They climbed up to street level and dashed a good long way through the city. Alexia developed a stitch in her side and a feeling that, should her future permit it, she would spend the rest of her days relaxed in an armchair in a library somewhere. Adventuring was highly overrated.
Having reached one of the bridges over the Arno, she called a stop halfway across. It was a good defensible position; they could afford a short rest. “Are they following us?”
Channing raised his muzzle to the sky and sniffed. Then he shook his shaggy head.
“I cannot believe we escaped so easily.” Alexia looked about at her companions, taking stock of their condition. Channing had sustained only a few additional injuries, but all were healing even as she watched. Of the others, Madame Lefoux was sporting a nasty gash on one wrist, which Floote was bandaging with a handkerchief, and Monsieur Trouvé was rubbing at a lump on his forehead. She herself ached terribly in one shoulder but would rather not look just yet. Otherwise, they all were in sufficient form and spirits. Channing appeared to have reached the same conclusion and decided to shift form.
His body began that strange, uncomfortable-looking writhing, and the sound of flesh and bone re-forming itself rent the air for a few moments, and then he rose to stand before them. Alexia gave a squeak and turned her back hurriedly on his endowments, which were ample and well proportioned.
Monsieur Trouvé took off his frock coat. It was far too wide for the werewolf, but he handed it over for modesty’s sake. With a nod of thanks, Channing put it on. It covered the necessaries, but was far too short and, coupled with his long, loose hair, made him look disturbingly like an oversized French schoolgirl.
Alexia was perfectly well aware of what she was required to do at this juncture. Courtesy demanded gratitude, but she could wish it was someone other than Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings who was to receive it. “Well, Major Channing, I suppose I must thank you for the timely intervention. I am confused, however. Shouldn’t you be off somewhere killing things?”
“My lady, I rather thought that was what I just did.”
“I mean officially, for queen and country, with the regiment and everything.”
“Ah, no, deployment was delayed after you left. Technical difficulties.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it was technically difficult to leave a heartbroken Alpha. And it is a good thing for you I wasn’t overseas. Someone had to extract you from the Templars.” He entirely ignored the rest of Alexia’s rescue party.
“I should have managed perfectly well on my own. But thank you, anyway. You are always terribly impressed with yourself, aren’t you?”
He leered. “Aren’t you?”
“So why have you been tracking me this entire time?”
“Ah, you knew it was me?”
“There aren’t a great number of white wolves roaming around safeguarding my interests. I figured it had to be you after the vampire and the carriage incident. So, why were you?”
A new voice, deep and gravelly, came from behind them. “Because I sent him.”
Floote stopped attending to Madame Lefoux and whirled to face this new threat, the Frenchwoman was already reaching once more for her trusty cravat pins, and Monsieur Trouvé raised the bagpipe blunderbuss, which he’d been examining with scientific interest. Only Major Channing remained unperturbed.
Lord Conall Maccon, Earl of Woolsey, stepped out of the shadows of the bridge tower.
“You! You are late,” pointed out his errant wife with every sign of extreme annoyance.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On a Bridge over the Arno and Other Romantic Misnomers
Late! Of course I’m late. You do realize, wife, I’ve been hunting all over Italy for you? You havna been exactly easy to find.”
“Well, of course you wouldn’t find me if you took that tactic. I haven’t been all over Italy. I have been stuck in Florence the entire time. I was even trapped in some horrible Roman catacombs, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me? How could that possibly have been my fault, woman?” Lord Maccon came forward and loomed over his wife, both of them having entirely forgotten about their companions, who formed a semicircle of rapt interest about them. Their voices carried far over the water and through the vacant streets of Florence—no doubt providing entertainment for many.
“You rejected me!” Even as she said it, Alexia experienced once more that glorious sense of profound relief. Although this time, thankfully, it was not coupled with the need to break down and cry. Conall had come after her! Of course, she