by Selena Kitt
“Good morning, Donal.” Her smile for him was genuine.
Donal MacFalon might look a little like his brother with his angular features, but unlike his sibling, he had dark, shoulder-length hair to his brother’s dirty-blond curls. And also unlike his brother, Donal’s smile always reached his eyes, and those eyes weren’t gray, but blue, like a summer sky, and they seemed to twinkle all the time. He had been very kind to her since her arrival at the MacFalon castle and had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.
“Are ye ready fer yer first Scottish hunt then?” He offered her his arm and she took it, letting him escort her out into the breezeway.
“Yes, very much. I just wish I could ride astride and carry a bow,” she lamented.
Donal laughed—he had a wonderfully robust laugh that made everyone around him merry—looking down at her with those glittering eyes.
“If my brother wasn’t such a stick in the mud, he’d let ye.” He dropped her a wink. “Scots women do’na ride side-saddle. And I know many a woman who could outshoot me brother.”
“Well then I’d like to be a Scot, please.”
“When ye marry Ali, that’s jus’ what ye’ll be, lassie. King Henry and yer uncle—er, yer stepda—they’re counting on this marriage t’help squash the border skirmishes.”
“Yes, I’m a very important pawn.” Sibyl made a face.
Her uncle, who was now also her stepfather, had used her to gain the king’s favor, assuring him an alliance between a highborn English lady from the Blackthorne family with the MacFalons, who controlled a great deal of the land in the Middle March, would help quell the border skirmishes that cost the crown both money and resources.
The feudal lands on either side of the border were valuable. Lachlan MacFalon, Alistair and Donal’s father, had done his best to keep the continued fighting between the English and Scottish to a minimum, but after his death, things had degenerated quickly. Alistair, Laird Lachlan MacFalon’s firstborn son, was not the man his father had been, and Sibyl had seen for herself how little respect he elicited in his own men. Alistair could never inspire the respect of the English, whether they were peasants or royalty, like his father had.
But Alistair was laird of clan MacFalon now and something had to be done about the thieving, poaching, and bloodshed on the border. This was King Henry’s solution—and Sibyl’s uncle had been instrumental in putting it all together.
“So ye ken what this is all about then?” Donal inquired, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, I ken.” She nodded, meeting his knowing eyes. “I mostly definitely ken.”
She understood it quite well. She had just decided that she wasn’t going to be a party to it. She was tired of being played like a pawn in their little chess game. This was the first opportunity she would have to escape and she intended to take it, the moment a chance presented itself. It was at least a week of travel on horseback to the village where they had left Rose, but she knew the family would take her in. She just hoped Alistair wouldn’t put out a reward for her return because anyone in a poor village would turn her in without a second thought if they believed they would be paid for doing so.
“I’m sorry, lass,” Donal said softly as they walked into the courtyard where the men were waiting with their horses and their hunting gear. She felt their eyes all turn to her, an affect she knew delighted her betrothed. He seemed to like the way men’s eyes followed her around his keep.
“It’s not your fault.” She smiled up at the man holding her arm, wondering if things would have been different if it had been Donal who was the first son instead of the second, if it was Donal to whom she had been engaged. He wasn’t a bad looking man, and his kind heart and sense of humor seemed to soften his sharp features. “But thank you.”
One of the men—his name was Gregor, he had made it a point to introduce himself to her on several occasions—nudged his companion with an elbow and leaned over to say something she couldn’t hear. It was something snide and nasty, she was sure, about the Englishwoman who had come to live in their land. She hated being so different—and those differences being so obvious—but there was nothing to be done about it.
Sibyl pasted on a smile as they made their way across the courtyard toward her betrothed. He was smiling too, although something always felt forced about this expression on his face. Whenever she looked away from him it would fade, and his thin, red lips would sink into a frown. Then, if she looked at him again, the smile would reappear—but, unlike his brother’s, it never, ever reached his eyes.
“I’ve delivered yer bride t’ye safely, brother.” Donal gave a decidedly English bow as they approached the spot where Alistair was waiting for her out in the yard. Winnifred, the tame, old gray mare she’d been riding since she arrived, stood beside his big, black steed, Fian. Old Winnie was fitted with a side-saddle.
“Ye look like a summer day, Lady Blackthorne.” Alistair greeted her with a slight bow, one arm folded across his middle, one behind his back. She had been called Lady Blackthorne all her life—her father had been an earl, which made her a viscountess—but it felt like an insult here in this land, among these people.
She was on eye-level with her betrothed’s bare knee, a sight she still had a hard time getting used to. The Scots wore the strangest outfits, and the plaid blanket they wore strapped and pinned around them most of the time was the strangest. Donal said it was a Scotsman’s best tool, but she doubted the veracity of his claim. She wasn’t one to insist on everything being prim and proper—she was, after all, the girl who had spent most of her childhood wearing pants—but seeing a man’s bare legs hanging out all the time was unnerving.
