Perfect Mate (11 page)

Graham’s wolf fought to get out, wanting to go into a frenzy that would land the cops
on the ground, their weapons broken. He clenched his fists, fighting the aggression
he always had a hell of a time taming. When he’d lived in middle-of-nowhere Nevada,
in a Shiftertown where his word had been law, Graham had never bothered damping down
his wolf instincts. Now he was expected to live in a city of humans who treated him
like he was some big scary animal that had escaped from the zoo.

He wanted to grab the guns from the cops and break them, just to scare them, but Graham
dialed it back. He needed to find Misty.

He lifted his hands to show they were empty. “Hey, this is my friend’s store. I need
to make sure she’s all right.”

“A human owns this store,” the cop closest to Graham said.

“Well, no shit. Her name’s Misty—Melissa Granger. She called me, scared. She in there?
Is she all right?”

Maybe watching Eric deal with humans for the last eight months had taught Graham something.
The cops still eyed him warily but believed his worried tone.

“No one’s inside,” the lead cop said. He had black hair buzzed short, a flat face
with acne scars, and a big nose. He held his Beretta steadily, still pointing it at
Graham. “Place is torn up.”

“But her truck’s here.” Graham pointed at the black pickup sitting quietly in a space
a little way from the cops. “She was here. Where is she now?” His fears mounted as
he spoke. He couldn’t stop the growl in his throat, couldn’t stop the sparks on his
Collar.

“This is a crime scene,” the lead cop said. “You don’t need to be here, Shifter.”

“No? This store belongs to my
friend
. My
friend
might be in trouble. I don’t see you doing anything about it.”

The pistol didn’t waver. “Why don’t you go back to Shiftertown so we can do our jobs?”

“Why don’t I go on in there so I can look around? Maybe figure out where she is?”

“Turano, call Shifter Division,” the lead cop said. “We need to contain one.”

Graham stared at him and then moved his gaze to the one called Turano, who was reaching
for his radio.

“Aw, screw this shit.”

The cops tensed, expecting him to charge through them, but Graham turned his back
and walked away, making for his motorcycle. He made a show of starting his bike, giving
the cops a collective dirty look before he pulled out of the parking lot.

Graham rode down the street and around the corner, then took the delivery entrance
into the alley behind the shops. There was one cop car back there, and one cop. Graham
roared up, dismounted his bike, and headed for the back door.

“Hey!”

When Graham didn’t stop, the cop drew. Graham whirled around and had the pistol out
of the man’s hand and broken into two pieces before the man could react.

When the cop opened his mouth to yell, Graham punched him, once in the face, then
once in the temple. The cop folded up, and Graham lowered him gently to rest against
the wall.

“Sweet dreams.” Graham stepped around the cop and through the door, which led to the
back office and storage.

The thick steel door hadn’t been forced, which meant it had been opened from the inside.
Probably by whoever had broken in taking the back way out. A glance into the shop
revealed a mess: flowers, glass, and water all over the place. A dripper that ran
constantly inside the refrigerated section had broken open, turning the refrigerator
into a lake. The water wasn’t gushing anymore, which meant someone had been smart
enough to turn it off.

Graham stayed out of sight of the cops picking their way through the scene at the
front door. He didn’t have to go all the way into the shop though. He smelled Misty’s
blood, along with the scents of four—no, five—humans. Humans who smoked heavily, hadn’t
bathed in a couple of days, and one who’d been partaking of weed.

Graham got all that from a few long sniffs. He also scented that they’d taken Misty
out back and loaded her into a vehicle. He growled, his blood heating with rage, and
went back outside.

The day was already warm, August in southern Nevada. Heat made scents brighter. Graham
smelled motorcycles and a car or truck, and these had taken Misty away. Too bad scent
couldn’t tell him the make and models of the vehicles and where they’d been heading.
Graham only knew they’d taken Misty.

He stepped over the unconscious cop, started up his bike, and rode out. A mile down
the road, he pulled into another empty parking lot, took out his cell phone, and made
a call.

“Hey,” he said to the Shifter who answered. “I’m gonna need some backup.”

