“How dare you! You impudent”—whack—“arrogant”—whack—“overbearing”—whack—“unobservant dog!” Whack, whack. Normally Alexia wasn’t given to such language or unadulterated violence, but circumstances seemed to warrant it. He was a werewolf and, without her touching him and canceling out his supernatural abilities, practically impossible to damage. Thus, she felt justified in clobbering him a couple of times for discipline’s sake.
Major Channing, shocked by a physical attack from an apparently defenseless housekeeper, shielded his head and then grabbed the parasol, using it to yank her toward him. Alexia lost her grip, and Major Channing stumbled back in possession of the accessory. He looked like he wanted to hit her back with it, which could have done Alexia some real damage, as she had no supernatural healing abilities at all. But instead, he tossed the parasol aside and made as if to slap her.
Which was when Tunstell leaped onto his back. The redhead wrapped long arms and legs about the major, trapping Channing’s limbs at his sides.
The assembled newcomers gasped in horror. For a claviger to attack a member of the pack was unheard of and was grounds for instant expulsion. However, those of the pack and their companion clavigers who knew who Alexia was all dropped whatever they were doing and rushed forward to assist.
Major Channing shook Tunstell off and backhanded him hard across the face. The strike sent Tunstell to the ground easily. The claviger gave a loud groan and collapsed.
Alexia gave the blond blackguard a glare of wrath and bent to check on the fallen redhead. His eyes were closed, but he appeared to be breathing. She stood and said calmly, “I would stop this now, if I were you, Mr. Channing.” She dropped the “major” out of contempt.
“I should say not,” said the man, unbuttoning his uniform and stripping off his white gloves. “Now you both need discipline.”
In the next second, he began to change. In polite company, this would have been shocking, but most everyone there had witnessed the event before. Over the decades since pack integration, the military had become as comfortable with werewolf change as they were with profanity. But to change in front of a lady, even if one did think she was a housekeeper? Murmurs of alarm rippled through the crowd.
Alexia was also surprised. It was only just nightfall, and it was nowhere near full moon. Which meant this man was older and more experienced than his brash behavior indicated. He was also darn good at the change, polished in its execution despite what her husband had once described as the worst pain a man could stand and still live. Alexia had seen youngsters of the pack writhe and whimper, but Major Channing shifted smoothly from human to wolf. Skin, bone, and fur rearranged itself, resulting in one of the most beautiful wolves Alexia had ever seen: large and almost pure white, with icy blue eyes. He shook off the remains of his clothing and circled slowly about her.
Alexia braced herself. One touch from her and he would be human again, but that was no guarantee of safety. Even mortal, he would still be bigger and stronger than she, and Alexia was without her parasol.
Just as the huge white wolf charged forward, a new wolf leaped in front of Alexia and Tunstell, teeth bared. The newcomer was considerably smaller than Major Channing, with sandy fur frosted black about the head and neck, pale yellow eyes, and an almost foxlike face.
There was an awful thud of fur-covered flesh, and the two scrabbled against one another, claws and teeth ripping. The white wolf was bigger, but it presently became clear that the smaller wolf possessed greater speed and cunning. He used the other’s size against him. In a matter of moments, the smaller wolf had twisted about and taken a clean firm death grip on Major Channing’s throat.
Quick as it had started, the fight ended. The white wolf flopped instantly down, rolling to present his belly in submission to his diminutive opponent.
Alexia heard a groan and dragged her eyes away from the fight to see that Tunstell was now sitting upright and blinking blearily. He was bleeding copiously from the nose but otherwise appeared merely dazed. Alexia passed him a handkerchief and bent to look for her parasol. She used it as an excuse not to watch as the two werewolves changed back into human form.
She did peek. What hot-blooded woman wouldn’t? Major Channing was all muscle, longer and leaner than her husband but, honesty compelled her to admit, not at all unsightly. What surprised her was the small sandy-haired man of indeterminate age standing calmly next to him. She would never have accused Professor Lyall of gratuitous musculature. But there he was, assuredly fit. What profession had Lyall had before he became a werewolf? Alexia wondered, not for the first time. A couple of clavigers appeared with long cloaks and covered over the object of Lady Maccon’s speculation.
“What the hell is going on?” Major Channing spat as soon as his jaw had sufficiently returned to human form. He turned to glare at the urbane man standing quietly next to him.
“I did not challenge you. You know I would never challenge you. We settled that years ago. This was a perfectly acceptable matter of pack discipline. Misbehaving clavigers must be tamed.”
“Unless, of course, one of them is no claviger,” said Professor Randolph Lyall, long-suffering Beta of the Woolsey Pack.
The blond man looked nervous. His face lost most of its arrogance. Alexia thought he was considerably more attractive that way.
Professor Lyall sighed. “Major Channing, Woolsey Pack Gamma, allow me to introduce you to Lady Alexia Maccon, curse-breaker, and your new Alpha female.”
Alexia disliked the term curse-breaker; it sounded terribly sportsmanlike, as though she were about to engage in a protracted bout of unremitting cricket. Since some werewolves still considered their immortality a curse, she supposed it was an odd kind of accolade, praise that she could stave off the bestiality of full moon. To be called curse-breaker was certainly more complimentary than soul-sucker. Trust the vampires to come up with a term that implied an even more crass kind of sport than cricket—if such a thing could be conceived.
Alexia found her parasol and stood. “I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Major Channing, but I would not wish to perjure myself so early in the evening.”
“Well, confound it,” said Major Channing, glaring first at Lyall and then at everyone else around him, “why didn’t any of you tell me?”
