Changeless

CHAPTER EIGHT Castle Kingair

They landed just before sunset on a patch of green near the Glasgow train station. The dirigible came to rest as lightly as a butterfly on an egg, if the butterfly were to stumble a bit and list heavily to one side and the egg to take on the peculiar characteristics of Scotland in winter: more soggy and more gray than one would think possible.

Alexia disembarked with pomp and circumstance similar to her embarkation. She spearheaded a parade of bustle-swaying ladies, like so many fabric snails, onto firm (well, truthfully, rather squishy) land. The bustles were particularly prevalent due to the general relief at being able to wear a proper one once more and to pack the floating skirts away. The snails were followed by Tunstell, laden with a quantity of hatboxes and other package; four stewards with various trunks; and Lady Maccon’s French maid.

No one, thought Alexia smugly, could accuse her of traveling without the dignity due to the Earl of Woolsey’s wife. She might gad about town alone or in the care of only one unwed young lady, but clearly she traveled in company. Unfortunately, the effect of her arrival was undermined by the fact that the ground persisted in reeling about under her, causing Lady Maccon to tilt to one side and take an abrupt seat atop one of her trunks.

She dismissed Tunstell’s concern by sending him away to hire an appropriate conveyance to take them into the countryside.

Ivy wandered about the green to stretch her legs and look for wildflowers. Felicity came to stand next to Alexia and began immediately to carry on about the horrible weather.

“Why must it be so gray? Such a greeny sort of gray goes so badly with the complexion. And it is so awful to travel by coach anywhere in such weather. Must we go by coach?”

“Well,” said Lady Maccon, driven to annoyance, “this is the north. Do stop being silly about it.”

Her sister continued to complain, and Alexia watched out of the corner of her eye as Tunstell veered near to Ivy on his way across the landing green and hissed something in her ear. Ivy said something back, an excess of emotion coloring the sharp movements of her head. Tunstell’s back straightened and he turned away to walk on.

Ivy came to sit next to Alexia, trembling lightly.

“I do not know what I ever saw in that man.” Miss Hisselpenny was clearly overwrought.

“Oh dear, has something come between the lovebirds? Is there trouble afoot?” said Felicity.

When no one answered her, she trotted after the rapidly departing claviger. “Oh, Mr. Tunstell? Would you like some company?”

Lady Maccon looked to Ivy. “Am I to understand that Tunstell did not take your rejection well?” she inquired, trying not to sound as weak as she felt. She was still dizzy, and the ground seemed quite taken with shifting about like a nervous squid.

“Well, no, not as such. When I…” Ivy started and then broke off, her attention diverted by an exceedingly large dog charging in their direction. “Mercy me, what is that?”

The immense dog resolved into being, in actuality, a very large wolf, with a wad of fabric wrapped about its neck. Its fur was a dark brown color brindled gold and cream, and its eyes were pale yellow.

Upon reaching them, the wolf gave Miss Hisselpenny a polite little nod and then put its head in Lady Maccon’s lap.

“Ah, husband,” said Alexia, scratching him behind the ears, “I figured you would find me, but not so quickly as this.”

The Earl of Woolsey lolled his long pink tongue at his wife good-naturedly and tilted his head in Miss Hisselpenny’s direction.

“Yes, of course,” replied Alexia to the unspoken suggestion. She turned to her friend. “Ivy, my dear, I suggest you look away at this juncture.”

“Why?” wondered Miss Hisselpenny.

“Many find a werewolf’s shape change rather unsettling and—”

“Oh, I am certain I should not be at all disconcerted,” interrupted Miss Hisselpenny.

Lady Maccon was not convinced. Ivy was, circumstances had shown, prone to fainting. She continued her explanation. “And Conall will not be clothed when the transformative event has completed.”

“Oh!” Miss Hisselpenny put a hand to her mouth in alarm. “Of course.” She turned quickly away.

Still, one could not help but hear, even if one did not look: that slushy crunchy noise of bones breaking and reforming. It was similar to the echoing sound that dismembering a dead chicken for the stew pot makes in a large kitchen. Alexia saw Ivy shudder.

