Moonglow (21 page)

Daisy slumped against the doorway. She knew that smell, mixed with something wild and rangy. Wolf. Her muscles seized, her breath ratcheting as the urge to run
consumed her.
Do not run from them.
He’d commanded it of her when they’d come. And she knew to the depths of her marrow that he’d been literal in the directive. She was not to run, or her life would be forfeit. Despite instinct, she trusted him more, even if the memory of death made her knees shake.

But Northrup was already up, his feet as light and quick as a pugilist’s as he bobbed and weaved between three men. His coat was gone. Blood covered his exposed shoulder and flowed from a deep gash across his collarbone. The ginger man lay limp upon the floor, his head resting a few feet away from the body. Blood flowed from the stump of his neck and colored the white marble crimson. Daisy fought to keep from fainting.

Before her eyes, Northrup was changing. Fangs gleamed in a mouth that seemed wider, his jaw larger, while his eyes had shifted position in his face, tilting up at the corners and glowing. The men who attacked him had changed the same as he, with claw-tipped fingers and fang-filled mouths. Fear made her insides recoil, yet Northrup was beautiful in his savagery. Sinewy muscles, showing through the rents in his shirt, bunched as he lunged and took a man down with a punch to the jaw. Despite herself, Daisy felt a surge of something that felt unsettlingly like pride.

The feeling snapped abruptly as a large, rough hand curled around her neck and squeezed. Crying out, she struggled only to find herself wrenched against a hard body. Claws bit into her skin, deep enough to feel their sting.

“MacRanulf,” shouted a coarse voice from behind her. “Shall I take her head then?”

Northrup drew up so quickly that the man he’d been
fighting fell flat on his face. Panting lightly from exertion, he glared at the man holding Daisy. Groans came from the floor as the men around him struggled to stand. One fiend grabbed his own jaw, which skewed oddly to the side, and wrenched it. A crack rang out as the joint snapped back into place.

The man holding her stepped slightly to the side, and Daisy caught a glimpse of him. Whipcord lean, he was only a few inches taller than she, but powerful. Blond hair curled about his head in angelic fashion. But his features were coarse and brutal. “I’m here ta fetch. So come like a good dog, eh?”

“Lyall.” Northrup’s lip curled, revealing bloodstained teeth. “Come over here and fetch me yourself.”

Hot breath hit her cheek as Lyall laughed. “ ’Twas a good try, MacRanulf. But I think I’ll be keeping hold of these sweet goods for now.” He turned to regard Daisy. Amber eyes gleamed in interest. “Seems a shame to let loose such a luscious morsel before takin’ a bite.”

Northrup’s hands curled into fists but he didn’t move.

Lyall chuckled again. “As I thought. Come. Ranulf awaits.”

Daisy did not expect to be taken to Mayfair. Nor to be taken there in a luxurious town coach with a strange coronet and the Ranulf coat of arms emblazoned upon its black lacquered doors.

She sat stiffly upon the crimson leather seat and tried to keep from catching Northrup’s eye. It was clear he wanted no part in looking at her. He hadn’t said a word since entering the coach and accepting the clean clothing Lyall had tossed to him with the order to “get dressed.” Daisy had been rather proud that she hadn’t gaped at the
display, for Northrup’s chest had been… stunning. There was no other word for the network of sinew and muscle that made up his arms and torso, the taut, smooth skin, or the way it all flowed in perfect harmony to his movements as he washed himself off with the wet rag they provided. He’d dressed quickly and proficiently. And never once looked her way.

They now sat at opposite sides of the coach, Northrup’s gaze withdrawn and brooding. The man at his side sent leering glances at Daisy now and again. He had not been provided with a change of clothes but sat in a shredded shirt that was more red with blood than white. However, both he and Northrup had already started to heal, and what were once gashes now were little more than seeping cuts. As to the unfortunate fellow who had his head taken courtesy of Northrup, they’d left him where he lay upon the floor of Northrup’s front hall.

