Page 37 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

“You’re a hard man to find these days,” Susan said, chin in the air. She crossed slender arms over her chest.

“Susie,” he greeted gently.

Margot cut in, leaning her dark-haired head out the carriage door. “He forgot about us.” She shot a knowing look at her partner. “Told you he forgot. That’s why he wasn’t at Reedholm. There wasn’t a venue change last minute to this old place.”

Malcolm’s mouth fell open. “All I’ve done is say a name.”

Susan nodded. “It was the way you said it. Full of guilt and self-loathing.”

“Self-loathing? Come on now.”

“Oceans of self-loathing,” Margot added. “You’re always saying cruel things about yourself. I’d hate to hear what goes on inside your head. I just told Susie you’d be twice as handsome if you only had it in you to like yourself better.”

Malcolm took her hand and helped her from the carriage. “Fix me later, ladies, please. For now, I need to sew up your savior. Later, I’ll explain everything and beg you properly for your forgiveness. The footman will take you inside and find you somewhere comfortable to rest.”

Margot stared him down with hazel eyes that saw too much. She had a warm complexion, generous breasts, and a rounded stomach. She was one of the most beautiful women Malcolm had ever seen, but in that moment, the dark-haired doxy did absolutely nothing for him.

Hrafn had wedged herself so far into his heart, he simply didn’t have a taste for anyone else anymore.

And he was going to lose her soon.

The wave of self-loathing that notion triggered was nearly suffocating.

“Well, this isn’t a very cheery place, is it,” Susan said, looking around at the towering stones.

“It doesn’t say ‘get drunk and merry’ no.” Margot hugged her arms and shivered. “It makes me think of tombstones.”

Malcolm was too lost in his own head to respond to their chatter.

“We’ll do as you ask, Malcolm,” Susan said, pulling him out of his gloomy thoughts, “so long as there’s good food to be had in the near future. We’re starving. Feed us well and all will be forgiven. We’ll get out of your hair now.” She hooked her arm through Margot’s as Malcolm waved a footman over.

When he entered the gatehouse, Elspeth was waiting for him, seated on a wooden box opposite the door, long legs crossed at the ankles. She’d pulled one arm out of the woolen tunic of her hunting costume, exposing the entirety of her stormy-gray shoulder.

“Hurry,” she teased, “before the limb turns black and falls off.”

“It’s your skin I’m sewing up, not an old coat. I don’t recommend rushing me.” He used the space beside her to roll out the kit, checking the needles, examining the supplies.

“You do know what you’re doing, yes?” she prodded.

“I taughtyouhow to do a field suture. Of course I know how. Hold still.” Malcolm uncorked a jar and sprinkled an acrid powder over the injury. He pinched the wound shut with little regard for how it stung. Her wince was gratifying. That would teach her, insolent thing.

For the pain, he removed a small jar of a strong liquor made from aged jelly plums grown up north in the Seelie Provinces. He slipped it into her hand. She broke the seal on the cap and swallowed the whole of its contents in one go.

As he sewed her up, Elspeth asked a few pointed questions about the prisoner he kept in the ‘belly of the fortress’ under lock and key. Apparently, rumors abounded already.

“She’s my mate,” he confessed.

“And you believe her innocent of all this witchcraft nonsense?” It wasn’t an accusation. She was fishing for the facts. “It makes sense. The madness continues while she’s been locked away under your guard. She couldn’t be responsible.”

He repressed the urge to scoff at the notion that he’d ever confined Hrafn successfully. Malcolm was a terrible jailer. “There’s a monster in those woods. I’ve seen its shadows at work. A phantom with a piece of god-soul—stop squirming.”

As he explained, Elspeth took him at his word, expressing no doubts. There was a natural kinship between them, a trust forged after being neighbors for so long.

Her father had offered her hand to him years ago. She’d just had her 157thbirthday. She was a woman by then, he knew, but he couldn’t do it. Not when he could still vividly remember the day she was born, could still picture the fledgling who enjoyed riding bareback and hated pinning up her hair for court.

An ambitious woman, she hadn’t been against the marriage. There were worse fae than the Mad Marquess to be chained to, she’d said. It wouldn’t have been a love match for either of them, just a partnership that served their families well, but Malcolm turned the offer down quietly and with affection. She’d make a wonderful Lady of Reedholm, but he thought of her too much like his own family, like a beloved little sister, to ever share a bed with her.

“Your mate is here,” Elspeth said with a gleam in her eye, “and since you weren’t expecting your friends to drop in, I’ve had a thought . . .”

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