Page 24 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Six

Aidan growled her name.

Growled it.

But somehow he growled it with exquisite politeness.

And then he glowered at her. Everyone knew he was too polite to glower.

And yet glower he did. At her. But something about it felt normal even as it prickled her temper. She glowered back, instantly incensed. He had no reason to frown at her. She hadn’t done anything.

That he knew of.

Blast, was this about the wolf’s tooth?

Well, he could just stuff it. She wasn’t giving it to him. She might consider returning it to the Winterwells, but only if they apologized to their son.

Aidan’s hand curled around her elbow. It was not a bruising grip but unyielding all the same. From the Earl of Coventry. Who looked suddenly as though she had stepped on one of his precious artifacts. Or released badgers through the exhibits. Set the Museum of Magic on fire. He looked as though she had committed any number of grievous sins.

And she probably had, but she did not know which one precisely had him so agitated. When he tugged her through the side entrance, it was surprise more than anything that had her following without attempting to bite him in retaliation.

Also, a sudden rush of warmth through her. A tingle in the belly.

She might not know him very well, but she did know that Aidan wasn’t the sort to haul ladies about. Better and better.

No, wait. That fight with the ogre last night must have addled her wits. She wasn’t supposed to be intrigued by this. Or worse, enjoying it.

“Have you landed on your head recently, Lord Coventry?” she asked, mostly to reassure herself that she hadn’t entirely lost her faculties. Small comfort. Aidan did not falter, did not even pause. He was very large. Had he always been so large?

He pulled her into the nearest alleyway, which resembled nothing so much as a medieval chapel, watched over by stone gargoyles. Several corn dollies on a red ribbon stretched overhead, dancing in the breeze that smelled like paper and vanilla and rain and tea. Exactly like Hallow.

Sorcha tilted her head. Aidan was not the alley sort, no matter how clean and quaint the alley in question. And he was breathing as though he were wrestling with some spell, or a wolf in the woods. Her witch knot prickled, as if in warning.

She’d forgotten how imposing he could be for an earl who dug through dirt for old treasures and collected broken magical baubles and torn books. There was a tattoo poking out from his cuff that she had not noticed in his formal evening wear, one she would offer good coin to see properly. Was it a magical sigil? To make him read faster? Find a treasure hoard left by Saxon ancestors?

“What are you doing?” Sorcha asked. Elderberry circled above, curious.

“You’re bleeding,” Aidan said. It was an accusation. Outraged, furious.

Unexpected.

Sorcha blinked. “What?” He sounded so sure that she was suddenly uncertain, even though she would probably notice if there were blood pouring out of some part of her body.

Aidan pulled up her sleeve, his fingers as gentle as his expression was fierce. And he was quite correct. She was bleeding through the thin cloth. She had only bothered with long sleeves on such a hot day to cover the scratch. Granny would surely have noticed otherwise. And though Hallow was not as fastidious as Haven, with their white houses and white carriages and white dresses and white sea-salt cures, they also did not care for the unsightly. It was only that their definition of the word sometimes differed. But probably not in the case of raw, red scratches and bloodstains. Unless they were acquired through the pursuit of knowledge, of course.

It itched a little but was not otherwise bothering her. She had mostly forgotten about it. She was too used to the fiery itch of scratches from rose thorns and blackberry thickets. Kitten teeth. “That’s not going to wash out.” It was an old dress, but she spent enough time traipsing through barns and hedges to need every old dress she had.

“That’s all you have to say?” Aidan asked. No, not asked: rumbled. Deeply.

“Well, yes. This might not be very fashionable, but dresses are expensive, you know.” And cranky unicorns ate a lot of gilded rose petals and raw fish, which were also expensive. She would much prefer to spend her money on that, even if the ungrateful donkey’s ass tried to gore her every time she got too close.

Aidan glared at the cut as though it personally offended him. “How did this happen?” he demanded in that calm, precise voice of his, but she could detect a roughness beneath, like the darkness under a silvery pond. Interesting.

Wait. Not interesting. And not his business. Not that she had any intention of telling him the truth regardless.

“I scratched myself,” Sorcha replied blandly. “It happens.”

“Lady Sorcha, this is serious.” He still had not released her. His fingers were warm against her skin. Firm.