Page 51 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“He decided not to join us.” Julius looks at Bishop and then moves closer, voice lowered. “You can do this. Hamish is concerned about the Cambrian Pack, and you are presenting an alternative. A way to solve multiple issues without him losing face.”

Rufus’s voice drops to a low rumble. “And as creepy as this Pack might be, just remember what that means for the Albions.”

“We can’t possibly be creepier?” I say.

Rufus chuckles. “Yes, which—once this is all over—sets you up as a very viable option for all wolves.”

“That’s my goal,” Bishop murmurs. He looks at me and when he says “Thank you. That was exactly the encouragement I needed,” I know he’s not talking about growing the Albion Pack.

“We can do this,” I say.

“We can.”

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.”