Page 2 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Malcolm chuckled. “I’m out of practice.”

“Leave now, groseling, and leave unharmed.”

Malcolm frowned at the slur, his feelings mixed. The threat amused him. Being called mortal—or as weak as one—did not. “I’m not human. Look at me.” Standing tall, he made a show of his tail, snapping it side to side.

I’ll show her we’re not weak,Solis insisted. Malcolm raised a hand to calm him.

“I see a groseling before me,” she fired back. “A groseling with twigs in his hair, here to harass me about farmlands he doesn’t own.”

At her slight, laughter bubbled out of him. Instinctively his hand went to the base of the small antlers on his head, evidence of his own Vanir heritage. “I am fae like you. Vanir like you, and I’m the lord of this land. It and everything on it is mine.”

She is on our land. Is she ours?Solis asked suggestively. Malcolm liked the implication but ignored the question.

“Lord?” she said. “No. I’ve met the lord of this land. He is Vanir. You go now, groseling, before I separate your head from your shoulders.”

Malcolm’s coloring was much lighter than his father’s because his mother had been Seelie from the north. His ears were longer and more pointed, his hair ashen. He grinned at the closed window. Threats and jeers were a language he understood far better than Olden or even Common. Malcolm was a warrior more than five centuries old with no current cause to battle, no reason to work his muscles, no call to sharpen his blade or fire up his blood. He’d been forced by duty to succumb to a gentleman’s life with no pressing reason to stop his descent into dandyhood.

Solving the problems of farmers and herdsmen made him restless. He craved the battle this Vanir offered him.

Runes were carved into the rocks that flanked the cottage and the surrounding trees, the words faded with age beneath the lichen. He couldn’t read the script but recognized most of them as the markings of warriors and symbols for the old gods. His shadow liked the symbols, swooping in closer to shade the stones and explore the runes there.

I want to see this woman, his soul said.I want to know her.

“If you wish me to go away, first tell me your name,” Malcolm insisted.

Birds and bugs called to each other in the distance in buzzes and chirrups. The forest itself rumbled with secrets, leaving Malcolm feeling like a much younger man, a man who had purpose and vigor.

After a long moment, she spoke. “I tell you and you leave?”

“Yes,” he said. “Sic,” he added in Olden, which roughly translated to “very yes.”

I don’t want to leave, Solis protested, swelling up his dark form so that he encompassed the nearest archway.

“I’m called Hrafn,” she said, her voice hard. “You stand in the resting place of my clan, dirtying it with the boots of a groseling.”

“Raven,” he said, and Solis vibrated with excitement.

“That is the way a horse would pronounce it,” she said dryly.

“Raven is the best my uncooperative tongue can manage,” he admitted, struggling to recreate the subtler consonant sounds and softer vowel. “There’s no reason to hide inside, Raven. I mean you no harm, and I wish to see who I’m speaking with.”

“You vowed to go,” she grumped. “I spoke my name. You leave.”

His lips quirked. “And I will leave as was agreed . . . eventually.”

Hrafn growled at him, an intimidating sound Malcolm found entirely charming.

The marquess moved in closer beside the next stone arch. It was as tall as he was, antlers included. Nestled on the eastern edge of her cottage, growing in moist, dark earth, was a fragrant herb garden, a rudimentary green house, and several logs spotted in colorful mushrooms.

The shutters flew open, clapping against the sides of the cottage. He heard the whoosh of air moments before the spear struck with a thud, landing inches from the toe of his boot. It sunk far into the earth, burying the steel head, a throw strong enough to impale even an immortal man.

“Well, now you’re just flirting with me,” he purred.

“Birds take you!” she shouted, venom flavoring the threat, and Malcolm’s heart sang. “Go find a pit of adders to fall into!”

“There aren’t any snakes around here, but—”

“Get. Out.”

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