by Lydia Dare
He reached the tree line in no time, and he inhaled deeply. Brimsworth was somewhere close. The citric shaving lotion permeated the area. “I know you’re here,” he growled.
The only answer to that was a twig snapping beneath one of his own Hessians. Will stepped deeper into the woods, his eyes searching the shape of every shrub and leafless tree in the vicinity. “It’s only a matter of time before I find you.”
But time was not on his side. Will followed the earl deeper and deeper into the woods. He followed until he knew he was miles from The Hall. But the scent hung just outside of his reach. But only barely.
“I’m getting closer. I’ll follow all night, if I have to.”
Still there was no answer, yet the earl’s scent was stronger than ever. Why couldn’t he see the man? “Go back to Kent or London. She’s my wife.”
Then Will heard a sound behind him. He spun quickly and took a step toward the noise. But a metallic click sounded in his ears at the same time as a searing pain raced up his leg. He looked down to find the metal jaws of an animal trap as they pierced his boot and ankle. An instant later, a solid blow to the back of his head knocked him to the forest floor.
“I did warn you,” he heard Brimsworth crow, just as his world went black.
Priss, do as I said. You can berate me later.
She fumed as she reentered Westfield Hall. There was no reason to treat her as though she were a child. If she lived to be a hundred, she’d never understand Will’s drastic shifts in mood. How could he be seductive one moment and a distant beast the next?
“Go find Ben, and do it now,” she mimicked him under her breath. Then she made her way into the green parlor and flopped dramatically onto the settee, though no one was there to notice her performance.
She sighed and drummed her fingers on the ivory brocade. “Just what has gotten into him?”
“Prisca?” the Duke of Blackmoor intoned from the doorway, one dark brow arched high. “I thought you left with William.”
She kept herself from groaning aloud. She hated dealing with His Grace. He always looked at her as though she was a disappointment somehow, and he wore arrogance the way most men wore shaving lotion. “I’m certain he’ll be back soon,” she clipped. “He asked me to wait for him here.”
With any luck, the duke would leave her in peace. He frowned instead and made no movement to depart. “Odd. He seemed in a hurry.”
Didn’t he though? “Apparently he changed his mind. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed.”
Blackmoor stepped into the room and poured himself a tumbler of whisky from a decanter on the sideboard. “How are you enjoying being a Westfield, my dear?”
Prisca scoffed. Loudly. “I believe I’ve married into madness, if you must know.”
The shadow of a smile graced the duke’s lips just before he took a sip of his drink. “Well, Benjamin does intend to spend most of his time in Edinburgh. So sanity will reign most of the year at Westfield Hall.”
“Ben’s not the problem,” she grumbled under her breath.
But somehow the duke heard her. His ears actually twitched. “What is the problem?”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d heard her. Will had excellent hearing himself. Prisca sighed and looked straight into Blackmoor’s dark grey gaze. “I witnessed an unborn child heal your mother.” She shook her head. “That’s not possible. It doesn’t make sense.”
He shrugged and turned back to the decanter. “Sometimes it’s best not to contemplate such things and simply be grateful.”
“It’s still hard to believe that Elspeth is a witch, along with Miss Macleod. I mean, they’re witches, Your Grace! That doesn’t bother you?”
He looked back over his shoulder. “There are much worse things to worry about than witches, especially ones who can heal you on your deathbed.”
Well, she supposed that was true. Still, it didn’t seem like something the aloof Blackmoor would welcome with open arms. “Do you believe in the rest of it? Faeries and trolls and werewolves and—”
“Lycans,” he interrupted. “Werewolf is a slang term.”
He did believe it. She blinked at him.
Before Prisca could think how to respond to that, Ben bounded through the door with Elspeth right behind him. When his hazel eyes landed on her, the youngest Westfield brother winked at her. “Prissy, what do you think of the name ‘Willow’?”
