“Have I mentioned recently how loathsome I find the current fashions?”
“Take it up with the vampires; they set the trends.”
“Hence the high collars,” he grumbled. “I and mine, however, have no need to hide our necks.”
“No,” quipped his wife, “simply your personalities.” She stepped back, brushing down the shawl collar of his waistcoat. “There. Very handsome.”
Her large supernatural husband looked shy at that. “You think so?”
“Stop fishing for compliments and go get your jacket. I am positively starving.”
He pulled her against him and administered a long, deep, and distracting kiss. “You are always hungry, wife.”
“Mmm.” She could not take umbrage with a true statement. “So are you. Simply for different things.”
They were only slightly late for breakfast.
Most of the rest of the house was not yet up. Lady Kingair was there—Alexia wondered if the woman slept— and two clavigers, but none of the Kingair Pack. Of course, Ivy and Felicity were still abed. They kept London hours, even in the country, and could not be expected to appear until midmorning. Tunstell, Lady Maccon suspected, would find things to occupy himself until the ladies came down.
The castle put on a decent breakfast, for the middle of nowhere. There were cold cuts of pork, venison, and woodcock; potted shrimp; fried wild mushrooms; sliced pears; boiled eggs and toast; as well as a nice collection of fruit preserves. Lady Maccon helped herself, then settled down to tuck in.
Lady Kingair, who was eating a bowl of unseasoned porridge and a piece of plain toast, gave Alexia’s loaded plate a telling look. Alexia, who had never let the opinions of others sway her overmuch, especially where food was concerned, merely chewed loudly and with appreciative gusto.
Her husband shook his head at her antics, but as he himself sported a plate piled nearly twice as high as his wife’s, he could not cast aspersions.
“If you are back to being human,” Lady Maccon said after a pause, “you will get rotund eating like that.”
“I shall have to take up some sort of abrasively atrocious athletic sport.”
“You could go in for the hunt,” suggested Alexia. “Tallyho and view halloo.”
Werewolves, as a general rule, were not big on riding. Precious few horses were willing to carry a wolf on their back, even if he did look temporarily human. Driving a team was about as close as most werewolves could get. Since they could run faster in wolf form than a horse anyway, this fact did not tend to trouble the packs much. Except, of course, those men who had enjoyed riding before their metamorphosis.
Lord Maccon was not one of those men. “Foxhunting? I should think not,” he said, gnawing on a bit of pork. “Foxes are practically cousins; wouldna sit well with the family, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, but how dashing you would look in shiny boots and one of those flashy red jackets.”
“I was contemplating boxing or possibly lawn tennis.”
Lady Maccon stifled a giggle by stuffing her face with a forkful of mushroom. The very idea of
Conall glared at her, but there was a bit of a smile playing about his lips. “Now, now, wife, there’s no cause for blatant insult.”
Alexia was not certain whether she was insulting him by suggesting golf or insulting golf by suggesting he was its ideal participant.
Lady Kingair watched this byplay with both fascination and repugnance. “Goodness, I had heard it said that yours was a love match, but I couldna countenance it.”
Lady Maccon huffed. “Why else would any woman marry him?”
“Or her,” agreed Lord Maccon.
Something caught Alexia’s attention out of the corner of one eye. Something small and moving near the door to the room. Taken with curiosity, she stood, arresting the table conversation, and went to investigate.
Upon closer examination, she squealed in a most un-Alexia-like manner and jumped away in horror. Lord Maccon leaped to her rescue.
Lady Maccon looked at her great-great-whatever-daughter-in-law. “Cockroaches!” she accused, horrified out of any politeness that dictated she not mention the filthiness of the abode. “Why does your castle have
Lord Maccon, with great presence of mind, removed his shoe and went to crush the offending insect. He paused, examined it for a split second, and then squished it flat.
Lady Kingair turned to one of the clavigers. “How did that get in here?”
“Canna keep them confined, my lady. They seem to be breeding, they do.”
“Then summon an exterminator.”
The young man glanced furtively in Lord and Lady Maccon’s direction. “Would he ken how to deal with”—a pause—“this particular type?”
“Only one way to find out. Hie yourself into town immediately.”
“Very good, madam.”
Alexia returned to the dining table, but her appetite had deserted her. She made to rise shortly thereafter.
Lord Maccon inhaled a few last bites and then took off after his wife, catching up to her in the hallway.
“That was not a cockroach, was it?” she asked.
“Aye. It wasna.”
“Well?”
He shrugged, his big hands spread wide in confusion. “Strangely colored, all shiny.”
“Oh, thank you for that.”
“Why bother? ’Tis dead now.”
“Point taken, husband. So, what are we planning for today?”
He nibbled a fingertip thoughtfully. “You know, I thought we might discern exactly why the supernatural isna working properly here.”
“Oh, darling, what a unique and original idea.”
He paused. The subject of Kingair’s little affliction of humanity seemed not to actually be foremost in his mind. “Red jacket and shiny boots, you say?”
Lady Maccon looked at her husband, confused for a moment. Where was he going with this line of reasoning? “Boots are causing the illness?”
“No,” he grumbled, shamefaced, “on me.”
“Ah!” She grinned hugely. “I believe I might have mentioned something to that effect.”
“Anything else?”
The grin widened. “Actually, I was envisioning boots, jacket, and nothing else at all. Mmm, perhaps just boots.”
He swallowed, nervous.
She turned to him, upping the odds. “If you were to make this fashion event happen, I might be open to a little negotiating about which of us will be doing the riding.”
Lord Maccon, werewolf of some two hundred years, blushed beet red at that. “I am eternally grateful you have not taken up gambling, my dear.”
She wormed herself into his arms and raised her lips to be kissed. “Give me time.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chief Sundowner
That afternoon, Lord and Lady Maccon decided to take a walk. The rain had let up slightly, and it looked to be turning into a passable day, if not precisely pleasant. Lady Maccon decided she was in the country and could relax her standards slightly, so did not change into a walking dress, instead simply slipping on
