Shifters Gone Wild; Collection

by Skye MacKinnon

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.

  First published: August 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Part I

  Instinct

  Chapter 1

  The marketplace had to be the best venue to pick up females. At the age of twenty, I would have been happy to visit every day, but James would not permit me. As Alpha, his commands were followed without question, so my visits were limited to once a week. I had to admit, it worked out better that way.

  From fruit to art, to lace, to the blacksmith’s stall, I walked. Paintings of marketplaces often depicted them as cheery, colourful, and bustling with activity. The latter conception may have been correct; although, they leaned more toward grey and dreary than bright, and the air often filled with yells of anger and bitterness, as opposed to joyful greetings.

  At least there were the scents: hams and boars’ heads, fruits, wines, the steam of cooking soups, and, my most favourite of all, the freshness of ripe women. Lorna Rushford, Helena Longbarrow, Matilda Thornberry named only a few, each of those alone bringing with her a memory.

  The females noticed me as much as I did them, even though my past catches never approached, never asked why I had not called to visit, or if I would tend them again. Of course, my refusal to conform to the current trends in attire ensured I stood out from the other males who bothered to arrive. Whereas the women’s glances would be appraising, perhaps even hopeful, the men’s glares offered nothing but scorn for my dark trousers tucked into knee-high leather boots, and for the shirts I never bothered to secure with their woven laces. Men had been hung for far less than inconsiderate fashion sense, yet I did not care. I was not like them and never pretended to be.

  A whisper drifted across, as I meandered through the crowd: “’Tis Mr Holloway, Eleanor.”

  With a tilt of my head, I spotted the speaker leaning into her sister, who fluttered her lashes in a clear attempt to catch my attention.

  Eleanor had turned out to be a worthy virgin. The scent of her blood had driven me wild as I had plunged into her.

  I smiled to myself as I turned away.

  Farther along, pausing to sample the crisp apples, I caught Mrs Lawson’s scent. The older ladies may not have been as pure, but they could not be denied their eagerness to please. For that reason alone, they made for an entertaining afternoon.

  My nose lifted to track her, and I found the woman beyond a table stacked high with fresh loaves, hidden behind her fan, which she waved with vigour. I recalled that her petticoat had held many layers, and the removal of them turned out to be almost as much fun as the act itself. I wondered how she had explained the damage to her pompous husband.

  At a new aroma begging for notice, my step faltered as my nostrils flared.

  Strong, yet understated, alluring and seductive, the unsullied flavour carried the exceptional deliciousness of womanly musk. Possessed by a need to find the source, I tilted my head and allowed my nose to lead.

  It should have been difficult, impossible even, to locate such subtlety amongst the overpowering wafts of food and body odours, yet the strong pull beckoned to me, drawing me on.

  Whispers continued, as I passed one stall after another, but they no longer held my interest. My mind seemed only able to focus on the unfamiliar scent. Although it intensified with each step, I half wished for a stronger breeze to invade the clear morning, to bring me a more wholesome dose and appease my sudden and unbidden greed.

  My eyes shifted, as I moved, searching. I skimmed over those who held no appeal, the ones whose flavour had already been tasted, until, at the end of the row ahead, I spotted two young women.

  From the angle of their positions, I doubted they could see me. The purchasing of herbs distracted the darker haired of the two. Animated, she possessed a flamboyance which showed in her movements, and in her pleasant tones, as she bartered with the stall owner.

  I imagined she would get her own way with the price.

  To her side stood a fairer female, with a quiet calm that showed in the relaxed set of her shoulders. Taking a step closer, I studied her.

  Appearing younger, almost lacking in confidence, she was also somewhat taller and certainly far more beautiful. I did not recognise her, yet could not mistake her scent. I had been tracking it for the past five minutes.

  Leaning across the jewellery on the stall beside me, I caught the proprietor’s attention. “Who is the girl?” I asked, pointing toward the one who held me so rapt.

  “Regular of mine.” He nodded and smiled. “The Stonehouse sisters often purchase my quartz and amethyst.”

  As he spoke their name in a conspicuous overtone, the females turned.

  Blue eyes, as dark as sapphires, appraised me from beneath wisps of blonde, and a smile widened the girl’s lips, as my own mouth curved at the corners.

  Beside her, the darker girl leaned into the fair tresses of her sister. “Sean Holloway is a ladies’ man and not to be trusted,” she hissed, her words carrying to me with ease, before she walked off. When her sister remained, gaze locked with mine, the seemingly older girl called out, “Come along, Jem. Mother is waiting.”

  My eyebrow twitched upward. Jem?

  With her attention tugged back toward her departing sibling, she dipped her head and followed behind.

  Still, the essence her body had left in its wake lured me, and, unable to do otherwise, I trailed after her.

  As I did so, her head tilted, almost turned a few times as she walked, leaving me wondering if she could have been aware of my pursuit. Once or twice, she even hesitated over offered wares, until her sister urged her along again.

  From one stall to another, I shadowed them through the marketplace, pausing only when they were greeted by an older woman, whose blonde hair and oval face matched that of the one called Jem. Her mother, perhaps?

