Page 33 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

He tugged the rope free from her wrists. Her breath caught in her throat. He was so close that his mouth brushed her ear, and she had to force her eyelids not to flutter closed.

And then he stepped back and there was sunlight and air and…disappointment.

“We need to talk,” he said grimly.

“I expect so.” She stared up at him. Goodness. There was a lot of him. “You’re very naked.”

He blinked, glanced down at himself, and cursed. Someone chuckled and tossed him a plaid. He caught it easily and wrapped it around himself like a hasty kilt.

She had nearly forgotten they weren’t alone.

She swallowed. “Now what?”

He closed his hand around her arm. “Now you come with me.”

They had taken no more than three steps when Aidan halted. “Where are your shoes?”

Sorcha glanced at her bare toes in the soft loam. Her hem was torn. “Somewhere in a gorse bush?”

A rumble went through him. “Brutus?”

“Yes. Even I’m not in the habit of wandering around without shoes. We have too many kittens for that. They are like little dragons with teeth.”

“I might kill him yet,” Aidan said softly.

Sorcha could only stare at him for a moment, fascinated. Who was he, really? Polite, quiet curator? Or this half-naked man who could turn into a wolf and take on an ogre? Both? Without his spectacles, his eyes glittered. They were too primal, too wild, for the mild-mannered earl. And was he taller suddenly?

She was all at sea.

“You’re a wolf,” she blurted out.

His mouth quirked with amusement. “Aye.”

“But…” She paused. Shut her mouth, opened it again. She was not accustomed to being at a loss for words. “You…”

“You didn’t know.”

“No.”

He frowned at her feet. “I could carry you.”

“Why? They’re not broken, just bare.”

She could see the way he forced his jaw not to unclench. “Only because we keep the paths clear for the pups. Not a lot of shoes during festivals for the wee ones. It’s rare they can run free in whatever form they choose.”

She nodded. “I can see how that would be true. Are wolves born with the ability to control their shifting?”

“No,” he said, very calmly. Too calmly.

She didn’t press, but only because she was distracted by the glimpses of wolves passing through the main encampment. Banners painted with Lycan folklore fluttered. There were so many tents, the canvas also painted with stories and crests and moonlit forests and ghostly moors. A sparrow chirped at her with concern from the top of a pine. Sorcha whistled back.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, pausing once again when a pup raced past her, all big eyes and big paws. She saw Sorcha at the last moment and rolled sideways, startled. She bit back a laugh. Petting a werewolf was probably bad etiquette, but it was a real struggle not to reach down. Instead, she pulled a slightly mangled heel of bread from her pocket. It had gotten somewhat squashed when she was thrown over the horse, but it smelled like sugar and comfort. The pup’s ears perked up.

There was a reason she was a baker, and it was not only because her grandmother had insisted. Everyone loved breads and brioches, from scullery maid to dowager duchess, alley cat to gryphon. Even Redcaps liked bread, and they liked no one and nothing, aside from washing their famous caps in blood. Sorcha had found pastries a far more effective bribe than anything else, money included.

“Nuala,” Aidan said. The pup’s ears flicked again, but she didn’t look away from Sorcha’s treat.

“Is this allowed?” Sorcha asked.