Mackenzies—Highland Heat!

Dear Reader,

Read on for a peek at my historical romance series, the Mackenzies / McBrides, which
covers the stories of hot Highland men, set in Victorian London and Scotland.

The Mackenzies are a family of brothers who can’t stay out of the scandal sheets—they
are reputed to be hard-living rakes who ignore the world’s disapproval. The four brothers
are alone and lonely with their personal tragedies and challenges. At the same time,
they close ranks against those who would topple them.

The saga begins with
The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
, as Ian Mackenzie struggles with high-functioning autism in an era that didn’t recognize
it. He finds love with Beth Ackerley, who sees past the oddities that unnerve others
to the strong and sexy man beneath his shell.

Ian is supported by his three older brothers (Mac, Cam, and Hart), and his nephew,
Daniel, a wild teenager.

As the saga progresses, we meet the McBrides, three brothers to Ainsley (the heroine
of
The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
).

The McBride brothers (Sinclair, Elliot, and Steven), also of a Highland family, were
all army officers who used their military careers to establish themselves in the world.
Self-made men, they are now all successful in their chosen professions, and very protective
of sister Ainsley.

The following preview is for Sinclair’s story (
Rules for a Proper Governess
, available October 2014). Sinclair had a happy marriage but lost his wife, and is
now left with two children he can’t manage on his own. No governess stays longer than
a week (some only last a few hours). Sinclair is blindsided when Bertie Frasier, a
cheeky pickpocket, proves to be the only person in London who can make his children
behave. But he also finds himself falling for her charms . . .

Best wishes,

Jennifer Ashley

http://www.jennifersromances.com

Winter, 1885

His voice drew her, and Bertie wanted to hear more of it. She leaned forward in the
balcony to watch the man standing upright and arrogant, one hand touching an open
book on a table in front of him, the other gesturing as he made his argument.

The villains Bertie knew called the barrister Basher McBride, because Mr. McBride
always got a conviction. He wore one of the silly wigs, but his face was square and
handsome, and far younger than that of the judge who sat above him. A wilted nosegay
reposed in a vase in front of the judge; both judge and flowers looking weary in the
extreme.

The case had caught the attention of journalists up and down the country—the sensational
murder of a lady in Surrey by one of her downstairs maids. The young woman in the
dock, Ruthie, had been accused of stabbing her employer and making off with a hundred
pounds’ worth of silver.

Bertie knew Ruthie hadn’t done it. The deed had been done by Jacko Small and his mistress,
only they’d set Ruthie up to take the blame for it. Bertie had known, had heard Jacko’s
plans, but did the police listen to the likes of Roberta Frasier? No.

Not that Bertie was in the habit of talking to constables most days. She stayed as
far away from them as possible, and her dad and Jeffrey, Bertie’s self-styled beau,
made sure she did. But she’d tried for Ruthie’s sake.

It hadn’t mattered. They’d arrested Ruthie anyway, and now Ruthie would be hanged
for something she didn’t do.

The handsome Basher McBride, with his mesmerizing voice, was busy making the case
that Ruthie
had
done it. Ruthie couldn’t afford a defense, so she was here on her own in the dock,
thin and small for her age, a maid who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Bertie could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.

McBride, despite his dire statements, had a delicious Scots accent. His voice was
deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave. Even the bored judge
couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Mr. McBride had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious even in the black robes.
He was tall, dominating all in the room, the strength in his big, bare hands apparent.
He’d be more at home out on a Highland hillside, sword in hand as he fended off attackers.
One glare from those gray eyes, and his attackers would be running for their lives.

His accent wasn’t so thick that Bertie couldn’t understand it, but his
R
s
rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the
U
s.

“If your lordship pleases,” Mr. McBride said, his voice warming Bertie again. “I would
like to call Jacko Small back to the witness box.”

Bertie swallowed, nervous. Jacko had already given his evidence that he’d found the
body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Ruthie down in the kitchen,
crying, with blood on her apron. The silver had gone missing, and no one had found
it, so Ruthie must have hidden it somewhere, hadn’t she? The police had tried to get
its location out of her, but of course Ruthie hadn’t known, as she hadn’t stolen the
silver in the first place.