“Thank you, m’lord.” She acknowledged his compliment as the groomsmen came over to help her up into her saddle, but Gregor got there first. She couldn’t do anything but smile as he manhandled her up onto her mount, his hands in places no man’s hands should ever go in polite company. She gritted her teeth and bore it, as her fiancé seemed to either not care, or wasn’t paying attention. The horse didn’t stop grazing on the early spring shoots of clover.
“Alistair.” Her betrothed tightened his grip on Winnie’s reins, forcing the horse closer to his own, as he reminded Sibyl that he wanted to be called by his Christian name. “Ye ken?”
This made Sibyl’s knees, hidden under mounds of green velvet, brush up against his bare ones. It also shifted the makeshift satchel she had hidden under her skirts and she stiffened, trying not to let on. She looked up at him—his was a war horse, far taller than her own—as he leaned over to murmur something close to her ear. “That’s the name ye’ll be callin’ on yer wedding night, lass.”
“Yes… Alistair.” She gave a short nod, heart thudding hard in her chest, wondering if the man even remembered her own Christian name, and doubted it. She just wanted him to let her horse go, so she could steer Winnie away from him. Sibyl didn’t like to think about wedding this man, let alone bedding him. But all he seemed to think about was the latter.
“I like the way ye say it.” He didn’t let Winnie’s reins go. In fact, he pulled the nag closer. The horse whinnied in protest, but she side-stepped, her flank brushing his big steed’s. Alistair’s mouth was now right against Sibyl’s ear. His breath reeked of alcohol. “And from such a pretty mouth.”
She was relieved when he pulled away slightly, but only far enough for him to look into her eyes. His were as gray as a storm cloud, his features sharp, angular. His hair was a dusty, dirty blond and a lock of it constantly fell over one eye. His gaze moved over her mouth, tracing the line of her lips, and Sibyl thought for a moment he was going to do something very unknightly with everyone’s eyes on them.
“Jus’ a week away now,” he murmured, those gray eyes lifting to meet her own. “Are ye lookin’ forward t’yer weddin’, Lady Blackthorne?”
She’d been fitted for her wedding dress before she left—it was part of the not inconsiderable dowry she had carried with her from England. The gown was waiting on a d
ress dummy in a room all its own down the hall. The train was long enough to fill it.
“Every girl dreams about her wedding day,” she answered properly, and quite loudly.
Other girls might have dreamed about and planned their wedding day, but Sibyl Blackthorne wasn’t every girl. She reached out to take the reins of her horse from his hands. He was surprised, and this gave her the advantage. She had her horse five steps away from his before he could even respond. “So I hear we’re not hunting for boar?”
She said this last to change the subject and mitigate the sting of her actions. Alistair straightened on his horse, looking coolly down at her. He didn’t like what she’d done, that much was clear. She was going to have to do more to make up for it.
“I heard the men talking about wulvers,” she said innocently, actually batting her eyelashes at him. She’d seen Rose do this with one of her guardsmen and had practiced it herself in a looking glass when no one was around. She felt ridiculous doing it, but she’d had a feeling it would come in handy. She was right. “We don’t have those in England. Are they like badgers?”
The men, who had been watching the whole encounter, couldn’t help their laughter. Even Alistair reluctantly smiled, that same smile that never reached his cool, gray eyes, and gave a little chuckle at her ladylike misunderstanding.
“Wolves,” Alistair corrected her with that same condescending smile.
“Wulvers are wolves?” She blinked at him in surprise. “So wulver—that’s Scottish, er, Gaelic, for wolves?”
She was surprised to hear it, as she’d never been on a hunt for wolves. Her father had told her, when he was a boy, wolves were one of the five “royal beasts of the chase,” but their numbers had dwindled over the years until they were almost nonexistent in England.
“Nuh, m’lady.” Alistair’s brother, Donal, pulled his horse up beside hers. She was now sandwiched between the two MacFalon brothers. “Not jus’ any ol’ wolves. Wulvers is a whole other animal.”
“What do you mean?” She cocked her head at Donal, frowning. “What kind of wolves are they?”
“They’s not really wolves at all, ya ken?” Donal’s blue eyes glittered, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“No.” She shook her head, knowing he was somehow putting her on, but not quite understanding how. “I most definitely do not ‘ken.’”
“They’s wolves that turn into men.” Donal leaned forward on his saddle to whisper this loudly. The rest of his men were watching her reaction, all of them smiling. “And men that turn into wolves. Wulvers—ya ken?”
“Do’na scare the poor girl t’death.” Alistair chastised his brother when Sibyl didn’t respond to his stage-whispers. “She’ll run back t’her room and hide on ye.”
“I will not.” Sibyl’s spine straightened instantly, which wasn’t easy to do in a side-saddle. For some reason, side-saddles always made her want to slump, an offense her mother often chastised her for. “I’m not afraid of wolves. Or… wulvers.”
“Aye, she’s a brave lass.” Donal straightened in his saddle, laughing. “Might wanna give’er a bow, brother.”
