Chapter Five
FIVE
Less than half an hour later, Julius, Bishop, and I are leaving. I expect Bishop will ride his own horse, but he takes the gelding and insists I keep Cinder.
We travel on the roads this time. I’ve changed into the dress we stole, which is spectacularly ugly as well as ill fitting.
While I prefer the menswear, especially for riding, wearing it meant I couldn’t slip into that village with Felix and Tabitha.
Forced to choose between two types of freedom, I decide not to hide myself.
While I would love to buy a proper dress along the way, unless you live in a city, ready-made clothing needs to be ordered by catalog.
And it’s not as if I’d fit into any of that anyway.
I inherited my height from the Levines and my body shape from the Stockwells.
Add in a werewolf’s restlessness and a werewolf’s appetite without their ability to burn through food, and I’m five foot ten with a very full figure plus muscles.
Not a body type one sees on many well-to-do Victorian ladies.
What I need is a seamstress with wardrobes of secondhand clothing that she can adjust to fit me. But even if we did pass through a town big enough for that, we don’t have the time to spare.
Riding in a dress should mean that I ride sidesaddle.
I do not. I know how, of course. That is the only proper way for a well-bred woman to ride a horse, especially before she is wed, as riding astride is thought to rupture the hymen.
Witches usually don’t marry—they take lovers—so the existence of that scrap of skin has never been a concern.
As a girl growing up in Cornwall, I rode astride in a split skirt.
In London, I had to ride sidesaddle. Now, thankfully, I am with men who don’t care one whit if I’ve gathered my skirts up most indecorously to ride astride.
Also, that hymen silliness doesn’t apply to a married woman …
even if Bishop and I haven’t yet had our “proper” wedding night, given everything that’s happened.
We ride into late afternoon, and my stomach starts to gurgle.
Earlier I’d scoffed that my grandmother probably expects me to leave Bishop once I realize life with an outlaw Alpha doesn’t come with pretty dresses and fancy dinners.
And now here I am silently grumbling about the lack of proper clothing and prompt meals.
“There will be food where we are going,” Julius says as he passes me a chunk of bread. “You didn’t take enough at breakfast.”
“I was surrounded by very hungry wolves.”
“Of which you are one,” he says. “You’ve inherited that part of our physiology, and no one expects you to take less because you are a woman.”
Bishop growls, “And if they say anything, I shall set them straight.”
This is something I do need to overcome.
I’ve spent my life being teased for my appetite, and when it comes with a body that is fuller than the norm, that teasing takes on the edge of cruelty.
Even at Trevelyan, when I lost favor with my father, one of the maids maliciously joked about how I could stand to miss a few meals.
The wolves themselves hadn’t batted an eye at my appetite, but it might be different now that we aren’t sharing unlimited platters of food.
Still, the discomfort is my problem, and I will overcome it. Also, I must remember that, in a werewolf Pack, staking out a proper share of food is a show of power. If I want to assert my position, I need to eat as much as I like.
We’re now on open land, windswept and empty, with a delicious desolation that reminds me of the moors. We aren’t that far north, but I expect to inhale the scent of heather and see roving sheep. Instead, there’s a noticeable lack of farm animals, even on land that seems perfect for them.
In the distance, a forest rises from the nothingness and seems to stretch forever in each direction. We turn off the main road and take a small one that’s nearly overgrown. When it veers into the forest, both men go quiet, even Julius growing tense.
The path isn’t big enough for three to ride abreast. Bishop takes the lead and Julius brings up the rear, and I peer around, but it looks like an ordinary forest, and I feel myself relaxing.
I’ve always been drawn to wild places, and I understand why now, with my werewolf blood.
The Pack is fond of forests, and Trevelyan is surrounded by woods.
But neither Bishop nor Julius is relaxing in this one.
Then Bishop slows the gelding, and his nostrils flare.
“He’s out there, isn’t he,” Julius mutters.
“I believe so.”
“Worse than a damned watchdog.”