Werewolf change was never pleasant. That was one of the reasons pack members still referred to it as a curse, despite the fact that, in the modern age of enlightenment and free will, clavigers chose metamorphosis. The change comprised a good deal of biological rearranging. This, like rearranging one’s parlor furniture for a party, involved a transition from tidy to very messy to tidy once more. And, as with any redecoration, there was a moment in the middle where it seemed impossible that everything could possibly go back together harmoniously. In the case of werewolves, this moment involved fur retreating to become hair, bones fracturing and mending into new configurations, and flesh and muscle sliding about on top of or underneath the two. Alexia had seen her husband change many times, and every time she found it both vulgar and scientifically fascinating.

Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, was considered proficient at the change. No one could beat out Professor Lyall for sheer elegance, of course, but at least the earl was fast, efficient, and made none of those horribly pugilistic grunting noises the younger cubs were prone to emitting.

In mere moments, he stood before his wife: a big man, without being fat. Alexia had commented once that, given his love of food, he probably would have become portly had he aged as normal humans did. Luckily, he had elected for metamorphosis sometime in his midthirties and so had never gone to seed. Instead he remained forever a well-muscled mountain of a man who needed the shoulders of his coats tailored, his boots specially ordered, and near constant reminding that he must duck through doorways.

He turned eyes, only a few shades darker than they had been in wolf form, to his wife.

Lady Maccon stood to help him pull on his cloak but sat back down before she could do so. She was still not steady on her feet.

Lord Maccon immediately stopped shaking out the garment in question and knelt, naked, before her.

“What’s wrong?” he practically yelled.

“What?” Ivy turned to see what was going on, caught a glimpse of the earl’s naked backside, squeaked, and turned back away, fanning herself with one gloved hand.

“Do not fuss, Conall. You are upsetting Ivy,” grumbled Lady Maccon.

“Miss Hisselpenny is always upset over something. You are a different matter. You don’t do these kinds of things, wife. You are not that feminine.”

“Well, I like that!” Lady Maccon took offense.

“You understand my meaning perfectly. Stop trying to distract me. What’s wrong?” He drew entirely the wrong conclusion. “You’re sickening! Is that why you’ve come, to tell me you’re ill?” He looked like he wanted to shake her but did not dare.

Alexia looked straight into his worried eyes and said slowly and carefully, “I am perfectly fine. It is simply taking a little time for me to get my land legs back. You know how it can be after a long air or sea journey.”

The earl looked vastly relieved. “Not a very good floater, my love, as it turned out?”

Lady Maccon gave her husband a reproachful look and replied petulantly, “No, not so very good at the floating. No.” Then she changed the subject. “But, really, Conall, you know I welcome the spectacle, but poor Ivy! Put your cloak on, do.”

The earl grinned, straightened under her appreciative eye, and wrapped his long cloak about his body.

“How did you know I was here?” Alexia asked as soon as he was decent.

“The lewd display has ended, Miss Hisselpenny. You are safe,” Lord Maccon informed Ivy, settling his massive frame next to his wife. The trunk creaked at the added weight.

Lady Maccon snuggled against her husband’s side happily.

“Simply knew,” he grumbled, wrapping one long, fabric-shrouded arm about her and hauling her closer against him. “This landing patch is just off my route to Kingair. I caught your scent about an hour ago and saw the dirigible coming in for a landing. Figured I had better come see what was going on. Now you, wife. What are you doing in Scotland? With Miss Hisselpenny no less.”

“Well, I had to bring some kind of companion. Society would not very well condone my floating across the length of England by myself.”

“Mmm.” Lord Maccon glanced over, eyes heavy-lidded, at the still-nervous Ivy. She had not yet reconciled herself to talking with an earl dressed only in a cloak so was standing a little distance off with her back to them.

“Give her a bit more recuperation time,” advised Alexia. “Ivy’s sensitive, and you are such a shock to the system, even fully dressed.”

The earl grinned. “Praise, wife? How unusual from you. Nice to know I still have the capacity to unsettle others, even at my age. But stop trying to avoid the subject. Why are you here?”

“Why, darling”—Lady Maccon batted her eyelashes at him—“I was coming to Scotland to see you of course. I missed you so.”

“Ah, wife, how romantic of you,” he replied, not believing a word of it. He looked down at her fondly. Not as far down as he would have had to on most women, mind you. His Alexia was rather strapping. He preferred her that way. Undersized women reminded him of yippy dogs.

He rumbled softly, “Lying minx.”

She leaned in. “It will have to wait until later, when others cannot overhear,” she whispered against his ear.

“Mmm.” He turned in toward her and kissed her lips, warm and adamant.

“Ahem.” Ivy cleared her throat.

