Werewolf fairytales

His darling mate

*Fenrir*

I am in the grip of a feeling so overwhelming that I don’t have a name for it. I am looking at my mate.

The word hasn’t meant anything to me for years. Nor has it meant anything to her, apparently, given that I have just met my heir.

Anger burns in my chest at the idea that another man has touched my mate. Still, during all those long years abroad, I haven’t sired any children because I know the ins and outs of a condom. Daisy almost certainly doesn’t. And I can’t say that I left her satisfied. So…

“Colin’s father,” I begin, and despite myself my voice emerges from my chest like the slam of a hammer on metal. “Where is he?”

For the last decade men have jumped when I’ve raised my voice. But the lovely she-wolf seated before me? She doesn’t even twitch. “He is dead,” she says, after a moment has stretched to an eternity.

“Do you have other children?” I could choke on the question. I’ve been so careful with my seed, and all the time my mate was… well.

“Two,” she replies, her eyes direct and unafraid.

Damn, but she is a pirate’s bride. There isn’t even the smallest flare of shame in her eyes. Not even a twinge.

“You must have thought that I was never coming back.”

“You gave me no reason to believe otherwise. In the first decade of our marriage I asked your Mr. Pettigrew on occasion, but I must admit that I stopped asking.”

That is fair. Logical.

“You were gone. And I gather you were engaged in piracy, a pursuit from which I believe few men return. It appears you were successful, given the large amounts that Mr. Pettigrew deposited into the household account.”

There isn’t a shade of blame in her tone. My mate is outrageously pretty, with hair like bright butter. But she has a backbone of steel.

“I’ve been a privateer for the past seven years,” I say. “My ship flew the flag of the Kingdom of Sicily, and we attacked pirate ships rather than the other way around.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the difference.”

“Privateers are sanctioned by a government to attack pirates, thereby keeping the shipping lanes safe. We also made it a practice to attack slave ships and free the captives.”

“So you didn’t walk people down the plank?”

I shake my head. “Never. Even my first ship, after I was kidn*pped, never…”

“You were kidn*pped?” I’ve finally said something that shakes her from that unsettlingly calm demeanor. “Stolen? Forced onto a ship?”

“You didn’t think that I meant to leave England?”

She had. It is hard to believe that porcelain skin can grow paler, but hers does. A flash of sorrow crosses her eyes. For me?

“I was seventeen,” I say. “Short, as you said, and not very good at handling myself. And I was drunk for the first time in my life. I was an easy target for a press gang. We sailed for the West Indies just before dawn on the morning after you and I wed.”

“Drunk? You mean, after you left...”

Damned if it isn’t still embarrassing all these years later. “After the failure of our wedding night,” I say, my voice wry, “I went to a bar and proceeded to drink myself into a stupor. From which I awoke to find myself at sea.”

“We never knew that,” she whispers. “I thought you deserted me.”

I consider accepting her implicit apology, but I have decided long ago that the only way to thrive is by ruthless honesty. “I might have run away if I had thought of it. I got too drunk for anything so coherent.”

“We never imagined that you’d been kidn*pped, or we surely would have searched further. My father… we thought you couldn’t bear the shame of marriage to a commoner.”

“Is your father still alive?”

She shakes her head. “He died seven years ago.”

That makes sense; she has waited until her father died to take a lover. For some reason, I find that detail gut-wrenching. Perhaps I should have come home sooner.

"Where are the other children?" I ask, forcing the words out.

"Are you angry?" she asks, ignoring my question. "Many men would be furious to come home after a long absence to find three new additions to the family."

"I don't have the right," I say, knowing my voice is tight.

"Did you father children?"

"No!" The word shoots out, unexpectedly violent.

But she doesn't startle. Instead, I see a disconcerting level of sympathy in her eyes, and she leans forward and covers my hand with her own. "I want you to know," she says gently, "that your affliction is not unique. You must have realized that during your travels around the world."

Her words are probably characteristic of her, I think. She is both kind and restrained, with admirable dignity.

Then I catch her meaning. She thinks I am incapable. Not merely of fathering a child, but altogether.

"Is that why you had children of your own, Daisy?" Despite myself, the words come out through clenched teeth.

That earns me a steely-eyed glare. "What are you talking about?"

"The fact you have illegitimate children?" I shoot back.

"No, no," she says, her hand waving as if her children mean nothing. "Why do you persist in calling me Daisy?"

"Because it's your… it's not your name?"

"Of course it's not my name." She wrinkles her nose. "And I don't like it."

"You don't like it?" I am dumbfounded. I had named my ship after her, after the mate I left behind. The Flying Daisy and then the Poppy were dreaded by pirates all over the world.

"My given name," she states, chin high, eyes flashing, "is Margaret."

I clear my throat. "Lovely." I must have misheard, thought She liked the nickname. Bloody hell.

"Exactly what are you doing here, Fenrir?" The faintest hint of smugness tells me that she is pleased that she knows my name.

"I've come home," I state simply. For all the complications… that Margaret believes I am impotent, that she has given birth to three children in my absence, and that I haven't remembered the name of my own mate… there is something that feels right about her nonetheless. About being here, with her.

"This is my home," she says.

"But you are my mate." I give her a smile, enjoying the way her luscious pink lips purse. She is a bit stiff, this mate of mine. I'll have to teach her to take life more easily.

"I'd rather not." She says it as simply as if she were declining a cup of tea.

"Rather not what?"

"Rather not be married to you. I'm sure our marriage can easily be annulled on the grounds of non-consummation. Or we could petition Parliament for a divorce based on your profession."

"Or on the grounds of your three children!"

She blinks. I've touched a nerve, but how can she be surprised? Surely she is a pariah among the neighbors. "Yes," she says, almost too quickly. "There are the children. If we divorce, you can have children of your own."

"'Children of my own'? Did you not just offer condolences for my incapability?"

After a moment she says, with dignity, "I gather from your evident amusement that your problem was due to youth rather than constitution."

"Or," I suggest, "the problem might crop up only in your presence."

Her brows draw together. "What do you mean by that?"

"You're too beautiful," I say, starting to enjoy myself. "It may well be that you'll incapacitate me again. There's only one way to find out."

"Such an experiment would be most unwelcome," she flashes back. "If you, sir, have such worries, it would be better not to put yourself in a difficult situation."

I lean forward, ignoring the pain that shoots through my thigh. Up close, her skin is like silk, untouched by the sun, the soft color of new cream. "A man could never turn down a challenge of that sort, darling Margaret."

"I am not your darling Margaret!"

"My darling, my mate?"