Knowing Julia, Colleen could just imagine. She wondered what Grant had planned for her next. The feast, yes. Haggis? Blood pudding? She had acquired a taste for them already, preparing for her stay here. So he wouldn’t make any headway with getting rid of her in that way.

She was famished.

***

Grant couldn’t believe the she-wolf had known about the mock fight before she arrived. What else did she already know about? What else had Ian shared with his pretty wife that she, in turn, had shared with Colleen?

The White Room. Grant had mentioned that to Ian earlier in the week. Though no one but Grant’s people knew the significance of the chamber. He was glad he had not revealed more to Ian. But before today, Grant hadn’t told Ian about the feast they had planned.

Colleen’s dark brown hair curled over her shoulders, some of it whipping in his direction and tickling his shoulder, while her silky, sheer skirt slapped at his bare legs. He would have moved out of the fabric’s path, but he stayed in close proximity in an attempt to intimidate her. His skin was oily and sweaty, and he didn’t believe any prim and proper young woman would want to share the same space with him. She, on the other hand, smelled of a soft floral fragrance—jasmine, he thought—and all she-wolf. He had a devil of a time not breathing in her scent in a much-too-interested fashion. He just hoped she hadn’t noticed.

The lass had not looked the least bit intimidated. He couldn’t believe his brothers had been standing on either side of her like bookends. Maybe they had made her feel safe from all the men’s fighting, but they should have left her alone. He would have to learn what else they had discovered about her.

Then again, she’d seemed so intent on capturing the action on her camcorder that maybe she wouldn’t have felt unsettled if his brothers weren’t guarding her. He couldn’t believe she’d captured him and Ian fighting on video. To share with Ian’s wife!

As much as he hated to admit it, Grant wondered if his brothers might be right about the difficulty of this task he’d taken on.

She held her chin high and worked hard to keep up with his and Ian’s quick, long-legged stride. He couldn’t help but witness her pert breasts bouncing in the clingy top she wore. He attempted to keep his eyes averted, straight ahead on his target—the keep, the great hall, and the feast that was sure to shock her.

His damnable gaze shifted twice to take in the appearance of her nipples pressed against the fabric, as if he had no control. If that wasn’t enough to catch his attention, her skirt was semi-sheer, allowing the viewer glimpses of her naked legs from about thigh high to her heeled shoes.

He tried his damnedest not to show any interest, though his wolfish side was ruling his human half at the moment. He needed to concentrate on his goal: running the Playfair properties without interference from the lass. For a year and a day! Two weeks, he could handle. A month, maybe. But a year?

He shook his head, saw that his brothers had already entered the keep, and hoped they ensured that everything for the meal would be just as he had ordered.

As soon as they entered the keep, he heard the sound of his dogs racing to greet them, their toenails scrabbling over the stone floor, out of sight, but they would be here momentarily. Did Colleen like dogs? They sounded like horses stampeding.

Grant smiled, ready for the next phase of his plan to work.

***

Before Colleen and Grant and the others reached the dining room, three monster dogs that looked as big as horses sprinted toward her. She thought they would attack. They did—in a wet, slobbery, loving way. Thank God, she loved animals. All kinds and shapes and sizes. Though she wasn’t ready for the assault of the giant, woman-licking hounds that dwarfed her and would be taller than their master when standing on two legs. They were Irish wolfhounds, with big, doe-like brown eyes; huge, wet, warm tongues; and bristly chin whiskers that made them look like little old men. They were adorable, but they needed some obedience training. And she knew just how to go about it.

She’d need some treats. And a clickable pen.

She wanted to scowl at Grant, who didn’t make a move to quiet the dogs as they nipped at her in playful exuberance and jumped all over her. If they ripped her skirt, she would take it out of Grant’s salary.

His men watched, smiled, chuckled, and waited to see her reaction when she couldn’t take one footstep toward what she suspected was the great hall. She greeted the dogs, attempting to calm them and showing she wasn’t scared of them. Frustratingly, she couldn’t hide from the men that she felt a bit overwhelmed. If she couldn’t show the wolfhounds she was in charge, she wouldn’t be able to establish to anyone that she was the owner of this castle.

She had to remind herself that these things took time, and she couldn’t expect to change things overnight.

The dogs finally “escorted” her to the great hall, as if the wondrous aroma of roasted pig was too much for them to withstand. They didn’t forget her. They kept returning to her, or looking back to make sure she still followed them. Which she thought was cute of them.

She belatedly realized that the men taking her to the feast were half-naked. She almost smiled. All these men seated at the tables, bare chested, some as hairy as the hounds, would make it appear that she was at a nudist-colony feast. As long as she didn’t have to be nude, she didn’t care.

And Grant? He might think to intimidate her with his nakedness and his sweatiness, but hey, she was a wolf, and he smelled divine to her—all that hot, yummy testosterone rolling off him in delectable waves. She took another deep breath of him, while she attempted not to let him know how much he interested her. She admired him strictly as an art form—like Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in a kilt, rather than totally in the raw. Though she couldn’t help wondering how Grant would look standing on a pedestal like that, totally in the raw. She smiled a little to herself.

When she finally managed to reach the great hall, where rough-hewn boards were set up as trestle tables with benches next to them, she thought she’d landed in the medieval period. Julia must not have known about this or she would have warned her. Colleen was dying to say how quaint it was for them to live in the past. But she bit her tongue. She didn’t want Grant to think he’d gotten her goat, as her father used to say.

At least the tables were situated like a comb, the spine serving as the head table, and she wouldn’t see beneath the lower tables and witness how well-endowed—or not—the men were in their kilts, in case they hoped to shock her.