She thanked the maid and took pity on her, sending her off to find tea. Then she quickly dropped the blanket to wash.
Conall lumbered off the bed and came over to see if he could “help” with her ablutions. His assistance caused some giggling, and a lot of splashing, and a certain degree of wetness that was not necessarily water related. But she did manage to be safely enshrouded in her pelisse and to see him shoved off into his dressing chamber and under the tender ministrations of Tunstell’s waistcoat choices before Angelique reappeared.
She sipped tea while the maid picked out a perfectly serviceable tweed day dress and underthings. She pulled these on in an apologetic silence, with not even a token complaint, figuring they had already put the poor woman’s finer feelings through the wringer that morning.
She huffed a little as the corset went on. Angelique was merciless. Soon enough Alexia was seated, docile and dressed, while the Frenchwoman did her hair.
Angelique asked, “So, ze machine, iz it fixed?”
Alexia gave her a suspicious look through the mirror. “Yes, we believe so. But I wouldn’t be too excited; Madame Lefoux shows no inclination to depart anytime soon.”
Angelique made no reply.
Alexia was positively aquiver with the need to know the history between the two women but resigned herself to the fact that French caginess beat out British stubbornness, in this at least. So she sat in silence while the maid finished her work.
“Tell him this is good enough,” came her husband’s roar.
Lady Maccon stood and turned around.
Conall came striding in, trailed by the long-suffering Tunstell.
Lady Maccon looked at her husband with a critical eye.
“Your shirt is untucked, your cravat has no finish, and your collar is bent at one side.” She stood and began fussing with his rumpled clothing.
“I dinna ken why I bother; you always side with him.” Conall submitted to her ministrations with ill grace.
“Did you know your accent has gotten stronger since we arrived in Scotland?”
That got her a dour look. Lady Maccon rolled her eyes at Tunstell over Conall’s shoulder and gestured with her head that he could leave.
“We didna arrive in Scotland. I arrived; you followed.” He ran a finger under his high collar.
“Stop that—you’ll dirty the white.”
“Have I mentioned recently how loathsome I find the current fashions?”
“Take it up with the vampires; they set the trends.”
“Hence the high collars,” he grumbled. “I and mine, however, have no need to hide our necks.”
“No,” quipped his wife, “simply your personalities.” She stepped back, brushing down the shawl collar of his waistcoat. “There. Very handsome.”
Her large supernatural husband looked shy at that. “You think so?”
“Stop fishing for compliments and go get your jacket. I am positively starving.”
He pulled her against him and administered a long, deep, and distracting kiss. “You are always hungry, wife.”
“Mmm.” She could not take umbrage with a true statement. “So are you. Simply for different things.”
They were only slightly late for breakfast.
Most of the rest of the house was not yet up. Lady Kingair was there—Alexia wondered if the woman slept—and two clavigers, but none of the Kingair Pack. Of course, Ivy and Felicity were still abed. They kept London hours, even in the country, and could not be expected to appear until midmorning. Tunstell, Lady Maccon suspected, would find things to occupy himself until the ladies came down.
The castle put on a decent breakfast, for the middle of nowhere. There were cold cuts of pork, venison, and woodcock; potted shrimp; fried wild mushrooms; sliced pears; boiled eggs and toast; as well as a nice collection of fruit preserves. Lady Maccon helped herself, then settled down to tuck in.
Lady Kingair, who was eating a bowl of unseasoned porridge and a piece of plain toast, gave Alexia’s loaded plate a telling look. Alexia, who had never let the opinions of others sway her overmuch, especially where food was concerned, merely chewed loudly and with appreciative gusto.
Her husband shook his head at her antics, but as he himself sported a plate piled nearly twice as high as his wife’s, he could not cast aspersions.
“If you are back to being human,” Lady Maccon said after a pause, “you will get rotund eating like that.”
“I shall have to take up some sort of abrasively atrocious athletic sport.”
“You could go in for the hunt,” suggested Alexia. “Tallyho and view halloo.”
Werewolves, as a general rule, were not big on riding. Precious few horses were willing to carry a wolf on their back, even if he did look temporarily human. Driving a team was about as close as most werewolves could get. Since they could run faster in wolf form than a horse anyway, this fact did not tend to trouble the packs much. Except, of course, those men who had enjoyed riding before their metamorphosis.
Lord Maccon was not one of those men. “Foxhunting? I should think not,” he said, gnawing on a bit of pork. “Foxes are practically cousins; wouldna sit well with the family, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, but how dashing you would look in shiny boots and one of those flashy red jackets.”
“I was contemplating boxing or possibly lawn tennis.”
Lady Maccon stifled a giggle by stuffing her face with a forkful of mushroom. The very idea of her husband prancing around all in white with a little netted baton in his hand. She swallowed. “Those sound like lovely ideas, dear,” she said, deadpan, eyes bright and dancing. “Have you considered golf? Highly suited to your heritage and sense of style.”
Conall glared at her, but there was a bit of a smile playing about his lips. “Now, now, wife, there’s no cause for blatant insult.”
Alexia was not certain whether she was insulting him by suggesting golf or insulting golf by suggesting he was its ideal participant.
Lady Kingair watched this byplay with both fascination and repugnance. “Goodness, I had heard it said that yours was a love match, but I couldna countenance it.”
Lady Maccon huffed. “Why else would any woman marry him?”
“Or her,” agreed Lord Maccon.
Something caught Alexia’s attention out of the corner of one eye. Something small and moving near the door to the room. Taken with curiosity, she stood, arresting the table conversation, and went to investigate.
Upon closer examination, she squealed in a most un-Alexia-like manner and jumped away in horror. Lord Maccon leaped to her rescue.
Lady Maccon looked at her great-great-whatever-daughter-in-law. “Cockroaches!” she accused, horrified out of any politeness that dictated she not mention the filthiness of the abode. “Why does your castle have cockroaches?”
Lord Maccon, with great presence of mind, removed his shoe and went to crush the offending insect. He paused, examined it for a split second, and then squished it flat.
Lady Kingair turned to one of the clavigers. “How did that get in here?”
“Canna keep them confined, my lady. They seem to be breeding, they do.”
“Then summon an exterminator.”
The young man glanced furtively in Lord and Lady Maccon’s direction. “Would he ken how to deal with”—a pause—“this particular type?”
“Only one way to find out. Hie yourself into town immediately.”
“Very good, madam.”
Alexia returned to the dining table, but her appetite had deserted her. She made to rise shortly thereafter.
Lord Maccon inhaled a few last bites and then took off after his wife, catching up to her in the hallway.