Lady Bess

His mother’s face flashed in his mind.

If only she would stop her nagging at him. Lately it was always the subject at the dinner table.

She was a dear heart, but he wasn’t in love, and he wasn’t ready to tie himself down to one woman.

She wanted grandchildren, something to fill the void and still the grief of his father’s passing. She wanted him to carry on the line.

He liked being single … he liked women …

He had told her to leave him be.

He was the only son, she enjoyed reminding him. She wanted to keep Valdane in a direct line. If he didn’t have a son, the castle and the estate would go to his father’s brother. What she didn’t realize was he didn’t care. He loved his good uncle—why shouldn’t the estate go to him?

These thoughts were once again interrupted, and Quinn MacValdane knew the creature was not only at his back, it had had gained ground.

The first thing that assailed him was the odor. Musky, and because his sense of smell was as good as his hearing, the scent of fresh sweet blood filtered through to him. It was dripping saliva mixed with blood.

The second thing that assailed him was the sound of the beast, the low, unthinking wild growl. The sound was primal as th

e creature trumpeted hungrily with mindless rage.

The third thing was the sure knowledge that this was something sinister, something otherworldly: more, so much more than a rabid beast—more than the ‘werewolf’ he had actually expected to appear.

It was near, and it was exploding with Dark Magic.

This beast was frothing at the mouth and mad.

He would not be able to outrun it, and he wasn’t sure his shield would hold against its Dark Magic. What was this? What kind of werewolf had magic?

He felt its power vibrate in the air. He had been just a teen when the male members of his family had hunted and killed a werewolf years ago. This was so much more.

Quinn MacValdane did the only thing he could do: he enacted a spell that enswathed him with a protective shield.

It should have been enough.

He set down his lantern and withdrew his silver-tipped sword.

His shield should have worked like a coat of armor, but he had been right—this was more, so much more than a werewolf. This creature wielded Dark Magic and had stalked him with purpose.

It stood a foot taller than Quinn’s six feet. It clawed the air, its amber eyes burning with bloodlust. It was drooling saliva and blood from its recent kill, and it roared with fury.

Quinn looked into its eyes and knew he was looking into the eyes of madness. It swiped at him, but its claws bounced off his shield.

Infuriated, it went down on all fours, and Quinn heard the voice, its voice, in his head as it began reciting an ancient Gaelic spell.

And then he knew.

It was tearing apart his shield with its magic.

He looked up and noted the moon was in its full glory as the feral creature attacked with a ferociousness he believed would kill him.

He picked his spot and began maneuvering it in a circle. It kept its head low and stared at his sword, which seemed to deter it.

Quinn couldn’t get over its size … huge and pulsating with power.

He studied it, trying to get its measure, its weakness. Its fur was ragged, spotted with what smelled and looked like blood.

Fangs, sharp fangs snapped as it snarled. Violence governed its purpose, and that purpose was to tear, maim, kill—and something else. Usurp. It wanted his magic. He could hear its thoughts in his head. What kind of werewolf was this?