“No way to know,” replied the Frenchwoman. “Could be quite rapid. We had best go turn the receiving room on.”
So they let themselves into the other chamber and lit the silent little steam engine located under the instrument board. Then came a long quarter of an hour simply sitting, as quietly as possible, waiting.
“I think we will give it just a few more minutes,” Madame Lefoux whispered. Even her whisper caused the magnetic resonator coils to shake slightly.
The claviger frowned at her and went to retune the ambient noise filtration component.
Then, with no warning at all, Lord Akeldama’s message slowly began to appear between the two pieces of glass on the receiver. The small hydraulic arm with its mounted magnet began painstakingly moving back and forth, shifting the magnetic particulate one letter at a time.
The claviger, whose name Alexia still did not know, began carefully and quietly copying down the incoming letters on a soft piece of washed canvas using a stylographic pen. Lady Maccon and Madame Lefoux held their collective breaths and tried not to move. Silence was vital. After each letter was complete, the arm reset itself and the glass shook softly, erasing the previous letter and preparing for the next.
Eventually, the arm stopped moving. They waited a few more minutes, and when Alexia went to speak, the claviger held up his hand autocratically. Only when he had switched everything off did he nod, allowing them to talk. Lady Maccon realized why he had charge of the aethographor. The Scots were a silent, dour lot, but he seemed to have the least to say of any of them.
“Well? Read out the message,” she demanded.
He cleared his throat and, blushing slightly, read out, “ ‘Got you. Scots taste good?’ ”
Lady Maccon laughed. Lord Akeldama must have misread her message. Instead of “testing Scots,” he had read “tasting Scots.” “Regardless of the reply, we know that this transmitter is working. And I can gossip with Lord Akeldama.”
The claviger looked offended. “An aethographor isna intended for gossip, Lady Maccon!”
“Tell that to Lord Akeldama.”
Madame Lefoux’s dimples appeared.
“Could we send him one more message to be certain as to the efficaciousness of the transmitting room?” Lady Maccon asked hopefully.
The claviger sighed. He was reluctant to agree but was apparently also unwilling to resist the request of a guest. He wandered off and returned with another metal scroll.
Alexia inscribed, “Spy here?”
From what she could recall, Lord Akeldama’s newer model had the ability to overhear other transmissions, if it knew where to look.
Minutes later in the other room, the reply came. “Not mine. Probably chatty bats.”
While the other two looked confused, Alexia only nodded. Lord Akeldama thought that any spy would belong to the vampires. Knowing her friend, he would now take it upon himself to start monitoring the Westminster Hive and nearby roves. She could just imagine him rubbing pink-gloved hands together, thrilled with the challenge. With a smile, she removed Lord Akeldama’s valve and, when the claviger was not looking, stashed it back in her trusty parasol.
Lady Maccon was exhausted by the time she sought her bed. It was not a small bed by any means, yet her husband seemed to be occupying the entirety of it. He was sprawled, snoring softly, wrapped every which way in a ragged and much-abused (clearly throughout its long and not very successful life) coverlet.
Alexia climbed in and applied a tried-and-true technique she had developed over the last few months. She braced herself against the headboard and used her legs to push him as much to one side as possible, clearing sufficient space for her to worm her way down before he took to sprawling once more. She supposed he had spent decades, even centuries, sleeping alone; it would take some time to retrain him. In the meantime, she was developing some decent thigh muscles from her nightly ritual. The earl was no lightweight.
Conall growled at her slightly but seemed pleased enough to find her next to him once she snuggled against his side. He rolled toward her, nuzzled the back of her neck, and wrapped a heavy arm about her waist.
She tugged hard at the coverlet, which would not budge, and settled for arranging the earl’s arm about her instead of the blanket. As a supernatural creature, Conall was supposed to be cold most of the time, but Alexia never felt it. Whenever she touched him, he was mortal, and his mortal body seemed to run at temperatures something akin to a high-end steam boiler. It was nice to be able to sleep touching him for once, with no worries she might cause him to age.
And on that note, Lady Maccon drifted off.
She awoke still warm. But her husband’s affection, or possibly his hidden murderous tendencies, had shoved her so far toward the edge of the bed that she was partly suspended in midair. Without his arm about her waist, she would most certainly have tumbled off the side. Her nightgown was, of course, gone. How did he always manage to do that? The nuzzling at the back of her neck had turned into nibbles.
She cracked an eyelid: it was just about dawn, or the gray and depressing Highland winter version of dawn. Kingair heralded the day with a sad, reluctant spit of light, which in no way encouraged one to spring swiftly from the bed and trip lightly the morning dew. Not that Alexia was any kind of springer or tripper first thing on normal occasions.
