Never Been Bit (12 page)

The scent of wild mutts assaulted Alec’s nose and his smile instantly vanished as four Lycans stepped into the ballroom. Caitrin hung on to the Marquess of Eynsford’s arm as though she couldn’t bear to separate herself from her husband. His wolfish half brothers trailed in their wake.

Lord Radbourne caught Alec’s eye and smiled wickedly.

Alec nearly shot him a crude gesture in return, but then he realized the wicked smile was not for him. It was directed over his shoulder. Alec turned his head to look behind him, and damned if he didn’t see Sorcha standing there. The same thing that must have provoked Radbourne’s wicked grin immediately entranced Alec.

Sorcha was a vision of loveliness. She walked toward him slowly, her gaze drawn down to her elbow where she tugged at the top of her white glove distractedly. Her gown matched her apple blossom scent, which reached him long before she did. She smelled so good that her scent nearly made his mouth water. The whisper of her garters, as one leg slid past the other, held his rapt attention. He wanted to find out if they were the same light green as her gown, so light it reminded him of the apple orchard on his estate in East Galloway.

Alec’s gaze drifted up, leaving his thoughts about her garters behind when he saw the plunging neckline of her gown. He took a step toward her, fully prepared to wrap her in his own jacket to cover all that delectable skin. But before he could take a single step, a voice crowed close to his ear.

“Does that one have dirt under
her
fingernails, I wonder?”

Lord Chilcombe bumped Alec’s shoulder with his own. The man stumbled a little when Alec’s body didn’t give with the pressure of the gesture.

Alec forced himself to look away from Sorcha, just for the moment. “What are you babbling about, Chilcombe?” he asked, not even trying to remove the bite from his voice. He bloody well hated the Englishman. He couldn’t deny it. He was a blight on society. He was about as useful as a teapot with no spout.

Chilcombe nodded toward Sorcha and said, “That’s the one, isn’t it? The chit who had you all mussed up when you left the orangery.” He motioned toward Loughton and two more of his cronies, drawing them into their circle. “I believe I’ve finally discovered the identity of the lovely lady MacQuarrie dirtied and then abandoned this afternoon.”

“Who is it, by God?” Loughton demanded. “Please do tell. I tire of examining ladies’ fingernails.”

“Indeed?” Chilcombe chuckled. “I thought it one of your favorite activities.”

“I shall engage in my favorite activity once you divulge the lady’s name.” Loughton’s eyebrow rose in amusement.

“And then she can put her fingernails anywhere she’d like.”

Let him try to touch Sorcha, and Alec would remove the man’s hands from his arms.

“And just for the record,
the chit
was the one who dirtied
MacQuarrie
,” Viscount Dewsbury chimed in. “Not the other way around.”

“My mistake,” Chilcombe agreed. “You are most certainly correct, Dewsbury.”

“Jealousy does not become you, gentlemen,” Alec said, trying to maintain his jovial air. He failed miserably, he was certain. But he did try. Then he tried to appear unconcerned when he saw Radbourne making his way slowly across the ballroom toward Sorcha. There was no way he could leave the group of Englishmen and get to her first. If he did, he’d be painting her the very picture of a fallen woman. If he didn’t, Radbourne would intercept her in barely a moment.

Of course, he could strangle Radbourne as soon as no one was looking. And the blasted Lycan couldn’t defile Sorcha with a ballroom full of witnesses.

Alec gritted his teeth. Just as soon as he could dispense with the irritating Sassenach peers, he’d make certain Radbourne and his unruly brothers kept their tails away from Sorcha.

“Is that Lady Eynsford?” Loughton murmured. “I don’t suppose
she
was in the orangery this afternoon.”

Chilcombe’s dark eyes twinkled with merriment. “He always has had a fondness for the marchioness, hasn’t he?”

“Fond enough to fondle her in the orangery?” Dewsbury smirked to himself.

“Are you saying I’m correct?” Loughton asked, his chest puffed out with pride.

Before Chilcombe could reply, the blasted Marquess of Eynsford himself was at Alec’s shoulder. “Ah, MacQuarrie. I thought I noticed you.”

More like the man heard his wife’s name mentioned and thought to put a stop to it, especially as Alec’s name was linked to hers. Much as Alec despised the wolfish marquess, the man’s arrival would put an end to the unfortunate conversation. He grunted in greeting instead of actually having to speak to Eynsford.

