of dirt and sifted it between his fingers. Wee pieces of rock pricked his skin as he watched the cottage remnants float away, his mind troubled over Charles’s death. How Fate could have allowed such a horrible thing to take place bewildered him. Didnae the man’s life count for anything?
He flicked a stuck stone from his palm. As he moved, a faint hint of rose peeled from his skin.
Sarina.
Damn, but her scent was now firmly attached to his soul. He should never have tasted her flesh, kissed her neck as he’d done. The fact she liked it made it even more tempting to do it again. But even as his mate, Sarina needed to know everything about him before he would agree to do anything more with her. She deserved to know exactly what she was getting into by allowing herself to have feelings for him.
“What do ye ken of Sarina’s heritage?” Ian asked, now looming over Campbell.
“Other than the fact she was born in New York and that her mother died when she was verra young, nae much. Why? Ye ken Charles was nae the sort to talk much about his personal world.”
“Mayhap it is nothing, but Nevan has a fascination with wolves that runs stronger than what most unsuspecting souls bear. He blathered incessantly about wolf teeth the whole three hours we were out.”
Campbell rose and brushed his palms against his trousers. “I suspect what the lad has is an overactive imagination. Ye ken what is was like to be his age—the taller the tale, the more we cared to own it. And some of those tales never left us. Just look at Moonfell Abbey, that old stack of stones is still a topic of conversation for us.”
“Aye,” Ian said, “but only because Octavia Lovegrove is alive and well and we’ve kent her since childhood. Moonfell Abbey is a part of our world. Wolves, however, are nae native to New York City and from what the lad has told me, the animal played no part in his upbringing.”
But Charles Ogilvy had, even if only on a part-time basis between expeditions. “The lad had a rather eccentric father. I’d pay no heed to his likings, odd as they are.”
“Do ye ken that he carries around a set of wolf teeth?”
Campbell rubbed his chin. “Is that so? I wondered what he had inside that prized box of his. But no matter. I slept with a snippet of Old Beasley’s fur under my pillow until I was seven-and-ten.”
“But Old Beasley was yer beloved cat.”
“Who died when I was eight.” He glared at Ian. “Do ye have a point to this nonsense yer spewing?”
“I am just worried about the lad. That is all.”
He patted Ian on the shoulder. “As am I. But between the two of us, I’m sure Nevan will remain safe. Better his fascination be a tarnished tin of teeth, than the lure of dungeons.”
God, what an awful thought that made, imagining Nevan exploring the underbelly of Lycansay Hall. Mariah would devour the lad in minutes.
He double downed on his hold of Ian. “Rather than going into town tonight, stay at the house and have dinner with us.”
“If I didnae ken better, I’d swear ye really did love me, cousin.”
“Ach, dunnae flatter yerself. I merely need another male at the table capable of carrying on a conversation that doesnae involve the subject of wolf teeth.”
Sarina toured Lycansay Hall’s portrait gallery while waiting for Nevan to wash and change into a suit of clean clothing. The dirt he’d carried in from his ride with Ian was enough to fill a small garden, but at least her brother returned happy. The smile on his lips was one of the largest she’d ever seen on him. And the exuberance with which he spoke of the adventure far outweighed any excitement he’d ever shown for those darn wolf teeth. A good morning all around, in her opinion.
She clutched her hands behind her back as she continued through the gallery, the shuffle of her pink slippers against the marble floor echoing with each step.
The repeated sound calmed her nerves.
An itch troubled her chin. Brushing it away with a swipe of her gloved fingers, a hint of spiced lime teased her nose.
Campbell. She’d never known any man to smell as good as did Lord Lycansay. Though to be fair, she hadn’t many examples to go on. Father had a love for cologne that teetered on a woodsy aroma and Nevan never smelled of anything other than