Page 53 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Twelve

Aidan insisted on taking them back to Nettlestone on horseback so she wouldn’t have to walk across the hills in shoes that might not fit properly. He took Brutus’s horse, of course, claiming it was reparation. Brutus had gone anyway, taken to the moors to keep searching for his daughter.

Sorcha sat in front of Aidan, his arms around her, his chest warm and solid at her back. The sun was clearing the last of the mists, where it hung in tatters among the gorse and the thickets. They passed a standing stone that someone had crowned with a wreath of wild grapes, blackberry vines, and the last of the white roses that had overtaken the island over the summer solstice.

It was soft and beautiful, but Sorcha was distracted by the very large man behind her, by his strong wrists, the way his fingers held the reins. The peek of tattoo, the soft scattering of hair. The liquid heat that threatened to melt her from the inside out, even if he was clearly not interested in kissing her again. It was the only reason she resisted leaning back, nuzzling his shoulder.

They had a goal. A mission.

And it did not include nuzzling.

More’s the pity.

“All right there, songbird?” he rumbled behind her.

She swallowed. “Of course.”

“You sighed.”

And she was not about to explain why.

They were nearly at Nettlestone now. She could have another cup of strong tea, the punishing comfort of chores, the work of the bakehouse to set her to rights. Granny’s sharp tongue. Kitten teeth.

There were pigeons gathered around the lilac trees at the end of the path, where it led from the hills to the courtyard walls. Sorcha had scratched protective sigils into the moss on the stones, and buried iron nails underneath. She had also hung wards in the lilac bushes where the pigeons currently waited. They cooed at her. Her witch knot prickled. “Aidan,” she murmured, touching his wrist. “A moment.”

He pulled the horse to a stop. “What is it?” His mouth touched her ear. She suppressed a tiny quiver.

“I don’t know yet,” she replied, sliding to the ground. He was beside her before she took a step, searching the thickets and the shadows.

The pigeons stepped into a perfect circle, staring up into the lilac leaves.

“That is…unsettling,” Aidan said.

“They are very clever creatures,” she muttered defensively.

“Aye.”

She crept closer, elbowing Aidan. “Don’t frighten them.”

“Aye,” he said again, slowing his giant steps.

The pigeons cooed together as one. Sorcha peered under the branches and pulled one of her protective wards down, snapping the red thread. It was a small piece of mirror, fringed with evil-eye beads. She had soaked it in water gathered under a full moon and infused with salt.

The mirror was cracked, reflecting back her frown, a strand of her red hair, Aidan’s sternly set mouth.

“Your wards?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. Witches often warded their homes, if not quite as enthusiastically as she did. The Red Cloak could take no chances. Neither could Sorcha Beauregard. “This one’s broken. Probably just the wind. Or a squirrel.”

“Mayhap.” He didn’t sound convinced. His eyes were turning gold again.

She went to the next lilac across the pathway, where more pigeons waited, in the same perfect circle. That ward was also cracked.

It might still be a coincidence,” she said.

Aidan growled.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she insisted.