The judge sighed. “Is it
relevant
, Mr. McBride? This witness has already told us his version of events.”

“One or two more questions, your lordship,” Mr. McBride said without bending. “You
will understand my reasons in due time.”

In duuui time.
The vowel came out of his mouth with a round, full sound.

Jacko came back in, reminded he was under oath, and faced Mr. McBride with all innocence
on his face.

“Now then, Mr. Small.” Mr. McBride smiled pleasantly, but Bertie saw a gleam in his
eyes that was a cross between anger and glee.

Now what was he up to?

“Mr. Small,” Mr. McBride said smoothly. “You say you opened the door of the sitting
room to find the lady of the house on the floor, her dress covered in blood. You’d
been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up
there to do so.” Mr. McBride glanced down at the notes on his bench. “That day was
the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the
warmest day anyone could remember, the newspapers reported. A bit too warm for a fire,
wouldn’t you say?”

Jacko blinked. “Well . . . I . . . the nights were still nippy. I remember that.”

“Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship.”

People tittered. The judge scowled. “Please get on with it, Mr. McBride.”

“You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood,” Mr. McBride said, not
missing a beat. “On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the
doorknob.”

“’Sright.” Jacko put his hand to his heart. “Gave me a turn, it did.”

“So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused wearing
an apron stained with blood.
She
says she got the blood on her because she thought she’d help out the cook by stuffing
the chickens for dinner. The chickens were still a bit bloody, and she wiped her hands
on her apron. Correct?”

“It’s what she said, yeah.”

“Now, I need your help, Mr. Small. I must ask you a very important question, so think
hard. Was there any blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?”

Jacko blinked again. He obviously hadn’t rehearsed this question. “Um. I don’t think
so. I can’t be sure. Don’t remember. I was, you know, in a state.”

“But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were
quite poetic about it.”

More titters. Jacko looked flustered.

What the devil was Mr. McBride doing? Bertie’s gloved hand tightened on the railing.
He was supposed to be proving Ruthie did it, not that Jacko lied. Which Jacko had,
of course, but how did Mr. McBride know that?

Besides, it wasn’t his job to expose Jacko. Bertie knew from experience that courtrooms
had procedures everyone followed to the letter. It was as if Mr. McBride had stepped
onstage and started playing the wrong part.

“Was there blood on the doorknob to the backstairs door?” Mr. McBride repeated, his
deep voice growing stern.

“Um. Yeah,” Jacko said. “Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge,
like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful.” A few of the
jury shifted in their seats in sympathy.

“Except there wasn’t,” Mr. McBride said.

“Eh?” Jacko started. “Whatcha mean?”

“The door to the back stairs, or the green baize door as it is also known, had a broken
panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no
door that day, not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on.”

“Oh.” Jacko opened and closed his mouth. “Well, I don’t really remember, do I? I was,
whatcha call it—agitated.”

“Though you remember in exact detail the placement of every item and every bloodstain
in the sitting room. The accused says she didn’t see you at all that day, and never
knew about her employer’s death until the police arrived. I’m going to suggest you
went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I suggest you left the sitting
room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking
away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her.”

Jacko looked worried now. “Yeah? And why’d I come back, if I’d killed the old bitch?”

The judge looked pained. Mr. McBride’s eyes took on a hard light. “You knew that,
if you’d disappeared entirely, you’d be screaming your guilt. I suggest you left to
dispose of the silver and returned as though you’d been gone all day. And never did
I suggest, Mr. Small, that you committed the murder.”

Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. The judge looked annoyed. “Mr. McBride,
do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?”

“No, he’s not,” Mr. McBride agreed. “Not yet.”

Another round of laughter. Jacko’s face was shiny with sweat, although it was nippy
in here on this winter day.

“I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting
forth the case that what we have here is not a conniving young woman who killed her
employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen
with an apron covered with the same blood—and, I might add, no time to dispose of
the missing silver. I am instead going to put forth my belief that another person
must have had much better opportunity, and strength, to commit the crime, and that
we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship
would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements.”

