Page 20 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

She shook her head. “It doesn’t have a name. It gathered those birds from my woods and sent them to the village.”

“Why?”

“To cause suffering. The monster is cruel and bored.”

The fairy child made her presence known then. Leaving behind Ezra who slept soundly on the bench seat, she flew toward the fae lord, her wings a buzzing blur at her back. “Raf Raf, attaway,” she chittered.

“Clapa,” Malcolm greeted the fairy, his mouth curling into a smirk, “thank you for keeping my guest company during the long transport. You’ve done well.” He reached inside his cloak, then handed her a shiny piece of round brass. Another button to match the one knotted in her hair.

She took it greedily in her hands, chattering excitedly. Using the wispy blue-black strands that framed her face, she tied the button below her chin, wearing it like a pendant.

The strange wraith-like shadow that served the fae lord appeared behind him. He swooped in and hovered close. Even at night the shadow looked a great deal like Malcolm, his mirror image made of darkness. The shadow reached one of his hands out toward Hrafn and she flinched.

“He won’t hurt you,” Malcolm soothed.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said sternly, feeling a pang of shame over their first encounter when she’d swooned like some green fledgling. That hadn’t been fear either, and it gnawed at her that he would think that of her. She’d faced down dragons and charging armies, but instinct had overwhelmed her. “Malcolm . . .” she began, but she didn’t have the words to voice her concerns fully. She was too exhausted. Her mind was a cloudy mess, her lids heavy.

Malcolm. It was a Seelie name. It made her, a world traveler, curious since most Seelie lived in the northern provinces on the other side of the River Eventide, the same river she heard rushing in the distance. Seelie blood explained his light coloring. When she studied his face, she recognized something of the Vanir lord she knew. The shape of his deep blue eyes was familiar, as was the dimple in his chin, his proud nose, and the stout, pronged antlers that curved out of his ashen hair.

The Mad Maker, god of shadows, shared those same attributes. He must be Malcolm’s father. But where was the Mad Maker now?

“If I remove your cuffs, will you behave? Or do I need to have Solis cart you inside?” His shadow scooted in closer. The heat the wraith-like being let off warmed her against the night’s chill. She leaned into that heat.

“All I want right now is a bed,” she said, and her voice cracked. She was beyond spent.

“You have a bed inside,” Malcolm promised. “And you’ll be safe here.”

“As safe as a caged bird. I’m grateful for what you’ve done for me, so I’ll warn you now. I have no patience for cages. Keeping me will go as well for you as it did the first time we met.” If he thought he could keep her, then he significantly underestimated the power of the god blood in her veins.

Malcolm touched his nose. A bump on the bridge was all that remained of their first violent encounter. “When you want a fight, Hrafn of the Vanir, you’ll get one.”

Her wings flittered at that. His words didn’t sound entirely like a threat, because violence to the Vanir was affection—until the point someone killed you.

“Perhaps I’ll do more than bloody your nose next time,” she warned. “I could dislocate your knee. Break your arm. Maybe a leg . . . Both legs.”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you,” Malcolm stressed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I need you to stop saying such romantic things to me.”

Hrafn stared up at him, her mouth open, ready with yet another violent threat. Romantic? Was he being serious? By the gods, he looked serious. The notion was so damned delightful her stomach fluttered. Yes, this man had Vanir in him indeed.

“If you’re quite finished, let’s get you to your bed.” His voice had dropped an octave. The velvety sound curled through her like smoke, and her heart kicked against her ribs. Malcolm extended his hand to her as his shadows undid the cuffs at her ankles with touches that were whisper-soft. “Can you stand?”

First, she’d swooned in his presence and now this. Hrafn groaned. Soon he’d be questioning if she was really Vanir. “My clan called me Hrafn pidd maldrom. I swear to you I’m not so weak. Not usually. You’ve just . . . caught me at a disadvantage again . . .”

“Deadly little bird,” Malcolm mused. “I know you’re not weak. Let me help you, or I’ll think you’re worse than weak. I’ll think you stupidly stubborn.”

“Fair enough.” She took his hand at the wrist. Her joints were stiff. The hour was late, and the day had been long and full of trials. She carried each tribulation in her muscles and the abrasions on her wings and face.

Malcolm’s arm came around her, as surprisingly gentle as his touch had been in her cell earlier when she’d been surrounded by enemies—enemies her mate had graciously protected her from, even avenged her on. The memory made her pulse surge.

Blood roared in Hrafn’s ears as his hold tightened around her waist. Her wings responded with an involuntary flitter, a sign of attraction as suggestive as a cock growing hard. She pulled the appendages in around herself, cocooning her back and sides as she worked slowly to her feet. The bond vibrated through her chest, surging in her pulse, fed by the contact between them. He took her wrist in his opposite hand. His touch was light but profound. Muscles in her legs and the arches of her feet screamed at her as she made her first few steps, leaning into the strength her mate offered her.

Gods, she wanted a bed. It didn’t even need to be a particularly nice one. Anything would do. Just something clean to rest her body on so she could embrace the healing sleep her body desperately craved. What she’d done on the way there could not be counted as restful. Those bursts of unconsciousness had left her nauseous. Her eyes burned.

Clapa flew to Ezra’s slumbering side, her buttons swaying in her hair and against her chest. She attempted to rouse him by whispering and clapping her tiny hands. When that didn’t work, she screamed. The high-pitched noise might have broken glass, were any nearby.

Malcolm cursed. Hrafn covered her ears.

Ezra squawked awake, wings flapping.Am I dead?

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