The she-wolf in the Tower

He doesn’t accept her demands

*Horace*

I stare in total disbelief at the pages before me. The letter is written in a strong hand, too strong for a she-wolf. My grandmother wrote in a delicate script, ornamented now and then with flourishes. There are no flourishes to this letter.

There is nothing feminine about it.

In fact…

My eyes narrow. I almost don’t believe it was written by a she-wolf. It’s altogether too direct, too demanding.

Not the sort of letter that could have come from the delicate flower with whom I danced, nor from the she-wolf who kept her eyes demurely lowered when her father announced that he had accepted an offer of marriage on her behalf. There wasn’t a flicker of dissent or rebellion on Miss Rapunzel’s face.

I pick up the letter again. In fact, it isn’t rebellious, precisely.

It is…

It is contractual, that’s what it is. She uses the phrase “I would request” when what she clearly means is “I demand.”

‘I would request that you do not keep a mistress, nor engage in such frolicsome activities, until such time as we have produced the requisite number of heirs… such number to be decided amicably between us… and have ceased marital relations, as will happen in due course. I am most reluctant to contract a disease of an intimate nature.’

I’ve already read that paragraph four times, but I read it again. Frolicsome activities? Mistress? Cease marital relations? When I am dead, perhaps. The fact that I haven’t yet engaged in relations doesn’t mean that I have no interest in doing so. I have a keen interest.

In fact, I have a running tally of things I am looking forward to trying. With my mate. Who apparently thinks she will make love to me on a schedule, and a limited schedule at that.

‘As I have very little interest in pursuits of the flesh, I shall give you no reason for anxiety in that regard.’

She sounds like a nun. All right, I don’t mind that particular statement so much. I can tempt her into interest in pursuits of the flesh. Or I can spend my life trying.

But her next suggestion is a great deal more irritating.

‘I propose that we do not engage to produce an heir for three years, although five might be better. We are both young, and need not worry about age as a factor in procreation. I am not ready for that burden. To be frank, I simply don’t have the time.’

I stare at that for a long time. She doesn’t want children? What in the bloody hell is she doing all day that she doesn’t have time for children? I am ready to have children now. My half-sister, Susannah, is five years old and she would do better with siblings.

What’s more, the work of running the pack won’t be any easier in five years.

On the other hand, I do like the next paragraph:

‘I am certain that your responsibilities are many and burdensome; I propose that we agree not to interrupt each other during the day. I have noticed that considerable unhappiness stems from the needful behavior of a spouse. I trust you do not take my suggestion here as an insult: as we have no knowledge whatsoever of each other, you will understand that I speak merely as a proponent of a wish for a happy marriage.’

I agree with her.

But it’s a bit stuffy. No, more than a bit stuffy. Still, if I had thought to write something down… which I never would, because there is something unsettling about putting all this on paper… I might well have shaped that very paragraph myself.

Or something like it.

It is the final part of the letter that makes me want to bare my teeth and growl at the page like some sort of madman.

‘Finally, I wanted to note that I much appreciate the way by which you dispensed with courtship. Although I was surprised at first, on further examination, I respect your good judgment in this matter. I assume that you hold the same understanding of marriage that I do: it is a contract enacted for the good of one’s lineage, and the general good of society. It is a celebration to be respected and mutually enjoyed. It is not a relationship that should provoke displays of inordinate emotion. I myself greatly dislike conflict in the household. I trust that we can avoid all manner of unpleasant scenes by making ourselves quite clear before we say our vows.’

In short, she doesn’t love me, she doesn’t care to ever love me, and she thinks love within marriage is rot.

The rage I feel is completely inappropriate, and I know it. I am the one who eschewed the idea of courtship, closed the door on a drawing room full of men, and essentially bribed her father into giving her hand to me.

But I feel insulted, nevertheless.

No: not insulted, enraged. Insult is something felt by paltry people whose feelings bruise easily. My feelings never bruise.

And she isn’t even finished:

‘I would be most grateful if you would write me back. I am certain that you have requests of your own, and I am most willing to take them under advisement.’

Take them under advisement?

A great swell of rage sweeps up my chest. She thinks I would disgrace my own marriage vows by taking a mistress? She plans to take my wishes under advisement?

And she thinks I would make requests? I am a bloody Alpha prince. I issue orders, not requests.

I almost never lose my temper. A raised eyebrow is more than enough to cow a man aware that a Prince holds the power of ruination in his hands. One word, and I could have anyone thrown in jail. Not that I have or would. But I hold the power in abeyance.

Expression of rage is a blunt weapon, as clumsy as it is unneeded. And I am well aware that on those rare occasions when I lose my temper, I tend to say a good many hotheaded things that I regret later.

Unfortunately, just now anger sweeps straight from my gut to my head. Miss Rapunzel’s letter is disrespectful: of my person, of my title, and of my offer of marriage. I sit down at my desk and snatch a piece of letter paper. My quill stabs the paper, tearing it.

I offered to make her a Luna. Not just any Luna, either: the Luna princess of Montrose. One of the oldest, most respected titles in all Scotland. Never held by an English She-wolf. Never.

Maybe there is a reason for that.

I start a fresh sheet.

‘Miss Rapunzel:

Perhaps it is the Scotsman in me…’

No. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable owing to her unfortunate nationality. It isn’t her fault. And since it was my idea to align myself with a noble English family, I shouldn’t cavil about her birth.

I take a deep breath. I have to keep a sense of humor. My fiancée seems to be a practical sort with all the humor of a dormouse, but I have never asked her if she enjoys life. I just took one look at her deep green eyes and promised her father a settlement worthy of a princess.

That might have been a mistake, but it is too late now. I’ve apparently got myself betrothed to a dour, child-loathing bureaucrat.

Then an image of her curves… and those eyes… drifts through my mind, and my whole being springs to alert. Maybe we can stay away from each other except when we are in bed.

That in mind, I take up my quill again.

‘Miss Rapunzel:

Thank you for your letter. You honor me with your candor; I hope you will forgive my bold speech. Herewith please find my expectations for this marriage.

1. I mean to husband your bed every night until we’re ninety, or at the very least, eighty-five.

2. For a Scotsman, the bawdy hand of the dial is always upon the prick of noon. In short, I would interrupt the activities of the day for one thing only.

3. I’ll take a mistress when you take a lover and not before.

4. Children come as the Goddesd wills them. I’ve no mind to wear pig’s gut on my private parts, if that’s what you’re suggesting.

5. Are you deranged? I’m curious. The betrothal papers are signed, so my statement is not a plea for freedom. However, you may take it as an expression of genuine curiosity.‘

I’ve never written anything so sarcastic before; an Alpha prince has no occasion to write ironic notes to anyone except his intimates. And as it happens, I haven’t many intimates.

In fact, the Alpha of Chatteris, whose wedding I will soon attend, is one of few who addresses me as Horace. Chatteris and I are friends mostly because neither of us likes to attract attention. Years ago, when my father was alive and used to drag me to house parties in the summer, at which the children were forced to put on performances for the delectation of the adults, me and Chatteris played the trees that moved to Dunsinane Castle and frightened Macbeth. Ever since, we have silently agreed that we find each other tolerable.

I sign the letter with my full title: Horace Eugene Fitzherbert, Alpha prince of Montrose, Chief of Clan MacAulay.

And then I take out the wax that I almost never use and seal the letter with my royal signet.

It is impressive.

Royal.

Good.