Alexia did feel a little guilty at that. She had let her temper get the better of her. But really, he hadn’t given her time to introduce herself.
“I take it you were not informed of my appearance, then?” Alexia asked, prepared to chalk another thing up onto the board of her husband’s mistakes for the night. He was going to get a ruddy earful when he got home.
Major Channing said, “Well, no, not precisely. I mean, yes, we had a short missive a couple months back, but the description was not… you understand… and I thought you would be…”
Alexia hefted her parasol thoughtfully.
Channing backpedaled rapidly. “… less Italian,” he said finally.
“And my dear husband did not warn you of the truth of it when you arrived?” Alexia was looking more thoughtful than angry. Perhaps Major Channing was not so bad. After all, she, too, had been surprised at Lord Maccon’s choosing her to wed.
Major Channing looked irritated at that. “We have not yet seen him, my lady. Or this faux pas might have been avoided.”
“I do not know about that.” Lady Maccon shrugged. “He is prone to exaggerating my virtues. His descriptions of me are generally a tad unrealistic.”
Major Channing dialed his charm back up to the highest setting—Lady Maccon could practically see the gears crunching and the steam spiraling off his body. “Oh, I doubt that, my lady.” Unfortunately for the Gamma, who did genuinely recognize Alexia’s appeal, Alexia chose to take offense.
She went cold, her brown eyes hard and her generous mouth compressed into a straight line.
He hurriedly switched the subject, turning to Professor Lyall. “Why was our venerated leader not at the station to meet us? I had some fairly urgent business to discuss with him.”
Lyall shrugged. There was an air about him that suggested the major not push this particular subject. It was the nature of a Gamma to criticize, but equally common was a Beta’s support, no matter how rude the Alpha’s actions. “Urgent BUR matters,” was all he answered.
“Yes, well, my business might also be urgent,” snapped Major Channing. “Hard to know, especially when he is unavailable to see to the needs of the pack.”
“What exactly happened?” Professor Lyall’s tone implied that whatever this urgent business, it was probably Major Channing’s fault.
“The pack and I experienced something unusual on board ship.” Major Channing clearly felt that if the Beta could be cagey, so could he. He turned pointedly to Alexia. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. I apologize for the dust-up. Ignorance is no excuse; I assure you I am well aware of that. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to make it up to you to the best of my poor abilities.”
“Apologize to Tunstell,” replied Lady Maccon.
That was a blow: the pack Gamma, third in command, apologizing to a lowly claviger. Major Channing sucked in his breath but did exactly as he was told. He made a pretty speech to the redhead, who looked progressively more and more embarrassed as it rattled on, terribly conscious of his Gamma’s humiliation. By the end, Tunstell was so flushed his freckles had disappeared entirely behind the red. After which Major Channing disappeared in a huff.
“Where is he going?” wondered Lady Maccon.
“Most likely to move the regiment’s camping arrangements to the back of the house. It will have to wait a short while, my lady, for the tent poles to cool.”
“Ah.” Alexia grinned. “I win.”
Professor Lyall sighed, looked briefly up toward the moon, and said as though appealing to a higher deity, “Alphas.”
“So”—Alexia gave him an inquiring look—“would you mind explaining Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings to me? He does not seem like a man my husband would choose to run with his pack.”
Professor Lyall tilted his head to one side. “I am not privy to his lordship’s feelings on the gentleman, but regardless of Lord Maccon’s preferences, Channing was inherited along with Woolsey. As was I. Conall had no choice. And, quite frankly, the major is not so bad. A good soldier to have guarding one’s back in a battle, and that is the honest truth. Try not to be too put off by his manner. He has always behaved himself in the capacity of Gamma, a decent third in command, despite disliking both Lord Maccon and myself.”
“Why? I mean, why you? I can perfectly comprehend not liking my husband. I dislike him intensely most of the time.”
Professor Lyall stifled a chuckle. “I am given to understand that he does not approve of spelling one’s name with two ll’s. He finds it inexcusably Welsh. I suspect he may be quite taken with you, however.”
Alexia twirled her parasol, embarrassed. “Pity’s sake, was he being honest under all that syrupy charm?” She wondered what it was about her physique or personality that only large werewolves seemed to find her alluring. And would it be possible to change that quality?
Professor Lyall shrugged. “I should steer well clear of him in that arena, if I were you.”
“Why?”
Lyall struggled for the polite way of putting it and then finally settled on the indelicate truth. “Major Channing likes his woman feisty, to be sure, but that is because he likes”—a delicate pause—“refining them.”
Alexia wrinkled her nose. She sensed the indelicate underpinning to Professor Lyall’s comment. She would have to research it later, confident that her father’s library would provide. Alessandro Tarabotti, preternatural, had lived a racy life and passed on to his daughter a collection of books, some of them with terribly wicked sketches, which attested to his raciness. Alexia had those books to thank for the fact that some of her husband’s more innovative desires did not provoke her into fainting fits on a regular basis.
Professor Lyall merely shrugged. “Some women like that kind of thing.”
“And some women like needlepoint,” replied Alexia, resolving to think no more on her husband’s problematic Gamma. “And some women like extraordinarily ugly hats.” This comment was sparked by the fact that she had just caught sight of her dear friend, Miss Ivy Hisselpenny, disembarking from a hackney at the end of Woolsey’s long entranceway.
Miss Hisselpenny was a long way away, but there was no doubt it was her—no one else would dare sport such a hat. It was a mind-numbing purple, trimmed in bright green, with three high feathers emerging from what looked to be an entire fruit basket arranged about the crown. Fake grapes spilled down and over one side, dangling almost to Ivy’s pert little chin.