Lord Maccon took his time breaking off the kiss.

“Husband,” said Lady Maccon, her eyes dancing. “You remember Miss Hisselpenny?”

Conall gave his wife a look, and then stood and bowed. As though he and the nonsensical Miss Hisselpenny had not formed a lasting acquaintance these three months since his marriage.

“Good evening, Miss Hisselpenny. How do you do?”

Ivy curtsied. “Lord Maccon, how unexpected. You were notified of our arrival time?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

“It is a werewolf machination, Ivy,” explained Alexia. “Do not trouble yourself.”

Ivy did not.

Lady Maccon said to her husband carefully, “I also have my sister and Tunstell accompanying me. And Angelique, of course.”

“I see, an unexpected wife and reinforcements. Are we anticipating a battle of some kind, my dear?”

“If I were, I should only have to set the enemy against the sharp barbs of Felicity’s tongue to rout them thoroughly. The size of my traveling party is, however, entirely unintentional.”

Miss Hisselpenny acted a bit guilty at that statement.

Lord Maccon gave his wife a look of profound disbelief.

Alexia went on. “Felicity and Tunstell are procuring transportation as we speak.”

“How thoughtful of you, to bring me my valet.”

“Your valet has been a resounding nuisance.”

Miss Hisselpenny gasped.

Lord Maccon shrugged. “He usually is. There is an art to irritation that only few of us can achieve.”

Lady Maccon said, “That must be how werewolves select personalities for metamorphosis. Regardless, Tunstell was required. Professor Lyall insisted upon a male escort, and as we were traveling by dirigible, we could not bring a member of the pack.”

“Better not to anyway, seeing as this is someone else’s territory.”

A polite clearing of the throat occurred at that juncture, and the Maccons turned about to find Madame Lefoux hovering nearby.

“Ah, yes,” said Lady Maccon. “Madame Lefoux was also on board the dirigible with us. Quite unexpectedly.” She emphasized the last word for her husband’s benefit so that he might understand her concern over the inventor’s presence. “I believe you and my husband are already acquainted, Madame Lefoux?”

Madame Lefoux nodded. “How do you do, Lord Maccon?”

The earl bowed slightly and then shook Madame Lefoux’s hand, as he would a man. Lord Maccon’s opinion appeared to be that if Madame Lefoux dressed as a male, she should be treated as such. Interesting approach. Or perhaps he knew something Alexia did not.

Lady Maccon said to her husband, “Thank you for the lovely parasol, by the way. I shall put it to good use.”

“I never doubted that. I am a little surprised you have not already.”

“Who says I have not?”

“That’s my sweet, biddable little wife.”

Ivy said, surprised, “Oh, but Alexia is not sweet.”

Lady Maccon only grinned.

The earl seemed genuinely pleased to see the Frenchwoman. “Delighted, Madame Lefoux. You have business in Glasgow?”

The inventor inclined her head.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to visit Kingair? I just heard in town that the pack is experiencing some technical difficulties with its aethographic transmitter, newly purchased, secondhand.”

“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.

“I am just about forty,” replied Lady Kingair, unabashed at stating her age before strangers and in polite company. Really, this part of the country was just as primitive as Floote had said. Lady Maccon shuddered delicately and adjusted her grip on her parasol, prepared for anything.

Sidheag Maccon looked pointedly at the earl. “Nigh on too old.”

Felicity wrinkled her nose. “Ew, this is simply too revoltingly peculiar. Why did you have to involve yourself in the supernatural set, Alexia?”

Lady Maccon merely gave her sister an arch look.

Felicity answered her own question. “Oh yes, I remember now—no one else would have you.”

Alexia ignored that and looked with interest at her husband. “You never told me you had a family before you became a werewolf.”

Lord Maccon shrugged. “You never asked.” He turned to introduce the rest of the party. “Miss Hisselpenny, my wife’s companion. Miss Loontwill, my wife’s sister. Tunstell, my primary claviger. And Madame Lefoux, who would be happy to examine your broken aethographor.”

Lady Kingair started. “How did you ken that we…? Never mind. You always were uncanny with the knowing. You being BUR has na improved that to anyone else’s comfort. Weel, that’s one welcome guest. Delighted to meet ye, Madame Lefoux. I have, of course, heard of your work. We’ve a claviger who’s familiar with your theories, a bit o’ an amateur inventor himself.”

