Page 41 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Elspeth looked him over, and her jaw dropped. “You weren’t hoping she’d go into some bond-fed rage, were you?”

“Of course not,” he said hurriedly, then he added, “It’s not like I would have let her harm any of you.”

Margot gasped. “But you wanted her to try, didn’t you? You terrible man!”

“Fae,” Susan said with an exasperated eye roll.

Clapa kept right on dancing.

Chapter 11

Malcolm

Malcolm sent his guests off to eat their midday meal, then he went in search of his mate. He let the drumbeat in his chest lead the way, dwelling on the placid look she’d sent him before quitting the room. She was so damned difficult to read with all her subtle cues, her hidden smiles. The possibility that he’d upset her, well, that ate him up inside.

He found her in the kitchen nearest the grand hall, holding a pan over the heat on a wood-burning stove. The little base shadows had followed her there. They scampered about her legs, rolling up the counters to watch her more closely, unbothered by the heat, fascinated by the fire in the stove. While the pan warmed, Hrafn cleared space on the sideboard and more nuggets of shadows climbed up the legs of furniture to study her from there. Using the heel of her hands, she flattened little balls of dough, coating her fingers in flour. The shadows bleated at her curiously.

A satchel hung at her hip from a thick leather belt beside strange wooden tools Malcolm had never seen before. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his waistcoat, he watched her work. When the dough was ready, she went to the hearth, removed a bag from her satchel and added rustic spices to a simmering pot, measuring each in the palm of her hand. The little shadows followed after her, scampering amongst the embers.

“Watch it now,” she said gently, “don’t eat up all the fire. I need the heat.”

To Malcolm’s great surprise, the puffs of darkness listened to her. She pulled a large wooden spoon with a flat edge off her belt of tools. Cornmeal was introduced to another pot. She stirred the coarse grains energetically with the flat spoon until it resembled a type of porridge.

“You’re brooding,” she said, finally addressing him. Hrafn turned over the porridge with a fast flick of her wrist. Shadows gathered around the rim of the hot pot, watching with interest.

“I’m not brooding,” he groused. She wasn’t even looking at him. How would she know if he was—oh, right, the bond.

The inky masses stood one on top of each other on the rim. Hrafn placed the spoon in the top shadow’s mouth.

“Do it like I showed you and don’t stop stirring, or the pap will get clumpy,” she said, and the puffs of darkness heeded her.

Hrafn turned her head to look at Malcolm fully then, her appraisal brisk as she wiped her hands down on the sides of her trousers.

“Is he brooding?” she asked Solis, peeking over the curve of her wing to the shade he cast on the tiles below.

Solis nodded his shrouded head. Then he left Malcolm’s side to cozy in next to her own shadow stretching out from her bare feet.

“Well, that’s just not fair,” Malcolm said. “You’ve turned my own soul against me.”

Hiding a secret smile in the corner of her mouth, Hrafn returned to the stove to fry up buttery little flat breads in the dry pan until they were crisp and golden. When they were done, she slid them one at a time onto a plate on the sideboard, chasing off the curious clumps of base shadows. Malcolm pulled a stool up beside her, sitting close enough that his tail could reach out to caress her hip or wind around her side.

She allowed the affection. If she could feel him brooding, could she feel the apology in his touches? He thought she could.

Without looking at him, Hrafn inched the plate of bread his way. Then she went back to supervising the pot on the hearth. The gift before him, so tenderly given, made his throat tighten. He pulled the plate closer and huddled over it, savoring it with his eyes, inhaling its warmth.

“Is something wrong with the food Cook makes you?” he asked, when the knot finally left his throat. “If there is, I can change that.”

“I like cooking for myself. Lunar fae boil all the fun out of their crops,” she said, “and I don’t eat flesh. Cook and I have an understanding of sorts. When I come into her kitchen, she throws her hands up in the air, lets out a yelp, then runs out that door there and stays away until I’m gone.”

“An interesting arrangement,” he said.

Hrafn smiled at him with her eyes. Removing the pan, she snuffed out the heat with a metal cover. Then she went to the hearth and hefted the heavy pot filled with colorful beans and vegetables. She placed it on the cooling burner. He couldn’t name all of the spices he smelled curling around him in the steam: ginger, garlic, onion, tomato, peppers . . . His nostrils flared trying to identify them all.

Testing the bread with his finger, he waited for it to cool. Then he pulled it apart. It was light and flaky and smelled mild. “Is this Vanir bread?” He’d never seen it before.

“Manna-heim, I call them,” she said, “from a place outside the Faelands. They taught me to cook. I wish to return to them again soon.”

His heart gave another painful lurch at the reminder that she longed to leave for a place where he couldn’t follow. “The mortals you knew are gone now,” he said, trying to mask the jealous venom in his words with a casual tone.

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