I clear my throat, but Bishop only murmurs, “You are safe.”
His gaze tracks something I can’t see. Then he shakes his head and continues on, glancing left every now and then. I try to pick up a scent, but I can’t.
We’re being tracked by something in the forest.
A werewolf, I’m sure of that.
The road turns ahead, and when I spot a house, I have to blink. It’s like something from a fairy tale. The woodcutter’s hut, deep in the forest.
Outside, a woman works a kitchen garden that’s catching the last rays of afternoon sunshine. Seeing us, she straightens, and her face breaks into a broad grin.
“Boys,” she says.
Julius swings off his horse and catches her up in a hug, making her squeal like a girl, though she must be in her forties.
Even in a dirt-streaked working dress, she’s lovely.
Her dark hair is graying, and her face shows the ravages of a hard life, but her green eyes glitter and she has a strong body, despite an obvious limp when Julius sets her down.
“Oh!” she says, as if seeing me for the first time. “Oh my. Who is this?”
Bishop is off his horse and helping me down. “This is my wife, Cordelia. Cordelia, this is Nancy.”
“Such a beautiful lass,” Nancy says with a soft Scottish brogue. “Despite that hideous dress. Please tell me you’ve come for money to outfit her properly.”
“We had a mishap,” Bishop says. “Her trousseau was lost. But yes, that is part of why I’ve come.”
Nancy eyes Bishop. “Your bride isn’t the only one without a proper wardrobe.” She pokes his chest. “I never thought I’d see the day. Bishop Danvers in ill-fitting homespun.”
He doesn’t correct her on his surname, only gives the faintest smile and takes her hand, kissing it, which makes her blush and roll her eyes.
“Such a gentleman this one,” she says to me. “Both of them. No idea where they got it from.” That sharp-eyed gaze turns my way, her head tilting. “You know what your husband is, I take it.”
“She does,” Bishop says. “Which means I can properly introduce you. Nancy, half-demon with the power of ice.”
Nancy’s grin is infectious. “The most underrated of the demonic powers, I say. Everyone thinks fire is the best elemental, but it’s easy to start a blaze and cook your dinner. Try cooling your ale in summer.”
I laugh softly. “That would be useful.”
Bishop opens his mouth. Then he stops, and the good humor vanishes from his face.
“He knows we’re here,” Bishop murmurs.
“I’m sure he does. And you’re not grabbing the money and leaving.” Her hand grips Bishop’s wrist. “You need to see him.”
“I know.” Bishop pulls his gaze from the forest and puts a hand to my back. “Let’s get you inside. Nancy? If you have anything to eat, we could all use it. It’s been a very long day.”
“I always have plenty to eat. Come in, and I’ll fix a bite while I add more to the stew for dinner.”
Inside, the cottage is tiny but as clean and tidy as any manor with a staff of twenty. Nancy bustles about, gathering bread and pickles and cheese and meat from storage under the floorboards, where she jokes about how easy it is to keep a cold cellar when you can freeze water at a touch.
When steps sound on the porch, Bishop and Julius both go still, as if frozen themselves. Nancy murmurs under her breath, sounding for all the world like a mother calming anxious children.
“Fee fi fo fum,” a voice booms from outside. “I smell the blood of my favorite son.”
I glance quickly at Bishop and Julius. Both their fathers are dead. At my look, Julius shakes his head, saying no, this isn’t either father. Bishop doesn’t notice my confusion. His gaze stays fixed on that door.
Then the door flies open to a man wearing only breeches, his chest and feet bare, that chest streaked with blood, more at his lips.
He looks in his fifties, which means, with werewolf aging, he’s probably in his seventies.
He’s in enviable shape even for a man of fifty—tall and muscled, with Bishop’s dark eyes and Julius’s chestnut hair.
“There he is,” the man booms, loud enough to hurt my ears. His gaze is fixed on Bishop, as if no one else is in the room.
