Highland Wolf Pact Read Free Page A

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