Chapter Seven
S EVEN
I decide I’m not going to fight my father on his plans.
I still bristle at the way this has been handled, but if pressed, I’d reluctantly admit that I understand.
I was attacked by supernatural mercenaries who planned to kidnap me as a broodmare for a foreign Pack.
My father is temporarily taking me into his custody for my own protection, and I would love to bring Lenora in on that, but I must concede that her prejudice against werewolves—and my father—would keep her from seeing this clearly.
She’d whisk me off, and I’d like to think we could fight any threat ourselves, but I’m not that naive.
I also want to know more about my father and my werewolf heritage, and my aunt is not going to allow that.
I won’t say I trust my father—I don’t know him—but I’m no longer sure I trust my aunt either.
Not in this, at least. So I will go to the Pack’s country estate and learn about werewolves while my father resolves this issue. And then I can deal with Lenora.
After our talk, my father has a maid bring a basin of hot water. When I greet her, she just nods, leaves the basin, and scurries out. I wash and brush my hair and fix it as best I can without help.
My father soon reappears and hands me a basket of food. “For the journey. It’s several hours from London to Trevelyan, and Bishop mentioned you’ve inherited our appetite.” He smiles. “You must be famished.”
I take the basket with thanks, and he leads me out the back door. The courtyard is empty except for a black brougham. My father opens the door for me, and I move forward, only to stop short when I spot Bishop inside.
A gentleman would put out a gloved hand to help me into the coach. Bishop stays where he is and watches dispassionately as I sweep my skirts through.
“Found your clothing, I see,” I say.
I whisper it, intended only for Bishop, but I’ve forgotten a werewolf’s excellent hearing and my father chuckles from the doorway.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” my father says. “I shouldn’t laugh. I’m sure that was an unpleasant shock.”
“I don’t believe that’s the word she’d use,” Bishop murmurs under his breath.
“‘Shock’?” I whisper, lower this time. “Or ‘unpleasant’?”
His gaze darts my way. Distaste that a young woman would be so bold? No, it doesn’t look like distaste.
Damn it, I need to be more careful. I usually am, keeping my flirtations appropriate for a genteel young lady. I’m not even trying to flirt. I just can’t seem to hold my tongue with Bishop.
It’s because he’s a werewolf, and I’ve discovered I have werewolf blood, and so I want to prove I’m no dainty miss. Like when I was a child, and I needed to show the village boys I could play their rough games.
I am being bold with Bishop because of that. No other reason.
I sit beside him on the single bench seat. The interior is far finer than the plain exterior suggested, with a padded leather seat that smells new, and I settle in, adjusting my skirts.
My father goes around to the other door, opens it and hands Bishop the basket.
“For Cordelia,” he says. “If she wants to share, remember that she missed dinner.”
I look at my father. “You aren’t joining us?” The brougham would be cramped with three, but we’d fit.
“I have business to attend to, and I want you safely away.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stab Bishop again. I understand the urge, but I need my right-hand man in the best possible shape to protect you.”
Without awaiting a response, my father shuts the door, and the carriage starts forward.
Once we’re away from the lit courtyard, I realize it’s night. Early night, though, with people still on the streets.
At least a quarter hour passes in silence as I work through everything my father said. Then Bishop mutters, “Well? Out with it.”
I startle and look at him. “Out with what?”
“Your questions. When I couldn’t answer, you wouldn’t stop asking. Now that we’re trapped together, you go silent. Don’t think I fail to understand the implication.”
“The implication being that you’re in no position to answer my questions?”
His lips tighten.
I continue, “Are you? All right then. Where exactly are we going? What will I find there? What is my father’s plan—?”
“Your father will want to explain all that. I mean the other implication to your silence.”
“That I’m not interested in talking to you? Please don’t take it personally, Mr. Daniels. I make it a rule never to indulge in conversation with men who kidnap me.”
“My name is Bishop. That’s how things are done in a Pack. Even your father is called Silas. It isn’t disrespect. We stand outside society and its ridiculous customs. Mr. Daniels could be either myself or Julius. Mr. Stockwell could be your father or his brother. I’m Bishop. You’re Cordelia.”
“Are there other Miss Carters at this house? Oh, dear. I see how that could be confusing.”
I swear he grinds his teeth.
