“Professor.” Biffy nodded his head in greeting. “Why did your smell change so much?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“You said it wouldn’t feel so long to a werewolf.”
“I lied.”
“I know.” Biffy held himself perfectly still. Afraid that if he moved, he would embarrass them both. They were, after all, in the middle of a hat shop. His mind blurred over with all the things he wanted to say, all the questions he wanted to ask, all the moments he wanted filled all at once. Thus all he could actually give his Beta were banalities.
“Welcome home.”
Professor Lyall cocked his head, just slightly to the left, exactly as Biffy remembered. Did anyone else notice that he did that only when he was considering his words with extra care?
Biffy wanted to reach out and tuck a small bit of sandy hair behind Lyall’s ear. Although, this being Lyall, not a hair was out of place. He wanted to ask stupid questions about why, and how, it was longer. He wanted to run his fingers over that jaw line, now covered by a well-tended and entirely modern bit of facial scruff. Darker than the hair on Lyall’s head. Making him look even more foxlike. Biffy wanted to see if it was soft to the touch. He would need to glance around and see if they were under observation first. But he was afraid that if he looked away, Lyall would disappear in a puff of exotic-smelling smoke.
“It’s good to be back.”
“You’ve been in Egypt.”
“The smell?”
“And the hair.”
Lyall smiled. “You would comment on that. I see you’ve taken to keeping yours quite short on top.”
As if Biffy had an option. “Was it nice being mortal again, if only for...” He allowed himself a touch at the length of those straight dirty-blond locks, silky smooth. “…two months?”
“I had to visit some old friends.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“No?”
“It took you long enough either way. Twenty years.”
“So, what’s two more months of waiting?” Lyall suggested an end to Biffy’s reasoning, as if he had always known. As if he had not, in fact, been away at all.
Two more months was like two extra years. Like fumbling in the dark. Where were you? What took you so long? How could you leave me here to fend for myself?
Lyall was evaluating Biffy under his lashes, and then, with one of those impossibly subtle gestures full of incalculable meaning, he dropped his head back, lifting his chin to expose the length of his neck. Not so far as to be obvious, but almost. His voice went quieter and lower. “Alpha.”
Biffy wanted to lick the long line of his graceful throat.
So many things rolled up in that gesture: acknowledgment, power transfer, offering, acceptance. Much to his incalculable shame, lust spiked through Biffy. Possibly as a result of all four, possibly simply from his Beta’s smell, for under Egypt, and India, and long sea journeys, Lyall still smelled of something else. Something familiar and half-remembered. Something yearned for and lost.
Mine.
The chin dipped, the sandy eyes lowered. Those lashes spread out, long and pale against his cheeks. “So, are you ready?”
“Is anyone ready to be Alpha?”
“Only the ones doomed to fail think they are prepared.”
“Are you ready to be back?”
“Of course. This is where I belong. And I already know how to be a Beta.”
Biffy let out a breath. Happiness bubbled inside him like Lord Akeldama’s stupid pink slurp, so unexpected it was all the more intoxicating. He slid into the wrong class for just a moment. “Bloody hell, Lyall, it took you long enough.”
Professor Lyall barked out a surprised laugh. Then remembered himself.
Biffy wanted more than anything to reach for him, to pull him in close. But he was all nerves and worries. What had been pain and consolation twenty years earlier wasn’t necessarily love now. Lyall had been there after Biffy changed, and held him, even knowing Biffy still loved Lord Akeldama. They had been something to each other. Necessity, perhaps. But that was two decades gone. Biffy wasn’t a newly made, newly brokenhearted werewolf anymore.
And Lyall was his Beta. Biffy was pretty darn certain pack members weren’t supposed to sleep with each other, let alone Alphas and Betas. That seemed a recipe for disaster. He’d certainly never heard nor read of such a relationship.
So, Biffy held himself apart and tried simply to be glad that his Beta was home. His Beta was there. It was, he thought, good enough. Or he would learn to let it be so.
CHAPTER THREE
A New Pack Member
He looks well enough. Lyall followed his Alpha’s long, elegant strides out of the hat shop and into a hailed cab.
The silence in the hackney was awkward but not uncomfortable.
“How are they handling it?”
“Better than we hoped.”
“And Channing?” The London Pack’s strongest and most difficult member was their Gamma, Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings. Lyall had hated leaving Biffy to cope with him alone. But he could be coped with.
“He challenged.”
“Of course he did.” It was in a Gamma’s nature to fight, to strike out, to react in anger to any change. It had its purpose within the pack. Providing, as much as a Beta did, its own kind of balance. But Channing was worse than most, more extreme.
“And I beat him back.”
“Of course you did.” Lyall was relieved to hear it but didn’t let it show. He had worried. Biffy wasn’t by nature a fighter. But he was Alpha, innately dominant, and blessed with Anubis Form. The ability to make new werewolves, which meant, regardless of his surface personality, no one should be able to challenge him for long. It’s only that Biffy didn’t come off as Alpha at first glance. Too delicate. Too pretty. Too civilized.
