“Good Lord, husband. Does everyone have one but us?” his wife wanted to know.
The earl turned sharp eyes on her. “Why? Who else acquired one recently?”
“Lord Akeldama, of all people, and he has the latest model. Would you be very cross if I said I rather covet one myself?”
Lord Maccon reflected upon the state of his life wherein he had somehow gained a spouse who could not give a pig’s foot for the latest dresses out of Paris but who whined about not owning an aethographic transmitter. Well, at least the two were comparable obsessions so far as expense was concerned.
“Well, my little bluestocking bride, someone has a birthday coming up.”
Alexia’s eyes shone. “Oh, splendid!”
Lord Maccon kissed her softly on the forehead and then turned back to Madame Lefoux. “Well, can I persuade you to stop over at Kingair for a few days and ascertain if there is anything you can do to help?”
Alexia pinched her husband in annoyance. When would he learn to ask her about these things first?
Lord Maccon captured his wife’s hand in one big paw and shook his head ever so slightly at her.
The inventor frowned, a little crease in her creamy forehead. Then, as though the crease had never been, the dimples appeared, and she accepted the invitation.
Alexia managed only a brief, private word with her husband as they piled their luggage into two hired carriages.
“Channing says the werewolves couldn’t change all the boat ride over.”
Her husband blinked at her, startled. “Really?”
“Oh, and Lyall says the plague is moving northward. He thinks it beat us to Scotland.”
Lord Maccon frowned. “He thinks it’s something to do with the Kingair Pack, doesn’t he?”
Alexia nodded.
Strangely, her husband grinned. “Good, that gives me an excuse.”
“Excuse for what?”
“Showing up on their doorstep; they’d never let me in otherwise.”
“What?” Alexia hissed at him. “Why?” But they were interrupted by Tunstell’s return and unparalleled excitement at seeing Lord Maccon.
The rented carriages rattled down the track to Kingair in ever-growing darkness. Alexia was bound to either silence or inanities by the presence of Ivy and Madame Lefoux in their carriage. It was too dark and rainy to see much outside the window, a fact that upset Ivy.
“I did so want to see the Highlands,” said Miss Hisselpenny. As though there would be some sort of line, drawn on the ground, that indicated transition from one part of Scotland to the next. Miss Hisselpenny had already commented that Scotland looked a lot like England, in a tone of voice that suggested this a grave error on the landscape’s part.
Inexplicably tired, Alexia dozed, her cheek resting on her husband’s large shoulder.
Felicity, Tunstell, and Angelique rode in the other carriage, emerging with an air of chummy gaiety that confused Alexia and tormented Ivy. Felicity was flirting shamelessly, and Tunstell was doing nothing to dissuade her. But the sight of Castle Kingair dampened everyone’s spirits. As if to compound matters, as soon as they and all their luggage had alighted and the carriages trundled off, the rain began to descend in earnest.
Castle Kingair was like something out of a Gothic novel. Its foundation was a huge rock that jutted out over a dark lake. It put Woolsey Castle to shame. There was the feel of real age about the place, and Alexia would bet good money that it was a drafty, miserably old-fashioned creature on the inside.
First, however, it appeared that they would have to get past a drafty, miserably old-fashioned creature on the outside.
“Ah,” said Lord Maccon upon seeing the reception committee of one, standing, arms crossed, outside the castle front gates. “Gird your loins, my dear.”
His wife looked up at him, her wet hair falling from its fancy arrangement. “I do not think you should be discussing my loins just now, husband,” she said in a sprightly manner.
Miss Hisselpenny, Felicity, and Madame Lefoux came to stand next to them, shivering in the rain, while Tunstell and Angelique began organizing the baggage.
“Who is that?” Ivy wanted to know.
The personage stood shrouded in a long, shapeless plaid cloak, face shadowed under a beaten coachman’s hat of oiled leather that had seen better days and barely survived them.
“One might well ask instead, what is that?” corrected Felicity, her nose wrinkled in disgust, her parasol raised ineffectually against the deluge.
The woman—for upon closer inspection, the personage did appear to be, to some slight degree, of the female persuasion—did not move forward to greet them. Nor did she offer them shelter. She simply stood and glared. And her glaring was most definitely centered on Lord Maccon.
They approached cautiously.
“You’re nae welcome here, Conall Maccon, you ken!” she yelled, long before they were within any reasonable conversational distance. “Hie yourself back away now afore you be fighting all what’s left of this here pack.”
Under the shade of the hat, she appeared to be of middling years, handsome but not pretty, with strong features and coarse thick hair, tending toward gray. She boasted the general battle-ax demeanor of an especially strict governess. This was the kind of woman who took her tea black, smoked cigars after midnight, played a mean game of cribbage, and kept a bevy of repulsive little dogs.
Alexia liked her immediately.
The woman shouldered a rifle with consummate skill and pointed it at Lord Maccon.
Alexia liked her less.
“And dinna be thinking you can change on me. Pack’s been free of yon werewolf’s curse for months, since we started out across the sea.”