When I look out the window again, he says, “Your silence means you’re plotting. Feigning docility.”
“Maybe I am docile.”
He snorts.
I glance at him. “Or maybe you’ve sufficiently cowed me.”
A louder snort.
I shake my head and look out the side window again.
After a few minutes, he clears his throat. “The carriage will slow to show you something that your father wants you to see. Understand that this is a kindness and not a show of weakness you might exploit.”
When I arch my brows, he adds, “Don’t do anything rash.”
“Such as…?”
He leans toward my window, peering into the night, and then exhales softly as if in relief.
“Good. Our scout was right. She’s there.”
“Who’s where?”
“Look out the window and to the left. About fifty yards off. You said you had excellent night vision—”
“I said I have good night vision,” I correct as I look out the window. “Now what am I—? Oh!”
“Don’t do anything rash,” he warns again, his voice low.
I resist the urge to snap at him and instead turn my back on him so I can revel in what I’m seeing.
It’s Lenora, walking with purpose, a handsome and well-dressed man beside her.
That’s Alfred—her dear friend, staunch ally, and longtime lover.
He’s also a sorcerer, proving Levines really do thumb their noses at Coven rules.
Alfred has a hand on Lenora’s arm, which could be support, but I know it’s gentle restraint. He’s holding her back from moving fast enough to call attention to them, though the grim look on her face is enough, people moving aside as quickly as they had for Bishop this…
Gods, was it really just this morning?
Bishop leans forward. “Your father wanted to reassure you that your aunt is well. According to our sources, she’s already gathered her network of allies to search for you. He’s sending a message so she knows where you are. She won’t like that, but she’ll know you’re safe with him.”
I barely hear him. My gaze is on my aunt as I fight back tears.
Lenora is well. Alive and well. I’ve been telling myself she is, stamping out every fear, as if doubt questioned my aunt’s abilities. Now, seeing her, I send up silent thanks to my father. I needed this reassurance.
“And my friend?” I whisper. “Audrey Thomas. Do you know anything?”
“She got away safely. Julius saw her coming down from the roof. I presume your aunt has already spoken to her.”
I nod. Once Lenora realized Audrey was at the house during the attack, she’d speak to her and warn her. My aunt might not like me having a human friend, but she’s fond of Audrey as a person, and she knows how deeply I care for her.
“I’d like to write Audrey a letter,” I say. “Would my father see that it gets to her?”
A brief pause. “Write it, and I will see that it is delivered.”
I watch until Lenora is out of sight, and then I settle back into my seat to think.
We’ve been in the carriage for at least two hours.
I’ve eaten from the basket. I didn’t overtly offer to share with Bishop, but I did set the basket aside and tell him I was done.
He only nodded and returned to the pose he’s been in since we left London, elbow against the windowsill, hand on his chin, gazing out, lost in his own thoughts.
I’d love to ask how much farther we have to go, but I won’t be the one to break the silence. I’m being careful here. Not offering him food. Not asking questions. Not even making conversation. I’m unmoored and—to be honest—anxious, because I’m not in control of this situation.
Being “not in control” is hardly new territory for a woman.
I’m in an infinitely better position than most, which is why even Levines keep to the Coven standard of taking lovers instead of husbands.
By law and by practice, a husband would be our lord, and we his property.
Of course there are men who’d recognize our intelligence and grant us autonomy, but even those words speak volumes about our position as women.
Recognize our intelligence.
Grant us autonomy.
That’s the best we can hope for—husbands who treat us as people. Even with that, we’d be at the whim of their magnanimity, which they could rescind at any time.
Witches are as free as women can be, with our own homes and businesses, but we still live in a world where we’re lesser. We might have our hands firmly on the rudder of our own ship, but we can’t control the tides and storms. Therefore, we can’t truly be in control.
And now that rudder has been taken over by a man who—legally—has authority over me. As an unmarried woman, I’m my father’s property. It doesn’t matter that he’s only gently taken the rudder to steer me through uncharted waters. I’m still adrift and unsettled.
Even when I’m in control, though, I’ve always had people to lean on. My grandmother and my mother and then my aunt, along with Audrey and assorted allies. When I feel as if I’ve lost my footing, I instinctively look for someone to commiserate and help me stand up again.