The Parasol Protectorate Boxed Set (33 page)

Alexia, in only a shift, stockings, and shoes, crossed her arms over her breasts self-consciously.

Her new husband ran large calloused hands around the hem of her chemise, stroking at the soft skin of her upper thighs. Then
he lifted the material up to cup her buttocks before raising that last bastion of her admittedly deteriorated dignity over
her head and discarding it.

Until that moment, Alexia realized she had never before seen real hunger in his eyes. They were in physical contact, supernatural
and preternatural, but nevertheless, his eyes had turned to pure wolf yellow. He looked at her, clad in nothing but stockings
and ivory button boots, as though he wanted to eat her alive.

“You are trying to get back at me, are you?” she said accusingly, trying to calm him a little. The intensity was scaring her.
She was, after all, relatively new to this kind of activity.

He paused and looked at her, yellow fading in genuine surprise. “For what?”

“Back at the Hypocras Club, when you were naked and I was not.”

He pulled her toward him. She had no idea how he managed to attend to himself as well as her, but somehow he had opened the
flap at the front of his breeches. Everything else remained covered. “I'll admit the thought had crossed my mind. Now sit.”

“What, there?”

“Aye, there.”

Alexia looked dubious. However, there were destined to be some arguments in their relationship she could not hope to win.
This was one of them. The carriage, rather too conveniently, pitched slightly to one side, and she stumbled forward. Conall
caught her and guided her into his lap in one smooth movement.

He did not do anything else with that particular proximity for a moment; instead he turned his attention to her generous breasts,
first kissing, then nibbling, then biting, a progression that had Alexia squirming in such a way as to force the very tip
of him inside her whether she willed it or no.

“Really,” she insisted, panting, “this is a most unseemly location for such activities.”

Just then, the carriage lurched over a rut in the road and silenced all further objections. The movement brought her flush
on top of him, naked thighs pressed against the material of his breeches. Lord Maccon groaned, a rapt expression on his face.

Alexia gasped and winced. “Ouch!” She leaned forward against her husband and bit his shoulder hard in revenge. Hard enough
to draw blood. “That hurt.”

He took the bite without complaint and looked worried. “Does it still?”

The carriage bumped again. This time Alexia sighed. Something extremely odd and tingly was beginning to occur in her nether
regions.

“I shall take that as a no,” said her husband, and began to move, rocking with the motion of the carriage.

What happened after that was all sweat, and moans, and pulsing sensation to which Alexia decided, after about one second of
deep deliberation, she was not averse. It culminated in the most intriguing second heartbeat emerging right around the area
where he had impaled himself. Shortly thereafter, her husband gave a long low groan and collapsed back on the carriage cushions,
cradling her against him.

“Ooo,” said Alexia, fascinated, “it shrinks back down again. The books didn't detail that occurrence.”

The earl laughed. “You must show me these books of yours.”

She folded forward on top of him and nuzzled down into his cravat, pleased to be with a man who was strong enough to be untroubled
at having her draped atop him. “Books of my father's,” she corrected.

“I hear he had an interesting reputation.”

“Mmmm, so his library would suggest.” She closed her eyes, relaxing against her husband. Then she thought of something, reared
back, and whacked him on the waistcoat with one balled-up fist.

“Ouch,” said her long-suffering husband. “Now what are you upset about?”

“Isn't that just
like
you!” she said.

“What?”

“You took it as a challenge, didn't you? My stopping you from seducing me back at the Hypocras Club.”

Lord Maccon grinned wolfishly, though his eyes had gone back to their human tawny brown color. “Naturally.”

She frowned, considering how best to handle this situation. Then she shifted back toward him and began busily untying his
cravat and divesting him of coat, waistcoat, and shirt.

“Well, then,” she said.

“Aye?”

“I am still holding that the carriage is an entirely inappropriate place for conjugal activities. Would you like to prove
me wrong a second time?”

“Are you challenging me, Lady Maccon?” asked Lord Maccon in mock annoyance. But he was already lifting himself up to facilitate
her removal of his clothing.

Alexia smiled down at his bare chest and then looked once more into his eyes. The yellow was back. “All the time.”

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T
hey are what?”

Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, was yelling. Loudly. This was to be expected from Lord Maccon, who was generally a loud
sort of gentleman—the ear-bleeding combination of lung capacity and a large barrel chest.

Alexia Maccon, Lady Woolsey, muhjah to the queen, Britain's secret preternatural weapon extraordinaire, blinked awake from
a deep and delicious sleep.

“Wasn't me,” she immediately said, without having the barest hint of an idea as to what her husband was carrying on about.
Of course, it usually
was
her, but it would not do to fess up right away, regardless of whatever it was that had his britches in a bunch this time.
Alexia screwed her eyes shut and squirmed farther into the warmth of down-stuffed blankets. Couldn't they argue about it later?

“What do you mean
gone
?” The bed shook slightly with the sheer volume behind Lord Maccon's yell. The amazing thing was that he wasn't nearly as
loud as he could be when he really put his lungs into it.