Then the Scotswoman looked at her great-great-great-grandfather. “I’m supposing you’d as lief see the rest o’ the pack?”

Lord Maccon inclined his head.

The Lady of Kingair reached off to the side of the darkened stairwell and clanged a bell hidden there. It made a noise halfway between a moo and a steam engine coming to an abrupt halt, and suddenly the hallway was filled with large men, most of them in skirts.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Felicity, “what are they wearing?”

“Kilts,” explained Alexia, amused at her sister’s discomfort.

“Skirts,” replied Felicity, deeply offended, “and short ones at that, as though they were opera dancers.”

Alexia swallowed a giggle. Now there was a funny image.

Miss Hisselpenny did not seem to know where to look. Finally she settled on staring up at the candelabra in abject terror. “Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?”

Alexia’s attention was on the faces of the men around her, not their unmentionable leg areas. There seemed to be an equal mix of disgust and delight at seeing Lord Maccon.

The earl introduced her to those he knew. The Kingair Pack Beta, nominally in charge, was one of the unhappy ones, while the Gamma was one of those pleased to see Conall. The remaining four members fell two for and two against and ranged themselves to stand accordingly, as though at any moment fisticuffs might spontaneously break out. Kingair was smaller than the Woolsey Pack, and less unified. Alexia wondered what kind of man the post-Conall Alpha had been, to lead this contentious lot.

Then, with unseemly haste, Lord Maccon grabbed the surly Beta, who responded in a halfhearted manner to the name of Dubh, and dragged him off into a private parlor, leaving Alexia to mitigate the tense social atmosphere he left behind.

Lady Maccon was equal to the task. No one of her stalwart character, required since birth to supervise first Mrs. Loontwill and later two equally improbable sisters, was unprepared for even such trying circumstances as large, kilted werewolves en masse.

“We heard about you,” said the Gamma, whose name sounded like something slippery to do with bogs. “Knew the old laird had suckered himself to a curse-breaker.” He paced about Alexia slowly in a circle as though examining her for flaws. It felt very doglike to Alexia. She was prepared to jump back if he cocked a leg.

Luckily, his statement was misconstrued by both Ivy and Felicity. Alexia was not known as a preternatural to either of them and she preferred to keep it that way. Both young ladies seemed to assume that the phrase curse-breaker was some queer Scottish term for wife.

Felicity said, sneering at the enormous man in front of her, “Really, can you not speak English?”

Lady Maccon said quickly, ignoring her sister, “You have the upper hand on me. I know nothing of you.” They were all so very large. She was not used to feeling diminutive.

The Gamma’s broad face went pinched at that. “Over a century he was master o’ this pack and he na mentioned us to ye?”

“Could be me he does not want to know you, rather than you he does not want to talk about,” offered Alexia.

The werewolf gave her a long, assessing look. “I’m thinking ’tis that he never brought us up, did he?”

Sidheag interrupted them. “Enough gossip. We’ll show you to your rooms. Lads, go grab in the extras—blasted English canna travel light.”

The upstairs bedrooms and guest accommodations seemed no better off than the rest of the castle, muted in color and dank in smell. The room given to Lord and Lady Maccon was tidy enough but musty, with decorations of brownish red some hundred years or so outdated. There was a large bed, two small wardrobes, a dressing table for Alexia, and a dressing chamber for her husband. The color scheme and general appearance reminded Lady Maccon of nothing so much as a damp, malcontented squirrel.

She checked about the chamber for a safe place to secrete her dispatch case, with little success. There seemed nowhere acceptably discreet, so she trundled three doors down to where Miss Hisselpenny was billeted.

As she passed one of the other chambers, she heard Felicity say, in a breathy voice, “Oh, Mr. Tunstell, shall I be safe in the room right next to yours, do you think?”

Seconds later, she witnessed Tunstell, panic in every freckle, emerge from Felicity’s room and dive into the refuge of his small valet accommodations just off of Conall’s dressing chamber.

Ivy was busy unpacking her trunk when Alexia tapped politely on her door and wandered in.

“Oh, thank heavens, Alexia. I was just pondering, do you think there might be ghosts in this place? Or worse, poltergeists? Please do not think I am at all bigoted against the supernatural set, but I simply cannot withstand an overabundance of ghosts, especially not those at the final stage of disanimus. I heard they get all over funny in the head and go wafting about losing bits of their noncorporeal selves. One rounds a corner of some perfectly respectable passageway only to find a disembodied eyebrow floating halfway between ceiling and potted palm.” Miss Hisselpenny shuddered as she carefully stacked her twelve hatboxes next to the wardrobe.

