A Highland Werewolf Wedding - By Terry Spear Page 0,32

choking on water that had gone down the wrong way.

Then he had collapsed on the frost-covered ground like a fish out of water, gasping for air.

Now it was his turn to rescue a she-wolf instead of a she-wolf rescuing him.

He was so close to Elaine that he could almost touch her. He didn’t want to startle her, so he bumped her side to let her know he was there and would help her. She yipped in surprise.

He woofed, letting her know it was just him. She cast him a quick look of relief over her shoulder.

With his powerful legs, he swam beside her, steering her away from the falls and toward the boulders littering the sides of the river. She slid over them, still unable to gain her footing. He pushed her again, moving her toward the beach, his whole body pressing against hers, offering a wall of muscle that she could lean against, protecting her while he worked at keeping her from being carried over the falls.

Almost there.

She stumbled on the slippery stones, but he kept nudging her toward the shore, wishing he could put an arm around her as a human or lift her out of the water and carry her to safety. As soon as she reached the shore, she scrambled over the rocks and ran straight for the trees, a spurt of energy apparently charging through her.

He shook the water from his fur, then hurried after her.

She shook herself as soon as she was in the woods. Sheltered from prying eyes, she collapsed on her side in the creeping ladies’ tresses and twinflowers, panting with relief and exhaustion, her wet mink fur clinging to her, her eyes closed. Fatigued, soaked, and beautiful.

He joined her, thanking God that she hadn’t gone over the falls. He was also glad that the farmer hadn’t managed to shoot either of them. He hoped the men would believe he and Elaine had been big dogs, not wolves. Strict rules governed the keeping of wolves in Scotland. If anyone truly thought that he and Elaine were wolves running loose, a bounty might be placed on their heads. Shoot to kill. All of his kind would be threatened then.

He lay down next to her and rested his head over her neck as if they’d been friends forever. That she was his to protect from all dangers. She opened her eyes, gave him a tired wolf smile, licked his cheek, and closed her eyes again.

He sighed and settled more comfortably against her, responding to the wolfish showing of trust on her part in allowing him to rest his head there. Trust on his part also that she wouldn’t snap at him to give her space. For the moment, he felt he had finally accomplished what he’d hoped to do the first time he met her. Help her. Take care of her.

But this time he realized he wanted to get to know her better. Take her home to his family. Wine and dine her. Learn all he could about her. Keep her here. Permanently.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the wet wolf smell of her, basked in the warmth of their bodies touching, and listened to her breathing growing steadier, sleepier, until he was sure she had fallen asleep.

They weren’t too far from the castle now. Though he suspected that Ian would send out the troops, worried that Cearnach hadn’t called to say everything was all right, concerned that the McKinleys had harmed him. He was sure that Ian would have some heartburn over him bringing a cousin of the Kilpatricks home with him. Or not. Being mated to Julia Wildthorn, werewolf romance writer, had softened his brother up a bit. In a good way.

Cearnach hadn’t meant to, but resting next to the enticing she-wolf, her blood pulsing through her veins, and listening to the steady thump of her heart led to him dozing off for a couple of hours. He woke to the smell of an elusive pine marten rummaging around nearby. The slim creature was mink brown in color with a yellow bib at its throat, around the size of a cat, and a member of the family that included mink, otters, and weasels. It was scrounging for something to eat.

The animals were territorial, so Cearnach had smelled the scat left in the area by the marten. It was a predator, reducing the populations of gray squirrels, but when it came to wolves and martens, territorial lines went out the window. Since