If we can find a way to meld these qualities, he will be everything we need henceforth.
Lyall’s worry had been all for Channing, for Biffy’s control. Channing was so much bigger, and so much angrier, he had thought there was a chance, just a chance...
“I’m glad you didn’t have to kill him.” He didn’t like Channing, but he was, in his way, Lyall’s brother if not friend.
“Me too.” A wealth of feeling in those words from his Alpha. As if Biffy understood his worry, and the odd exasperated affection of centuries.
How horrible it would have been, not for Channing to die (although that was reasonably bad, for Channing) but for Biffy to have to cope with loss at his moment of Alpha acquisition. Not to mention a pack that had neither Beta nor Gamma.
“And how has he been since then?”
“Absent. He’s now head of BUR and very much taken with the job. Did you know?”
Lyall inclined his head.
“Of course you knew.” Biffy sat, still and poised across from him, the flickering lights of the lanterns making his too-pretty features shift in and out of focus.
Lyall knew those features well, had traced them with his fingertips. Straight nose with a tiny bit of up-tilt at the end, pointed chin just square enough to be masculine, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper one but together making a mouth almost feminine in its perfection.
“It is a good place for him, given that he no longer has his military position to distract him. He has worked for the War Office before. And the Home Office, I believe. He can handle the bureaucracy.”
Biffy let out a slight breath.
Lyall could guess the source. “You came up with the idea to give him that job?”
Biffy nodded.
“Good instincts, Alpha.”
He watched Biffy’s shoulders relax slightly. “I had to fight for it. The Queen considers him a bit of a loose cannon, and it is by royal appointment. It could have gone horribly wrong.”
“But it didn’t. And a month in, he’s doing well. Or so I hear.”
Biffy’s
smile was more shaky than confident.
We will have to work on that.
* * *
It was late by the time they reached the new pack house. Biffy was proud of the place. It was much bigger than the previous town house. It had a large garden, and Blackheath was right there, beyond. Perhaps not big enough to be a full running ground, but big enough to give the whole place a feel of freedom and open fields, even in London.
Biffy was a city boy himself, always had been, but werewolves needed a sense of space, and this house gave it to them. He’d purchased it thinking that he needed to satisfy the shifting needs of his pack. They needed a greater sense of freedom than inner London allowed, but also, he wanted to give the populace a sense of their settling down.
The previous Alpha, Lord Maccon, had been very... well... much. As had his wife. Very much to tend to and very much to accommodate. Werewolves were pack – they liked to take care of their own. There had been the Maccon daughter as well, a handful herself, for all that she lived the bulk of her time with Lord Akeldama. Prior to Biffy’s reign, the London Pack had withstood a time of upset and confusion. With Lord Maccon turning slowly mad under Alpha’s curse, a stinky vampire living so close, politics and excitement all around them, it had been decades of aberration and unsettlement.
Biffy might be a new Alpha – different and young – but he knew it was his role to provide stability. And now with Lyall home, he felt that their legs, weak and newborn and shaky, could perhaps grow into something strong and sure.
Some instinct had urged him to buy a bigger house as a result. He wasn’t certain if it was an Alpha’s hope that they might be adding new members to their pack. Or some weird instinct that suggested, now that the London Pack Alpha was a civilized gentleman with a marked preference for other gentlemen, some of his pack might consider marriage their duty.
They had abstained for decades. Lady Maccon was a lot to look after, and not the type of female to brook other ladies in her domain. However, werewolves were allowed to marry under British law. Even encouraged to do so, where widows with children were concerned. Werewolves, being undead, could not (of course) have children of their own. But the pack structure was considered an excellent welfare resource for a worthy gentlewoman who was too long a spinster or too old a widow. Such marriages were thought good for the pack, bringing (as society deemed it) the taming forces of womanhood to an otherwise worryingly masculine environment.
Biffy had a feeling, now that things had shaken out for his own pack, that his wolves might start courting. Their new Alpha would bring no new wife of his own – he was not inclined. It seemed likely that some of them might hunt wives for themselves. This both thrilled and worried Biffy. But made it absolutely necessary to invest in a very large house.
Not that I’d mind women or even children around the place. I miss Alexia. Of course, Biffy missed Lord Maccon for the responsibility that had not been Biffy’s while the man still ruled. But he missed Lady Maccon for the sheer joy of a woman’s company. He might prefer men in his bed, but one could have too much of a good thing in one’s life. And his pack was very masculine, sometimes overwhelmingly so.
Such thoughts kept him mostly silent throughout the drive home.
“There it is,” he said, pointing out the house to Lyall, a little anxious, hoping his Beta approved of the place.
It was almost a mansion, set apart and practically within the heath. This gave it excellent, and defensible, positioning and a good aspect. Biffy had purchased it off the crown and at a reduced rate, partly because, the queen claimed, while Falmouth title came with lands in Cornwall, it did not come with a house in town, and he did need something appropriate to his position.
