War of Hearts(6)

Grace greeted him. She was a petite woman in her late seventies and yet, with her dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, and fairly wrinkle-free, pale skin, she didn’t look a day over fifty. Another reason the pack sought seclusion. They could live to a good thirty years beyond the normal human life span and aged at a slower rate.

Grace patted Conall on the arm and muttered, “They’re in the pub.”

Nodding, he strolled down the narrow corridor that led into the pub, feeling James fall into step behind him. He was so tall he had to bend to avoid the low ceiling, which thankfully opened up as soon as he stepped into the cozy public house.

A fireplace that took up much of the far wall hosted a lit wood burner. Despite the bright sun outside, the days were still cold this far up the coast, and although wolves did not feel the chill as humans did, the fire was still welcome. On the opposite wall was the bar, a traditional chestnut counter that gleamed under candle bulbs set into black iron fittings. Angus, Grace’s husband, stood behind the bar. They shared a nod in greeting.

As it was a Monday morning, the pub was quiet. Even if it had been busy, Conall would have known where the Canids were before he saw them. He’d met Peter Canid before. He had his scent, and it was more than just a wolf’s heightened senses. Conall had a gift for finding people. In another life, he would have made an excellent private investigator.

James followed him as he crossed the room.

He didn’t ask Conall if he was ready. The Canids would hear anything they said now, even at a whisper. But Conall could practically feel the question from his friend.

Wishing his sister and James would stop worrying about him, Conall couldn’t think of what he could say to convince them. They should know him by now. It absolutely did not make a difference who he married. He wasn’t a romantic like Callie. Or James. He’d never loved a female other than the familial love he’d had for his mother, and for Callie and female pack members.

Human women, the ones not terrified by him, were good for sex when Conall wanted fragile and feminine under his hands. Female wolves were excellent for fucking, wild and free. There were several single wolves in the pack happy to indulge in casual sex with the alpha, though he never spent a night with a female who lived on Loch Torridon. That was just asking for trouble.

So no—marrying Sienna Canid made no difference to Conall. As long as the female was willing and not under pressure from her father, and that she understood their arrangement was more about business than anything else, it would satisfy Conall. It would be nice, yes, if they developed mutual affection through the years, but Conall would make do either way.

Peter Canid and his daughter rose from the table by a Tudor window. Like most alphas, Canid was tall, but a few inches shy of Conall’s height. His light hazel eyes were hard with determination. He was an ambitious bastard to be sure, but Conall felt he was also an honest one.

As for Sienna, she was almost as tall as her father, athletic, strong. At twenty-six she was five years younger than Conall. However, she had the bearing of someone older. Confident, not easily intimidated. Her green eyes met Conall’s, assessing, neutral. Usually females stared at his scar for a few seconds, before a blatant exploration of his body. Female wolves were mostly very up front about sex. But Sienna was guarded. She wore her blond hair swept back in a high ponytail and there was little makeup on her face. She didn’t need it. Dressed in a T-shirt, plaid shirt, and jeans, she also hadn’t bothered to dress to impress him.

Conall liked her immediately.

Aye, she’ll do.

“My daughter, Sienna,” Peter introduced her without preamble.

She held out her hand to Conall. “Nice to meet you.”

He shook it, even more impressed to find her palm dry. She wasn’t nervous then. “Nice to meet you too.” He gestured to James. “My beta, James Cairn.”

“Sir! Can I help you?”

Conall spun around at the sound of Grace’s raised voice, just as Angus moved with the speed of a much younger wolf from out behind the bar. A tall man dressed in a well-fitted suit strode into the pub with Grace on his heels. He drew to a sharp halt as he came face to face with Conall.

The man was human.

A stranger.

Of course that wasn’t unusual.

What was, however, was the way he was looking at Conall like he knew him.

“Conall MacLennan?” the man asked, taking a step toward him.

Something about the man caused the hair on the back of Conall’s neck to rise. He looked beyond the man at Grace, sensing she’d felt something from the stranger too.

“He’s not alone, Conall,” Grace informed him. “There are three SUVs outside with armed men.”

This knowledge pissed Conall off. Humans daring to enter his land, armed and loaded. For what?

“Who is asking?” he demanded of the man.

“Conall MacLennan of Clan MacLennan?” He was American, like the Canids.

Conall shot a questioning look at Canid but he shook his head. He didn’t know the stranger. This human.

“What is your business here?”

Sincere, dark eyes stared into Conall’s. There was an air of gentle culture to the man, the kind a werewolf could never hope to replicate. “I am Jasper Ashforth. I’ve come all the way from New York to meet with you.”

“Is that so?” Conall crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, Mr. Jasper Ashforth, although it may not look this way to you, I’m in a business meeting. Perhaps you and I can talk later.”