Bear Necessities (Bad Boy Alphas): A Post-Apocalyptic Bear Shifter Romance (2 page)

Sibyl stood, smoothing the velvet dress over her hips, seeing herself as her fiancé must. She was tall—taller than most girls—and thin. Too thin, really, and quite muscular. It came from years of being so active. Her skin wasn’t the type to turn brown from the sun, but it was freckled, much to her mother’s chagrin. They dotted her nose, her arms, even her breasts—hence all the white powder. But she had to admit, in spite of all her flaws, once she was dressed up, she made quite an elegant looking young lady. Her mother would have been proud.

Her father, she thought, frowning at her own image in the mirror—what would he have thought of her impending marriage? Her betrothed? She thought she knew. And the answer wasn’t a good one.

“Yer as ready as ready can be.” Moira gave a satisfied nod, ushering her toward the door. “Hurry up now, he’ll be waitin’ fer ye.”

“I forgot my wrap,” Sibyl said, turning back halfway down the dank, damp hallway. Moira sighed, turning to go back for it. “No, no, you go. I know you have other work to do. I’ll fetch it myself.”

“Ye sure?”

“Of course.” Sibyl was already heading back to her room.

She gave a quick peek to make sure Moira was continuing on her way before closing the door. Her wrap was sitting on a chest and she snatched it, but she also knelt to peer under the big canopy bed, reaching to grab a satchel she had packed slowly over the past several weeks since arriving in Scotland. Inside was a canteen—stolen and filled with water—three days’ worth of food, if she stretched it, a flint, and a knife, stolen from the kitchen. Thanking God for the current fashion of big skirts, she pulled hers up and pinned the satchel to her chemise.

It bumped against her leg when she walked, but she thought her skirts would hide it well enough. She was willing to take that chance. She’d already decided as much. Pulling her wrap around her shoulders, she headed back out of her chambers, walking slowly down the stairs so as not to call too much attention to what she had hidden under her skirts. Just carrying it made her flesh prickle like a plucked goose when she thought of what might happen if her betrothed found out she was planning an escape from his dank Scottish castle.

“G’day, Lady Blackthorne!”

The sound of her name made Sibyl gasp as she came around the corner to head toward the courtyard. Alistair’s brother, Donal, was heading toward her, a bow slung over his shoulder. She looked at it longingly, knowing if she could get her hands on that, she wouldn’t need to worry about stretching her stale bread and dried fruit.

“Good morning, Donal.” Her smile for him was genuine.

Donal MacFalon might look a little like his brother with his angular features, but unlike his sibling, he had dark, shoulder-length hair to his brother’s dirty-blond curls. And also unlike his brother, Donal’s smile always reached his eyes, and those eyes weren’t gray, but blue, like a summer sky, and they seemed to twinkle all the time. He had been very kind to her since her arrival at the MacFalon castle and had gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.

“Are ye ready fer yer first Scottish hunt then?” He offered her his arm and she took it, letting him escort her out into the breezeway.

“Yes, very much. I just wish I could ride astride and carry a bow,” she lamented.

Donal laughed—he had a wonderfully robust laugh that made everyone around him merry—looking down at her with those glittering eyes.

“If my brother wasn’t such a stick in the mud, he’d let ye.” He dropped her a wink. “Scots women do’na ride side-saddle. And I know many a woman who could outshoot me brother.”

“Well then I’d like to be a Scot, please.”

“When ye marry Ali, that’s jus’ what ye’ll be, lassie. King Henry and yer uncle—er, yer stepda—they’re counting on this marriage t’help squash the border skirmishes.”

“Yes, I’m a very important pawn.” Sibyl made a face.

Her uncle, who was now also her stepfather, had used her to gain the king’s favor, assuring him an alliance between a highborn English lady from the Blackthorne family with the MacFalons, who controlled a great deal of the land in the Middle March, would help quell the border skirmishes that cost the crown both money and resources.

The feudal lands on either side of the border were valuable. Lachlan MacFalon, Alistair and Donal’s father, had done his best to keep the continued fighting between the English and Scottish to a minimum, but after his death, things had degenerated quickly. Alistair, Laird Lachlan MacFalon’s firstborn son, was not the man his father had been, and Sibyl had seen for herself how little respect he elicited in his own men. Alistair could never inspire the respect of the English, whether they were peasants or royalty, like his father had.

But Alistair was laird of clan MacFalon now and something had to be done about the thieving, poaching, and bloodshed on the border. This was King Henry’s solution—and Sibyl’s uncle had been instrumental in putting it all together.

“So ye ken what this is all about then?” Donal inquired, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I ken.” She nodded, meeting his knowing eyes. “I mostly definitely ken.”

She understood it quite well. She had just decided that she wasn’t going to be a party to it. She was tired of being played like a pawn in their little chess game. This was the first opportunity she would have to escape and she intended to take it, the moment a chance presented itself. It was at least a week of travel on horseback to the village where they had left Rose, but she knew the family would take her in. She just hoped Alistair wouldn’t put out a reward for her return because anyone in a poor village would turn her in without a second thought if they believed they would be paid for doing so.

“I’m sorry, lass,” Donal said softly as they walked into the courtyard where the men were waiting with their horses and their hunting gear. She felt their eyes all turn to her, an affect she knew delighted her betrothed. He seemed to like the way men’s eyes followed her around his keep.

“It’s not your fault.” She smiled up at the man holding her arm, wondering if things would have been different if it had been Donal who was the first son instead of the second, if it was Donal to whom she had been engaged. He wasn’t a bad looking man, and his kind heart and sense of humor seemed to soften his sharp features. “But thank you.”

