Highland Shifters: A Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Unknown

  “We need to git you ready for the hunt, ya ken?” Moira bustled into the room, her arms full of fabric. Sibyl felt like a doll they dressed up several times a day and paraded out for her fiancé’s approval. She didn’t understand—it wasn’t as if the man hadn’t already agreed to marry her. But Alistair seemed to delight in each new outfit. She found it rather disconcerting.

  “I don’t want to go.” Sibyl sighed, leaning against the window ledge and peering down at the courtyard below. The men were already tussling in the yard, energy high, anticipating the kill. She’d been excited at the prospect of a hunt at first. Her father had led many on their estate back in York, and she’d ridden alongside the men with her own bow. Her father had even marked her cheeks and forehead with the blood of the first boar she’d ever taken down by herself from horseback. She was an excellent shot—she could hit her mark at fifty yards.

  But when her fiancé had informed her, in no uncertain terms, that English ladies didn’t carry weapons on a hunt, that they rode side-saddle, like respectable women, Sibyl knew she was, once again, just going to be paraded out in front of everyone for show. She wasn’t going to get to hunt at all on this “hunt.” And, she had decided, if that was the case, she was just going to stay in her room and read a good book. That was far preferable than riding side-saddle on some old, tame, brood mare while her husband-to-be bragged about his hunting prowess, nudging his men and whispering to them about Sibyl’s long, curly red hair and big, sea green eyes.

  “Now, come along.” Moira clucked and fussed, putting the pile of dark green velvet on the bed. “Yer betrothed bids ye hunt wi’him.”

  No, her betrothed bid her to ride on a horse beside him like a good little girl.

  “More clothes?” Sibyl looked down at the blue silk day dress she had worn to breakfast. “Isn’t this sufficient?”

  “Aye, more clothes, and be grateful, lass!” Moira’s eyes flashed. “This dress could feed a family in my village for a year.”

  A year? Surely not! Sibyl had always been a bit spoiled, even at home, although her toys had been things like her own falcon, Peri; a Norwegian longbow; and her stallion, Prince. Her mother had purchased her dresses over the years, but Sibyl had refused to wear them, and her father had indulged her. For years, she had gone around Blackthorne Castle wearing breeches like a boy, much to her mother’s embarrassment. Only when company came did her mother put her foot down. Then there was the struggle of fighting Sibyl into a bathtub, brushing the tangles out of her long red hair, and lacing her into a dress.

  Of course, that didn’t stop her from challenging their guests’ sons to foot races or shooting contests, which she usually won, much to her father’s delight. It also usually ruined whatever clothing she was wearing. She would end up with dirt smeared all down her front, or mud caking the hem of her gown. Then there was the time when she was twelve and she stripped down to her chemise and had a boy unlace her corset so they could go swimming in the waterhole and try to catch frogs with their hands. Even her father had been angry that time.

  Sibyl lifted her arms obediently at Moira’s urging, letting the old woman take off her day dress and toss it on the bed. She was used to the process now, had gotten used to it back home, when her uncle—her father’s brother, a man so unscrupulous, he had wooed and won Sibyl’s mother after her father had died—had insisted on finding her a “match.” It had been an endless supply of dresses then too, and a continual parade of men who wanted to hold her hand. Some of them had even dared to kiss her cheek, or even her mouth. Those she had kicked in the shins. The one who had pinned her against a wall in the south garden and grabbed her breast had been kicked somewhere more private. Her father had taught her that too.

  Her uncle had soon discovered that Sibyl’s value, while it was quite high in looks, decreased considerably once a man had actually met and attempted to court her. Her uncle could order her bathed and groomed and dressed, but he couldn’t control her behavior—as much as his threatened, and actual, beatings made the attempt. So her uncle had changed his strategy, and had started looking for men much further away, who might have had heard of her beauty, but who were too far away or too busy to actually travel to meet his young, marriageable stepdaughter.

  The best match—in her uncle’s estimation—had been Alistair MacFalon, laird of clan MacFalon and warden of the Middle March in Scotland. It wouldn’t have been Sibyl’s choice, but Sibyl didn’t have a choice. The agreement had been made over ale and fish in King Henry’s court. The King himself had suggested and approved of the match. Sibyl knew then, with a sinking heart, that she was done for. Before she knew it, her mother had kissed her dryly on the cheek, murmured something about behaving and doing her “wifely duty,” and then Sibyl was on the road to Scotland with a pack of armed guards and one ladies’ maid.

  Rose was a silly girl who liked to talk about fashion and clothes and court and who was doing what with whom and when until Sibyl was bored to tears. Rose especially liked to talk about men. She talked about royalty, she talked about lords and ladies and earls and duchesses, she talked about men she’d met at court, she even talked about the guards who were escorting them through the English countryside to what would be Sibyl’s new homeland. Rose talked so much, Sibyl was grateful when the girl started slipping out at night, because Rose would talk until she finally fell asleep—and then, she snored.

  A few nights, Sibyl awoke to the sound of something she thought, at first, was an animal, hurt and crying in the forest. Then, she realized, it was Rose. She’d heard her talking enough to recognize the sound of her voice, even if it was a non-verbal sort of scream. Sibyl listened, ashamed of herself for doing so—but the woman was so loud, the whole camp had to have heard her, she reasoned!—knowing that Rose was having marital relations with one of the guards. Her mother hadn’t told her anything about them, but the ladies’ maids at her father’s estate did so like to gossip, and Sibyl had gleaned most of it from them. That, and from watching the animals in the forest, the dogs in the yard.

  But Rose wasn’t married. She knew standards were different for ladies maids than they were for women of Sibyl’s station—but the consequences weren’t. It had taken them a month to finally reach the Scottish border, and by then, Rose was with child. Sibyl was furious when the captain of the guard, who lined up his men and fired off the question about who had been bedding with their charge’s ladies’ maid, came back and told her that none of the men would confess.