“It’s been an age,” the marquess continued as though he and Alec were the best of friends. “Much too long.”

Alec met Eynsford’s eye and managed a grim smile. If he had his way, it would be countless ages before he saw the Lycan again, if ever. “Indeed. It has been forever since I’ve seen you or your lovely wife.” Perhaps that would end the speculation that Cait had been with him in the orangery. He didn’t want to see her reputation besmirched anymore than he wanted Sorcha’s sullied.

“Well, Eynsford Park is very close. Perhaps you’ll pay us a visit while you’re in Kent.”

Just as soon as hell froze over. “How generous of you.”

Alec’s eyes strayed across the crowd to where Radbourne paraded Sorcha around the perimeter of the ballroom. He clenched his jaw at the sight. Damned Lycan. “Actually, Eynsford, there is something I’d like to discuss with you. How fortuitous that our paths should cross this evening.” He looked over his shoulder at Chilcombe’s group of debauched peers. “Do excuse us, will you?”

He didn’t wait for a reply as he turned on his heel and started for the nearest corner. Eynsford was quick on his tail, and Alec found himself begrudgingly glad of the fact. It was better to get this over with sooner rather than later.

“What were those buffoons going on about?” the marquess demanded in
sotto voce.

Alec squared his shoulders and leveled his most scathing gaze at his one-time rival. “Keep your mutts away from Sorcha.”

Eynsford furrowed his brow. “Are you threatening me, MacQuarrie?”

“A threat is usually followed with an ‘or else.’ I demanded, not threatened. You really should know the difference. Keep your damn hounds away from her.”

“Certainly has the timbre of a threat.” The blasted marquess had the audacity to look amused. “What I am most curious about is why you think you have any right to dictate whom Sorcha can and cannot associate. Do you have some sort of arrangement with the lass I’ve not been informed of?”

A muscle twitched in Alec’s jaw. “I have
always
cared about Sorcha’s well-being.”

“How noble of you.”

Alec would have loved to pummel the smug look from Eynsford’s face, but not in this setting. Not with all of these witnesses. “I won’t see her suffer Caitrin’s fate.”

The damned man looked even more smug, though Alec wasn’t certain how that was possible. “My wife has no complaints about her lot in life. If you don’t believe me, feel free to ask her. In the meantime, I’ll thank you to keep her name off scurrilous men’s tongues. Chilcombe was lucky I didn’t rip his head from his shoulders back there.”

Alec actually wouldn’t have minded the sight, though he doubted the duchess would have enjoyed her ball being disrupted by decapitated earls. “I have no control over Chilcombe or anyone else.”

Eynsford shrugged. “And I have no control over Lord Radbourne or his brothers.”

Alec noted the man didn’t say
my
brothers; to do so would be to openly admit he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. “I know that’s not true. You’re the pack alpha. So keep them away from her. Sorcha deserves better than a drooling Lycan.”

“Does she?” Eynsford lowered his voice. “Do you suppose she deserves a vampyre instead?”

“I never said such a thing.”

“But you’ve thought it, MacQuarrie. I can see it on your face. So let me make myself clear—you may have known Sorcha all her life, but that means very little to me. The lass is part of Cait’s circle, which makes her part of
my
circle. And I will look out for her best interests.”

“Then you’d better keep an eye on those brothers of yours,” Alec growled as he noticed Cait closing in on them.

He glanced in her direction, nodded a greeting, and stepped away. “Good evening, Lady Eynsford.”

If that damned marquess wouldn’t keep his pack in line, then Alec would have to do it for him.

Chapter Eleven

Sorcha grinned up at Archer Hadley, Viscount Radbourne, as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

“You know,” he began quietly as he directed her toward a less populated area of the ballroom, “I have thought about nothing but you since last night.”

“You have?” she asked, not certain what else to say.

“Hmm.” He dipped his head closer to hers. “It’s a novel experience spending time with a lass who knows what I am. Rare indeed.”

Havers!
He still looked slightly discomfited by the fact that she knew about his Lycan heritage. “I meant what I said, Archer. I will never tell anyone yer secret,” she said, trying to reassure him.

Archer smiled down at her, and his dark amber eyes glittered from the warm chandelier light above. “I trust you, lass. It’s just nice not to have to pretend with you.”

“Ta pretend ye’re somethin’ ye’re no’.” She agreed with a nod. Sorcha could most assuredly understand that. Only the families of her fellow coven sisters knew what she was.

