Page 90 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“My apologies,” Bishop says. “We attempted parley with these gentlemen, but they had no interest in listening. I would not have attacked them for that, obviously, but they insulted my mate.”

“They wanted to take her and her cousin,” Rufus says, standing, one foot keeping his prey down. “As a gift for your Alpha. After Bishop said the ladies were his wife and her cousin.”

The man spins to face the wolf Julius is restraining. “What the fucking—?” He stops and makes a face before inclining his head my way. “Sorry about the language, ma’am. And sorry even more for the insult.”

I say, “He seemed to think the Alpha would appreciate my cousin and me. For a bit of sport.”

“Because he’s a fuck—damned idiot. Where were you going to take them, Bruno? To your room? You know what I’d have done if I found out? Nailed your balls to—”

His companion, still on his horse, clears his throat and the wolf makes another face. “Sorry, ma’am. But no, he was not going to bring you back to the Alpha.”

“May I presume that is you?” Bishop says.

The wolf extends his hand. “Franklin Doyle, Alpha of the Cambrians. You can call me Doyle. Everyone does, except that fellow on the horse there. That’s Jesse, my indispensable right-hand man. I am so sorry about this. This one”—he hooks a thumb at Bruno—“is new. Came over on a boat to join, and I’m starting to think I’ll be sending him right back.” He looks at Bruno. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t going to touch the ladies,” Bruno whines. “He was being all uppity, and I was trying to put him in his place.”

“He’s not uppity, you idiot. That’s how he talks. He’s an English gentleman.” Doyle looks at Bishop. “These fellas hear a proper English accent, and to them it sounds like you’re being all hoity-toity when you’re just talking.”

“I understand,” Bishop says. “Although I would suggest that he owes my wife and her cousin an apology.”

“I’ll make sure they get it. These fellas have no idea how to talk to ladies either.” He steps toward me and bows, starting to say something and then stopping and inhaling. When he looks up, he frowns, as if confused.

“My wife is the daughter of Silas Stockwell,” Bishop says. “She’s a lycan.”

“A…?”

I answer, “Werewolf daughters occasionally inherit some secondary traits, including the scent of a werewolf. They’re known—over here at least—as lycans.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting. Never heard of it myself, but it would explain the scent. And how is your father, ma’am?”

I resist the urge to answer with a blunt “Dead” and instead say, “He is no longer among the living. Bishop is now Alpha, which is why we have come to speak to you.”

“You’re Alpha?” Doyle extends his hand again to Bishop. “Congratulations. That is excellent news.” He pauses and glances my way. “And that was rude of me. I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Daniels. I only meant that if there is to be a new Alpha, I am glad it’s this fellow. I have heard nothing but praise of him from William. And how is William?”

“This will be a long story,” Julius cuts in. “Any chance we can take it inside?”

THIRTY-ONE

Doyle joins Bishop, Ann, and me in the coach, while Julius rides a horse and Jesse leads the other two horses back. No one says what Bruno and his companion are supposed to do. The answer is obviously “walk.”

Americans have several reputations in the British Isles. Bruno matched one—rough-mannered and crude. Doyle matches another—very friendly and gregarious, happily chatting away as if he’s known Bishop for years.

Doyle mentioned recognizing Bishop. They’ve never met, but apparently Doyle saw him in London when he’d first arrived and another wolf had pointed Bishop out. That was back when Doyle had considered joining the Albions. He’d been told that wasn’t likely to happen. Silas had just admitted Bishop and his boys, and those doors had swung shut behind them. The other wolf suggested that Doyle and Jesse’s best option would be to not even apply for membership, lest they be run out of the country on the heels of that inevitable refusal. So they’d headed for Wales.

That story gets us to the house, which is … not Trevelyan. I’m biased, I know. Others looked at Trevelyan and saw an ugly sprawling stone monstrosity. I’d been smitten, perhaps because I adore gothic novels. The house the Cambrian Pack currently inhabits—rents, according to Doyle—is … Well, it’s what I might expect one could rent in the countryside to hold more than a dozen men. It’s a farmhouse that looks as if it’s been expanded over the years by people who only cared about making it larger.

“It’s cheap,” Doyle says cheerfully when we see it. “That’s my main concern. No one’s going to care if my wolves are rough tenants, and it lets me save money for a proper house. My priority is getting us an estate so we can claim Pack status.”

Becoming an official Pack is a little more complicated, but Bishop doesn’t point that out. I can tell Doyle’s welcome is more puppy-dog friendly than he’s comfortable with—in comparison, he really does look like a stuck-up English prat—but it’s a far sight better than Hamish’s condescending welcome, and so Bishop will do nothing to dampen Doyle’s enthusiasm.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bishop says. “The resurrection of the Cambrian Pack would be very welcome.”

“That’s the impression I got. Well, about you, anyway. The old man wasn’t going to allow it, but now that you’re Alpha…”

“I have different views, which I look forward to discussing with you. We also need to discuss what’s happened with the Albion Pack.”

“Something happened? All right then. Let’s get you all inside. I’ll need to clear a few bedchambers, but the girls should be able to handle that.” He looks sharply at me and Ann. “Not you ladies. Our girls. We have a sitting room you can use while the menfolk talk business.”