  “Was it an immaculate conception then?” Sibyl had snapped.

  She had been tempted to fire them all. She fantasized about riding the rest of the way on her own, showing up at her betrothed’s castle alone, on horseback, with no escort. She knew, however, that her uncle would hear of it, and his reach was long. He would punish her somehow for such a transgression.

  The captain of the guard had suggested they leave Rose by the side of the road and simply move on. This had angered Sibyl even further, so she had ordered they stop at the next town for longer than the guard wanted, and she had searched out a family that would take Rose in. She would have to work, of course, in trade for her room and board, but at least she and her baby would have a safe place to stay.

  That left Sibyl without a ladies’ maid at all, which suited her just fine. Although she hadn’t quite anticipated the dressing problem she was going to have. Instead of lacing herself up into a corset—which was impossible, she discovered—she went without it altogether. She wore those dresses that laced or buttoned up the front, and once she reached the castle, it was Moira who greeted her, clucking over her appearance, insisting she be bathed and dressed before meeting her husband-to-be, so that she look “like a proper English lady.”

  It was important to her betrothed, Sibyl quickly discovered, that she look like a “proper English lady” at all times. It became clear that her Scottish husband-to-be had agreed to marry her almost solely on the basis that she was highborn, English, and a lady. This last was debatable, but as long a
s she looked the part, so far he hadn’t seemed to care. He just liked to look at her, and show her off, and brag about his conquest. Alistair MacFalon did a lot of bragging about his conquests.

  “There.” Moira nodded in satisfaction, curling the last of Sibyl’s long, thick auburn tresses around her fat, sausage fingers. “Ye look as pretty as a pitcher.”

  Sibyl frowned into the mottled looking glass she was seated in front of. She’d been trussed up like a turkey in her corset and dressed in green velvet like a Christmas tree. Moira put a green velvet hat with silver ribbons threaded through it on her head, securing it with pins that Sibyl knew would be useless on a hard ride. But the effect was stunning, she had to admit. As girls went, she was kind of a pretty one, she thought, cocking her head and squinting at the glass. Whenever she had lamented her carrot-colored hair as a child—the village boys had teased her mercilessly about it—her father had told her she would appreciate it, one day, when she was older and men started to take notice of her.

  There had been one boy, a gruff, dark-haired chap who worked in her father’s stables, who had looked at her in a way that made her skin tingle and flush. He had told her once he thought she had beautiful hair. “Like fire,” he said softly, helping her off her horse. At the time, it had been tangled and full of brambles, but he hadn’t seemed to notice. Her body had slid all the way down his long, lean frame when he gave her a hand, a sensation that made her gasp and his nostrils flare like her stallion, Prince, when he caught scent of something interesting.

  Other girls had said, rather cattily, that she was “too pretty for her own good,” whatever that meant. They seemed to think beauty was wasted on a girl like her—one that would rather go hunting for deer than dance and flirt with boys.

  Sibyl stood, smoothing the velvet dress over her hips, seeing herself as her fiancé must. She was tall—taller than most girls—and thin. Too thin, really, and quite muscular. It came from years of being so active. Her skin wasn’t the type to turn brown from the sun, but it was freckled, much to her mother’s chagrin. They dotted her nose, her arms, even her breasts—hence all the white powder. But she had to admit, in spite of all her flaws, once she was dressed up, she made quite an elegant looking young lady. Her mother would have been proud.

  Her father, she thought, frowning at her own image at the mirror—what would he have thought of her impending marriage? Her betrothed? She thought she knew. And the answer wasn’t a good one.

  “Yer as ready as ready can be.” Moira gave a satisfied nod, ushering her toward the door. “Hurry up now, he’ll be waitin’ for ye.”

  “I forgot my wrap,” Sibyl said, turning back halfway down the dank, damp hallway. Moira sighed, turning to go back for it. “No, no, you go. I know you have other work to do. I’ll fetch it myself.”

  “Ye sure?”

  “Of course.” Sibyl was already heading back to her room.

  She gave a quick peek to make sure Moira was continuing on her way before closing the door. Her wrap was sitting on a chest and she snatched it, but she also knelt to peer under the big canopy bed, reaching to grab a satchel she had packed slowly over the past several weeks since arriving in Scotland. Inside was a canteen—stolen and filled with water—three days’ worth of food, if she stretched it, a flint, and a knife, stolen from the kitchen. Thanking God for the current fashion of big skirts, she pulled hers up and pinned the satchel to her chemise.

  It bumped against her leg when she walked, but she thought her skirts would hide it well enough. She was willing to take that chance. She’d already decided as much. Pulling her wrap around her shoulders, she headed back out of her chambers, walking slowly down the stairs so as not to call too much attention to what she had hidden under her skirts. Just carrying it made her flesh prickle like a plucked goose when she thought of what might happen if her betrothed found out she was planning an escape from his dank Scottish castle.

  “G’day, Lady Blackthorne!”

  The sound of her name made Sibyl gasp as she came around the corner to head toward the courtyard. Alistair’s brother, Donal, was heading toward her, a bow slung over his shoulder. She looked at it longingly, knowing if she could get her hands on that, she wouldn’t need to worry about stretching her stale bread and dried fruit.

  “Good morning, Donal.” Her smile for him was genuine.

  Donal MacFalon might look like his brother—dirty blond hair, angular features—but unlike his sibling, his 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 for 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 just what you’ll be, lassie. King Henry and yer uncle—er, yer stepda—they’re counting on this marriage to 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 you 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 ha
d 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 have delivered yer bride to 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.