Page 54 of Mated to the Mad Marquess

Malcolm waited until Harrow was good and gone before he returned to the keep. He found Hrafn in her bedroom, mending a tear in her jerkin with needle and thread. She sat the work aside as he made his presence known, leaning in the doorway.

Malcolm hoisted the rolled petition Lindiwe had made, and his lips quirked. “You have an admirer,” he said. He explained the situation, and while he spoke, Solis left him to cozy up beside Hrafn’s shadows.

“It is good of her to show such care,” Hrafn said.

“You saved her life. She feels indebted.”

“I’d like to know she’s not being harassed as a result of having faith in me. I’ll send her a letter to reassure her that I’m well and to check on her in turn, but I speak Common better than I write it.”

“I could help you,” he offered, a hint of caution in his words. The night before had been glorious, but it was time for practicality. If he was smart, he’d avoid sharing moments with her alone in her chambers.

We’re not smart,Solis said.Be an idiot, I say.

Hrafn’s face fell. She hesitated, licking her lips. “Ezra is gifted with languages. He will help me craft it before he carries the letter to Lindiwe in Reedlet. He knows where her market stall is.”

“If you change your mind, you know how to find me.” This was the wise thing, the safe thing, keeping their distance, building walls. Still, as he backed into the hall, his heart plummeted.

He returned moments later to fetch Solis. His stubborn soul wouldn’t leave Hrafn’s side. Hrafn observed the exchange with a bittersweet twist to her lips.

“Sorry,” Malcolm grunted, gathering up his tendrils of darkness and dragging his shadow out of the room.

* * *

The first day of autumn, it rained. A week had passed since Malcolm had shared a bed with his mate.

“Do I have to?” Malcolm droned, water slicking his hair.

“This was your idea,” Hrafn reminded him, standing before the oaken barrel they’d dragged into the courtyard together. She removed a wooden hammer from her belt. Shielding herself from the downpour with her wings uplifted, she held out the tool to him. They’d finished another round of exercises that morning, and Malcolm was missing his favorite drink. It was the one vice he couldn’t seem to stay entirely away from, so he’d flippantly suggested removing the temptation.

“It was a terrible idea,” he groaned.

“I’ll do it if you can’t. I think you’re right that too much wine slows you down. You work your shadows better without it.” She raised the wooden hammer.

“No, no, give me that.” Malcolm took it from her. “Gods, forgive me, Red,” he said with a great heaving sigh. He raised the hammer high. He brought it down over the spigot and broke off the tap. The wine ran out onto the lawn, wetting the bottom of his boots, soaking the ground, speckling the grass in crimson.

The rain had turned Hrafn’s wings glossy. As they watched the downpour wash away his favorite drink, he nearly reached out to stroke along the plumes but remembered himself. They were being careful now.

They’d stopped cooking together. He didn’t visit her at night. When they weren’t training, she hunted in the woods with her familiar in her nighthawk form, scouting the darkness. The little child-like shadows grew together and thickened. Clapa made jewelry out of buttons for Margot and Susan. The women wore the charms with pride. Malcolm enjoyed their companionship, even as his mind drifted constantly to the one whose company he craved the most.

It was the safe thing, building walls between them this way. And it was a terrible, lonely thing. The singularity of it all was so much more oppressive when the mate he longed for was right there, in his reach.

Briefly he daydreamed about leaving it all behind, abandoning his estate to its fate to follow his mate. He’d take her to see her Manna-heim. They’d travel the world in search of adventure, but this land had been entrusted to him by his father and his mother, and he’d already failed them once in an unforgiveable fashion. He couldn’t bring himself to do it twice.

Although he didn’t favor the oppressive obligation, he did feel a duty to his people. He’d been tended to, served, provided for—spoiled even—all his life by those who farmed the grounds and worked in his home to make the grand manor and this fortress what they were. He owed them a lord’s protection and a lord’s leadership.

He would give them both.

Overwhelmed, Malcolm began unknotting his neckcloth and loosening the fastenings on his waistcoat, stripping to the linen undershirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Going for a run,” he said.

“In all this?” Hrafn held out her palm and the rain filled it in seconds.

“Yes,” he said, then he took off at a jog. Quickly his muscles warmed and his head cleared. His body was used to this routine now. The rain transformed from droplets of biting cold to a soothing beat that chilled his brow. He weaved between the out-buildings and circled the granite tower. Then he felt a familiar gust of air by his ear and glanced behind him.

Hrafn flew at his side.

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