Ewan fell silent for a moment, the night only broken by the steady clop of their horses’ hooves. When he spoke, his words were cautious and thick with held-back emotion.
“How do you know it was my mother who came to you?” He kept his gaze on the centre of the road and his hands tightened on the reins.
“Because you look much like her, with the same raven black hair and bright blue eyes. She wanted you to find love and asked me to help.” She could never tell him that his mother suffered because her death planted ice deep in her son. The tragic woman had traversed the realms, seeking a way to warm Ewan’s frozen heart. She had whispered to Alice that only a shattered woman could piece together her broken son.
He reached across the distance between them, took her right hand, and then kissed her knuckles. “Thank you.”
It was over sixty miles from the marker to London, far more than they could travel in one night. Ewan and Alice rode until they nearly dropped from the saddle and then found an inn to shelter them. They were both too tired to make love; it took all their energy to undress and fall into bed. Ewan muttered about a promise to let Alice shave him once they reached London, then they slumbered until dawn lit the room. They dressed, ate a quiet meal shared with both dogs, and set out for their final destination.
It was late afternoon when they reached Aunt Maggie’s Kensington terrace house. Alice glanced up at the cannon peeking over the roof edge. She had expected more. Aunt Maggie’s castle in Scotland positively bristled with armaments from the turrets. The old woman was sure that there would either be a Scottish revolution, or an English initiative to round up troublesome Scots.
The door opened as they walked up the steps and a butler stepped to one side. A sense of home washed over Alice as she stood on the tile entranceway. Aunt Maggie’s large personality imbued the house and Alice wrapped it around her.
“Who is it?” a voice demanded from a side parlour.
“Mr Shaw, madam, and a guest,” the butler responded in a much lower tone. His gaze dropped to the two dogs that raced in, skidded on the tiles, and spun to a stop by Alice.
The door shut as a shriek erupted from within, and then a diminutive woman dressed all in black barrelled from the parlour.
“Ewan!” She screeched to a halt, her eyes wide and sparkling. “And Alice, my dear.” She promptly diverted her course from Ewan and held her arms open. Alice stooped down to hug the much older woman.
She owed this woman so much. Ianthe had freed her from Bedlam, but Aunt Maggie had set her on the path that ultimately allowed her to free herself.
After a hug that could crack ribs, Aunt Maggie held Alice at arm’s length. “Let me look at you, my girl.” Her piercing gaze searched Alice’s face for several long moments, then she made a noise in the back of her throat. “Good. The shadows are gone. I do so look forward to getting to know the new you; I suspect you are quite remarkable.”
“I know she is remarkable,” Ewan said from her side, and he raised Alice’s hand to kiss her knuckles.
“Well, there is an unexpected development—but you always did have an eye for the best in life, my boy.” Aunt Maggie grinned. Then her hands went to her hips and she arched a white eyebrow. “Ewan, you look a complete fright. I heard you had been injured, but when did you become a vagabond?”
Ewan chuckled and scratched his jaw. “All in the course of duty, Aunt Maggie. Alice and I have been on an assignment, and I must report to the War Office tomorrow.”
“Not without a bath, a change of clothes, and a shave.” She narrowed her eyes at Ewan. “In fact, we might just throw those clothes on a bonfire. Whatever were you thinking?”
“I was thinking of trying to secure my future,” he said.
Aunt Maggie snorted. “You can go upstairs and make yourself presentable. Then I want to hear everything, including your intentions towards Alice.”
Alice smiled. Aunt Maggie was a force of nature similar to any storm and should be treated the same—one should hunker down and let it pass over. The older woman shooed them towards the stairs as a maid appeared.
“This way, miss.” She gestured for Alice to follow.
Ewan walked close behind Alice on the stairs. His breath feathered over her skin as he whispered in her ear, “I do believe I am in need of a shave.”
Alice shivered. She would give him the closest shave he had ever experienced.
28
Ewan
* * *
Ewan was transported to Heaven. The woman he loved straddled his lap, giving him a shave so close he was almost scared to breathe. A hot bath awaited his naked body, and a fine suit of clothes was laid out on the bed—and did he mention the glorious, naked woman shaving him?
Lord, how she tested his control. His hands rested on her hips, his thumbs making circles on her skin as he drew each slow breath in through his nose with his eyes shut.
Their bodies were joined, but he couldn’t move with the razor at his throat. With each stoke, Alice tensed and released her internal muscles, and it was the most exquisite torture he had ever endured. Ewan couldn’t wait to do it all again tomorrow night. In fact, he would request a shave twice a day if he could convince his beard to co-operate.
At last, Alice laid down the blade and wiped his face with a warm cloth. “All done,” she murmured before kissing him.
His fingers tightened on her waist as he gave in to the pressure inside him and broke his rule of honour. Alice was a close second, but honour would demand he remedy the situation next time. After the bath, or perhaps during, with her trapped against his chest.
Ewan’s wounds healed far quicker than a normal man’s, now that his wolf was free. Time spent in his wolf form encouraged each cut, gash, and bruise to fade away. Not that he minded Alice fussing over him, but he’d much rather explore her body and listen to her soft cries as he pleasured her.
