Lost Wife of the Lethal Laird

Prologue

FIVE YEARS AND NINE MONTHS AGO

“Have ye heard of the Wolf, lassie?” The man tried to sound scary, holding his arms wide. “Everybody has heard of him.”

Daphne shifted slightly. She had heard of the Wolf, but she didn’t wish to hear of him again.

“I thought people spent the Leanan Festival dancing and flirting, nae scaring each other silly. Besides, I’m afraid of nay man. I’m getting married soon, remember?” She tried to sound confident.

Her friends exchanged meaningful looks. She tried not to notice.

There were five of them gathered around the fire. Two were her friends, Marion and Jeannie, along with Marion’s husband and some drunken fool who apparently fancied Jeannie.

She wouldn’t be taking her friends with her to her new home, so this was a goodbye. Or something of the sort.

The festival, too, was nearly over. Stars glinted above their heads. Here and there were crackling campfires, like theirs, and shadowy figures hunched up around them. A strain of fiddle music crept along on the wind, but it was impossible to tell where it came from.

The drunk man paused, glancing from face to face as if sensing the changing atmosphere. To his credit, he didn’t give up. Clearing his throat, he shuffled towards Daphne on his knees and grinned. In the jumping firelight, it made him look almost demonic.

“Do ye want to hear the story or nae?”

She sighed. There went her attempt at a peaceful last night of freedom. “Aye, why nae? Let’s hear it.”

Jeannie and Marion cheered. Well, Jeannie cheered. Marion lolled drunkenly onto her husband’s shoulder.

The drunk man—what was his name again?—adjusted his position, threw back his tangled hair, and grinned around at them.

“The Wolf has a voracious appetite,” he began. “Nae for meat and blood—although I’m sure he consumes those in great amounts—but for women.”

Jeannie gasped, pressing her hands over her mouth.

Daphne knew that already. “So, a man who preys on women. What a rarity.”

The storyteller grinned at her response.

“Daenae get me wrong, lassie. He’s nae to be trifled with. He takes them away in their dozens. Some he charms, ye ken? They say that one glance makes them fall in love, so they’d do anything he asks.”

“Now that I cannae believe.”

“Hush, lass,” Marion’s husband, George, said. “Let him tell the story.”

Daphne scowled at her friend’s husband. He would not be receiving an invitation to her new home.

Who am I kidding? I willnae be free to invite anyone. This isnae going to be me home.

“Others, he kidnaps,” the storyteller continued. “Snatches them away in the dead of night, sometimes from their own beds. Many arenae seen again.”

“And what does he do with them?” Daphne whispered, drawn in despite herself.

Marion’s husband gave a hoot of laughter. “Can ye nae guess?”

The storyteller ignored him.

“Nobody kens.” He shrugged. “There’s the obvious, of course. But there’s more to this Wolf; I can feel it in me bones. Others would agree; I’m sure of it.”

There was a long silence after that, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“Is that it?” Jeannie asked, frowning. “Nothing more to the story?”

The storyteller blinked, and just like that, the magic was gone.

“That’s all the story needs,” he snapped.

“All it needs?” she yelped. “Where’s the story? The plot? The twist?”

“Twist?”

“Yes, there has to be a twist.”

The storyteller narrowed his eyes. “All right, then. Hear this. The Wolf comes every twenty years, they say. He came two decades ago and stole the first daughters of each laird on this very night, the Leanan Festival. There are lots of stories about who he was and what vengeance he sought. The most popular story is that he’d been wronged by one laird and chose to punish them all.

Nae one of those women returned, and nobody kens what became of them. ”

A long moment of silence followed.

Daphne shivered. She’d heard this part. Her mother had told her only hours ago, while swallowing back tears, that her aunt was one of the women who’d disappeared. Hearing it twice made the story a little more real. Unpleasantly real.

It wasn’t nice to hear the storyteller turn it into a tall tale, something to scare the women.

“That’s a myth, everybody kens it,” Jeannie snapped.

But was it, really? It had been twenty years since the Wolf struck, and according to the gossips, he’d be prowling tonight, looking for first daughters. And Daphne was a first daughter. So, where did that leave her? Where would she be tomorrow? Dead or married? Were those her only options?

Either way, her life was over.

She rolled onto her back, the grass crunching damply beneath her. She stared up at the sky, the stars blurring together. She would not think of the Wolf. There was no proof he’d be here tonight.

The whisky and wine she’d drunk earlier in the evening felt heavy in her stomach, making her dizzy.

There’d been dancing, too, but this time she wasn’t permitted to dance.