Elspeth rolled her eyes, and Prisca couldn’t help but laugh. “Willow is not a name. It’s a tree.”
The fiery-haired witch dropped onto the settee beside her. “We are no’ namin’ our daughter Willow.”
“I don’t know why not,” Ben said, then grumbled something under his breath that made the duke choke on his whisky.
“I could have gone my whole life without knowing that fact, Benjamin.” Blackmoor rubbed his brow, and Prisca couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed. The man was so difficult to read.
She turned her attention to Elspeth whose face was nearly as red as her hair. “We have a—um—bed made of willow in Edinburgh,” she managed to explain.
“Where is Will?” Ben asked, glancing around the room.
Prisca shook her head. “He said I was to find you, Ben, and not leave your side.”
At once the Westfield men seemed on the alert. “Why did he say that?” the duke nearly barked.
Prisca gulped as all eyes focused on her. “He wouldn’t tell me. He was being very peculiar about the whole thing.”
The brothers exchanged a meaningful look, and then the duke started toward the door. “I won’t be long.”
“Take Oliver with you,” Ben advised.
Blackmoor agreed with a tight nod.
Prisca leapt to her feet. “Ben, do you know what this is about?”
His eyes scanned the room as though he was avoiding her. “Will wouldn’t say that unless he was worried about something.”
“What is there to worry about?” she pressed. “I do wish you’d explain it to me. We were simply on our way to the dower house and everything was fine, and then he wouldn’t budge and ordered me back here.”
She’d never seen Ben look so uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Prissy. When he returns, you can find out all about it.”
Will woke to the heavy clank of a coin as it spun across a tabletop. He blinked his eyes open, wincing when the motion caused a pounding in his head. Slowly, he let his eyes move around the dark confines of the tiny cottage where he lay on a soft bed.
Will immediately recognized the crofter’s cottage where he’d brought Prisca. Brimsworth sat at the small dining table, his head resting in the palm of his hand, his crooked elbow holding it up. Will finally realized the source of the noise. The blond wolf absently spun a coin across the tabletop and then repeated the action when the coin finally wobbled to a stop on the surface. He looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. In fact, he looked bored witless.
But then he slowly lifted his head and looked over at Will. “I know you’re awake. I heard your heartbeat speed up.”
Damn Lycan hearing. Will had nearly forgotten that Brimsworth had the same strengths he did. Maybe more. Who knew? No one had ever put the man to the test.
“My heart tends to do that when I’ve been bashed over the head,” Will intoned slowly, reaching for the back of his head, suddenly more aware than ever of the pain that lay on the surface. But his reach fell short. He tugged his arm and heard the metal clank of the shackles that bound him to the iron bed.
“You’re already healing. The headache will ease soon.” One corner of Brimsworth’s mouth twitched up as he saw Will tug on the shackles. “No need to fight them. They’ll hold,” he said slowly.
Will wanted to ask him if he cared to wager on that. He’d never met a trap a Lycan couldn’t free himself from. Thinking of the trap made him look down at his leg. Brimsworth chuckled, a laugh without mirth. “All healed.” He looked a bit sad about t
hat.
“Pardon me for ruining your enjoyment,” Will grumbled, tugging the chains again. Indeed, they were solidly attached to the bed frame.
“Don’t waste your strength. They’re the shackles I use when the moon is full.”
“Chaining yourself like the animal you are?” Will asked.
“Careful with the name-calling,” Brimsworth chided. “You and I are cut of the same cloth.”
“No. There are no similarities,” Will ground out. He sunk back against the bed. Best to save his strength for a time he could use it. “I’ve never had to tie myself up to keep from hurting people.” Then realization struck him. “Is that why you do it?”
Brimsworth nodded tightly.
“Why?” It seemed a bit odd to discuss such events, seeing as how he was trussed up better than a Christmas turkey. But the earl’s heartbeat slowed when he conversed, and Will figured it might give him an insight into his captor’s mind and something he could use to his advantage.