Conall’s nibbles turned into slightly more insistent bites. He was fond of a bite here or there. Sometimes Alexia was given to wonder if, had she not been a preternatural, he would not have actually eaten a chunk of her once in a while. There was something in the way his eyes came over yellow and hungry when he was in an amorous mood. She had ceased fighting the fact that she loved Conall, but that did not stop her from being practical about his requirements. Baser instincts were baser instincts, after all, and, her touch aside, he was still a werewolf. On occasions like this, she had reason to be glad her own powers kept his teeth nice and square. Although, of course, the way things stood in Kingair, had she been in full possession of a soul, she still would not have had to worry.
He turned his attention to her ear.
“Stop that. Angelique will be in presently to see me dressed.”
“Bother her.”
“For goodness’ sake, Conall. Think of her delicate sensibilities.”
“Your maid is a prude,” was her husband’s grumbled reply. He did not leave off his romantic attentions. Instead he moved his arm to better facilitate his notion of acceptable morning activities. Unfortunately, he neglected to realize his arm was all that was holding his wife in the bed.
With an undignified squawk, Alexia tumbled to the floor.
“Good Lord, woman, what’d you do that for?” her husband asked in profound confusion.
Lady Maccon checked to see that everything was unbroken and then stood, angrier than a hornet. She was just about to sting her husband into oblivion with the sharper side of her already-sharp tongue when she remembered that she was nak*d. At that same moment, she came to the sudden realization of exactly how cold a stone castle could get during a Highland winter. Cursing her husband a blue streak, she jerked the covers off of him and launched herself at him, burrowing into his warmth.
Seeing how this put her nak*d body plastered on top of him, Lord Maccon had no objection. Except that his wife was still annoyed and was now wide awake and twitchy, and he was aching something awful from his fight the night before.
“I am going to find out what is going on with this pack of yours today if it is the last thing I do,” she said, swatting at his hands when they attempted to make interesting forays. “The longer I spend lazing about in bed, the less time I have to investigate.”
“I wasna planning on being lazy,” came the growl.
Lady Maccon decided that, in the interest of economy, she would have to face the cold, or her husband would carry on about this for hours. When he took it into his head to do a thing, he liked to see it done properly.
“It will have to wait until this evening,” she said, extracting herself from his embrace. In a swift movement, she rolled off of him to one side, spinning the coverlet around herself. She part rolled, part hopped off the edge of the bed to her feet and shuffled across the floor toward her pelisse. This left her poor husband nak*d on the bed behind her. He was less disturbed by the cold, for he simply propped himself up on a pillow, folded his hands behind his head, and watched her out of heavy-lidded eyes.
Which was the scene poor Angelique came in upon—her mistress wrapped in a blanket like a large upended sausage roll, and her master sprawled nak*d for all the world to see. The maid had been living among werewolves, and in the presence of Lord and Lady Maccon, long enough not to have this bother her overmuch. She squeaked, winced, averted her eyes, and carried the basin of washing water over to the little stand provided.
Lady Maccon hid a smile. Poor Angelique. To come from the world of hives into the chaos that was pack life must be disconcerting. After all, no one was more civilized than the vampires, and no one less civilized than werewolves. Alexia wondered if vampires ever even made it to bed sport; they were so busy being polite to one another. At least the werewolves lived large: loud and messy, but also large.
She thanked the maid and took pity on her, sending her off to find tea. Then she quickly dropped the blanket to wash.
Conall lumbered off the bed and came over to see if he could “help” with her ablutions. His assistance caused some giggling, and a lot of splashing, and a certain degree of wetness that was not necessarily water related. But she did manage to be safely enshrouded in her pelisse and to see him shoved off into his dressing chamber and under the tender ministrations of Tunstell’s waistcoat choices before Angelique reappeared.
She sipped tea while the maid picked out a perfectly serviceable tweed day dress and underthings. She pulled these on in an apologetic silence, with not even a token complaint, figuring they had already put the poor woman’s finer feelings through the wringer that morning.
She huffed a little as the corset went on. Angelique was merciless. Soon enough Alexia was seated, docile and dressed, while the Frenchwoman did her hair.
Angelique asked, “So, ze machine, iz it fixed?”
Alexia gave her a suspicious look through the mirror. “Yes, we believe so. But I wouldn’t be too excited; Madame Lefoux shows no inclination to depart anytime soon.”
Angelique made no reply.
Alexia was positively aquiver with the need to know the history between the two women but resigned herself to the fact that French caginess beat out British stubbornness, in this at least. So she sat in silence while the maid finished her work.
“Tell him this is good enough,” came her husband’s roar.
Lady Maccon stood and turned around.
Conall came striding in, trailed by the long-suffering Tunstell.
Lady Maccon looked at her husband with a critical eye.
“Your shirt is untucked, your cravat has no finish, and your collar is bent at one side.” She stood and began fussing with his rumpled clothing.
“I dinna ken why I bother; you always side with him.” Conall submitted to her ministrations with ill grace.
“Did you know your accent has gotten stronger since we arrived in Scotland?”