“We’re not racing in the Ascot, MacQuarrie. A nice leisurely jaunt will do.”
Alec pulled back on his reins, slowing his mount to a more relaxed gait. “Sorry,” he replied over his shoulder.
“That thirsty, are you?” Radbourne’s mocking voice made Alec grind his teeth together.
If he tore the Lycan’s head from his shoulders, he could make Bexley forget the entire event, but then he’d still have to deal with the twin pups. He truly shouldn’t even consider the option. His old mentor had been very adamant that Alec not start some war…But Matthew wasn’t around any longer, was he?
Getting rid of the blasted wolfling would at least keep Sorcha safe. Alec hadn’t missed the way Radbourne had leered at the little witch. It had been enough to make his vision turn red at the edges. The damn viscount was lucky he hadn’t been within reach when it happened or he’d be missing an arm or a leg or something even more vital.
“Or just in a hurry to enchant a little piece of baggage?”
Weston Hadley asked as he rode up on Alec’s right.
The irksome twin most assuredly deserved the scar he wore on his face like a badge of honor. Alec hadn’t been present when a powerful vampyress had marked the pup for his impertinence, but he could certainly sympathize with the lady who had been driven to reprimand the young Lycan. He glared at the wolf at his side. “Callista sends her regards, Hadley.”
A satisfying look of fear flashed in the Lycan’s eyes, and Alec bit back a smile. It truly was a shame he’d missed that whole event the previous spring. And it truly was a shame that both of the wolf’s brothers hadn’t been punished in a similar fashion. Perhaps Sorcha wouldn’t find them so enthralling if they were all scarred.
“Callista?” Bexley asked as he rode up on Alec’s left.
“Who is this little baggage?”
Callista would not appreciate being referred to in such a fashion. Thank God she wasn’t in Kent. Alec aimed for what he hoped was an expression of ennui. “An acquaintance of Mr. Hadley’s. No one you’d be interested in.”
“Pretty name,” the earl added with a shrug. “Someone you’d care to tell me more about, Wes?”
“You wouldn’t want to meet her.” Alec chuckled more to himself than at Bexley. “She’s positively ancient.” In all honesty, he wasn’t certain how old the vampyre was, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been with Caesar when his forces first entered Britain.
The earl frowned. “What a shame. I’ve cut my swath through Folkestone more times than I care to count. A new, pretty face would be most welcome.”
“Miss Ferguson has a pretty face,” Radbourne remarked from behind them.
Alec clutched his reins even tighter. Had blood flowed through his veins, it would have been pounding in his ears.
How dare the man even say her name?
“Indeed,” Bexley agreed. “I would love to taste a bit of Scotland myself.” Then he groaned a bit as though he imagined doing that very thing.
Alec cast the man an admonishing glare. “Your grandmother has warned you off of her,” he reminded the earl.
Bexley agreed with a nod of his head. “True. It really is too bad. Such a tempting little lass with the prettiest lips.”
Not bad at all, but good fortune for Sorcha even if she didn’t realize it.
“And so charmingly untried,” the earl continued. “There’s nothing quite as nice as an eager pupil.”
Alec pressed his hunter forward a bit more. If he had to listen to this all the way to Folkestone, every bit of patience he possessed would vanish. “How much farther to the village?”
“Not far,” Bexley replied, completely oblivious to the perilous rope on which he walked. One really shouldn’t go about provoking vampyres, certainly not to the extent the Englishman did. Not if one wanted to keep his head attached to his body at the end of the day.
Just in the distance, Alec could see the lights of what appeared to be a tavern. Thank God. He glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “I’ll meet you all there.”
The four men chuckled as Alec rode on ahead. “My, he certainly is eager,” one of the twins muttered, but Alec didn’t look back to see which one.
~*~
Night had fallen very quickly. Sorcha peeked out through the curtain of her pilfered coach. Certainly, they must be closing in on Folkestone by now. Sure enough, a warm glow emanated from a grey stone building up ahead. The Knight’s Arms. The