The coach rounded onto Park Lane, and the grip on her arm tightened. Having enough, she shook her arm free and glared at the man called Lyall. “What do expect me to do?” she snapped. “Throw myself from a moving coach? I see no need to paw me to excess.”

He uttered a short laugh. “We wolves like to paw. Lick and bite too. Or hasn’t your lover shown you?”

She wouldn’t look at Northrup to see his reaction. Instead, she shrugged and made a show of inspecting her nails, which unfortunately had gone quite ragged after last night. “If you know Northrup at all, you’ll understand when I do not blush at your coarseness.”

He grinned and let a finger run down her arm, making her skin crawl. “You like it coarse then?”

Perhaps she was the only one who saw Northrup’s fist curl. She rather thought Lyall shouldn’t see it so she
leaned back against the squabs as though in complete comfort. “Baiting Northrup isn’t working, and it is boring me.”

He laughed again, but his nostrils flared, his amber irises growing slightly larger as he did. A shiver ran down her spine. She turned her gaze to the window. They’d come upon the grand residences that housed London’s finest. Daisy worried her lower lip. Who was this Ranulf? And how was he tied to Northrup?

The coach stopped before the gates of a house so grand that she couldn’t see it all at once.

“What is this place?” Daisy asked Northrup, to break the unbearable silence and, admittedly, to force him to look at her, damn him.

Azure eyes flicked to hers. His mouth was flat, the dark slashes of his brows drawn as if in annoyance over her presence. “Ranulf House.”

“Ranulf? That is your name.”

He didn’t look at her but stared out of the window. “It was my father’s house, long ago.”

“Your father?” Daisy’s fingers dug into her thighs as she leaned forward. “Tell me what is happening, Northrup.”

He sighed, and she couldn’t help but notice the lines of exhaustion that bracketed his mouth, or the gravel in his voice. “My father was The Ranulf, King of the Lycan Clan for Western Europe and Scandinavia.”

A strangled sound escaped her. “But I thought he was the Earl of Rossberry.”

“Those titles are our human ones. But here, among the lycans, I am simply Ian Ranulf or MacRanulf for formal occasions.” A bitter smile pulled up his lips. “In truth, the title inheritances are a farce.” He looked at her sidelong.
“One tends to question when a man doesn’t age or expire. My father had been Northrup and I Rossberry since my birth in 1753.”

She still could not wrap her thoughts around the fact that he was so old. Not when he exuded the physical beauty of a man in his prime.

“Viscount Mckinnon is a newer title,” he said, not seeing her disquiet. “We would let the titles revolve between us, disappear for a number of years into Scotland, then return as a grandson, father, son, what have you.”

“It’s all quite the show, is it not?” said Lyall with a laugh.

Northrup ignored him. “My father’s burns were going to be a problem, however. No getting around that sight. So eventually, I’d have played the part of Northrup anyway.”

Daisy remembered the old Lord Rossberry. Scars had covered over seventy percent of his body, giving his skin the appearance of oak bark. She had never met him but heard that his temper had been mercurial, running from taciturn to violently rude. She couldn’t say that she blamed him.

Heavy iron gates pulled back, and the coach drew inside.

“So then who is The Ranulf now?”

“Conall,” he said. “My little brother.”

Lyall snarled. “He is The Ranulf.”

Northrup’s straight brows tilted upward. “So we are often reminded.”

Lyall bared his teeth, showing upper and lower fangs that had lengthened to long points. Daisy took a small, bracing breath, but Northrup merely reclined against the seat back as if he owned the coach and gave him a bland look.

“Any time you care to face me on sporting ground, Lyall,” he said, “I’ll be waiting.”

The coach rocked forward and then came to a stop. Northrup did not wait for the footmen, but in a smooth motion he leaped from the coach to land lightly upon his feet outside. He allowed a mere moment to tug his cuffs down and then he strode toward the open doors. Never once looking back to see what became of her.

