“Now, Alexia, do you think that’s quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”
Another glare.
He sighed. “Verra well. Anything else?”
Alexia frowned in thought. “That will do for now, but I might still come up with something.”
He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose in her hair.
“So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?”
“It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.”
Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I’m afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were still in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.
Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We’ll split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and Floote act as decoy. Madame, I’m afraid you may have to don female dress.”
“Sometimes these things are necessary.”
Alexia grinned, both at Madame Lefoux’s discomfort and the very idea someone might confuse the two of them. “I recommend padding as well,” she suggested, puffing out her chest slightly, “and a hair fall.”
The inventor gave her a dour look. “I am aware of our differences of appearance, I assure you.”
Alexia hid a grin and turned back to her husband. “You’ll send them over land?”
Lord Maccon nodded. Then he looked to the clockmaker. “Monsieur?”
“Trouvé,” interjected his wife helpfully.
The clockmaker twinkled at them both. “I shall head home, I think. Perhaps the others would care to accompany me in that general direction?”
Channing and Madame Lefoux nodded. Floote, as ever, had very little reaction to this turn of events. But Alexia thought she detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.
Monsieur Trouvé turned back to Alexia, took her hand, and kissed the back of it gallantly. His whiskers tickled. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. Most enjoyable, indeed.”
Lord Maccon looked on in shock. “You are referring to my wife, are you not?”
The Frenchman ignored him, which only endeared him further to Alexia.
“And you as well, Monsieur Trouvé. We must continue our acquaintance sometime in the not too distant future.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.”
Alexia turned back to her faintly sputtering husband. “And we shall go by sea?”
He nodded again.
“Good.” His wife grinned. “I will have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about.”
“And here I thought we were due for a honeymoon.”
“Does that mean quite the same thing to werewolves?”
“Very droll, wife.”
It wasn’t until much later that Lord and Lady Maccon returned to the topic of a certain infant-inconvenience. They had had to make their formal good-byes and escape out of Florence first. Morning found them secluded in the safety of an abandoned old barn of the large and drafty variety, at which point things had settled enough for them to undertake what passed, for Lord and Lady Maccon, as serious conversation.
Conall, being supernatural and mostly inured against the cold, spread his cloak gallantly upon a mound of moldy straw and lounged back upon it entirely bare and looking expectantly up at his wife.
“Very romantic, my dear,” was Alexia’s unhelpful comment.
His face fell slightly at that, but Lady Maccon was not so immune to her husband’s charms that she could resist the tempting combination of big-muscled nudity and bashful expression.
She divested herself of her overdress and skirts.
He made the most delicious huffing noise when she cast herself, swanlike, on top of him. Well, perhaps more beached-sea-mammal-like than swanlike, but it had the desirous upshot of plastering most of the length of her body against most of the length of his. It took him a moment to recover from several stone of wife suddenly settled atop him, but only a moment, for then he began a diligent quest to rid her of all her remaining layers of clothing in as little time as possible. He unlaced the back and popped open the front of her corset, and stripped off her chemise with all the consummate skill of a lady’s maid.
“Steady on there,” protested Alexia mildly, though she was flattered by his haste.
As though influenced by her comment, which she highly doubted, he suddenly switched tactics and jerked her against him tightly. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The movement lifted her upward as his wide chest expanded. She felt almost as though she were floating.
Then he rolled her slightly off him and, incredibly gently, pulled off her bloomers and began stroking over her slightly rounded belly.
“So, a soul-stealer, is that what we’re getting?”
Alexia wriggled slightly, trying to get him back into his customary, rather more forceful handling. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but she enjoyed it when he became enthusiastically rough. “One of the Roman tablets called it a Stalker of Skins.”
He paused, glowering thoughtfully. “Na, still never heard of it. But, then, I’m na all that old.”
“It certainly has the vampires in a tizzy.”
“Following in its mother’s footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically in a northward direction.
“Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.
“I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.
“I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start with.”
“Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”
“We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.
“And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.
Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And since her husband’s mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn’t talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the end of their conversation.
So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.
meet the author
Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at www.gailcarriger.com.
