Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
Bishop and I walk into the dining hall first. I’m on his arm, and I don’t even need to see the expressions of those inside to know we make an impression, Bishop tall and commanding and dressed at the height of fashion, in his tailored black coat and white linen bow tie, me in a gorgeous dark blue dress that’s modest but wonderfully flattering, thanks to Bishop’s unerring eye.
Hamish rises from the head of the table.
He’s not a large man, about my height and slender, his hair graying and his face lined.
He’d be about Montague’s age but he looks older.
His brown eyes go straight to me with a widening that says I am not what he expected.
Then he looks at Bishop, and I can see his mind whirring, assessing.
An Alpha’s strength lies partly in his perceived ability to lead.
For my tall and muscular father, that was mostly brute force.
For Bishop, it’s physical presence plus a steel trap of a mind.
The Caledonian Alpha leans toward the latter.
He’s not physically intimidating, but as he fixes his attention on Bishop, I see the shrewd and calculating mind.
“A Danvers at the head of the Albion Pack again,” he says as he shakes Bishop’s hand. “It has been a very long time. Your great-great-grandfather, I believe?”
“Yes.”
Hamish takes my hand and kisses it, then waves for us to sit as a young wolf scurries to pull out chairs. The three sons have joined us, but there’s no one else, as Edwin warned.
“Sit,” Hamish says. “I know your journey has been long.”
Small talk follows, while the young wolf fills wineglasses.
I glance around the dining room. It’s very formal, and again, I find myself contrasting it with Trevelyan.
My first meal there had been in the great hall, where all the wolves dined, and I’d been amused by my father’s efforts to provide a “proper” dinner for me—our end of the table stiffly formal, while the wolves at the other end laughed and grabbed food and shouted.
There are no other wolves here, and it’s like being at a society dinner in London.
I get the sense, though, that it’s not for our benefit. This is just how they dine.
The first course arrives—a thick fish soup—and then Hamish says, “Your grandfather. Montague, isn’t it?”
The very slightest hesitation before Bishop says, “Yes, Montague Danvers.”
“Banished from the Albion Pack for murdering Silas’s older brother when he was but a lad. Not the least of what Montague did, from what I heard. They say werewolves are vicious savages, but I hear he made most of us look positively civilized.”
“Yes.”
Hamish hesitates, as if that’s not the answer he expected. Then he says, “Did Montague have a hand in raising you?”
“He played a role in my life. My father and uncle—Julius’s father—found it best to keep him under their watch.”
A low laugh. “I can imagine. So now that they are gone, where is Montague Danvers?”
“Leashed.”
A bark of a laugh. “By your hand?”
“Yes.”
“Nicely done. That must sting, though.”
“The best form of imprisonment is to not let a man realize he is imprisoned.”
Hamish throws back his head and laughs. “True. Very true. So he is leashed until you need him unleashed?”
“That would be … unwise.”
Hamish cocks his head. “Why? A loaded gun is dangerous, but when properly aimed, it can change the course of any battle, and it would seem you need that.”
“Montague isn’t a rifle but a cannon, one that will fire in any direction and, as often as not, backfire.”
“I still think you miss an opportunity there, lad.”
“Perhaps.”
Bishop takes a few spoonfuls of soup, and Hamish does the same before saying, “Tell me how you killed Silas Stockwell.”
Bishop’s gaze rises, his expression impassive. “In a challenge fight. He accused Julius of murdering his enforcer, Henry Cain, and I knew Julius had not. I believe Silas had begun to question my allegiance, and he reacted with the false accusation. I had no choice but to challenge him.”
“Which you otherwise did not intend to do?”
Bishop answers carefully. “It was my hope that I would not need to. I joined the Albion Pack planning to prove myself a worthy successor to Silas. I believed I had done that—he named me his heir—but the situation quickly deteriorated. He quickly deteriorated. The Pack was unhappy. I still would have held off if he had not forced my hand.”
“All right. But Edwin already explained how it came about. I want to know how you—How old are you again?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Hamish whistles. “Twenty-eight. How did you, a mere pup, best the Albion Alpha? I met the man many times, and I would not have taken him on in the ring myself. And Edwin says Silas insisted on a fight to the death, in wolf form. He should have easily bested you.” Hamish looks at Bishop. “Unless you cheated.”
“I did not.”
“No?”
Bishop meets his gaze. “I could not expect any wolf to follow me if I cheated my way to Alphahood. I intended a fair fight, but it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Silas was enraged and willing to do whatever it took to defeat me.”