  Ducking off to the left took her from my sights, as I concealed myself within the folds of hanging shawls and bonnet stands. When I peeked back out between the fibrous fabrics, her mother and sister returned to my visibility, but not the one I desired.

  A shift to the left preceded another to the right. Neither way showed her, and I moved to the next stall, checking around the butcher, as he sharpened his blade. Still nothing.

  She could not have gone far, though. I could still smell her.

  “You were following me.”

  I spun at the voice to my rear and found the lass who held my interest so standing before me. It was unusual for another to catch me unawares, and I studied her before inclining my head in admittance.

  “Why?” Her dark eyes held defiance.

  “You intrigue me.”

  “There are tales told of you, Mr Holloway.”

  My lips twitched. “Good ones, I hope.”

  “All bad, if the truth be told.”

  I gave a quiet laugh. “Then, I’m afraid you cannot have been given the stories in their entirety.”

  A spark of life visited her eyes for a half second, as though she considered allowing a smile, but none arrived. Instead, she bid me, “Good day to you,” before she disappeared into the throng of patrons.

  Whilst my mind urged me to give chase, my feet remained stationary, secured there only by the knowledge that the encounter would not be our last.

  Because I would see her again. I knew it with certainty. Until then, I would hold tight to her aroma and the vividness of her eyes as a reminder of the one named Jem.

  * * *

  The blonde girl, with her steady stare, refused to leave my mind. I sniffed a couple of times at the clothing I wore that day, hoping for reprieve, but none arrived, and it left me confused.

  I had never craved anything before. If I wanted something, I took it.

  On any other day, I would have given c
hase, persisted until my goal relented—not that much convincing was ever necessary.

  Not with Jem. She had walked away. And I had allowed it.

  I just had no idea why.

  In eagerness, I arrived the following week at an earlier hour than usual. My senses sought her presence but produced no evidence that she had come. After almost three hours, I believed my efforts to have been wasted and went in search of another source of relief.

  I found it in the form of Elizabeth Wells.

  Her too-tight corset forced the bounce of her bosom into plain view, providing a visual delight with each step she took, and her smiled approach saved me the effort of the chase. “Mr Holloway.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Wells.”

  Her index finger twisted around her bronze ringlet, as she peered up at me. “It is a lovely morning.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  “Have you heard of my father’s latest purchase?”

  I had hoped for more amusing entertainment but, not wanting to appear rude, shook my head. “No, I have not.”

  “He has been offered the …”

  I found few topics quite as tedious as talk of business dealings and my attention quickly drifted. My head offered the occasional nod, whilst my ears pricked in the hope of more flavoursome fun around the constant bumps and clatters of stalls being set up, and my eyes absorbed the too bright gowns of those insisting on overdressing for market day.

  Thanks to the perfumed self-drowning of the young lady before me, my olfactory senses went on a temporary strike—which meant I almost missed the one I sought, as she entered the marketplace.

  Ambling past us, Jem caught my eye for a moment, whilst Elizabeth continued on about details of no import. Her lips twitched at the corners, as she held my stare, but when her attention shifted to my companion, her expression altered, darkened, something akin to disappointment moving in. With a flick of her loose hair, she continued on her way, her shoulders bathed in sunshine as her hips swayed her past the market seamstress, the cobbler …

  My heart raced when I realised she would soon be out of sight. I turned my attention back to Miss Wells.

  “… of course Father wouldn’t—”

  “Excuse me,” I cut in. “I have to go.”

  Racing off to her outraged, “Well, I never!” I followed the scent teasing on the breeze all the way to the door of the bank.

  I had never entered before—had no reason to. All of our monetary requirements were taken care of by James. With a deep breath, I leaned against the heavy oak, swung the door open, and stepped into the poorly lit space.

  Jem’s head turned at my entrance, and something glinted in her eyes before she averted her gaze from me.

  “Miss Stonehouse,” I said, taking a place I didn’t need beside her in the queue.

  The scribble of a nib came from beyond the counter, but I only had interest in any sounds Jem might have to make.

  After a long breath in, she said, “Following me is becoming a habit of yours.” She kept her voice low, as though afraid of being overheard by the two other patrons.

  Chuckling, I ducked my head to get closer. An inhalation filtered in treated wood and polish, mustiness and soap, yet concentrating on Jem’s body alone, I detected nothing artificial. Her body enticed me without assistance. “Maybe you should not look so appetising,” I whispered, sending my breaths across her cheek.

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I shall not be a conquest of yours, Mr Holloway.”

  “Why do you insist on such formality when you speak to me?”

  “Your name is Mr Holloway, is it not?”

  “My name is Sean. I would very much like it if you called me as such. Jem, yes?”

  Her head twitched a little. “Not to you.” With a rustled lift of her skirts, she stepped forward to the teller.