“Well, I certainly did not tell them to go,” denied Alexia into her pillow. She wondered who “they” were. Then she came about
to the realization, taking a fluffy-cottony sort of pathway to get there, that he wasn't yelling at her but at someone else.
In their bedroom.

Oh dear.

Unless he was yelling at himself.

Oh
dear
.

“What,
all
of them?”

Alexia's scientific side wondered idly at the power of sound waves—hadn't she heard of a recent Royal Society pamphlet on
the subject?

“All at once?”

Lady Maccon sighed, rolled toward the hollering, and cracked one eyelid. Her husband's large naked back filled her field of
vision. To see any more, she'd have to lever herself upright. Since that would probably expose her to more cold air, she declined
to lever. She did, however, observe that the sun was barely down. What was Conall doing awake and aloud so freakishly early?
For, while her husband roaring was not uncommon, its occurrence in the wee hours of late afternoon was. Inhuman decency dictated
that even Woolsey Castle's Alpha werewolf remain quiet at this time of day.

“How wide of a radius, exactly? It canna have extended this far.”

Oh dear, his Scottish accent had put in an appearance. That never bode well for anyone.

“All over London? No?
Just
the entire Thames embankment and city center. That is simply not possible.”

This time Lady Maccon managed to discern a mild murmuring response to her husband's latest holler. Well, she consoled herself,
at least he hadn't gone entirely potty. But who would dare attempt to rustle up Lord Maccon in his private quarters at such
an abysmal hour? She tried once more to see over his back.
Why
did he have to be so substantial?

She levered.

Alexia Maccon was known as a lady of regal bearing and not much more. Society generally considered her looks too swarthy to
give much credence despite her rank. Alexia, herself, had always believed good posture was her last best hope and was proud
to have acquired the “regal bearing” epithet. This morning, however, blankets and pillows thwarted her; she could only flounder
gracelessly up to her elbows, her backbone as limp as a noodle.

All that her Herculean effort revealed was a hint of wispy silver and a vaguely human form: Formerly Merriway.

“Mummer murmur,” said Formerly Merriway, straining for full apparition in the not-quite darkness. She was a polite ghost,
relatively young and well preserved, and still entirely sane.

“Oh, for goodness' sake.” Lord Maccon seemed to be getting only more irritated. Lady Maccon knew that particular tone of voice
well—it was usually directed at her. “But there is nothing on this Earth that can
do
that.”

Formerly Merriway said something else.

“Well, have they consulted all the daylight agents?”

Alexia strained to hear. Already gifted with a low, sweet voice, the ghost was difficult to understand when she intentionally
dampened her tone. Formerly Merriway might have said, “Yes, and they have no idea either.”

The ghost seemed frightened, which caused Alexia more concern than Lord Maccon's irritation (which was sadly frequent). Little
could frighten the already dead, with the possible exception of a preternatural. And even Alexia, soulless, was only dangerous
under very specific circumstances.

“What, no idea at all? Right.” The earl tossed his blankets aside and climbed out of bed.

Formerly Merriway gasped and shimmered about, presenting her transparent back to the completely naked man.

Alexia appreciated the courtesy, even if Lord Maccon did not. Polite to the core was poor little Merriway. Or what was left
of her core. Lady Maccon, on the other hand, was not so reticent. Her husband had a decidedly fine backside, if she did say
so herself. And she had said so, to her scandalized friend Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, on more than one occasion. It may be far
too early to be awake, but it was never too early to admire something of that caliber. The artistically pleasing body part
drifted out of view as her husband strode toward his dressing chamber.

“Where is Lyall?” he barked.

Lady Maccon tried to go back to sleep.

“What! Lyall's gone too? Is
everyone
going to disappear on me? No, I did not send him.…” A pause. “Oh yes, you are perfectly correct, I did. The pack was”—
blub blub blub
—“coming in at”—
blub, blub
—“station.”
Splash.
“Shouldn't he have returned by now?”

Her husband was obviously washing, as periodically his bellowing was interrupted by soggy noises. Alexia strained to hear
Tunstell's voice. Without his valet, her louder half was bound to look quite disastrously disheveled. It was never a good
idea to let the earl dress unsupervised.

“Right, well, send a claviger for him posthaste.”

At which point, Formerly Merriway's spectral form vanished from view.

Conall reappeared in Alexia's line of sight and gathered up his gold pocket watch from the bedside table. “Of course, they
will take it as an insult, but nothing to be done about it.”

Ha, she had been right. He was, in fact, not dressed at all but was wearing only a cloak.
No Tunstell then.

The earl seemed to remember his wife for the first time.

Alexia counterfeited sleep.

Conall shook Alexia gently, admiring both the tousled mound of inky hair and the artfully feigned disinterest. When his shaking
became insistent, she blinked long lashes at him.

“Ah, good evening, my dear.”

Alexia glared at her husband out of slightly red-rimmed brown eyes. This early evening tomfoolery wouldn't be so horrible
if he had not kept her up half the day. Not that those particular exertions had been unpleasant, simply exuberant and lengthy.

“What are you about, husband?” she inquired, her voice laced buttery-smooth with suspicion.

“All apologies, my dear.”

Lady Maccon absolutely hated it when her husband called her his “dear.” It meant he was up to something but was not going
to tell her about it.