“Which would be why I’m here, Sidheag.” Lord Maccon continued to advance. He was a good liar, her husband, thought Lady Maccon proudly.
“You be doubting these bullets be silver?”
“What matters that, if I’m as mortal as you?”
“Och, you always were a sharp one with the tongue.”
“We have come to help, Sidheag.”
“Who’s been saying we need help? You’re na wanted here. Hie yourself off Kingair territory, the lot of ye.”
Lord Maccon sighed heavily. “This is BUR business, and your pack’s behavior has called me down on you, willing or nae. I’m not here as Woolsey Alpha. I am not even here as mediator for your Alpha gap. I am here as sundowner. What did you expect?”
The woman flinched away, but she also put down the gun. “Aye. I see it now to rights. ’Tis na that you care what happens to the pack—your old pack. You’re simply here touting queen’s will. Turn-tail coward, that’s what you are, Conall Maccon, and naught more.”
Lord Maccon had almost reached her by now. Only Lady Maccon still trailed behind him. The rest had stopped at the sight of the woman’s gun. Alexia glanced back over her shoulder to see Ivy and Felicity huddled near Tunstell, who had a small pistol pointed steadily at the woman. Madame Lefoux stood next to him, her wrist held at just such an angle to suggest some more exotic form of firearm was concealed but enabled just inside the sleeve of her greatcoat.
Lady Maccon, parasol at the ready, moved toward her husband and the strange woman. He was speaking in a low voice so that the party behind them could not hear through the rain. “What did they get up to overseas, Sidheag? What mess did you get into over there after Niall died?”
“What do you care? You up and abandoned us.”
“I had no choice.” Conall’s voice was weary with remembered arguments.
“Bollix to that, Conall Maccon. ’Tis a cop-out, well and truly, and we both be knowing it. You fixing the mess you left behind these twenty years gone, now that you’re back?”
Alexia looked at her husband, curious. Perhaps she would get the answer to something she’d always wondered about. Why would an Alpha abdicate one pack, only to seek out and fight to rule another?
The earl remained silent.
The woman pushed the worn old hat back off her head to look up at Lord Maccon. She was tall, almost as tall as he, so she did not have to look up far. She was no slight thing either. There was muscle rolling about noticeably under that massive cloak. Alexia was suitably impressed.
The woman’s eyes were a terribly familiar tawny brown color.
Lord Maccon said, “Let us inside out of this muck and I will think about it.”
“Pah!” spat the woman. Then she marched up the beaten stone path toward the keep.
Lady Maccon looked to her husband. “Interesting lady.”
“Dinna you start,” he growled at her. He turned back to the rest of their party. “That is about as much of an invitation as we’re likely to receive around these parts. Come on inside. Leave the luggage. Sidheag will send a man out to get it.”
“And you are convinced she will not simply toss it all into the lake, Lord Maccon?” wondered Felicity, clutching her reticule protectively.
Lord Maccon snorted. “No guarantees.”
Lady Maccon immediately left his side and retrieved her dispatch case from the mound of luggage.
“Does this thing work as an umbrella?” she asked Madame Lefoux on her way back, waving the parasol.
The inventor looked sheepish. “I forgot that part.”
Alexia sighed and squinted up into the rain. “Capital. Here I stand, about to meet the dreaded in-laws looking like nothing so much as a drowned rat.”
“Be fair, sister,” contradicted Felicity. “You look like a drowned toucan.”
And with that, the little band entered Castle Kingair.
It was just as drafty and old-fashioned on the inside as its appearance would suggest from the outside. Neglected was too fine a term for it. The carpets were gray-green, threadbare relics from the time of King George; the chandelier in the entranceway supported candles, of all ridiculous forms of lighting; and there were actual medieval tapestries hanging against the walls. Alexia, who was fastidious, ran one gloved finger along the banister railing and tutted at the dust.
The Sidheag woman caught her at it.
“Na up to yon high-falutin’ London standards, young miss?”
“Uh-oh,” said Ivy.
“Not up to standards of common household decency,” shot back Alexia. “I heard the Scots were barbarians, but this”—she brushed her fingers together, releasing a small cloud of gray powder—“is ridiculous.”
“I’m na stopping you from heading back out into the rain.”
Lady Maccon cocked her head to one side. “Yes, but would you stop me from dusting? Or do you have a particular attachment to grime?”
The woman chuckled at that.
Lord Maccon said, “Sidheag, this is my wife, Alexia Maccon. Wife, this is Sidheag Maccon, Lady Kingair. My great-great-great-granddaughter.”
Alexia was surprised. Her guess would have been a grand-niece of some kind, not a direct descendent. Her husband had been married before he changed? Now why hadn’t he told her that?
“But,” objected Miss Hisselpenny, “she looks older than Alexia.” A pause. “She looks older than you, Lord Maccon.”
“I would not try to understand, if I were you, dear,” consoled Madame Lefoux with a slight dimpling at Ivy’s distress.