Alexia thought back to what her husband had said. If the werewolves here could not change, then the plague of humanization must be infecting Castle Kingair. The castle would have been completely exorcised.

“I have a funny feeling, Ivy,” she said with confidence, “that ghosts will definitely not be frequenting this locale.”

Ivy looked unconvinced. “But, Alexia, really you must admit to the fact that this building seems like the kind of place that ought to have ghosts.”

Lady Maccon clicked her tongue in exasperation. “Oh, Ivy, do not be ridiculous. Appearances have nothing to do with it; you know that. Only in Gothic novels are ghosts linked so, and we both know how utterly fanciful fiction has become recently. Authors never do get the supernatural correct. I mean to say, the last one I read essentially claimed metamorphosis had to do with magic, when everyone knows there are perfectly valid scientific and medical explanations for excess soul. Why, just the other day, I read that—”

Miss Hisselpenny interrupted her hastily before she could go on. “Yes, well, no need to overset me with bluestocking explanations and Royal Society papers. I shall take your word for it. What time did Lady Kingair say supper was to commence?”

“Nine, I believe.”

Another look of panic suffused her friend’s face. “Will they be serving”—she gulped—“haggis, do you think?”

Lady Maccon made a face. “Surely not for our first meal. But best prepare yourself; one never knows.” Conall had described the disastrous foodstuff, with unwarranted delight, during their carriage ride in. The ladies were living in mortal terror as a result.

Ivy sighed. “Very well. We had better get dressed, then. Would my periwinkle taffeta be appropriate for the occasion?”

“For the haggis?”

“No, silly, for dinner.”

“Does it have a matched hat?”

Miss Hisselpenny looked up from tidying her stack of hatboxes with a disgusted expression. “Alexia, do not talk such folderol. It is a dinner gown.”

“Then I think it will serve very well. May I ask you a favor? I have a gift for my husband in this case. Do you think I might conceal it in your room for the time being so he does not accidentally uncover it? I wish it to be a surprise.”

Miss Hisselpenny’s eyes shone. “Oh, really! How lovely and wifely of you. I should never have pegged you for a romantic.”

Lady Maccon winced.

“What is it?”

Alexia grappled with her brain for an appropriate answer. What would one possibly buy for a man and then hide in a dispatch case? “Uh. Socks.”

Miss Hisselpenny was crushed. “Only socks? I hardly think socks cry out for secrecy.”

“They are lucky, special socks.”

Miss Hisselpenny saw no apparent illogicality in that and carefully tucked Lady Maccon’s dispatch case behind her stack of hatboxes.

“I may need to access it from time to time,” said Alexia.

Miss Hisselpenny was bemused. “Why?”

“To, uh, check on the condition of the, uh, socks.”

“Alexia, are you feeling quite the thing?”

Lady Maccon instantly spoke, in order to throw Miss Hisselpenny off the scent. “Did you know, I just passed Tunstell leaving Felicity’s rooms.”

Ivy gasped. “No!” She immediately began furiously arranging her accessories for dinner, tossing gloves, jewelry, and lacy hair cap on top of the dress already laid out upon the bed.

“Alexia, I do not mean to be at all rude. But I really do believe your sister may be an actual nincompoop.”

“Oh, that is perfectly all right, Ivy dear. I cannot stomach her myself,” replied Lady Maccon. And then, because she felt guilty for having told her about Tunstell, “Would you like to borrow Angelique this evening to do up your hair? The rain’s ruined mine beyond all repair I’m afraid, so it would be a wasted effort.”

“Oh, really? Thank you, that would be lovely.” Ivy perked up immediately.

With that, Lady Maccon retreated to her own room to dress.

“Angelique?” The maid was busy unpacking when Lady Maccon reentered her bedroom.

“I have told Ivy she may have you for her hair this evening. Not a thing could possibly be done to help mine at this point.” Alexia’s dark locks were a mass of frizzy curls in reaction to the unpleasant Scottish climate. “I shall simply pop on one of those horrible lace matron’s caps you are always trying to get me to wear.”

“Yez, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsy and went to do as she was bid. She paused in the doorway, looking back at her mistress. “Please, my lady, why is Madame Lefoux still with us?”

“You really do not like her, do you, Angelique?”

A quintessentially French shrug met that statement.

