“Mrs. Smith,” he said with a distracted glance. “I beg your pardon, but I must speak to my brother—”
She studied him, armed with the knowledge that Cassidy was meant to be his wife. He was a kind enough man; he alone of his siblings didn’t look upon Isabelle as if she were a whore.
But he did not love Cassidy, of that Isabelle was certain. Nor did she love him—if Cassidy had more than the faintest grasp of what love entailed.
All men, human or otherwise, were fools.
“Thank you, Mr. Forster,” she said to Quentin. “I was just leaving.”
“You wanted me to inform you as soon as the first guests entered Greyburn land,” Quentin said when he and Braden were alone.
Braden struggled to wrench his thoughts from Isabelle and her accusations. It wasn’t easy; she and Cassidy had chosen the worst possible time to rattle the very foundations of the world he had built.
In telling Isabelle of his plans for Quentin and Cassidy, he’d removed any possibility of further misunderstanding. But he had taken a grave risk. Cassidy had yet to prove she could Change, and if she married Quentin lacking that proof, Quentin’s heritage might be wasted.
But he had to put such worries aside. Now he must bend all his concentration to the gathering that was about to begin. He’d sent Quentin out to watch for the arrival of the Convocation delegates; his return meant that the first guests would be here in less than an hour.
Not for a single moment could he allow any of the delegates to sense weakness in him or any of the Forsters—physical, mental, or emotional. The Forster blood must be strong, invulnerable. Cassidy would be kept apart from the other loups-garous, so that they never had the opportunity to guess that she was not fully one of them.
As for Rowena… her selected American mate would claim her at this very Convocation. Soon enough she’d learn what it was to submit to her proper destiny.
He turned to Quentin, who waited in silence for his recognition. “Well?”
“The first guests are approaching Greyburn,” Quentin said. There was a strain in his voice that was more than the fatigue of a long run and Change. “The German and Hungarian delegates, and one of the Spaniards. But—Braden, there’s someone we didn’t expect.”
Braden felt a chill of premonition. “Boroskov,” he said.
“Yes.” Quentin walked across the room and flopped into a chair. “Stefan, Fedor, and a woman I don’t recognize. I knew damned well that you didn’t invite them—”
“No.” Braden rang for Aynsley. When the butler appeared, Braden asked him to send for Telford, Mrs. Fairbairn, and the head groom. He instructed each personally, impressing upon them the urgency of the situation, and dismissed them. He turned to Quentin.
“There can be only one reason why Milena’s brothers have come to Greyburn.”
Quentin had procured himself a drink, which he inhaled with great concentration. “Indeed,” he said.
“If there was ever a time we must be united, it is now. Should we fail, should we show any sign of weakness, Milena’s kin will do their best to destroy all we’ve worked for.”
“The Cause, you mean.”
“Do you think they’ll stop with the Cause?” He turned toward the window, as if he could see the approaching threat. “When I last met Stefan, he cursed me. I knew the matter was not resolved, but he and Fedor were chastened enough to return to Russia without a fight. Evidently they have found courage—or hatred—enough to challenge me.”
“I don’t suppose,” Quentin said softly, “that they’re here to make peace?”
“Peace? I’d accept no peace with their perverted blood. You deceive yourself, Quentin. If they can, they’ll kill me and take control of the Convocation. Can you doubt the outcome?”
Quentin shifted uncomfortably. “Did they know three years ago that you were—”
“Blind? No. I concealed it then, at the time of Milena’s death. Now—” He smiled, almost wishing for one of Quentin’s poisonous libations. “They’ll know soon enough. When they arrive, we will meet them with indifference and shall force them to make the first move.”
“Let me take the challenge,” Quentin said suddenly. “Stefan is—”
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