Well, and Alec. But, no one else. It was often difficult to walk the line of being who she truly was while keeping that part of her a secret from the rest of the world. “I understand completely.”

He placed his hand over hers on his arm and squeezed.

“Somehow I think you do.”

“I am curious about the transformation.” Her eyes glittered with excitement. “I’d love ta hear more about it, if ye’d like ta tell me.”

A slight blush crept up Archer’s neck and he glanced away from her as though he was embarrassed. “I’ve never told anyone about that. My brothers, of course, know all about it and our mother has never asked.”

“Yer father probably told her,” Sorcha suggested. After all, if
she
married a Lycan, she’d demand to know all there was about the creatures. Everything Cait and Elspeth had refused to tell her. That alone made the information worthy of knowing. If it was something mundane, there wouldn’t be a need to keep secrets or blush to the color of ripe tomatoes whenever Sorcha asked for details, would there?

Of course not. Perhaps Archer Hadley would tell her everything she wanted to know. “How does the change come on? Do ye feel it all day or—”

“Dear God,” the viscount suddenly grumbled beneath his breath. “This is an experience I could have done without.” A most stern expression crossed his face as he looked over her shoulder.

“I beg yer pardon,” Sorcha began as she spotted Alec, a severe look upon his face, barreling in their direction.

“Every time I’m speaking with a pretty Scottish lass, some vampyre or another wants to steal her from me.”

“Every time?” Sorcha couldn’t help but giggle. That couldn’t possibly be true. What a silly thing to say.

“Rhiannon and Blodswell,” Archer explained. Then he waggled his brow suggestively. “What is it about the bloodsuckers that you lasses find so irresistible?”

“Perhaps it’s the lack of drool,” Alec drawled as he stopped at Sorcha’s side and placed his hand on her shoulder.

Sorcha frowned up at him. “Alec! There was no need for that.”

“Oh, there was a need,” he assured her. Then he leveled his glare on Archer Hadley. “You can take your fleas and go bother someone else.”

The Lycan arched one dark, golden brow. “Am I bothering you, Sorcha?”

“Of course not,” she began, but Alec squeezed her shoulder in warning. When had Alec MacQuarrie become a brute?

“I have a few things I need to discuss with my countrywoman.”

She was his
countrywoman
? Was that all?

“Sorcha?” Archer asked.

Well, she did need to speak with Alec, even if he only thought of her as his countrywoman. “I’ll be fine, but do find me in time for our dance.”

Archer nodded his head as gallantly as Sir Galahad, she was sure. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lass.” Then he started back toward his brothers and Cait, leaving Sorcha alone with Alec. Well, as alone as two people could be in a ballroom filled with revelers.

Sorcha poked Alec in the ribs. “I have never kent ye ta be so ill-mannered, Alec MacQuarrie.”

His black eyes pierced her soul. “And I have never known you to be so careless. That little prank with the dirt you left all over my face and waistcoat this afternoon has caused quite the stir in the castle, in case you weren’t aware.”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. He had looked perfectly ridiculous as he’d fled the orangery.

“I hardly find it amusing.”

“Then ye must no’ have looked in the mirror. Ye were positively the most disheveled sight I have ever seen.”

Alec’s eyes somehow darkened even more. How could black eyes appear darker? She wasn’t sure, but they did.

“And you’ve almost ruined yourself in the process. Hopefully, you don’t find that so amusing.”

“Ruined myself?” she echoed. What a perfectly ridiculous thing to say.

“Oh, aye. Chilcombe and his merry band of idiots have been scouring the castle in search of the chit who was my orangery assignation.”

Lord Chilcombe! Was that why the earl had asked Maddie if she enjoyed spending her time in the orangery?

And was that why Lord Loughton had tried to get a look at her fingernails? Sorcha groaned. She would never forgive herself if she ended up hurting Maddie, unintentionally or otherwise. “It was only a jest.”

“One that could likely have you ruined, Sorcha Ferguson, should anyone find out about the situation.”

That was the last thing Sorcha wanted. Her father would kill her. Or Alec. Well, her father couldn’t really kill Alec, could he? But he’d give it his best try. Then an idea popped into Sorcha’s mind as her eyes found the punch bowl on the opposite side of the room. A little bit of dried eyebright leaves, ground into powder and added to the orgeat, ought to do the trick. “What if we made them forget they ever saw ye covered in dirt and escapin’ the orangery, Alec?”