He also couldn’t put off the inevitable. He had to report to the War Office and hand over what he had found. He wanted to plan his future with Alice, but now he was healed, he would probably be sent back to his regiment.
The next morning, he took a hackney cab to the War Office and sat on a hard chair, awaiting his interview with the Earl of Bathurst, the Secretary of War.
“Ah, Captain Shaw.” Bathurst gestured for him to come into his office. “What news?”
“A success, my lord; the vampyre Forge will bother England no longer.” Ewan stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back as the other man leaned his hip on the window ledge.
The office looked much like the interior of a gentleman’s club, with dark wood panelled walls and buttoned, brown leather sofas. Hard to imagine that the future of nations was often decided while men sipped brandy in front of the ornately-tiled fireplace. But then, true politics was less about paperwork and more about secret negotiations.
Bathurst crossed his arms. “Good. Any sign of the French weapon?”
Ewan withdrew a small, oilskin-wrapped package from his pocket and set it gently on the desk. He pulled back the wrapping to reveal the porcelain container within. A bright design of fat pink cupids on the side aimed their bows at the lid.
“What is it?” Bathurst reached out a hand and then stopped inches above the item.
The container looked so innocent and would sit, unremarked upon, on any lady’s dressing table. But what would happen when she dabbed the powder to her skin? “Some sort of poison, I believe. It smells of death to my wolf.”
The war secretary made a noise deep in his throat and then with thumb and forefinger, picked up the edge of the oilskin and draped it back over the pot. “I will have this sent to our mages and see if they can learn more. How much did he have?”
“There were five of these in each package. Based on how many packages fitted into a barrel and how many barrels he had, possibly two thousand small containers of facepowder and snuff.” Ewan had blown the whole lot up and the cliff had collapsed on the cavern. He had alerted the Hythe agent to what was buried, to ensu
re no one tried picking among the rocks.
The war secretary stepped away from his desk and waved a hand at Ewan. “I had heard you were wounded by French magic. You seemed remarkably recovered.”
Ewan pulled the bullet from his pocket and laid it on top of the oilskin. “A gifted woman was able to summon the bullet from my bone. There is a layer of ensorcellment to it beyond the silver that may also be of interest to our mages. If the French are going to fire these at the Highland Wolves, it would be helpful to know how to counteract them.”
“Tell me, Shaw, have you given much thought to your future?”
“A little, my lord.” In fact, Ewan thought of nothing else. He assumed in the first instance he would be sent to re-join the Highland Wolves. While it lightened his heart to have Alice’s love, he had to figure out how to support them once the war ended. He wanted to shower her with the small luxuries she had never experienced. Like a roof over her head and regular meals. From the bigger issues, he would work his way down to silk gowns, parasols, and reticules. And perhaps a ribbon for Eilidh and a bow for Toby.
“While you are a valuable addition to the Highland Wolves, I’d like you to consider another option.” The earl walked to his enormous desk and shuffled some papers around, staying well clear of the ensorcelled face powder.
He pulled a sheet free and held it up and scanned the contents, as though reminding himself of what it held. “I believe you would be of more use here. To that end, I am offering you Sir Harry Wilkes’ old position. The job will include his house in Berkley Street, a modest shipping portfolio to give you a reason for snooping in various corners of the Empire, and we can wrangle a knighthood to make sure certain doors are open to you.”
“Sir Wilkes’ old position?” Ewan frowned. He wasn’t a stupid man, but what Bathurst offered him seemed too fortuitous to be true. Harry Wilkes had been spy master for England, until Forge had killed him. Such a position would keep Ewan in London with Alice and not fighting on foreign soil and trying to dodge magic bullets.
The secretary of war regarded him from under bushy eyebrows. “Yes. At this juncture in the war, it is vital we find a suitable candidate to manage our intelligence network. It takes a certain delicate touch when dealing with secrets at the highest level—a knack you have. Your Unnatural status is handy in dealing with creatures like these French vampyres and who knows what else they are concocting to use against us. What do you say?”
Quite apart from sending him an extraordinary woman to love, life now offered a house, a title, and a regular income. Ewan pinched the back of his hand, needing the brief stab of pain to ensure he hadn’t died on the battlefield and this was all a dream.
He seemed to be alive, so how could he refuse? Then he thought of Alice. Could he trap her in London and make her play the role of society lady? He swallowed. “I need to consult with someone else before deciding, my lord. Not that it isn’t an exceedingly generous offer, but I am no longer a single man. I have made a commitment to someone.”
“Ah.” Bathurst frowned. “Completely understand if you don’t want to expose a woman to this sort of danger. They can be delicate things that need protecting.”
“Not an issue with my intended. She is the one who removed the bullet and weakened Forge so I could destroy him,” Ewan murmured.
Lord Bathurst stared at Ewan and then laughed. “Well. Hang on to that one, and we always have room in our family for a capable female agent, if she is willing.”
Ewan smiled and his wolf stretched, basking in the praise of its mate. “I fully intend to keep hold of her. And if she is willing, she would be the most excellent partner in this venture.”
