The White Wolf's Son Read Online Free PDF Page A

lemur.
    At the sound of another yell I looked back to see the balloon still dragging up the common, the silk bouncing and brilliant,
     the gasbag booming like a drum. The passengers had leaped from the basket. One of them had thrown out a great iron anchor
     and was trying to dig this into the ground, seeking to stop the balloon’s progress over the grass-grown rocks. The other passenger
     was clinging hard to the wicker, clearly not at all happy about his situation.
    This happened so swiftly, I could barely take in what was going on. None of the people seemed to need help from me, and none
     seemed especially menacing. It occurred to me that I ought to duck down and hide, but the driver of the car had already seen
     me and was waving a gauntleted hand and calling out.
    “Pardon me, miss. Could you tell me if I’m at the right place? My name’s Bastable. I’m looking for the residence of the Count
     and Countess von Bek.” Pushing up his goggles, he began to climb from the car, gathering the folds of his cotton dust coat
     which covered what appeared to be a light blue military uniform. On his head was a peaked cap of the same color.
    “Good afternoon,” was all I could think of to say.
    Another voice came from behind me.
    “Good afternoon, my dear beautiful young woman.”
    Somehow I wasn’t a bit offended by those rich, flattering tones, offered in the most delicious Scottish brogue I had ever
     heard. I turned round again. Grinning at me, the balloonist, in full Highland dress, including a brilliant kilt, was testing
     his anchor line now, having stopped the vessel’s drift. His companion was stamping heavily on bits of flaming wood threatening
     to set the grass alight. Then he reached into the basket and took something out. A black, undecorated oblong box, narrow and
     long. Clearly an electric guitar case. He was tall and very nifty in what appeared to be European evening dress. I wouldn’t
     have guessed he was a rock musician. When he faced me, I was surprised. I had seen him before. In my dreams! Though considerably
     younger, he could have been a relative of my albino grandfather or grandmother. He had the same refined, angular features,
     the same long, graceful body, the same slender fingers, the same white hair and subtly tapering ears, and he had the same
     scarlet eyes. He greeted me with an inclination of his head, then shouted across to the Scot.
    “You promised us a smoother landing, St. Odhran.”
    The man he addressed waved a dismissive hand and removed his befeathered bonnet, revealing a shock of red hair above lively
     blue eyes. With a broad, charming smile which reflected something of the swagger in his manner, he approached me. Reaching
     out an elegant hand, he made a deep bow, kissing the tips of my fingers. “You are the young Countess, I take it? I am the
     Chevalier St. Odhran, forever at your service.”
    “I’m not a countess,” I told him, still fascinated by his albino friend. I was a bit distracted. “But I’m pleased to meet
     you. Would the person you’re looking for happen tobe German? If so, there’s another gentleman wants to see him down in the village.”
    “We are all British, I fear,” said the driver of the car, also presenting himself in that same charming, old-fashioned way.
     “Even my friend here”—he indicated the man in evening clothes—“has sufficient residency to claim citizenship.” He saluted.
     “At your service, Colonel Bastable of the LOTA, ma’am.” His manner was playful and won me over. He reminded me a bit of Sting
     and Hugh Grant combined. “I must say, we seem to have timed our arrival to the second. That’s not always the case. I wonder
     if you’d mind my asking a question. Would that house be Tower House, the residence of the von Beks?”
    “I’m Oo Bek,” I said. “The youngest in the whole family.”
    I was surprised that Mr. or Mrs. Hawthornthwaite had not yet come out to investigate, but if they were at the back of