“You know why,” Brimsworth snorted.
“No,” Will replied, truly dumbfounded. “I’ve no idea.”
“The wildness that comes with the moon. I start to feel it several days before the moonful. And I have to take precautions.”
“Precautions against what?”
“The beast within me.” Brimsworth shrugged.
“Yes, I’ve heard that you wrecked some furnishings and tried to take a bite out of a few whores back home in Kent,” Will taunted him, though it probably wasn’t the smartest idea considering his circumstances.
The earl’s eyebrows drew together. “That was a bit of folly on my part. Though there’s nothing as tempting as a woman’s neck when the moon is full,” Brimsworth admitted. “I’d hoped to control it better.”
“Yet you couldn’t,” Will finished for him.
The man nodded again.
“How old were you when they first shackled you?” Will asked. He knew he’d hit his mark when Brimsworth flinched.
“That’s none of your concern,” he growled.
“You were young, weren’t you?” Will continued. “Barely a man, I’d wager.”
Brimsworth stood and crossed the room to get a whisky decanter. He poured a glass and tossed it back quickly. Will sat up as much as the chains would allow.
“Why didn’t your father take you with him when he went to the forest?” Will asked.
The earl’s head shot up. “My father? He’s not one of us.”
“Oh,” Will breathed slowly as realization dawned on him. That explained why there was no record of Eynsford at The Lycanian Society. “Then perhaps he’s not your real father,” he mumbled to himself.
“Of course, he is!” Brimsworth barked, his face flushed with rage.
Will barely shook his head. “If he doesn’t grow fur and a long tail when the moon is full, odds are he’s not your father. Being a Lycan doesn’t skip a generation.”
“Truly?”
Will nodded.
“Never skips a generation?”
“Never. It’s too strong within us.” Although Major Forster believed the earl was some sort of aberration, Will thought it best to leave that bit out. It certainly wouldn’t aid him in his current state.
Then Brimsworth did something Will would never, ever have expected. He threw his head back and laughed. “The sorry old man is not my father.” A smile lit his face. “You’ve no idea how happy you just made me.”
Will shook the chains on his wrists. “Happy enough?” he asked.
“In a moment,” Brimsworth said, waving his head negligently. He started to pace. “You and your brothers, you’re all Lycans?”
Will nodded.
“And you’re able to live among people? Without hurting anyone?”
“When the moon is full, we go to the woods,” Will admitted. “We’re drawn to the solitude. The peace. If we’ve claimed a mate, she may go with us.”
“Prisca,” Brimsworth started.
“Is mine!” Will growled, straining at his chains.
The earl waved him off again. “Only because you took an unfair advantage. She should have had a choice between the two of us. You made sure she never got that chance.”
“She is my wife.” Will sighed. “No matter how you feel about the circumstances, nothing will change that fact.”
Brimsworth frowned, and his golden eyes darkened. “Will you take her into the forest with you during the next moonful?”
He hadn’t planned on it. But ever since Caitrin Macleod saw a Lycan claiming Prissy, he couldn’t take the chance the earl would beat him to it. “If she’s ready.”
“I can’t imagine she would be happy to know she married a monster, to see him transform before her eyes.”
“We’re not monsters,” Will growled. Still, Prisca might run screaming into the woods.
Brimsworth raked a hand through his hair. “You say that like you mean it,” he muttered so softly Will barely heard it.
The earl didn’t seem to know much about the rules that governed Lycans. No wonder the man was feral. His family had chained him up, and he thought of himself as a monster. Will almost felt sorry for him until the weight of his shackles reminded him he was still the earl’s captive. But perhaps he could reason with the man.
“His Grace would be a good mentor,” he suggested. “If you have need of one, that is. Or someone else at Canis House, if you’d prefer.” He would have thrown himself into the path of the wild Lycan, but Simon had a much more even temper. And, being the alpha of the pack, he never had to demand respect. It just came to him.
