Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
PORTIA
Morning light spilled through a gap in the shutters in my bedchamber. I stood over the clothing Albie had left neatly folded on a wooden chair. I chewed on my lip as I thought back to every historical movie and TV show I’d seen.
The clothes had to go in a certain order.
The thin, folded garment on top was a snowy white. That had to be a chemise, which meant it went underneath everything. I picked it up and shook it out. The fabric was transparent.
Yes, definitely underwear.
The next garment was a pair of white bloomers trimmed with ribbons and lace. When I held them to my waist, they hit right at the knee. And the crotch was missing, the fabric split wide enough to show everything. No zippers. No elastic. Just…access.
I muttered a curse.
Setting the bloomers aside, I examined the rest. Two white petticoats.
A brown skirt made of sturdy wool. White stockings.
A flower-patterned corset with stays, and a dark green jacket with long sleeves and a row of tiny hooks running down the front.
The stockings lacked elastic, and it took me a minute to realize they tied with black ribbons just below my knees.
The scent of bacon drifted from downstairs. Muffled men’s voices followed.
I jolted into action, stripping out of the nightgown and pulling on the chemise. The linen was soft as a cloud, and it seemed to whisper as it settled against my skin. The bloomers came next, and I tried not to think about the slit as I tied the ribbons at my waist.
Shifters weren’t shy about nudity. We couldn’t afford to be when we spent half our lives trading skin for scales.
If anything, my kind were more aroused by what was hidden than what was revealed.
But the bloomers were a reminder that I was three hundred years in the past. Women were commodities in this time.
I couldn’t even vote. I probably couldn’t own property.
I pulled on the petticoats, then the skirt.
Cursing, I realized I’d forgotten the stockings, and I hopped on one foot as I hiked up the skirt and stepped into them one by one.
Ribbons secured, I let the skirt drop back into place.
The fabric swished around my ankles as I moved, and I twirled once, a smile tugging at my mouth when the skirt flared in a wide arc.
Men’s voices sounded again.
I shrugged into the corset and reached behind me to tighten the ribbons. My fingers fumbled. The angle was all wrong, and I rotated in an awkward circle.
“Dammit,” I muttered, craning my head over my shoulder.
A knock sounded at the door.
I froze.
“Princess?” Albie’s voice was soft and polite.
“Yes?”
“I thought you might need help dressing.”
I looked down. The tops of my breasts swelled above the chemise, but the corset covered everything else. I was more covered than I’d ever been in my life, buried under yards of linen and wool.
I crossed to the door and opened it.
Albie’s eyes widened. “You look beautiful.”
Heat pooled low in my body, and my dragon preened under his attention. He was a big man, I realized. It was only Tavish who made him look small. And he was gorgeous with his big brown eyes, golden stubble, and that glorious hair women from London to Edinburgh would pay hundreds to replicate.
I cleared my throat as I gestured helplessly to my loose corset. “I couldn’t figure out the laces.”
“Ah.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “An easy enough fix.”
He moved around me, and I held my breath as his fingers brushed my back. Even through the layers of linen, his heat seared my skin. Tingles raced down my spine.
Stop it, I told my traitorous body.
He tugged and tightened, ribbon whispering against wool as he laced me up with deft skill that made me wonder if he’d done it before.
Probably. My people were polyamorous, and he was a full-blooded dragon. Of course he’d been with women.
In my mind, my dragon bared her fangs.
“Deep breath, Princess,” Albie murmured.
I sucked in an obedient breath, and he gave a final tug. The corset squeezed my ribs, but the pressure wasn’t uncomfortable. It was more like a firm hug that straightened my spine and pushed my breasts together, giving me eyebrow-raising cleavage.
Silk whispered again, then Albie patted the small of my back. “All done.” His hands fell away, and I heard him step back.
I turned, and our gazes caught…and held.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice thready in my ears.
His reply was just as soft. “You’re welcome.”
Recognition hummed in my brain. The mate bond was a bright spark in my chest. Nothing I could see, but it burned and crackled as brightly as a flame. My dragon wrapped her tail around it and purred.
I tested my magic, trying to shift.
Nothing.
Of course.
Albie seemed to realize he was staring. He cleared his throat. “Tavish has breakfast ready.” His smile returned, the expression a little sheepish this time. “He gets terribly vexed when his food grows cold.”
I pulled on the jacket, which featured a scooped neckline embroidered with tiny flowers. The embroidered sleeves of my chemise peeked from the cuffs. Then I laced my boots—the only piece of my own clothing I’d kept—and followed him from the room.
