Werewolf fairytales

To consumate or not

*Margaret*

I stare at my husband, trying to think of an appropriately mature response, when Nanny McGillycuddy, Mr. Sharkton, and the children top the little hill, Lyddie drifting behind them like a kite on a string. My mind is such a whirl that I say nothing even when they enter the courtyard. My husband believes the children are illegitimate. He hasn’t known my name. He thinks I’m some sort of lightskirt, a jade who would… would…

I hate him.

“Please forgive me for not rising to meet you,” Fenrir says to Alastair. “I’ve injured my leg. I have met Colin, but what’s your name?”

“Alastair.” My three-year-old stands squarely on his spindly legs, gazing at the pirate as if he meets men of his cut every day… which he does not. We scarcely have a male servant other than two young men who work in the house when they aren’t in the garden.

“Do you call yourself Dare for short?” Fenrir inquires.

Alastair frowns. “That’s a silly name. My name is Alastair because that’s the name my mama gave me.”

“Alastair is an ancient and respected name,” I say, throwing Fenrir a cold look.

I’ve already figured out that my husband isn’t the sort of man who can be silenced by a glance.

“Alastair sounds a bit silly, isn’t it? But Dare sounds like a fellow who can climb into a tree house. Have you?”

“Have I what?” Alastair asks suspiciously.

“Built a house in a tree. Or even climbed up a tree? That’s a perfect tree for a house,” Fenrir says, pointing to an ancient oak on the other side of the courtyard.

“He hasn’t,” Maguarite says, elbowing Alastair aside. “But I have.”

Her curls are wild and disordered, and she wears only one stocking. The other is wound around her head and tied in the back.

“Oh, Maguarite,” I groan. “Why are you attired in such an outlandish fashion? You were fairly tidy an hour ago.”

Maguarite fixes her gaze on Fenrir and doesn’t bother to glance at me. “I’m a pirate queen,” she says stoutly. “This is what they wear.” There’s a moment of silence. “Well, you’re a pirate,” she demands. “You should know. Don’t they wear this? It’s called a turban.”

*Fenrir*

I’m in the grip of one of the oddest feelings of my life. There they are, lined up before me: Colin, the stubby but fierce pirate; Maguarite, the pirate queen; and Alastair, the wet one. They’re all rather grubby. But they’re mine now. Born under the protection of my name and title. My children.

“I have been a pirate,” I say. “But I’m home now, and I cannot remember what pirate queens wear on their heads.”

Maguarite reaches out with a slender finger and pokes my tattoo. “You’re not supposed to write on yourself.”

“That’s right,” I confirm.

“Did you kill anyone?” Colin asks.

“Yes.”

“Good!”

I shake my head. “No, not good.”

“Pirates always kill people. Walk ’em down the plank!” Colin clearly has a bloodthirsty side.

“Not the action of a gentleman,” I say, “and that’s the most important rule of all. More important than being a pirate. Kill only in self-defense, only if a man has taken up a weapon against you. No innocents, no she-wolves, no children.”

Colin narrows his eyes, thinking about it.

“Where’s your sword?” I say, turning to Maguarite. “A pirate queen should have a sword, it seems to me.”

“We only have one, and Colin has it on Mondays. I don’t get it until Wednesday.”

“Beta Fenrir,” Margaret interjects, “may I introduce you to the children’s nannies?” She sounds rather desperate, as well she might. I don’t remember my governess teaching me the rules for introducing one’s by-blows to one’s long-lost spouse.

I come to my feet, swallowing a curse as my cane slips and I lose balance for a moment.

“Mrs. McGillycuddy was my own dear nanny,” Margaret says, giving me a narrow-eyed look that suggests she’s overheard the blasphemy I’ve swallowed.

At least now I know where Alastair inherited his critical gaze.

The nanny has hair that presumably once was red but is now a faded pink. She has a big bosom and a big behind; all in all, she looks nanny-ish to my uneducated eyes. My own nanny was tall as a tree and mean to boot. Nanny McGillycuddy doesn’t look mean at all.

“And this is our nursemaid, Lyddie,” Margaret adds, nodding to a young girl, who drops into a rather flustered curtsy.

“Well, my beta,” Nanny McGillycuddy says in a tone that makes it clear she’s more than a servant, though not quite the mistress of the house, “should we take your appearance as a sign that you have abandoned a life of crime?”

“Nanny!” Margaret cries in an anguished voice.