“She hasn’t seen a wulver yet,” Alistair countered, steering his horse closer to Sibyl’s. “I’ll keep ye safe, lass. No need for ye t’worry.”
“Thank you.” Sibyl nodded, giving him an obligatory smile. “But I really would like to have a bow. Would that be possible?”
She looked between the two men and saw Donal trying to hide a smile. He clearly understood his brother’s desire to have a dainty, feminine English companion, and just how far Sibyl actually fell from that mark.
“Your brother tells me that Scots women ride astride and carry bows in a hunt,” she said, hoping she wasn’t getting Donal into too much trouble by repeating his words. Alistair gave his brother a long, cold look.
“But ye’re English, m’lady,” her betrothed reminded her in his Scottish brogue. “Mayhaps—”
“But shouldn’t I learn your ways?” She decided to try batting her eyelashes again. It seemed to have an effect on Alistair’s mood. “I would like to learn all of your ways. Can’t you teach me how to use a bow?”
This last seemed to decide her fiancé and Sibyl could almost see him fantasizing about holding her close while he instructed her on the proper way to hold the weapon. Alistair motioned to one of the groomsmen and told him to bring over a longbow and a quiver of arrows. She slung both over her shoulder, feeling much better about her plan. Poor Donal had no idea what he’d just given her, and surely wouldn’t have encouraged it if he’d known.
“Thank you,” she mouthed to Donal when she was turned away from Alistair so he couldn’t see. The younger MacFalon just winked and turned his horse toward his men.
“Let’s ride!” Donal yelled and all the horses’ ears pricked up.
“Stay wit’ me,” Alistair urged as the rest of the men took off, riding across the field of heather toward the line of trees in the distance. “Stay close.”
She did as she was told—she was starting to get used to that, a fact which disturbed her—riding at half the clip the other men were, keeping up only with Alistair.
“Are ye really not afeared, Lady Blackthorne?” Alistair asked as they neared the trees. The other men were already into the woods, heading down a well-worn path on their horses. “Of the wulvers?”
“I… don’t know.” It was a lie.
She knew they were all fooling, just putting her on, trying to get her to react in typical feminine fashion at some Scottish folk tale about men that turned into wolves or the other way around. And if they weren’t—if Alistair really believed in these strange, fantastical creatures—she had even less respect for him than she’d managed to muster already.
“I wanna show ye somethin’, if ye can be a brave lass.” He smiled at her, a secret smile that, this time, almost reached those cold gray eyes.
“Of course.” She gave him a nod as they entered the woods, the temperature dropping a good ten degrees just from the cover of trees. “I can be brave.”
Her father had taught her to be a brave girl, after all. She followed Alistair deeper and deeper into the woods, their horses side by side on a path they seemed familiar with. She heard the men whooping and hollering ahead of her and longed to be with them, riding astride instead of side-saddle, wearing a pair of breeches instead of this heavy velvet dress. Her father had taught her a lot of things, she realized, and most of them would be useless to her here, living with this man who wanted her to be something she wasn’t.
She had to smile at the thought of Alistair and Donal and his men believing she would be scared of an old wives’ tale. There were far more frightening things in the world, she was coming to realize, than what old women and men told youngsters around the fire to scare them into being good. She’d heard those tales herself as a child, stories of dragons and unicorns and griffins. Maybe they had scared her once, when she was what Moira would call a “wee bairn,” but not anymore.
She rode fearlessly into the forest, realizing she was far less afraid of wolves—or wulvers, whatever they were—than she was of marrying Alistair MacFalon.
Chapter Two
Sibyl would have enjoyed the ride through the woods, if it hadn’t been for Alistair’s constant yammering. The man loved to hear himself talk and she had no idea how they were going to find anything to hunt with his constant chatter scaring away all the game. She listened with half an ear to his words—he was going on about some tournament he had won in England, a feat probably meant to impress her, since he was Scottish and she English—but she was paying far more attention to the woods around her.
Her father had taught her to track. Not just to hunt, which often involved tracking an injured, bleeding animal through the forest, if you were unskilled enough not to make the first shot a kill shot, but to actually track. He had taught her the difference between animal prints. She could even differentiate between a chipmunk and a squirrel print. Her father and his me
n had taught her the names of all the plants, their medicinal uses and their dangers. He had taught her how to care for herself out in the woods—how to build a shelter, make a fire.
She was thinking these things, and how they would come in handy when she escaped, paying attention to the sounds of the men in the distance—she could tell they were still on the hunt and hadn’t found any wolves, or wulvers, or anything else for that matter—the sound of a stream off to her right, the crackle of branches to the left, a small animal, a fox or perhaps a rabbit, when she heard something that made her pause and rein in her horse. It was a familiar sound, one she’d heard a hundred times—the sound of an injured animal.
“Lady Blackthorne?” Alistair reined in his horse, glancing back at her inert form with a frown.