Chapter Thirteen
Even for Sorcha, who did not care for boredom, the last two days had been a bit too eventful.
And so the fact that she could not sleep was insult to injury. There were too many thoughts circling inside her head.
The wolf tooth. The Cauldron. Aidan. Her betrothal.
Her betrothal to Aidan.
She did not know nearly enough about the Lycan, and abruptly that felt intolerable.
She went down to the library, the flame of her candle flickering wildly when she took the steps too fast. She used to slide down the banister, but after the unfortunate splinter incident, she’d decided against it until someone came to smooth down the oak.
When the hedgehog waddled toward her, she scooped him up and tucked him into her shawl, knotting it to hold him comfortably.
The ghoul who lived in the crooked painting at the end of the staircase shook its nail. “You’ll fall again if you don’t stop that,” Sorcha murmured. She knew better than to release her. She had done so once.
Once. Never again.
Sorcha might not believe in cages for wild animals and magical creatures, but in some cases discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Melon pulp had rained from the ceiling for days.
And then there was the blood. And the goblins attracted by the magic. To say bedlam had reigned was an understatement.
The ghoul, currently inhabiting a painting of a young girl on a swing, blinked large, watery eyes at her pleadingly. Sorcha snorted. “Not a chance. Aesop still has nightmares. You even scared Nimue, and nothing scares her.”
The ghoul hissed curses at her as Sorcha walked away.
“Manners,” she called, without looking back.
The library was mostly filled with recipe books, a few illustrated journals on the flora of Lyonesse, some poetry.
There were guidebooks on how to survive a kelpie encounter, how to barter with mermaids (don’t), and a guided historical tour of Haven and the famous witches who had visited.
There was not much on the Lycan, only a few entries in various encyclopedias.
Nothing at all about their betrothal customs.
Granny drifted down from the ceiling. A cold draft rustled Sorcha’s curls. An icicle formed on the tip of the nose of the bust of her grandfather. Why Granny kept it was beyond Sorcha.
“If you’re going to be up at this ungodly hour,” Granny said, “check on the cottage loaves.”
Sorcha pushed the stack of books away. “Yes, Granny.”
“You look tired.”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Bah.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
“I suppose,” Granny allowed. “Fix your hair,” she added abruptly. “Never mind the bread.”
“Never mind the bread?” Sorcha echoed. Her grandmother had never uttered those words in her entire existence, dead or alive. “Why not?”
“Because there’s a large Scottish earl heading this way.”
The candle wavered as Granny drifted away through the nearest bookcase.
A mouse squeaked and darted away, whiskers frosted.
Sorcha smoothed her hair even as she told herself not to.
It did not matter what she looked like. Or that her nightdress was plain, without a touch of lace or silk or anything pretty at all.
Again, it did not signify. Aidan was not here to look at her. Their betrothal was just another weapon in their arsenal.
True to his word, he had not returned to the Wolf Wood.
He had taken the room on the other side of hers, even though it was only in marginally better shape than the burned morning room.
There was a shadow eater living in the closet, but they both seemed unperturbed by the other’s presence.
She supposed it would take more than that to frighten a wolf. And the shadow eater seemed lonely.
And now here he was in his trousers and nothing else. Not another stitch of clothing. No cravat, now waistcoat. No shirt. Just the spiral tattoo and a scattering of scars she wanted to investigate.
Closely.
With her tongue.
Alas.
She was as bad as Granny. She forced a smile. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
He shook his head. He wasn’t even carrying a candle she could stare at instead of the soft pelt of hair over the thick padding of flesh of his torso. Wolves must see better in the dark than a witch did, which made sense. “Lady Sorcha?”
“Yes?”
“Why is there a hedgehog in your pocket?”
“Didn’t you know, Lord Coventry? It’s all the fashion in Mayfair.” She settled the hedgehog on a cushion, where he curled up and went to sleep.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Aidan asked. “Is it Brutus? Or the fire?” His Scottish brogue deepened. Roughened. “The curse is gone, and I promise you, no one will ever get that close to you again.”
The unexpected feral bite to his tone, somehow soft and yet implacable at the same time, made her shiver. She might have whimpered under different circumstances. Ones where he saw her as a woman and not a duty.
