Page 34 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Aye, but be warned. This one’s more snapping turtle than wolf.”

Nuala gave a fierce growl and nearly knocked herself over. Sorcha stayed still, making sure to smile without showing her teeth. She looked slightly to the left of the pup, also careful not to make direct eye contact. Nuala hesitated, then snatched the bread and darted away.

“You’ve done this before,” Aidan remarked.

Sorcha thought of Simon and the hunting hounds and the wolves from the Cauldron. Of the Black Shuck. Of her unicorn who tried to gore anyone who stared at her too long. “Yes.” Of the Red Cloak. Did Aidan realize it was her he had saved at the Cauldron? “In a way.”

“Here,” he said moments later, showing her to a large tent. It was set quite a ways from the main area, with soft grass and a willow tree tinkling with wind chimes. A circle of soot-covered stones waited for a fire to be lit within, a bench on one side. Aidan lifted the door flap and motioned her into the tent.

“Is this yours?” she asked curiously, noting the feather mattress on a carved wooden frame, the white bed curtains, the stacks of books and journals in every available corner. The narrow desk with yet more books, an inkwell, a box of iron nails, a jar of salt.

“Yes.”

“You’re not staying in Hallow? At one of the inns?” Where they had hot water and fricasseed beef and were accustomed to catering to earls and museum curators from London.

He shook his head. “I am afraid I owe you an apology, Lady Sorcha,” Aidan said, sounding very formal for someone not quite dressed. There was a scar by his shoulder.

Sorcha tilted her head at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Yesterday in the alley—”

“No, I meant, really, you’re going to be so formal with me while wearing nothing but a blanket, barefoot in the woods?”

He looked briefly confused. “Of course. I would not insult you by—” He paused, seeming to realize that he was a very large, half-naked man in a private tent with a lady. “Though, of course, if you are offended by—”

She rolled her eyes.

His mouth twitched. “Until now, I was not aware that a person could roll their eyes so loudly.”

“I’m not offended by feet.” Or chests. Or buttocks. Best not say that out loud.

“Still.” Aidan opened the trunk, rifling through its contents.

“Wolves must go through a prodigious amount of clothing.” Did he often find himself naked? In an alley outside the Library, in a bakery in Haven? In the middle of the road? In an assembly room while dancing a quadrille?

“It can be a problem,” he admitted wryly.

Sorcha paused. “Wait a moment, is that the reason I keep finding clothes all wrapped up inside of trees?”

“Very likely. We tend to stash them randomly throughout our territories, and as Lyonesse is shared territory, it stands to reason.”

She thought of the basket of boots at Nettlestone, also stolen from various trees and caves in the area. There were several wolf shifters on the island currently naked, thanks to her. In her defense, she often had people of various shapes and sizes to clothe. “Oops.”

“Oops?” He shook his head. “The blood curdles to hear you say that.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s only that I’ve been taking all those coats and blankets and clothing that I find.”

“Thief.” He sounded amused.

He had no idea.

“And why exactly have you been pilfering the frock coats of wolves?”

“I…” She was not sure how much to admit to just yet. “You never know what you might need.”

“Hmm.” He did not sound as though he believed her. He was too clever for that.

“I like to be prepared.” Her cheeks felt red for no good reason. Watching a man choose a shirt was hardly salacious. Tell that to the tingling in her belly when he ambled past her to change behind the wooden screen.