One of the men—his name was Gregor, he had made it a point to introduce himself to her on several occasions—nudged his companion with an elbow and leaned over to say something she couldn’t hear. It was something snide and nasty, she was sure, about the Englishwoman who had come to live in their land. She hated being so different—and those differences being so obvious—but there was nothing to be done about it.

Sibyl pasted on a smile as they made their way across the courtyard toward her betrothed. He was smiling too, although something always felt forced about this expression on his face. Whenever she looked away from him it would fade, and his thin, red lips would sink into a frown. Then, if she looked at him again, the smile would reappear—but, unlike his brother’s, it never, ever reached his eyes.

“I’ve delivered yer bride t’ye safely, brother.” Donal gave a decidedly English bow as they approached the spot where Alistair was waiting for her out in the yard. Winnifred, the tame, old gray mare she’d been riding since she arrived, stood beside his big, black steed, Fian. Old Winnie was fitted with a side-saddle.

“Ye look like a summer day, Lady Blackthorne.” Alistair greeted her with a slight bow, one arm folded across his middle, one behind his back. She had been called Lady Blackthorne all her life—her father had been an earl, which made her a viscountess—but it felt like an insult here in this land, among these people.

She was on eye-level with her betrothed’s bare knee, a sight she still had a hard time getting used to. The Scots wore the strangest outfits, and the plaid blanket they wore strapped and pinned around them most of the time was the strangest. Donal said it was a Scotsman’s best tool, but she doubted the veracity of his claim. She wasn’t one to insist on everything being prim and proper—she was, after all, the girl who had spent most of her childhood wearing pants—but seeing a man’s bare legs hanging out all the time was unnerving.

“Thank you, m’lord.” She acknowledged his compliment as the groomsmen came over to help her up into her saddle, but Gregor got there first. She couldn’t do anything but smile as he manhandled her up onto her mount, his hands in places no man’s hands should ever go in polite company. She gritted her teeth and bore it, as her fiancé seemed to either not care, or wasn’t paying attention. The horse didn’t stop grazing on the early spring shoots of clover.

“Alistair.” Her betrothed tightened his grip on Winnie’s reins, forcing the horse closer to his own, as he reminded Sibyl that he wanted to be called by his Christian name. “Ye ken?”

This made Sibyl’s knees, hidden under mounds of green velvet, brush up against his bare ones. It also shifted the makeshift satchel she had hidden under her skirts and she stiffened, trying not to let on. She looked up at him—his was a war horse, far taller than her own—as he leaned over to murmur something close to her ear. “That’s the name ye’ll be callin’ on yer wedding night, lass.”

“Yes… Alistair.” She gave a short nod, heart thudding hard in her chest, wondering if the man even remembered her own Christian name, and doubted it. She just wanted him to let her horse go, so she could steer Winnie away from him. Sibyl didn’t like to think about wedding this man, let alone bedding him. But all he seemed to think about was the latter.

“I like the way ye say it.” He didn’t let Winnie’s reins go. In fact, he pulled the nag closer. The horse whinnied in protest, but she side-stepped, her flank brushing his big steed’s. Alistair’s mouth was now right against Sibyl’s ear. His breath reeked of alcohol. “And from such a pretty mouth.”

She was relieved when he pulled away slightly, but only far enough for him to look into her eyes. His were as gray as a storm cloud, his features sharp, angular. His hair was a dusty, dirty blond and a lock of it constantly fell over one eye. His gaze moved over her mouth, tracing the line of her lips, and Sibyl thought for a moment he was going to do something very unknightly with everyone’s eyes on them.

“Jus’ a week away now,” he murmured, those gray eyes lifting to meet her own. “Are ye lookin’ forward t’yer weddin’, Lady Blackthorne?”

She’d been fitted for her wedding dress before she left—it was part of the not inconsiderable dowry she had carried with her from England. The gown was waiting on a dress dummy in a room all its own down the hall. The train was long enough to fill it.

“Every girl dreams about her wedding day,” she answered properly, and quite loudly.

Other girls might have dreamed about and planned their wedding day, but Sibyl Blackthorne wasn’t every girl. She reached out to take the reins of her horse from his hands. He was surprised, and this gave her the advantage. She had her horse five steps away from his before he could even respond. “So I hear we’re not hunting for boar?”

She said this last to change the subject and mitigate the sting of her actions. Alistair straightened on his horse, looking coolly down at her. He didn’t like what she’d done, that much was clear. She was going to have to do more to make up for it.

“I heard the men talking about wulvers,” she said innocently, actually batting her eyelashes at him. She’d seen Rose do this with one of her guardsmen and had practiced it herself in a looking glass when no one was around. She felt ridiculous doing it, but she’d had a feeling it would come in handy. She was right. “We don’t have those in England. Are they like badgers?”

The men, who had been watching the whole encounter, couldn’t help their laughter. Even Alistair reluctantly smiled, that same smile that never reached his cool, gray eyes, and gave a little chuckle at her ladylike misunderstanding.

“Wolves,” Alistair corrected her with that same condescending smile.

“Wulvers are wolves?” She blinked at him in surprise. “So wulver—that’s Scottish, er, Gaelic, for wolves?”

She was surprised to hear it, as she’d never been on a hunt for wolves. Her father had told her, when he was a boy, wolves were one of the five “royal beasts of the chase,” but their numbers had dwindled over the years until they were almost nonexistent in England.

“Nuh, m’lady.” Alistair’s brother, Donal, pulled his horse up beside hers. She was now sandwiched between the two MacFalon brothers. “Not jus’ any ol’ wolves. Wulvers is a whole other animal.”