“I must run off to the office early tonight. Some important BUR business has cropped up.” From the cloak and the fact that
his canines were showing, Alexia surmised that he literally meant run, in wolf form. Whatever was going on must need urgent
attention, indeed. Lord Maccon usually preferred to arrive at BUR in carriage, comfort, and style, not fur.

“Has it?” muttered Alexia.

The earl began to tuck the blankets about his wife. His large hands were unexpectedly gentle. Touching his preternatural spouse,
his canines disappeared. In that brief moment, he was mortal.

“Are you meeting with the Shadow Council tonight?” he asked.

Alexia considered. Was it Thursday? “Yes.”

“You are in for an interesting conference,” advised the earl, goading her.

Alexia sat up, undoing all of his nice tucking. “What? Why?” The blankets fell, revealing that Lady Maccon's endowments were
considerable and not fabricated through fashionable artifice such as stuffed corset or too-tight stays. Despite nightly familiarity
with this fact, Lord Maccon was prone to dragging her onto secluded balconies at balls in order to check and “make certain”
this remained the case.

“I
am
sorry for waking you so early, my dear.” There was that dreaded phrase again. “I promise I shall make it up to you in the
morning.” He waggled his eyebrows at her lasciviously and leaned down for a long and thorough kiss.

Lady Maccon sputtered and pushed at his large chest ineffectually.

“Conall,
what
is going on?”

But her irritating werewolf of a husband was already away and out of the room.

“Pack!” His holler resounded through the hallway. At least this time he had made a pretense of seeing to her comfort by shutting
the door first.

Alexia and Conall Maccon's bedroom took up the whole of one of the highest towers Woolsey had to offer, which, admittedly,
was more of a dignified pimple off the top of one wall. Despite this comparative isolation, the earl's bellow could be heard
throughout most of the massive building, even down to the back parlor, where his clavigers were taking their tea.

The Woolsey clavigers worked hard about their various duties during the day, looking after slumbering werewolf charges and
taking care of daylight pack business. For most, tea was a brief and necessary respite before they were called to their other
nonpack work. As packs tended to favor boldly creative companions, and Woolsey was close to London, more than a few of its
clavigers were actively engaged in West End theatricals. Despite the lure of Aldershot pudding, Madeira cake, and gunpowder
black tea, their lord's yodel had them up and moving as fast as could be desired.

The entire house suddenly became a hubbub of activity: carriages and men on horseback came and went, clattering on the stone
cobbles of the forecourt; doors slammed; voices called back and forth. It sounded like the dirigible disembarkation green
in Hyde Park.

Emitting that heaviest of sighs that denotes the gravely put-upon, Alexia Maccon rolled herself out of bed and picked up her
nightgown from where it lay, a puddle of frills and lace, on the stone floor. It was one of her husband's wedding gifts to
her. Or more probably gifts to
him
, as it was made of a soft French silk and had scandalously few pleats. It was quite fashion-forward and daringly French,
and Alexia rather liked it. Conall rather liked taking it off her. Which was how it had ended up on the floor. They had negotiated
a temporal relationship with the nightgown; most of the time, she was able to wear it only out of the bed. He could be very
persuasive when he put his mind, and other parts of his anatomy, to it. Lady Maccon figured she would have to get used to
sleeping in the altogether. Although there was that niggling worry that the house might catch fire and cause her to dash about
starkers in full view of all. The worry was receding slowly, for she lived with a pack of werewolves and was acclimatizing
to their constant nudity—by necessity if not preference. There was, currently, far more hairy masculinity in her life than
any Englishwoman should really have to put up with on a monthly basis. That said, half the pack was away fighting in northern
India; someday there would be even more full-moon maleness. She thought of her husband; him she had to deal with on a
daily
basis.

A timid knock sounded, followed by a long pause. Then the door to the bedchamber was pushed slowly open, and a heart-shaped
face paired with dark blond hair and enormous violet eyes peered in. The eyes were apprehensive. The maid to whom they belonged
had learned, to her abject mortification, to give her master and mistress extra time before disturbing them in the bedchamber.
One could never predict Lord Maccon's amorous moods, but one could certainly predict his temper if they were interrupted.

Noting his absence with obvious relief, the maid entered carrying a basin of hot water and a warm white towel over one arm.
She curtsied gracefully to Alexia. She wore a modish, if somber, gray dress with a crisp white apron pinned over it. Alexia
knew, though others did not, that the high white collar about her slender neck disguised multiple bite marks. As if being
a former vampire drone in a werewolf household were not shocking enough, the maid then opened her mouth and proved that she
was also, quite reprehensibly, French.

“Good evening, madame.”

Alexia smiled. “Good evening, Angelique.”

The new Lady Maccon, barely three months in, had already established her taste as quite daring, her table as incomparable,
and her style as trendsetting. And while it was not generally known among the ton that she sat on the Shadow Council, she
was observed to be on friendly terms with Queen Victoria. Couple that with a temperamental werewolf husband of considerable
property and social standing, and her eccentricities—such as carrying a parasol at night and retaining an overly pretty French
maid—were overlooked by high society.