Nancy’s fingers land on Bishop’s shoulder, as if urging him to his feet, and again, I’m reminded of a mother with reluctant children, coaxing them to greet a terrifying older relative.
Bishop stiffly rises and steps forward, his face expressionless. The man grabs him into a fierce hug, and I itch to ready a spell, not because Bishop is in danger but because he so obviously doesn’t want that embrace.
As Bishop disentangles himself, the man’s nostrils flare, catching a scent, and his gaze flies to me. He stares and then throws back his head and laughs before thumping Bishop on the back.
“Yours, yes? Tell me that is yours.”
“She is my wife.” Bishop’s voice is cold. “Her name is Cordelia.”
“Stockwell, yes?” The man rubs his hands together. “She has Silas’s hair and eyes, and she’s a lycan—a lycan. I can smell it.”
For Nancy’s benefit, Julius murmurs, “Cordelia’s father is a werewolf, and she inherited secondary characteristics.”
“She’s his, yes?” the man repeats. “Silas’s spawn?”
“His daughter,” Bishop says.
The man chortles. “I’d heard he had one.” His eyes widen. “Is her mother the witch? That was the rumor. A dark witch?”
“My wife’s name is Cordelia Levine,” Bishop says, each word brittle. “Her family are powerful witches.”
“A lycan and a witch, and Silas’s brat.”
“Daughter.”
The man waves off the correction. “You know I mean no disrespect. Look at her.” His gaze travels over me. “Magnificent. And she’s yours. Yours. Tell me you stole her from that bastard.”
“Silas betrothed us when he made me his heir.”
“Heir?” The man shouts at the ceiling. “Finally!” He grins at Bishop. “Now all you need to do is kill him and spike his head on the gate.”
“Montague!” Nancy says. “This is Silas’s daughter.”
“And my boy’s mate, which means Bishop is her priority now. Kill that Alpha bastard. Kill his brother and all his inner circle and spike their heads on the gate. Tell the world who you are and that the Danvers family is back at Trevelyan.”
I look at Julius. “Your grandfather, I presume?”
Julius chokes on a laugh that bursts free as he doubles over in his chair.
Montague stalks toward Julius, and now I really do ready that spell as Bishop tenses, ready to leap in, only Julius’s wave holding him at bay.
“You’re still alive, whelp?” Montague says.
Julius lifts his mug of ale. “Cheers to that.”
“Useless piece of mongrel dung.”
Julius grins at me. “It’s a term of affection. And oddly, I’m a lot less useless when he needs a doctor.”
“Please, Monty,” Nancy says. “You’ll frighten the girl.”
“Oh, I don’t frighten easily,” I say. “Though I’ve had my fill of wolves who let insults roll like water off their tongues. That was my father’s way.”
Montague turns, and there’s one long and tense moment, where I’m half watching him and half watching Bishop, who’s gone still but isn’t leaping in, which means I haven’t said anything that’ll get me thrown across the room.
After a moment, Montague grins. “You toss insults well yourself, my dear, and that is a brutal one. Your father is a braggart and a fool. I’m neither.”
“I didn’t say you were. I only said you seem to share that in common. Easy insults flung at everyone around you. Well, possibly with one exception.”
My gaze falls on Bishop, whose eyes are empty, his face impassive.
Montague thumps Bishop on the back. “Because he is the exception, as I’m sure you’ve realized. A true Danvers. My boy is going to rip the Pack from your father’s teeth and return it to its former glory.”
“Yes, he will,” I say.
“And when those heads are on spikes, he’s going to throw open the gates and welcome me home.”
Bishop stiffens, but I only take his arm and move closer.
“He’ll do whatever needs to be done,” I say.
“And now we eat,” Nancy says, her voice high and tight. “The boys—and Miss Cordelia—need to be on their way.”
“That’s Mrs. Danvers,” Montague corrects, though his tone is surprisingly gentle. “She’s Bishop’s mate.”
“You can call her Cordelia,” Bishop says. “Now, if we can eat, we need to be on our way before dark.”