The skirts swished around my ankles, and I grabbed two handfuls of fabric when we encountered the stairs. Albie descended with easy confidence in his kilt and jacket, his movements unhampered by skirts and laces.
But my clothes weren’t as unpleasant as they might have been. I waited to feel jealous or resentful of Albie’s lack of layers and stays. Instead, the petticoats and long skirts made me feel ultra-feminine in a way jeans and sweaters never had.
As we entered the Great Hall, Tavish turned from the sideboard, his gaze shooting straight to me. Appreciation gleamed in his blue eyes, which lingered on the swells of my breasts pushing against the fitted fabric of my jacket.
“You look well-rested, Princess,” he said, a growl threading his voice.
Heat flooded my face. A different kind of heat streaked to the juncture of my thighs. “Just Portia,” I said.
He bent at the waist, the slight bow like something out of a period film. Only it wasn’t, of course. It was just good manners for his time.
This time.
“As you wish, Portia,” he said, then gestured to the table, where breakfast dishes spread across the polished wood. “Sit. Eat.”
Albie pulled out my chair, and I arranged my skirts and then held my breath as he eased me forward. He sat to my right, and Tavish took his spot at the head of the table.
Breakfast was just as amazing as the food the night before, with crisp bacon and some kind of oatcake slathered with butter, cream, and a jam that most definitely hadn’t come out of a jar.
Like the night before, Tavish shoveled food into his mouth like he was fresh off a hunger strike. Albie ate at a more sedate pace, polishing off two oatcakes before turning to me.
“Did you sleep well, Prin— Portia?” he finished, an apologetic twinkle in his eyes.
“Yes,” I said, surprising myself when I realized it was true. I’d climbed into the featherbed expecting to toss and turn. Instead, I’d fallen asleep almost instantly. “But I’m anxious to speak to the chronomancer,” I added.
Albie nodded. “We’ll travel to the Isle of Skye. It’s about two hours by wing.” He glanced at Tavish, who’d finished his meal and now sipped a cup of tea. “We’ll have to stay above the clouds. It only takes one human looking up at the wrong time to expose us.”
My stomach clenched. Flying. Right.
I nodded as anxiety twisted my gut. My dragon still wasn’t cooperating. I needed to see the chronomancer as soon as possible. Riding a horse wasn’t an option. Traveling on foot would take days—assuming Tavish and Albie even agreed to it.
My anxiety spiraled higher as the men finished their tea. Tavish cleared the dishes, waving off Albie’s offer of help, then the men led me to the courtyard.
Several chickens rushed toward Albie, who smiled as he scooped feed from a bucket and scattered it over the stone. “There you go, ladies. Enjoy your breakfast.”
He dusted his hands, and both men turned to me with expectant expressions.
I pressed a hand to my stomach. “I can’t shift like you. With clothes and all, I mean. My dad can do it, and so can my brother, Malcolm. But I’ve never managed it.”
Albie gave me a reassuring smile. “I couldn’t do it, either, when I was young. It takes centuries to master.”
Relief loosened the knot in my chest. “My dad says he doesn’t remember being young.”
“Aye,” Tavish said. “Cormac is truly ancient.”
Albie’s gaze turned thoughtful. “Is that why you took the Consort’s surname?”
“Yes. My dad says he’s never had one.” In most cases, the first child born to a dragon triad took the last name of the eldest father, and subsequent offspring rotated between sires. Dad was definitely the oldest, but he was so old he didn’t actually remember how old he was.
The men exchanged a look. “It makes sense,” Albie said. “Cormac is older than surnames. And possibly trees.”
I blinked. “Trees?”
He nodded vigorously. “Some scholars believe this plane was once covered with giant mushrooms. The fossil record shows some species of fungi growing up to thirty feet tall. Can you imagine it? Entire forests of—”
“Now you’ve done it, lass,” Tavish said, folding his arms. He tipped his head toward Albie. “Once he gets started, he doesn’t stop.”
Albie pushed his glasses higher. “You have to admit the idea of thirty-foot-tall mushrooms is fascinating.”
“Are they edible?” Tavish asked.
“I don’t know.” Albie frowned, a perplexed look stealing over his handsome face. “I’ve never considered it, but I supposed they must have been, considering modern mushrooms descend from them.”
I looked between the men, curiosity overriding my anxiety. “How old are you?”
“Eleven hundred,” Tavish said. “Give or take.”
“Give or take, what?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Sixty-five years.” He paused. “I think. I never wrote it down. People rarely did back then.”