The man didn’t look up. He looked as though he was adding sums in his head. He concentrated that hard. Then he met Will’s gaze. “Do you think I need a mentor?”
Damn it all to hell. He wished the man didn’t look so pained. “I think you could have a better life if someone taught you to accept the beast within you. You need a pack leader who won’t chain you to a wall every time the night grows bright.”
“No more chains,” Brimsworth whispered absently. The earl seemed lost in thought for so long that Will started to think he might have gotten lost in a trance. Then his adversary shook his head, as though shaking all errant thoughts away. “I must go, but I will come back to set you free.”
Will pulled at the chains. “Where are you going?” he growled.
Brimsworth smiled as he met Will’s eyes. Something sinister lingered behind his gaze that instantly made the hair on the back of Will’s neck rise. “I’m going to find my mate. Where else?”
Prisca. Will’s stomach clinched at the thought. “Don’t touch her.”
But the earl paid him no attention as he breezed out the door and left Will all alone.
“Benjamin, are you going to tell me what is going on or shall I have to pound it out of you?” Prisca demanded after begging and pleading hadn’t worked. She paced around the green parlor, glaring at her brother-in-law. She had adored Ben since she was a child. She had trusted him her entire life. But now when she needed him to, he wouldn’t tell her a blasted thing.
The current object of her ire lounged in a chintz chair with his arms bent at the elbows, his fingers steepled in front of his chest as he frowned at her—the same thing he’d been doing since the duke and his ward had gone off after Will.
“I never believed Pierce and Darius when they complained about what a pest you were, Prissy,” he sighed. “I shall have to offer them my condolences, belated as they are.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can distract me. Ever since I married Will, none of you have been yourselves and I am getting weary of it. I…”
“On the contrary, love, we’ve all been ourselves, our real selves. I am sorry if it’s difficult for you. I was very fortunate with Ellie. Of course she was predisposed to believe what I told her, to accept things outside the ordinary.”
She stopped mid-pace, gaping at him. Just what was that supposed to mean? “What exactly did you tell
Elspeth? Because Will hasn’t said a thing to me. He gets a wild look in his eyes and orders me to stay put, but he hasn’t told me anything.”
Ben rested his head against the back of the chair. “It’s not my place to say anything, Prissy. I’ve already said more than I should have when Will left for Scotland. Now that he’s back, he has to tell you the way of things, not me.”
They’d all been their real selves. The words of the mythical books filtered into her mind.
It had been there all along. She just hadn’t let herself believe it, but having watched an unborn child heal a deathly ill woman had opened Prisca’s eyes to the more fantastical ideas.
All the Westfield men had exceptional hearing. She’d noticed years ago that Will and Ben were different, more agitated as the moon grew full in the sky. Lily had once asked her the same thing about Blackmoor, though she hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.
Will’s skin was warm to the touch; perhaps Ben’s and Blackmoor’s were, too. Will wore the mark of the beast, she was certain of it. His birthmark, a crescent moon, looked exactly like the drawing in the book.
Prisca couldn’t even believe she was contemplating such thoughts. Bedlam was in her future after all.
Still, if she was right, the book said Lycans lived in packs—with their families. She swallowed and then mustered her courage to ask, “Ben, do you wear the mark of the beast?”
His hazel eyes twinkled briefly before he looked away from her. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate question for you to ask your brother-in-law.”
It certainly wasn’t a “no,” was it? She nearly growled and stomped her foot at his evasiveness, but she forced herself not to behave like a spoiled brat. It was most difficult, but having a tantrum wouldn’t get her anywhere.
“Well, since all the other Westfields aren’t appropriate and I am now one of you, I don’t see why I should have to stand on ceremony. Now do you wear the mark, or don’t you?”
Ben rose from his seat and folded his arms across his broad chest. “You should ask your husband that question.”
“You do,” she said slowly, certain now that she was correct, and stepped toward him. “Let me see it.”
