like it.”
“Will you put up with the child, too?”
He pulled her into his arms again. “If you really like it.”
“Don’t be difficult. You are going to have to like it, too, you realize.”
Nuzzling against her neck, he let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Mine,” he said happily.
Alexia was resigned to her fate. “Unfortunately, both of us are.”
“Well, that’s all right, then.”
“So you think.” She pulled away, punching him in the arm, just to make her position perfectly clear. “The fact remains that you also belong to me! And you had the temerity to behave as though you didn’t.”
Lord Maccon nodded. It was true. “I shall make it up to you.” Adding unguardedly, “What can I do?”
Alexia thought. “I want my own aethographic transmitter. One of the new ones that doesn’t require crystalline valves.”
He nodded.
“And a set of ladybugs from Monsieur Trouvé.”
“A what?”
She glared at him.
He nodded again. Meekly.
“And a new gun for Floote. A good-quality revolver or some such that shoots more than one bullet.”
“For Floote? Why?”
His wife crossed her arms.
“Whatever you say, dear.”
Alexia considered asking for a Nordenfelt but thought that might be pushing it a bit, so she downgraded. “And I want you to teach me how to shoot.”
“Now, Alexia, do you think that’s quite the best thing for a woman in your condition?”
Another glare.
He sighed. “Verra well. Anything else?”
Alexia frowned in thought. “That will do for now, but I might still come up with something.”
He tucked her in close against him once more, running his hands over her back in wide circular motions and burying his nose in her hair.
“So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?”
“It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.”
“What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.
Channing interrupted them. “Best be getting a move on, I’m afraid.” He head was cocked to one side, as though he were still in wolf form, ears alert for signs of pursuit.
Lord Maccon turned instantly from indulgent husband to Alpha werewolf. “We’ll split up. Channing, you, Madame Lefoux, and Floote act as decoy. Madame, I’m afraid you may have to don female dress.”
“Sometimes these things are necessary.”
Alexia grinned, both at Madame Lefoux’s discomfort and the very idea someone might confuse the two of them. “I recommend padding as well,” she suggested, puffing out her chest slightly, “and a hair fall.”
The inventor gave her a dour look. “I am aware of our differences of appearance, I assure you.”
Alexia hid a grin and turned back to her husband. “You’ll send them over land?”
Lord Maccon nodded. Then he looked to the clockmaker. “Monsieur?”
“Trouvé,” interjected his wife helpfully.
The clockmaker twinkled at them both. “I shall head home, I think. Perhaps the others would care to accompany me in that general direction?”
Channing and Madame Lefoux nodded. Floote, as ever, had very little reaction to this turn of events. But Alexia thought she detected a gleam of pleasure in his eyes.
Monsieur Trouvé turned back to Alexia, took her hand, and kissed the back of it gallantly. His whiskers tickled. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maccon. Most enjoyable, indeed.”
Lord Maccon looked on in shock. “You are referring to my wife, are you not?”
The Frenchman ignored him, which only endeared him further to Alexia.
“And you as well, Monsieur Trouvé. We must continue our acquaintance sometime in the not too distant future.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.”
Alexia turned back to her faintly sputtering husband. “And we shall go by sea?”
He nodded again.
“Good.” His wife grinned. “I will have you all to myself. I still have a lot to yell at you about.”
“And here I thought we were due for a honeymoon.”
“Does that mean quite the same thing to werewolves?”
“Very droll, wife.”
It wasn’t until much later that Lord and Lady Maccon returned to the topic of a certain infant-inconvenience. They had had to make their formal good-byes and escape out of Florence first. Morning found them secluded in the safety of an abandoned old barn of the large and drafty variety, at which point things had settled enough for them to undertake what passed, for Lord and Lady Maccon, as serious conversation.
Conall, being supernatural and mostly inured against the cold, spread his cloak gallantly upon a mound of moldy straw and lounged back upon it entirely bare and looking expectantly up at his wife.
“Very romantic, my dear,” was Alexia’s unhelpful comment.
His face fell slightly at that, but Lady Maccon was not so immune to her husband’s charms that she could resist the tempting combination