A woman couldn’t really dance with anyone but her betrothed the night before her wedding, and Daphne’s betrothed didn’t care for dancing.

Whether the Wolf shows up or nae, this time tomorrow, I’ll be married.

A married woman couldn’t dance either, not without her husband’s permission. And Daphne’s husband wouldn’t give her permission to do anything; she was sure of that. After tomorrow, she might as well be dead.

No, not dead. Something in between. Not dead, but not quite alive, either.

A surge of nausea tightened her gut. Swallowing, Daphne hauled herself to her feet.

“Going to get some air,” she mumbled, but nobody took notice.

She hobbled off into the dark, her legs stiff, her back aching.

The more she walked, the more her limbs loosened. The queasy feeling disappeared. Clear night air flooded her lungs, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke, mulled wine, beer, gingerbread, and pies.

Her foot caught on a root, and she stumbled, cursing. With the light of the fires fading behind her, it was harder to see, even with the silvery moonlight.

Then a man’s laugh floated towards her.

Pausing, Daphne glanced back over her shoulder. A group of men, about four of them, were walking together a little way behind her. The laughter came again, as if somebody had tried to stifle it.

The sick feeling rushed back, this time heavy with fear. Surely the Wolf wouldn’t have accomplices. He’d take women alone, wouldn’t he?

Daphne began to walk faster.

Everybody knew the story of the Leanan Festival.

An old laird had met his wife here long ago and fallen madly in love.

Ever since, a celebration was thrown every year.

The Love Festival, some people called it, since plenty of people found love in one way or another.

Marriages took place, babies were conceived, people got drunk and did stupid things.

And, yes, bad things happened, too. Especially after the sun had gone down and most people had gone home.

Daphne peered over her shoulder. The men were still there. They’d stopped laughing now and were walking in silence. It was too dark to see their faces, but somehow she knew that it was her they were following.

She could try doubling back, but they’d stop her. She knew they’d stop her.

She tried to speed up. They sped up, too. The ground turned from rough, trodden-down dirt to grass. Trees waved in the darkness ahead.

I’ve gone the wrong way. They’re going to catch me. I could scream, aye, but will anybody hear? Will they ken where to find me? Will—

A dark shape stepped out of the trees ahead of her. She skidded to a halt, swallowing back a squeak of alarm.

The shape resolved itself into a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, face wreathed in shadow. She heard the men behind her slow down, but they didn’t stop.

“Ye have a wee following,” he remarked, jerking his chin towards the men behind her.

“I’m trying to lose them,” she managed.

He eyed her for a long moment, then stepped around her, casually facing the men.

“Ye heard her,” he murmured evenly. “Piss off. Or else.”

The men stopped altogether. They stared at him, their faces unreadable in the dark. And then they dropped their heads, scurrying away.

Daphne blinked, taken aback. Four men, and they ran off at the first sight of this stranger? Who was he?

She eyed him, squinting in the dark.

“They’ll leave ye alone,” he said shortly.

The moon sailed out from behind a cloud, and she got a better look at his face. He had strong features: a nose with a kink in the bridge and heavy eyebrows with a permanent furrow between them. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes. Blue, she thought, clashing with thick, dark hair.

A handsome man. That face, with his size and strength, would make people look twice.

She realized with a jolt that he was staring at her, too.

Well, of course he was. She’d started the staring, after all.

What did he see when he looked at her? Nothing special, probably. A round-faced young woman, with dark hair fighting its way out of elaborate braids. Crisp green eyes that would look flat in the moonlight. A full chest, plump hips, nothing delicate or waiflike about her.

Feeling a rush of embarrassment, Daphne cleared her throat and half-turned away. She scanned the dark undergrowth, holding her breath, half-expecting to see the men lurking there. They’d run away, but how far had they really gone? Was she really safe here?

“I had better…”

“Want me to kill them for ye?” He jerked his chin in the direction the men had gone. “They havenae got much of a head start. I could catch them easily.”

Was he joking?

Daphne blinked at him, her eyes widening. “I… nay, thank ye.”

“Are ye sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He grunted. “Shame. I felt like hunting. Fancy a drink?”

She glanced up to find him still staring at her, except this time he was holding out a bottle. She took the bottle hesitantly and sniffed it.

“Whisky?”

“Aye. Good stuff, too, although it’s wasted on me right now. I’ve had a wee bit too much whisky already.”

She gave a wry smile. “I’m the same.”

“Fancy a nip? I’m in no hurry to get home.”

“Nor am I,” she sighed, and lifted the bottle to her lips.