  I moved away to the side, as the grey-haired clerk provided currency, his eyes tracking the coins from over his low-hooked spectacles. Opposite him, Jem stood at ease, little anxiety apparent in the set of her shoulders, as though faced with a task she oft dealt with. Females were not usually found in establishments such as banks, and I could not help wonder why no male existed to take on the family’s responsibilities.

  After scooping her coinage into her purse, she turned toward me, her eyes widening when she met my gaze once again. “Have you no business of your own to attend to, Mr Holloway?”

  “Yes.” I smiled as I failed to include that said business stood before me.

  “Then, I suggest you run along to it. If you wish to keep good company, you have to play by their rules.”

  I frowned as she walked on, and chased behind when she opened the door, stepping out into the bright morning with her. “Company?” She could move fast, I granted her that. Catching up to her before she could round the next corner, I grasped for her arm. “Jem, wait.”

  She turned back to me. “Yes, Mr Holloway. Company. I am quite sure Elizabeth Wells will be missing you. Now, if you would not mind, I shall thank you to release my arm.” Her eyes held more emotion than I had seen in a long time, before she tugged free and walked away.

  I would have sworn jealousy had just shown its face.

  * * *

  “Who was it this week, Sean?” James asked on my return home.

  I studied my brother, my Alpha, crowned as such for his mature years at the death of our father. Dark eyes stared back from beneath darker hair, his six foot four frame indefinable whilst he sat. His likeness to me, or mine to him, never failed to be a marvel to me.

  “There were none who took my fancy,” I told him.

  His laughter arrived loud. “There is always one.”

  “Yes, come on, Sean,” said our fair-haired housemate, Charles. “Who was she?”

  Something told me to remain quiet about my infatuation with the Stonehouse girl. “I chatted with Lord Wells’ daughter for a short while.”

  “I knew one had left their scent upon you.” Philip, who lived in our other property on the south side of the forest, joined us often, and oft joined in any banter, also.

  “However, she bored me,” I added. “So I left without her.”

  My fellow pack members stared at me.

  I looked back, equally as steady—from my brother, to Charles, to the green eyes of Philip. Having just told them of my second ever trip into the village that did not end in the sating of my lust, I could understand their disbelief.

  When their attentions did not waver, sending a prickle of unease across my shoulders, my gaze broke first, and I turned away, leaving the kitchen before they could question me further.

  I had, I realised with a jolt, just kept my first secret from those inside the pack.

  Chapter 2

  Her absence from my life for another week should not have been that hard to accept, yet even the scent left behind on my clothing brought no relief to my longing for her. When I hovered at the periphery of the forest, near the path to the marketplace, the decision to be there did not astonish me.

  My disappointment grew, though, each time a new human passed by and it turned out not to be her. I thought myself foolish, when my heart sank upon spying Jem’s sister from my concealed position and finding she walked alone.

  My presence remaining unacknowledged, I waited for minutes afterwards, in the hope that Jem would be on her way to meet her. When she still did not, I turned to leave, but after only a few strides, I sensed movement that made me turn back. Eyes narrowing, I caught sight of Jem, just as she crossed a break in the overgrown bushes.

  With the first trickle of excitement flushing through my veins, I raced back the way I’d come and burst through the trees, onto the path before her.

  She gasped, those blue eyes of hers widening, and half stumbled back a step.

  “Jem, please wait.” I raised my palms in apology.

  Pressing her hands to her chest, she took deep breaths. “Do you always accost unsuspecting victims?”

  I gave a quiet ch
uckle. “Accost? I merely wanted to attract your attention.”

  “Well, you most certainly did that.” Her gaze remained on me before turning toward where I’d emerged, and she took a few steps toward the first line of timber, from where she peered within. “You were in the forest.”

  I moved nearer until my elbow brushed hers, somehow reassured by the contact. “Yes.”

  Her expression held curiosity, as she leaned forward. “’Tis not safe, Mr Holloway. Wolves inhabit the forest.”

  “Wolves?” Swallowing hard, I checked myself before I could reveal anything more, breathing a small laugh as though to discredit her words. “How could you know such a thing?”

  She lifted her face to me. “I have heard their calls. Their songs hold a haunting quality, which I find quite beautiful, if I am fortunate enough to hear them.”

  Head tilted, I took in her sincerity. “Have you ever entered, Jem?” She could not have. Surely, the forest would have been reluctant to release a scent such as hers once held captive within its confines.

  “Mother forbids it.” Her attention returned to the density of green hues and browns before her. “She says the wolves are not to be trusted.”

  I held in my concern at her words. “What does your mother know of the wolves?”

  She did not answer immediately, but her brows tightened, as though in contemplation. After a few seconds, she shrugged. “I would not know.” She backed away onto the path. “Mother barely tells me anything, other than what to do.”

  The hem of her dress brushed the dust beneath her feet, as she turned and walked away, leaving me behind with little other to do than watch.

  Her blue skirt bore no bustle, and her swinging hips mesmerised me with each of her steps, drawing my gaze to her slim waist encased within a bodice the colour of a young fawn. Lifting my sights higher, I followed the sway of the escaped blonde tendrils, which refused to remain fastened each time I saw her.