“It was my husband’s idea, I am afraid to say. I do not trust her either, mind you. But you know how Conall gets. Apparently, Kingair has a malfunctioning aethographic transmitter. I know, you might well look surprised. Who would have thought a backwater place like this could possess anything so modern? Apparently they do, and it has been having difficulties. Secondhand goods, I understand. Well, what do you expect? Anyhow, Conall brought Madame Lefoux along to give it the old once-over. Nothing I could do to stop him.”

Angelique looked blank at that and bobbed a quick curtsy, and went off to see to Ivy.

Alexia ruminated over the outfit the maid had selected for her to wear. And then, because she really could not count on her own sense of style to do any better, put it on.

Her husband came in just as she was struggling to fasten the buttons up the back of the bodice.

“Oh, good, there you are. Do this up for me, would you, please?”

Entirely ignoring her command, Lord Maccon strode over to her in three quick steps and buried his face in the side of her neck.

Lady Maccon emitted an exasperated sigh but at the same time swiveled around to wrap her arms about his neck.

“Well, that is very helpful, darling. You do realize we are due for—”

He kissed her.

When breathing eventually became a necessity, he said, “Well, wife, been wanting to do that the entire carriage ride here.” He moved his large hands down to her posterior and hoisted her against his big, firm body.

“And here I thought you were thinking about politics most of the ride; you sported such a terrible frown,” replied his wife with a grin.

“Well, that too. I can do two things at once. For example, right now I am talking to you and also devising a means by which to extract you from this gown.”

“Husband, you cannot take it off of me. I just put it on.”

He seemed disinclined to agree with that statement, instead putting a concerted effort into undoing all her careful work and shoving the dress aside.

“Did you really like the parasol I gave you?” he asked, sweetly hesitant, drifting his fingertips up over her now-bare shoulders and upper back.

“Oh, Conall, such a lovely gift, with magnetic disruption field generator, poison darts, and everything. So very thoughtful. I was delighted to find I had not lost it during the fall.”

The fingers stopped drifting abruptly. “Fall? What fall?”

Lady Maccon knew that burgeoning roar well. She squirmed against him in an effort to distract him. “Uh,” she hedged.

Lord Maccon pushed her slightly away, holding her by the shoulders.

She patted him as best she could on the chest. “Oh, it was nothing, dear—simply a little tumble.”

“Little tumble! Little tumble off of what, wife?”

Alexia looked down and away and tried to mumble. Since she had a naturally assertive voice, this did not work at all well. “A dirigible.”

“A dirigible.” Lord Maccon’s tone was hard and flat. “And did that dirigible happen to be floating in the air at the time?”

“Umm, well, possibly, not quite air… more in the region of, well, aether…”

A hard glare.

Alexia hung her head and peeked at him through her eyelashes.

Lord Maccon steered his wife, as though she were an unwieldy rowboat, backward toward the bed and forced her to sit down upon it. Then he flopped down next to her.

“Start at the beginning.”

“You mean the evening I woke up to find you had taken yourself off to Scotland without even speaking to me about it?”

Lord Maccon sighed. “It was a serious family matter.”

“And what am I, a nodding acquaintance?”

Conall actually had the grace to look slightly shamefaced at that. “You must allow me some little time to get used to having a wife.”

“You mean you did not acclimatize to it the last time you were wed?”

He frowned at her. “That was a long time ago.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Before I changed. And it was a matter of duty. In those days, one simply didna turn werewolf without leaving an heir behind. I was to be laird; I could not possibly become supernatural without first ensuring the prosperity of the clan.”

Alexia was not inclined to let him off lightly for keeping her in the dark on this matter, even if she perfectly understood his reasons. “I gathered as much by the fact that you seem to have produced a child. What I question is the fact that, for some reason, you elected not to tell me you still had living descendants.”

Lord Maccon snorted, grabbing his wife’s hand and caressing her wrist with his callused thumbs. “You met Sidheag. Would you want to claim her as a relation?”

Alexia sighed and leaned against his broad shoulder. “She seems like a fine, upstanding woman.”

“What she is is an impossible grouch.”

Lady Maccon smiled into her husband’s shoulder. “Well, there can be no doubt as to which side of the family she gets that from.” She switched tactics. “Are you going to tell me anything substantial about this previous family of yours? Who was your wife? How many children did you have? Am I likely to encounter any other Maccons of import scattered about?” She stood, continuing about her preparations for dinner, trying not to show how much she cared about his answers. This was one aspect of being married to an immortal she had not figured into her equation. Of course, she knew he had taken previous lovers; at two centuries, she would be concerned if he had not, and she had almost nightly reason to be grateful for his experience. But previous wives? This she had not considered.