“Get back to me tomorrow. I can’t give you any longer, I want to win this war and see Bonaparte defeated.” Bathurst waved his hand and Ewan was dismissed.
All the way back to Kensington, he struggled to contain his growing excitement. Bathurst offered him an extraordinary opportunity, but he would pass it up if Alice wanted to retreat to the country. Perhaps they could breed dogs to pass the time?
At the terrace house, two women awaited him in the front parlour.
Alice lifted her face for his kiss, her gaze searching his face for any hint of what had happened. If anyone could peer beneath his mask, it was her. Ewan handed over his top hat and gloves and dropped to the seat next to Alice.
There was no point in beating around the bush. He laid out the full proposal. “The secretary of war has given me two options. I can either return to the Highland Wolves and active service or he has offered me the vacant position of spymaster. It comes with a London townhouse, a shipping portfolio, and a knighthood.”
Alice laid her hands over his. “Both options are dangerous.”
Ewan didn’t hide the emotion on his face, he had promised no subterfuge with this woman. The offer gladdened his heart and neatly solved so many problems and presented many opportunities. “As much as I do not want to abandon my regiment and my brothers, spymaster does fit my abilities. But I have your desires to consider also. What do you think, Alice? Could you survive life in London as a minor noble’s wife or would you prefer to seek the solitude of the countryside after the war?”
She glanced down at their laced fingers as she pondered his proposal. Then she raised her face to his. “I have my own goals now, and slipping amongst the ton would help me find and free women who have no voice of their own.”
He kissed her cheek. “I am afraid it will involve some frightfully boring events we shall be forced to endure.”
She played with the wolf’s head necklace as she pondered his offer. “I’m sure I could think of some way to enliven dull dinner parties. Drinks to loosen tongues perhaps.”
Ewan laughed. Alice’s mage-blooded gift complimented his wolf and when they worked together, there was nothing beyond their reach. They were both predators, and he would watch his divine witch stalk monsters in the parlours of London. No demon, whether natural or Unnatural, would escape them.
“Then it is settled. I shall accept the position.” He grinned, and it felt good to let hope for the future flow through his body.
“Excellent.” Aunt Maggie rose and yanked on the bell pull. “Let’s have champagne to celebrate. Then we have a quiet wedding to plan if Alice is to be your partner in this venture. Society will not have it any other way, so you two will just have to bear it.”
“He has not asked yet, Aunt Maggie.” Alice smiled at him, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Oh, I will. I promise you that.” He knew her answer would be yes, but first, he wanted to plan the most outrageously romantic marriage proposal that would keep the ton talking all season. He had an idea forming already. . . .
One month later
A small theatre in Kent
* * *
The woman stared into the mirror. A tired white painted face with bright pink cheeks stared back. A confection of silver curls bounced as she tugged the ornate silver wig from her head and tossed it to a chair. Then she ran her fingers through short dark hair and scratched her scalp.
The door opened, and a young lad placed a bowl of hot water on the dressing table and then disappeared back through the door.
With a sigh, she wrung out the cloth in the water and wiped her face. Lines of paint came off with each stoke, revealing the woman underneath. Soon the water had a pink tinge, as though a cloud bled.
The door opened again and a middle aged gent walked in. His greying hair was trimmed short. His jacket had once been of fine quality but now the edges were frayed and a button was missing. The garment hung loosely on his shoulders, as though it had been made for someone larger.
“When are you going to take me to London like you promised?” she asked the image in the mirror.
“Soon, my turtle dove, soon.” He held the door open as two men carried in large wooden kegs and placed them on the floor. He tossed one a coin and then shut the door on their retreating figures.
“What have you wasted our money on now?”
she waved the cloth at the two barrels.
“I have wasted nothing! I won these in a game of cards. Each contains the finest brandy from France. We can make some extra money selling a small tipple to the patrons before the show.” The man rapped his knuckles on the wood.
She dropped the cloth into the bowl and turned around on her stool. “Give us a taste, then. My throat is parched after all that singing tonight.”
He pulled open a draw in a cabinet and rummaged through the contents. He made a satisfied noise as he found the device he required. The knocked the tap into the side of a barrel and held a glass underneath. With a flourish as though it were a magic trick, he turned the tap.
Nothing happened.
His face screwed up in a scowl and he rocked the barrel with one hand then tipped it towards the tap.
“Come on,” he muttered.
Still nothing flowed from the container.
The woman rolled her eyes. “You’ve been had. Those are empty.”
“No they’re not. You can feel it.” He knocked on the wood and it gave a solid response and not a hollow echo.
“They’re probably full of sand.” What would she do with him? He promised the moon and couldn’t even deliver a tin plate. His foolish dreams wouldn’t be food in her belly.
With the edge of a large knife, he levered off the lid and peered inside. “Not sand my love. But I’m not sure what I have acquired.”
He reached in and pulled out a package wrapped in oilskin. The contents shifted and clanked against each other. He laid the parcel on the table and unwrapped it to reveal five small porcelain containers.
The woman picked one up and flicked open the lid. “It’s face powder.” She leaned in and sniffed. “Why would someone stuff face powder into a brandy barrel?”
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