She was going to meet a king. Daisy refused to look down at her dress, lest she whimper. Men might call it a silly female whim but the proper outfit gave one strength and confidence. Her ruined, showy dress was not the ideal gown in which to greet royalty.

“There is something I don’t understand,” Daisy said to the man at her side.

Lyall sneered as if to say he wasn’t surprised. She ignored the look. Her curiosity was too great to keep quiet, and Northrup was striding ten paces ahead. So she would have to ask Lyall, even if he was an ass.

“If Northrup is the elder brother, why is he not king?”

“Because he did not make a bid for the throne.”

“Make a bid? I suppose Lycan society does not follow the same laws of succession?”

Lyall shrugged lightly. “More or less, but we live forever, aye? So a king might always hold the throne, which can be a problem if said king becomes lax or is no’ a good ruler.” Something dark flickered in his eyes. “At some point, every king must be challenged. Back in 1815, Ian’s father, Alasdair, was king, but he suffered a great blow when the ice witch burned him alive. There are some wounds even a lycan does not come back from. He held the throne for a time, but it was clear he was no’ in his right mind to keep leading.

“It was Ian’s right as first born to take up the challenge and fight his father for the crown, but he was no’ interested. So Conall stepped in and did what was right. He beat Alasdair soundly and took the throne.”

Daisy’s mouth fell open before she quickly shut it. “They were supposed to beat their father?”

He nodded. “Mayhap kill him, if it is a true fight for the crown. It is our way.”

Daisy watched Northrup walk down a long corridor lined with exquisite white marble adorned with gold paint on the lintels. His shoulders were straight and proud, with not a sign of hesitation or fear showing. She felt a new appreciation for the man he was. “Perhaps Northrup was civilized and caring enough not to want to hurt his own father.”

Lyall snorted at that. “It was no’ a hostile coup. Alasdair was willing to step down. Damage sustained in such a fight is temporary, more a show of strength than a true beating. In truth, Alasdair was more hurt that the man to face him wasn’t his firstborn and beloved son.”

“You’re very loyal to your king,” she said. “Were you loyal to Alasdair as well?”

He made a sound of annoyance. “I am loyal to the Clan Ranulf, whoever may lead it.”

“So then, were Northrup to become king?”

Lyall’s mouth twisted. “I don’t hold with cowards, lass. Were he a true alpha, he would have taken the throne.”

Northrup’s hand clenched, and Daisy knew he had heard. She turned her eyes back to Lyall. “Northrup may be many things, but he is not a coward. That much I know.”

A
n alpha, my boy, is not the beast with the greatest strength but with the greatest will. Know your mind, boy. Know it without hesitation or reservation and ye shall lead them.

Ian strode into the Great Hall of Clan Ranulf, and his father’s long-ago words rang through his bones. Here, in this hallowed court, he felt the power and will of his ancestors. Designed to impress, the walls and floor were lined with onyx marble, creating a void of black in which only the golden throne at the end of the hall shone bright.

His father had sat there for clan business. His father had expected Ian to sit there one day too. Conall sat there now, his black eyes watchful as Ian drew near. Conall, the younger brother who used to dog his steps, pleading for a bit of Ian’s attention. Ian had taught him to fight, tried to teach him the concept of justice. But he had failed at some point, for the reports Ian had heard from the refugee lycans that Lena sent to his home told a dark story of dominance, greed, and mismanagement.

Worse, if those tales were to be believed, Conall had also formed an alliance with the human gangs around inner-city London and now preyed on the weak and the poor.

Ian bit back a sneer of disgust as he stopped before the dais. Conall lounged upon the throne as if it were a bed, one long leg thrown over the armrest, his booted foot swinging an idle rhythm. Aye, his brother was strong, no doubt about it. Muscles dominated his frame, barely hidden beneath the modish clothes he wore. And he was without hesitation. But did he have the will? Ian would soon find out.

Do what is right. Take control of your clan.

His clan. The thought was smoke and seduction, whispering in his veins, creeping along his skin. He had lost everything because of his lycan heritage. And now his world had turned full circle.