“There,” he said, grimly. “You shivered. You are afraid of me.”
“Oh, honestly,” she muttered. “Not this again.”
Aidan blinked, confused. Even the wolf in his eyes blinked. “Pardon?”
“You are going to make me say it out loud, aren’t you?” She huffed. “I am not afraid of you. I just want to kiss you again. You great, rock-headed cabbage.”
He blinked again. She could hardly blame him. While she was quite certain ladies threw themselves at him all of the time, she was also absolutely positive they did not call him names while doing so. Even if he was terribly frustrating.
Oblivious.
Adorable.
“I know it didn’t mean anything,” Sorcha rushed to assure him, even though the words felt like thorns in her mouth.
It had meant something to her. “So it’s my turn to apologize.
But kissing you was the only way I could think of to hasten along the curse breaking.
There was no reason for you to carry that pain alone.
You didn’t steal a cursed heirloom, after all. ”
“And you want to kiss me again,” he stated so mildly that he may as well have been asking about the weather. Think we’ll have sun? Bit rainy lately, isn’t it?
She crossed her arms mutinously. “I am sure it will pass, so you needn’t worry. Like a craving for oranges.” Why hadn’t it passed yet? Far too many things had happened in a short period of time. That must be it.
“A craving for oranges,” he repeated.
“I am perfectly aware that you do not care to repeat the experience. I was trying not to make you uncomfortable. You needn’t remind me about the terms of our betrothal.” She would be mortified if he did. Murderous.
“I do not want to kiss you.”
“That’s what I just said!” Apparently she was fully capable of wanting to kiss someone and shove their head into the nearest body of water at the same time.
“Let us be very clear, Lady Sorcha. I was not making a statement,” Aidan said with the kind of calmness that stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. “I was merely making sure that I heard you correctly.”
“Well, you did.” She looked away. She couldn’t stand to see the pity, the well-mannered forbearance. The curator or the earl with his manners. Not when she had seen the wolf, once. “Now can we change the subject, please?”
He gripped her chin, turning her back to face him. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
Everything about him changed, a near imperceptible shift that may as well have charged the air between them with lightning. His stance, the golden flash of his eyes.
She felt pinned, gloriously still in a way she rarely felt.
As if there were nowhere else to be, no loaves of bread to be baked, no animals for her paper birds to find.
Just this moment, in a quiet stone room with the light of a single candle.
Just the anticipation frothing through her veins, the throb of his teeth marks on her neck. The gilded hunger in his gaze.
He lowered his head slowly, all of that quiet purpose focused entirely on her.
It was a heady, intoxicating thing. It made her breath catch before his mouth had even touched hers.
And then his lips were on hers, a soft nip, a deep draught.
A claiming of her every sense, the slide of his tongue against hers, patient and clever, his fingers dragging up her jaw to tighten in her hair.
His forest scent, the gentle growl of his breath sending shivers down her thighs.
He deepened the kiss as if he could not get enough.
She fisted her hands through his shirt and dragged him closer still.
When her nails scraped through the hair of his chest, he lifted her higher against the wall, gripping her thighs.
She tightened her legs around him, his hardness pressing to her quim through her thin nightdress, now pulled tight at her knees.
She rocked a little until she was gasping and he was groaning into her mouth and along her throat.
He nipped at her collarbone with his teeth, sucked at the sensitive skin of her breasts above her neckline.
He used his teeth to pull the ribbon’s bow at the top of her stays, loosening them for his tongue and his lips and then his fingers, pulling her breasts free. She should have felt exposed, embarrassed. She only felt needy. She wanted more. More and more.
She squirmed desperately and he smiled against her, amused, fond, stern. She couldn’t say how she knew all of that from the brush of his lips, but she did. “Stop moving,” he scolded her. “Or I’ll think you don’t want me to touch you.”
She stilled, hissing out a breath. “I should have known you’d be dictatorial. You just love rules, don’t you?”
“You’ll love them too.”
“Ha. You—”
“Are you uncomfortable, Sorcha?”
So patient. So diligent. “Only because you’re teasing me.” Her lips tingled and her center was like molten glass.
“And do you want me to stop?”
She pressed her lips together defiantly. She wanted him to stop the way she wanted the house to fall down on her ears. But she didn’t want to say it.
And he knew it.