The judge growled as laughter began again. “Mr. McBride, I have warned you about your
behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre.”

Oh, but it was, Bertie thought. Only the play was real, and the curtain, final. Mr.
McBride knew that too, she sensed, despite his jokes.

“You are, however, correct that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts,”
the judge said. “Bailiff, please see that Mr. Small does not leave.”

The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. The judge disappeared through
the door into his inner sanctum, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the
watchers filed out, talking excitedly.

Bertie looked over the railing at Mr. McBride, who’d sat down, pushing his wig askew
as he rubbed sunshine-colored hair beneath it. The animation went out of his body
as the courtroom emptied, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

He glanced around and up, but not at Bertie. Mr. McBride looked at no one and nothing.

Bertie was struck with how empty his face was. His eyes were a strange shade of gray,
clear like a stormy morning. As Bertie watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness,
the likes of which Bertie had never seen before. His mouth moved a little, as though
he whispered something, but Bertie couldn’t hear what he said.

Bertie remained fixed in place instead of nipping off for some ale, her hand on the
gallery’s wooden railing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man below, who’d changed
so incredibly the moment his performance had finished.

Mr. McBride never left his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started
up again. Then as he got to his feet, life flowing back into his body, Mr. McBride
became the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice once more.

The judge signaled for him to begin. Mr. McBride summed up his case so charmingly
that all hung on his words. The jury went out and returned very quickly with their
verdict about Ruthie:
Not guilty.

Ruthie was free. Bertie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. McBride had provided one.

***

After much hugging, Ruthie left Bertie and went home with her mum. Bertie found her
dad and Jeffrey waiting for her outside the pub across the street. They were furious.
Jacko was Jeffrey’s best mate, and he had just been arrested for murder and taken
away by the police.

“’e’s to blame,” Jeffrey said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. McBride, who was walking
out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat. Once again, Bertie noted
how Mr. McBride had changed from a man who commanded a room to a man who looked tired
of life.

The afternoon was cold, darkening with the coming winter night. Bertie rubbed her
hands together in her too-thin gloves and suggested that her dad and Jeffrey take
her into the pub and buy her a half.

“Not yet,” Bertie’s dad said. “Just teach ’im a lesson, Bertie. Go on now, girl.”

Girl
, when she was twenty-six years old. “Leave him alone,” she said. “He saved Ruthie.”

“But got Jacko arrested,” Jeffrey growled. “Whose side are you on?”

“But Jacko
killed
the woman,” Bertie said. “He’s a villain; he always was. I say good on Ruthie.”

Jeffrey grabbed Bertie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage
beside the pub. He wouldn’t hit her in public—he’d take her somewhere unseen to do
that—but his hand clamped down hard. “Jacko is my best friend,” Jeffrey said, his
breath already heavy with gin. “You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister
and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to be
on Jacko’s side.”

Jeffrey’s grip hurt. Bertie knew if she protested too much, both Jeffrey and her dad
would let her have it. But she couldn’t do this.

“That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart,” she argued. “He’ll catch me, then
I’ll
be in the cell with Jacko, waiting to go before the magistrate.”

Bertie’s dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well. “You just do it, Roberta.
You’re like a ghost—he’ll never know. And if he
does
see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you.”

They weren’t going to leave it. In their minds, Mr. McBride was the villain of the
piece and deserved to be punished. If Bertie refused, her dad would drag her away
and thrash her until she gave in. If Mr. McBride went home while Bertie was taking
her beating, her dad would make her wait here every day until Mr. McBride returned
for another case.

Either way, Bertie was doing this. One way would just be less painful than the other.

Bertie jerked free of Jeffrey’s hold. “All right,” she snapped. “I’ll do it. But you’d
better be ready. He’s no fool.”

“Like I said, he’ll never see ya,” her dad said. “You’ve got the touch. Go on with
you.”

Bertie stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted
herself and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily toward
where Mr. McBride stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something
far, far from the crowded streets of the City of London.

***

Sinclair McBride pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down
over his eyes.