But I like Nanny. She hasn’t challenged me out of impudence, but because she’s saying what needs to be said.

I answer in kind. “I have been given a full pardon by the Crown, and I intend to live a life of impeachable sobriety in the bosom of my wife and our family.”

There’s a Napoleonic air about the way Nanny snorts in response to that statement. I met Napoleon once, and I’d never forgotten the way the Corsican bared his teeth when he spoke. Apparently Nanny doesn’t think a pirate is suited for the sober English life.

That makes two of us.

“Well, now that we’ve all met,” Margaret chirps, sounding positively feverish, “why don’t we have tea?”

“We’ve had tea,” Colin tells her. “And so have you, Mama.”

I look at my mate. It’s strange to discover she’s still utterly beautiful, like finding a discarded plate and realizing it’s solid silver. Her cheeks are pink with embarrassment, or maybe anger, and she has the most exquisite skin I’ve ever seen.

In retrospect, I always minimized her beauty’s role in our disastrous wedding night, blaming my failures on youthful ineptitude and nerves. But damn… she’s exquisite. Enchanting.

More than any she-wolf I’ve seen in my travels.

“The beta hasn’t had tea,” Margaret states, a bit desperately.

I take pity on her. “Nanny McGillycuddy,” I say, “take these piratical rapscallions off to the nursery, will you? My mate and I need to catch up on fourteen years’ worth of conversation.”

The nanny gives me a hard look that says, without words, I’d better not make her mistress unhappy, then bustles the children away, the nursemaid trailing after them.

“I’ll go to the kitchens and see about tea,” Shark says, patently eager to escape a round of marital conversation.

“Why no servants?” I ask after Shark disappears. “No butler, no footmen? We weren’t even greeted by a housekeeper.”

“She must have been busy. I do employ a few manservants, but they’re occupied in the fields or the gardens at this time of day. I don’t keep a butler, because mine isn’t that sort of household.”

“That sort of household?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“A fancy household,” she clarifies. “I don’t use my title, and I don’t aspire to re-create that atmosphere.”

“Isn’t life easier with servants?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“A butler who merely stands about and answers the door for a random visitor? Footmen whose only role is to polish the silver?”

I shrug. It’s not something I care about either way. I run a tight ship, every man assigned to four or five tasks. High Alphas like my father like to have a passel of servants standing around merely to demonstrate consequence.

Clearly her mind goes in the same direction. “Your father will be anxious to see you. Doubtless he saw the same notice in the paper that I did. I’m sure he’s waiting on tenterhooks for your arrival.”

“I’m not capable of playing the prodigal son. No regret, for one thing.”

“You sound as if the subject of piracy amuses you. I don’t know your father well, but I assure you that he sees nothing amusing in your occupation.”

I shrug. “We’ve never shared interests. At sea one soon realizes that titles and precedence don’t matter to a dying man.”

“I don’t suppose they do. But there’s a great deal to be said for a fortune that isn’t built on theft.”

“All fortunes are built on theft of one sort or another.”

Margaret doesn’t seem twitchy, but I’ve clearly made her nervous. She keeps clasping and unclasping her hands. “We must talk,” she says finally.

“We are talking,” I say, just to be contrary.

The anger in her eyes wakes her up and makes her look less like a saint and more like a flesh-and-blood she-wolf.

“Actually,” I drawl, “I think we should be doing more than talking.”

Her brows draw together.

“We are married,” I prompt.

“I know that.”

“Yet our marriage wasn’t consummated.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was there. I remember. And the answer is no.”

Dear Goddess, there’s something wildly freeing about being with a she-wolf who’s unaware of my fearsome reputation.

“You can’t blame a man for the sins of his youth,” I say piously.

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Does your refusal have anything to do with the children’s father?”

“No!”

The relief I feel is disproportionate to the situation. But it would be damned awkward to return after fourteen years and find my wife grieving for a dead lover. “Well, then, we’d better get about the business with expedience,” I say cheerfully.

“Beta Fenrir,” my mate says, leaning toward me. Her eyes are dark blue, eyes a man could drown in. “You haven’t been away from England so long that you’ve forgotten your English. I don’t want to consummate this marriage because I don’t want to be in this marriage!”

Just in case I don’t understand, she gets up and goes into the house without another word.

After a minute, a capable-looking housekeeper appears, introduces herself, and escorts me to the master’s bedchamber.

It shows no signs of use. How long has that fellow been dead? Or perhaps she never brought him to the house.

It’s all very interesting.