Chapter 3
SOPHIE
The pub was packed. A few blocks from the train station, The Three-Legged Wolf sat off the main roadway.
A long, two-story building with a thatched roof, its whitewashed exterior was wrapped in warm lighting, a welcoming hum of conversation drifting out into the night each time someone opened the gleaming black door.
The wide gravel parking lot held a few cars and some empty picnic benches, their bright red umbrellas closed.
As she reached for the handle, the front door swung open, noise and heat spilling out into the night.
Off-balance, she stumbled forward, her one free hand landing on a warm, immovable surface.
Muttering a curse, she looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in the doorway, backlit by the soft light within.
His salt and pepper hair was trimmed short on the sides and swept back off his high forehead.
Heavy dark scruff shot with strands of silver covered a firm jaw.
If she had to guess, she’d put him at around her age, maybe mid-forties, and in damned good shape.
A black, long-sleeved shirt stretched across his chest, the fabric straining to cover his muscles.
His brows drew together as he glared down at her.
Her jaw dropped at the sight of him, and she hoped she shut her mouth before he noticed her gaping at him like a fool. Damn, but they make them attractive up here. She clenched her thighs.
He huffed at her.
She snatched her hand back as if she’d scalded it on the surface of his muscle-bound chest. Did he just growl at me?
she thought, her heart giving a pitter-pat at the sound.
A flash of heat rolled through her body, and she had to repress the urge to fan herself.
Stupid hot flashes. Always coming at the most inopportune times, like when one of the most handsome men she’d ever stumbled into stood in front of her, blocking her entry to the pub.
Unbuttoning her coat, she pulled off her scarf and wove it through the lower part of her backpack’s straps.
“Um, hi,” she said with a little finger-wave.
With his jean-clad legs spread like he was guarding the entrance against invading Vikings, there was no way past him unless she planned on elbowing him in the stomach and shoving him out of the way.
Even then, she doubted she’d be able to shift him more than an inch, if that.
“Can I get inside, please?” She slid over a bit, giving him space to exit.
He didn’t move. Dark eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, inhaling.
She froze. Is he… smelling me? What in the world?
Her pulse sped up, though not from fear.
She cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, pointing towards the interior, hoping he’d take the hint and move out of her way.
She didn’t want to start her time here being rude to a local, especially in a town as small as this one.
She knew exactly how fast gossip spread in places like this, and it would suck to be named a pariah at the start of her first solo adventure.
Moving faster than she expected, he picked up her heavy suitcase as if it was feather-light and dropped it over the pub’s thick stone threshold.
She backed up, stumbling against the edge of a picnic table as he moved in on her, his big body stopping mere inches from hers, his hands gripping the wood on either side of her hips.
He was even bigger than she first thought, looming large as he glowered down at her, a low rumble in his chest. The waves of heat coming off him chased away any vestiges of the night’s chill.
His head dipped, and for a second, she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he sniffed her again.
She jerked back, her lips parting.
With a growl and a glare, he pushed away and disappeared into the night.
What the actual hell? Was this some kind of strange dating ritual known only to the residents of Wolfcraig?
Or was the hot man who looked like he could snap her in half — or perhaps crack her back in the best possible way — just a weirdo?
Alas, she’d probably never know. She was here for only two weeks.
And since she planned on spending most of her time curled up with a good book in her cottage and wandering the countryside on solo hikes, what were the chances that she’d run into him again?
Miniscule, obviously. Unfortunately, her addled brain added as she traced the edge of her bottom lip.
Dismissing the interaction with a shake of her head, she squared her shoulders and maneuvered her large bag through the throng of people, apologizing the entire way to the bar.
She got a few growls, but most gave her an understanding nod and did their best to spare her an inch of room to scoot by.
Tucking her wheelie bag between her feet and wedging herself between the bar and a sliver of open space next to a closed door, she raised a hand to let the staff know she needed help and settled in to wait.
The happy drone of conversation swirled through the room, weaving around her as she took in her surroundings.
With its low ceiling criss-crossed with sturdy beams stained dark from the ages and heavy plaster walls covered in old photos and ephemera from times gone by, the pub had a weight to it, solid in the knowledge that it had survived centuries and would stand for hundreds more years.
Dark gray slate, ruts worn deep from thousands of feet tramping over it for ages, covered the floor.
Framed by thick beams decorated with horse brasses, the oak bartop gleamed in the warm lights strung from the ceiling.
It was a corner bar, running half the length of the long room before making a sharp turn to the right.
A built-in bench sat along the wall opposite Sophie, square tables and chairs pushed close, leaving a narrow passage through the space.
At the far end of the room was a stone fireplace, a flames flickering merrily in it and a quartet of wing-backed chairs stationed in an arc in front of it.
To its right, musicians were settling into a corner booth and pulling out their instruments, readying themselves for the evening’s session.
As she watched, one of them set a big glass tip jar on the table in front of them, a few colorful bills already stuffed inside.
It was adorable and exactly what she pictured when she thought of a traditional Scottish pub. She breathed a sigh of relief, the warmth and cheerful noise seeping into her bones and sweeping away the weirdness of the last few hours.
“What can I get you, love?” a friendly voice asked. The woman behind the bar gave her a bright smile. She looked to be mid-thirties, light brown hair clipped up in a haphazard twist on the back of her head. Friendly brown eyes sparkled with good humor.
“Hi,” Sophie said, returning the smile. “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me. My train was super-late, and now I can’t get a hold of the person who was supposed to arrange a ride for me. Do you all have a cab or car service I could hire?”
She tapped a purple-tipped finger against her chin. “Old Artie’s out on a run tonight, but young Artie might be available. I’ll send him a text. Where are you headed?”
“Wolfcraig Castle.”
Her words landed like a boulder in the middle of a still pond, the ripples spreading out through the packed pub. The noise level dipped, and she felt curious eyes land on her back before sliding off as people returned to their conversations.
The barkeep’s eyes widened. “Tonight?” she squeaked. “You want to travel up to the castle now? At night?”
“Yes, though I’m not actually staying at the castle.
Just a cottage somewhere on the grounds.
” Sophie cocked her head. “Is that bad?” A funny feeling crept up through her chest and lodged itself in her throat.
Was that apprehension she saw in the woman’s face?
Why? Was the castle haunted? Infested with vampires?
Home to cranky old people who got violent when their sleep was disturbed?
She glanced around the crowded bar and tipped her chin towards the door at Sophie’s elbow.
“Come through, would you? It’s hard to talk with all this noise and nosy Parkers.
” She disappeared around the corner and opened the door, shifting so Sophie could muscle her bags through.
She stuck out a hand. “Gail Powell, the proprietor of The Three-Legged Wolf.”
“Sophie Norwood.” She shook Gail’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“American,” Gail said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Sorry for...” She waved a hand to encompass everything.
“No fault of your own,” Gail said, waving her apology off with a quick smile. “You should know, we don’t go up the hill at night, especially when there’s a full moon.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you know? A pack of wolf shifters lives up there, and they don’t take kindly to intruders.”