He lay back on the bed, folding his arms behind his head, looking at her out of predatory eyes. There was no denying it—impossible man her husband, but also a terribly sexy beast.

“Are you going to tell me about falling off the dirigible?” he countered.

Alexia fastened earrings to her ears. “Are you going to tell me why you hightailed it off to Scotland without your valet, leaving me to deal with Major Channing at the supper table, Ivy hat shopping, and half of London still recovering from a severe bout of humanization? Not to mention the fact that I had to travel the length of England all by myself.”

They heard Miss Hisselpenny squealing in the hallway and then a chatter of other voices, Felicity perhaps, and Tunstell.

Lord Maccon, still lounging poetically upon the bed, sniffed.

“Very well, travel the length of England accompanied by Ivy and my sister, which is very possibly worse—and still your fault.”

The earl rose, came over, and buttoned up the back of her dress. Alexia was only mildly disappointed. They were running late for dinner, and she was starving.

“Why are you here, wife?” he asked bluntly.

Lady Maccon leaned back, exasperated. They were getting nowhere with this conversation. “Conall, answer me this: have you been able to change since we arrived at Kingair?”

Lord Maccon frowned. “I had not thought to try.”

She gave him an aggrieved look via the mirror, and he let go of her and stepped back. She watched him, his busy hands stilled. Nothing happened.

He shook his head and came back. “Not possible. It feels a little as though I am in contact with you and trying for my wolf form. Not difficult, or even elusive, simply unavailable. That part of me, the werewolf part, has vanished.”

She turned to him. “I came because I am muhjah, and this changelessness is connected to the Kingair Pack. I saw you sneak away and talk to the Beta. None of this pack has been able to shift in months, have they? For how long exactly has this been going on? Since boarding the Spanker and traveling home? Or before? Where did they find the weapon? India? Egypt? Or is it a plague they have brought back? What happened to them overseas?”

Lord Maccon looked at his wife in the looking glass, his big hands on her shoulders. “They willna tell me. I am no longer Alpha here. They owe me no explanation.”

“But you are BUR’s chief sundowner.”

“This is Scotland; BUR’s authority is weak here. Besides, these people were my pack for generations. I may have no wish to lead them anymore, but I do not want to kill any of them either. They know that. I simply want to know what is happening here.”

“You and I both, my love,” replied his wife. “You don’t mind if I wish to question your brethren on the matter?”

“I dinna see how you will make over any better than I.” Conall was doubtful. “They do not know you are muhjah, and you’d be wise to keep it that way. Queen Victoria isna so loved in this part of the world.”

“I’ll be discreet.” Her husband’s eyebrows reached for the sky at that. “Very well, as discreet as possible for me.”

“It canna hurt,” he said, and then thought better of it. This was Alexia, after all. “So long as you refrain from using that parasol.”

His lady wife grinned maliciously. “I shall be direct, but not that direct.”

“Why do I doubt you? Well, watch out for Dubh; he can be difficult.”

“Not up to Professor Lyall’s caliber as a Beta, shall we say?”

“Um, that’s not for me to say. Dubh was never my Beta, not even my Gamma.”

That was interesting news. “But this Niall, the one who was killed in battle over seas, he wasn’t your Beta either?”

“Na. Mine died,” he replied shortly, in a tone of voice that said he did not want to discuss the matter further. “Your turn. This dirigible fall, wife?”

Alexia stood, finished with her ablutions. “Someone else is on the scent: a spy of some kind or some other agent, a member of the Hypocras Club, perhaps. While Madame Lefoux and I were strolling the observation deck, someone tried to push us over the side. I fell and Madame Lefoux fought off whomever it was. I managed to stay my fall and climbed to safety. It was nothing, really, except that I nearly lost the parasol. And I am no longer partial to dirigible travel.”

“I should think not. Well, wife, try not to get yourself killed for at least a few days?”

“Are you going to tell me the real reason you came back to Scotland? Do not think you have thrown me off the scent so easily.”

“I never doubted you, my sweet demure little Alexia.”

Lady Maccon gave him her best, most fierce, battle-ax expression, and they went down to dinner.