Page 1 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Chapter 1

Malcolm

Malcolm had gone soft. Or, at some point in the last few centuries, nature had become intentionally vexing.

Humbled by a cloud of irritating gnats and littered in mosquito bites, the Marquess of Reedholm realized with a sigh he’d lost the edge that once made the deep, dark woods feel mysterious and exciting. With a curse, he slapped another buzzing pest off his cravat, certain that he was well on his way to transforming into a fae dandy. Before he knew it, he’d be piercing his pointed ears and adding shiny decorations to the antlers that curved back from his crown, like the fledglings were famous for.

Battling with temperamental horses and then wading through muddy forest was not at all how Malcolm had imagined his day going. He’d hoped it would start out like it usually did with plenty of wine and women to drown his sorrows in, revelry to keep the boredom at bay. Instead, a long meeting with his estate manager had interrupted his breakfast, followed by a list of complaints from his tenants, each just as irksome as the incessant insects.

He couldn’t afford to ignore their complaints this time. Not with whispers of revolt coming in from the Baron Dagrun’s country estate next door and a command from the King of Night to keep the peace. Disquiet was a contagious force. Malcolm needed to control the spread.

Obey the king he would, even if it meant tramping through the woods like a lumberman to settle a squabble he wanted no part of between skittish tenant farmers and some fae woman. His pale skin gleamed in the humidity stirred up by late summer air and the rush of the nearby river.

Harrow, one of his land stewards, led him through thick undergrowth, pushing toward the nearest clearing. Malcolm’s tail—long and limber with a tuft of black hair on the end like that of a lion’s—flicked irritably from side to side. The persistent swarm of gnats rose to avoid the strike, buzzing instead around his tall ears.

“Her home isn’t far now, my lord,” Harrow said. The man had lined skin that had gone leathery under too much sunlight. “I apologize for the horses.”

They’d passed a circle of ancient tombstones earlier. The horses wouldn’t travel beyond them.

“Don’t stress over the beasts,” Malcolm grunted, scratching at the fresh bite on his forearm. “The horses would rather not be here. I can relate.”

Malcolm wasn’t dressed for the excursion in his brightly colored waistcoat and silk cravat. Harrow had described the outing as light and short, so Malcolm hadn’t changed. But if this was a light hike, he’d eat his boots.

“The horses are afraid ofhertoo, my lord,” Harrow warned with the quiet reverence of a man reciting a prayer. “She’s got the entire estate terrified. Humans and beasts alike.”

“Scared of one woman?” Malcolm scoffed.

He’d witnessed women like his mother—may she walk the stars in eternal peace—do a great many things. They could command armies. They could rule countries. Slay dragons. Start wars. Bring god-like men—such as his father—to their knees. It wasn’t that he doubted a woman could be so remarkable, it was that he knew the minds of mortal men well. Most humans didn’t have the wherewithal to fear women as far as he knew, even if she was one who lived in the wilderness outside of the proper society they revered.

“Not just a woman, my lord. I thought you knew, the village whispers about her so.” Harrow’s plodding steps startled birds out of the trees. He froze in place, eyes lifting skyward. His throat bobbed. Another rustling in the branches overhead followed the first, but this fluttering movement was heavier. Much too large to be the wings of a bird.

“Not just a woman,” Malcolm said slowly, suddenly glad he wasn’t at home as he too lifted his gaze. Sunlight turned the canopy above an enchanting emerald shade. Shadowy movement caused the branches to bow and crackle. Things had just gotten significantly less tedious. The renewed allure of the deep woods and the promise of mystery sped up his heart.

“A witch,” Harrow whispered like the word was something vulgar. He gasped when another disturbance shook the limbs of the oak above them. “P-perhaps I should . . .”

“Stay here,” Malcolm agreed, trotting forward. Blood thumped excitedly in his ears.

The marquess followed the vibrating branches, the crack of limbs, and the darkening shadows that were his friends. They guided him farther into the forest. The shadows thickened around him amiably, welcoming him deeper, and when the tree line parted around a clearing and sunlight broke through, his shadow he called Solis clung to him still, hanging around his neck and shoulders like a smoky cowl.

I want to know this one,Solis said in a small voice only Malcolm could hear, a voice just like his own. A fae of unique heritage, the marquess carried his soul outside his body in his shadow.

“I think I’d like to know this one, too,” Malcolm admitted, an eager smile curling his lips.

After hiking until his boots were covered in dirt and his chest was heaving, the trees revealed a small cottage in the distance surrounded by prominent flagstones carved to resemble archways that led to nothing. The shade Malcolm cast across the grass blackened and elongated, reaching for the strange stones like tendrils. Here the land felt ancient and undisturbed, like he’d traveled back several centuries, back before cravats and clubs, house parties and balls. Before proper society and mortal sensibilities ruled. Back to when the old gods roamed the land.

He caught a glimpse of the woman then, a Winged One, a fae of old, perched in the tree before him. The Vanir, they were called by those who owed their allegiance to the Lunar Court. The infamous stories and the excitement the fae demi-gods inspired rushed at him as she glided from limb to limb, dashing for her home, disappearing and reappearing between the canopies as fast as his heart was beating. All his favorite stories as a fledgling had featured a Vanir hero or heroine.

He followed her, legs pumping, muscles he hadn’t used in such a way for far too long throbbing. In flashes he spotted feathered ebony wings and bronze skin. Three thick black braids, the longest plaits he’d ever seen, swept after her like a cape.

She might as well have been pulled straight from a fairy book, she fit his imaginings so well. His interest tripled.

“Hecit,” he called after her, a greeting in Olden tongue that wished her good health. The pursuit had his blood warming in his veins. Solis darted around him in a tight circle, equally invigorated.

The woman glided into her cottage through an open window. The shutters snapped closed behind her. The forest fell quiet except for a light breeze that stirred silvery white hair into his face, chasing off the incessant gnats. He couldn’t see the woman looking back at him from inside her home, but he felt her gaze. The weight of her eyes made his pulse quicken.

“Hecit sapael,” he tried again.

Her voice reached him as crisp and cool as the wind stirring through the trees. “You speak Olden like a horse.” Her antiquated accent lengthened her vowels.

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