for a love story, and all I get is a sulkin’ Lycan who willna listen ta what I tell him. He’s even afraid ta go for a simple run at Arthur’s Seat, as I have instructed.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dash tried to explain.

“Aye, Dashiel,” the old man said. “Ye
are
afraid. Afraid of what ye’ll find when ye allow yerself ta be all that ye can be.” He turned back around, the sadness in his eyes instantly making Dash regret his belligerence. “I can tell ye right now that a Lycan canna love another until he learns ta love himself, Dashiel.”

He loved himself. Didn’t he? And he loved Cait. He knew he loved Cait. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much when he wasn’t with her, would it?

“Ye can stand there and lament about what a daft old man I am, or ye can go and follow my instructions. The choice is yers.”

Dash groaned inwardly as he turned and slunk from the room, feeling like a scolded puppy with his tail between his legs. Mr. Forster was disappointed in him. Just like his father had been his whole life.

The difference was that he actually
cared
if Mr. Forster was angry at him or not. Unlike his father, the old man
had
tried to help him. He owed it to him to at least heed his advice. Dash had no doubt that it was a fool’s errand. But it was the old man’s request. And he’d do it.

Dash stepped out into the cold and tugged his cloak tighter about his body. “Become one with the beast,” he chanted to himself. “Enjoy a refreshing run.” He snorted out loud at the last.

Dash focused on not reining himself in and just let his body move. He had a fairly good idea of where Arthur’s Seat was located, though it was impossible to see through the dense fog that clouded the area.

As he ran, the coolness of the night crept across his skin. Rather than curse the cold, he embraced it. He let it buoy his senses. The air smelled cleaner. The sounds of the night were the innocent sounds of water lapping against the loch. They weren’t his own thoughts of what a disappointment he was. It was somewhat freeing just to enjoy the quiet of the night, he had to admit. He took a deep breath. The beast within him calmed, just as he did.

The fog grew even thicker as he reached the base of Arthur’s Seat. He’d never seen a mist so heavy and all encompassing, as though it wrapped around the base of the hillside, hiding it from view. Dash blindly searched for hand- and footholds as he climbed the side of the small mountain.

The wind picked up, buffeting him as he continued to scale the wall. It was a matter of pride at this point. He
would
find the tip of Arthur’s Seat. Dash closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then quickly and stealthfully ran toward the peak.

He embraced the strength that came with being Lycan, for it allowed him to heave his body up the craggy mountainside. He reveled in the sinewy cords of his body, for his muscles did not fail him.

When he finally reached the top, he turned to look down at the city of Edinburgh. Yet the fog was so thick that he could see nothing. He couldn’t even see the ground beneath his feet.

He stepped forward and was surprised to find himself suddenly in an area clear of fog where a toasty fire burned slowly. He cocked his head to the side and listened as he heard a soft voice chanting nearby.

And that was when he noticed the heap of clothing lying on the ground by the fire. A woolen gown. A chemise and drawers. Stockings. He turned to look around, completely bewildered. Had he stumbled upon an assignation? A tryst between lovers?

“I should have guessed that ye would no’ pay heed ta the heavy fog I laid in yer path, Lord Brimsworth.”

“Beg your pardon?” he called back toward the sound.

“The wind that nearly knocked ye from the side of the hill. And the fog that obscured yer path. That was all my doin’. I wasna in the mood for company. But ye were relentless.”

Dash glanced down at the pile of clothing. “It would appear that you were not expecting company,” he agreed. Then he turned his back to the pile of clothes. “Which one are you?” he asked, fully aware that he must be talking to one of Cait’s coven sisters. If only he could remember which one had which power. One of them could control the weather. Not the wood sprite. The other one.

“Rhiannon,” was all she said. He heard the dress as she snapped it, shaking the wrinkles from it. There was a naked witch behind him. At one time, he’d have been beside himself with lust. The beast would have tried to take over and consume her. Yet the beast wanted no part of this witch. Dash only wanted Cait. And he felt an instant sympathy for the weather-disturbing witch. It discomfited him a bit.

He took a deep breath. “Miss Sinclair,” he began. “Do you often stand naked at the top of Arthur’s Seat?”

“Only when I’m feelin’ particularly sad, honestly,” she admitted on a sigh. “When I’m in the doldrums, I like ta come here and let my emotions wreak all the havoc they like. Do ye ken the townspeople think there was a volcano inside the mountain?”

“There’s not?”

“There may have been at one time,” she shrugged. “But the disturbances here are usually mine.”

He turned to face her, happy to find that she was now clothed. “Would you care to discuss the cause of your melancholy mood?”

“No’ particularly,” she sighed again. A cold rain instantly drenched him. “Oh, drat,” she said as she wiped a tear from beneath her eye. “I’m sorry. I dinna intend ta do that.”

Dash shook his head, flinging cold water droplets in every direction.

“Come closer ta the fire. I’ll send a warm breeze ta dry ye off, Lord Brimsworth.”

The fog stirred, pushed by a gentle wind that did warm his bones a bit.

“I would offer ye some tea, but I’m no’ quite prepared for guests,” she said as she motioned toward a log by the fire. “But ye may sit, if ye like.”

“I should be going back,” Dash remarked absently. He was quite out of his element, stuck on a mountaintop in a circle of fog with a melancholy witch who controlled the weather.

“I’ll clear the fog for ye in a moment,” she said quietly. “I only want a few more minutes.”

Dash sat down cautiously on the log and held his hands out to the fire. The flames leapt toward him, coming just close enough to warm him but not singe him. That is, if he held very still.

“They willna harm ye. Ye can relax.”

“That’s not very easy to do around you, Miss Sinclair. I have a feeling I’ve only seen a small sample of your powers tonight.”

A smirk crossed her lips. “Quite true.”

“Why so sad?” he finally asked. He felt a great sympathy for this witch. Her pain was great. And he could nearly feel it in the wind, the rain, the cold.

“It’s difficult to say good-bye to good friends,” she said quietly. Then she blurted out, “Cait has seen a future for Sorcha. A happy one.”

“Has she not seen one for you?”

“No’ yet.” She shrugged. “If she has, she hasna told me. She hasna seen one for Blaire, either, so I’m no’ too worried.” Lightning cracked across the sky. “Blast it all,” she cursed.

Dash raised his brows and looked toward the heavens, then shot her a telling glance.

“Aye, that was mine.”

“I would wager you can throw a devil of a temper tantrum if you ever have the right provocation, Miss Sinclair.”

She finally smiled. “Doona tempt me.” She stood up and shook the dust from her skirts. Her delicate little hand rose to lie flat in front of her pursed lips. She blew gently, and the fog began to stir. Within moments, it had completely dissipated. The city of Edinburgh lay below them. He could even see Charlotte’s Square and Cait’s fashionable townhouse. He imagined her snug in bed, the counterpane tucked beneath her chin. Then he imagined himself wrapped around her.