“He cheated.”
Bishop raises one shoulder. “He did not feel inclined to follow all the rules. That meant I had to improvise, but I did that through a simple ruse, not through cheating.”
“So you…?”
“Played dead.”
Hamish whoops a laugh. “Oh, Silas, undone by the oldest of tricks. You never were a clever one, were you?”
The main course comes out then—a suckling pig—and we start eating before Hamish speaks again, this time to me.
“I ought not to poke fun at Silas. He was your father.”
“A fact of which I became aware barely more than a week ago, after which I witnessed him murdering my aunt—while she was bound and helpless—and I discovered he’d had my mother killed. I am happy where I am.”
“Good. It would be awkward otherwise, your new husband murdering your father.”
Hamish laughs, as if this is a joke, and down the table, Edwin winces and Dennis rolls his eyes.
We eat a few more bites, and then Hamish waves his knife at Bishop. “What do you know of the Cambrian Pack?”
Bishop sets down his fork. “The current one is only three years old. There was a Cambrian Pack in Wales before. Then, about a hundred and fifty years ago…”
I swear all eyes shift to me, which has me checking to be sure I haven’t dropped a leafy green on my cleavage, but Bishop only continues.
“There was an incident involving the Alpha and his mate. Up until that time, the Cambrian Pack allowed all wolves to mate. The Alpha’s wife led a revolt when he brought home a third bastard son for her to raise.
The other women joined and demanded fidelity, based on both the Christian and wolf-pack practices.
The Alpha’s response was to order all mates executed, including his own. ”
I go still in horror, but Hamish’s lips twitch, amusement lighting his eyes. “Or, perhaps, he ordered all mates executed to allow him to kill his own.”
“Likely, as the result was a mutiny. Other wolves were much more attached to their mates. Over half the Pack was killed, including the Alpha, and that led to the dissolution of the original Cambrian Pack.”
“A Pack decimated after a dispute over a woman,” Hamish muses. “The Caledonian Pack has never practiced mating and, perhaps coincidentally, we have never faced a mutiny.”
Bishop answers calmly, “If you are drawing a comparison to the Albion Pack’s current situation, sir, it would only hold true if I insisted on marrying Cordelia and challenged Silas for the right to do so. My challenge did not arise from any issue of mating.”
“Yet half your Pack is dead because Silas tried to change the rule against mating.”
“Respectfully, that was Silas’s doing, and it was about succession, not the right to have a mate.
The problem, I fear, was that Silas did not enjoy your fecundity.
” He nods toward Hamish’s three sons. “In his drive to establish a legacy, he attempted an alternate solution and unwisely betrayed a cabal to do it.”
“I’m only poking at you, lad,” Hamish says, and then winks at me. “Teasing both of you. I understand it’s an unusual situation, and you are making the best of it.”
“We are.”
“Which will include, I presume, Silas posthumously realizing his dream. A passel of strong werewolf sons to succeed you.”
Bishop tries for a smile, but it’s tight. “I have only been married a few days, sir. My bride and I are both young, with much more pressing concerns. Now, as for the Cambrian Pack, the new one was started by an American.”
Hamish tries to keep his face impassive, but anger sparks in his eyes. “Franklin Doyle.”
“Yes,” Bishop says. “He was a member of the American Pack, who failed an Alpha challenge. He came with another American Pack member. They may have attempted to poach members of the Albion Pack, but Doyle aimed at young wolves, and the Albion youth had all come with me, so they were happy where they were. They then turned their attention to the Caledonian Pack.”
“Where they began ‘poaching,’ as you call it. Waylaying my young men when they were out and tricking them into changing allegiance.”
Hamish is implying dirty business, luring the young wolves away.
I’m not sure that would be necessary. His Pack is too big, with young and disaffected wolves.
I suspect it wouldn’t take much to convince them to try their luck with a new Pack where they had a chance to climb the ranks.
Like the allure of the Americas themselves, where young men are told they have the chance to throw off the oppression of the Old World’s strict social structure and prove themselves in a wild new land.
Of course, it’d do no good to argue with Hamish on this. Demonizing the Cambrian Pack is to our advantage. We are the alternative. So Bishop only nods and makes noises that condemn such outrageous behavior.
Hamish waves his fork. “The Cambrian Pack is an embarrassment. Even to call them a Pack belittles the name. That’s what happens when proper succession is ignored and a young, untested Alpha takes the lead.”