Page 21 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Not yet,Hrafn teased.

When then? Tomorrow?

No, never.I’m sorry, Ezra. I didn’t mean to worry you. Hrafn forgot that the demon struggled to understand the subtleties of sarcasm.I’m not going to be hanged. Come along now. We’re staying here in this fortress tonight.

Bracing her, Malcolm moved them slowly out of the wagon, then through lush lawn damp with dew, past heavy wooden gates plated in steel. A shell keep surrounded the main buildings, the stone walls so high Hrafn felt tiny in their presence. Two towers flanked her new prison, one facing east and the other west. The first was made of old sandstone. The second was taller and newly built of granite, topped with a battlement. The courtyard was less overgrown, more recently tended to. The outbuildings were shut up tight, barred with locks and heavy metal chains covered in vines and fairy twine.

She nearly fell asleep standing; her chin dropped and rebounded. She blinked to clear her blurry eyes. Hrafn’s exhaustion turned her legs to butter as they entered the keep.

Ezra soared in overhead.

Where are you going?she asked him.

To learn what I can of this place,he said, swooping around the entryway. The walls were old stone, but the keep was furnished like a manor with paintings and incense altars for the divines.I’ll see you in the morning.

All right.She hadn’t been this sore or worn out since the war . . . Hrafn sunk against Malcolm, her head falling on his shoulder.

“I know it must feel like I’m giving in, but you can’t keep me,” she said on a sigh as her mate bore her toward an intimidating set of steep stairs. “I won’t let you keep me.”

His breathy laugh showcased his doubt. She didn’t have it in her to argue with him. She’d prove her words later.

The gaslights were dim, gentle on her tired eyes. Above her, the ceilings were lofted and full of cobwebs. They struggled at the stairs, taking them slowly. Halfway they both needed a break, leaning against one another to share several breaths. Gods, they were both beat to hell. He looked like a sloppy herdsman dragged inside by his flock and wrapped in a frumpy cloak. He smelled a bit like one too, like salty sweat and muddy wool. She preferred his smell to the lingering scent of caustic soap on her wings and in her hair. What a wretched pair they made, hobbling toward their destination.

Her boots slipped on the landing. Her mate caught her and pulled her tight against him. He was broad and the planes of his body were a welcomed, steadying force. His shadow came to their aid, brushing up behind them. Solis felt soft and warm and not entirely solid. His touch reminded her of a dream moments before waking when her imaginings still seemed almost real.

Her mate took a moment to right himself before pressing on. Left of the stairs, Malcolm opened the door to her new prison with his boot, knocking the heavy thing aside. There was one tiny window. This hadn’t been a bedroom originally, perhaps a storage space. It was small with only one entry point and several locks on the door and rows of wooden shelves. The space had likely been converted just for her.

Oh, joy,she grumbled to herself.

A newly lit fire crackled in a small hearth, casting the modest room in an amber glow. Hrafn could search for the best escape route another time. She only had eyes for the bed.

Malcolm helped her into it. Hrafn flopped onto a cloud of layers and layers of quilts and bedding. She unfurled her wings with a great groan, letting them droop on either side of the mattress—a fine mattress. She let out another exhale of relief. The bed was made of wool and straw. She could tell by feel and smell. Because of her wings, Hrafn disliked down feather cushions the same way she’d dislike knowing she was sleeping on something made of human hair. She cringed at the thought. Both made her uneasy, a personal bugbear.

She felt a tug on her foot and, craning her neck, found her mate working off her boots. He dropped them on the floor one at a time. They landed with an echoing thunk against the hardwood. “There’s garments in the trunk over here, but they’re likely much too large for you. The stablemaster’s wife who owned them was at least a head taller than you.”

Hrafn reached for the fastening at the back of her neck, then gave up moments later. Her abused muscles hurt too much.

“Sidhek,” she cursed into the blankets. Hrafn would sleep with her clothes on, then.

Malcolm was at her side moments later, loosening the fastenings at the base of her neck and the others hidden under her wings.

“Thank you,” she grunted.

“I can rip a hole in a night rail for your wings if you want something clean to put on.”

She tested the softness of the pillows, smushing it under her chin and cheek. The bedding was fresh and that was a haven. “Would you help me get my trousers off? After that I’ll be fine.”

Fae were not the sort to be shy about their bodies. The Vanir even less so, though admittedly as his gentle fingers worked free the buttons of her leathers, she couldn’t claim she was entirely unaffected by him or by the way his flesh so knowledgeably skated across her hips to find the openings.

“That was efficient work.” Hrafn peered over at him, a brow raised. “You’ve definitely done that before.”

His mouth curved in a smug smile that suited him well. “I confess I’ve had a great deal of practice undressing women.”

Hrafn was not bothered by the news. She had a great deal of experience undressing others as well.

His fingers hooked into the fall front of her leather trousers, then he worked them down her hips in a side-to-side motion. She moved with him to ease the process. Her drawers slid partially down in the fight to get her trousers off. He pulled them back up for her, covering her bottom, then he folded her pants neatly and set them on the trunk beside the bed.

Hrafn wriggled out of her jerkin. Malcolm took it from her and folded it as well, stacking it on her trousers. He hovered there, a hand resting on the top of her clothing, his gaze contemplative.

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