It was a well-balanced Georgian building, whitewashed stone with a low roof. No columns or Greek stylings, it had many small windows with charming lemon-colored shutters (Biffy took no chances with sunlight) and a few larger bay windows with arches on the first level. It was pleasant, the type of house built for solid country gentry with nothing to prove – unpretentious, but warm and welcoming.
Biffy was tradesman enough (after decades in the hat business) not to protest a good deal when it was thrust upon him.
Most of the pack was likely out. It was a few hours until morning, and they would be about their various places of business, checking in with the regiments or guards, attending social matters at their club, or otherwise occupied. The moon being nearer new than full, Biffy wasn’t concerned. He hoped that the squabbling had been left over the breakfast table and that the house was now peaceful.
He was looking forward to a nice cup of tea and good gossip with his Beta before a warm fire.
He led Lyall through the wrought-iron gate in the garden’s stone wall, and up the path to the front door somewhat proudly. Lyall perked up, seeming less tired as he took in his new home with bright hazel eyes.
“Welcome to Falmouth House, Professor Lyall.” Biffy pushed open the big door to find... total and utter chaos.
* * *
Lyall was gobsmacked. There was no politer way of putting it. And not by their new residence, although it was bigger than Woolsey Castle, much more welcoming, and impeccably decorated. He expected no less from his new Alpha.
No, he had never before heard his pack in such a confused state. The multitude of voices, all familiar and all at once, mixed in with the screams of some creature apparently in the throes of slow dismemberment.
“Well.” Biffy was clearly mortified. “This is embarrassing. I did so want to impress you.”
“The house is lovely, Alpha. But perhaps we should ascertain the nature of the disturbance?” Lyall put down his small traveling case in the grand entranceway and followed the noise into what appeared to be the drawing room, and the eye of the storm.
Biffy trailed behind him.
Of the pack, Adelphus, Quinn, Phelan, Hemming, Rafe, Ulric, and Zev were all home. Channing was likely still at work. Riehard was also missing. Probably on assignment. I’ll have to get his thoughts on the past few months as soon as he returns. Riehard was a kindred spirit, very observant, preferring the background to center stage, and mostly even-tempered.
Lyall took in his seven pack mates, assorted clavigers, and household staff in one quick sweep. Biffy came in after and stood staring with his mouth open.
The pack was flapping about in a discombobulated manner like a flock of starving pigeons that had just been thrown a scattering of highly desirable bread scraps. Since most of them were on the larger end of the masculine spectrum, this was a lot of flapping for even the impressive drawing room to contain.
Hemming stood at the center of the cyclone and seemed to be emitting a very high-pitched, extremely loud wailing sound.
Ah, not Hemming but something Hemming is holding. Is that...
“Hemming,” Biffy barked from slightly too close to Lyall. Lyall shivered. “Is that an infant you have clutched to your breast?”
“Hot water,” Adelphus was insisting. “Don’t human offspring always need hot water? Should I ask Cook to put the kettle to boil? He’s making a great deal of noise. Perhaps two kettles?”
“And clean linens? Or bandages, do we need bandages?” That was Quinn, his quizzical brow even more quizzical than usual, his dark hair spiked up as if he’d been running his hands through it.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Hemming isn’t in the act of giving birth! We need milk. Or is he old enough for mushy food? What do you think?” Phelan at his most aristocratic. His deep voice rumbled through the chaos.
“Are there teeth? Isn’t age determined by the presence or absence of teeth?” Rafe this time, bouncing about, looking scruffy and worried.
“I think that’s in horses, not humans,” corrected Phelan.
“I think mushy food. Peas or potatoes or porridge or something?” Quinn again.
“Do all mushy foods start with p according to you?” wondered Ulric mildly from one side of the room.
&nb
sp; “Why is he crying so much? Hemming, rock him back and forth.” Rafe looked over Hemming’s shoulder.
“No, no, don’t do that. Swaddle him and hold him tightly. He needs reassurance, poor little mite. Abandoned like that.” Zev, dark eyes wide with fear.
“Should I sing?” Hemming this time. “Aren’t you supposed to sing to nippers?”
“No!” several voices at once. Werewolves gained many things upon achieving immortality, but a sense of pitch wasn’t one of them.
Ulric stayed in the background, looking concerned but not involved. He could get that way in a crisis, withdrawn and reserved, but this was even more than customary. Lyall paused, examining his countenance for hidden meaning. Is he pulling away from the pack?
Ulric registered his presence, and a wide smile slashed across his impossibly handsome face.
Lyall tilted his head at his old friend.
Through all the chatter, the clavigers rushed about, gathering great piles of throws and blankets, putting them on and then off the bundle in Hemming’s arms. Occasionally, by accident or design, one would fall over Hemming’s head. Staff dashed off, following some causally thrown-out order, then came running back in with whatever had been requested. The tables were now piled with linen bandages, bowls of porridge, pitchers of hot water, a basket of dried flowers, assorted bottles of medicinals, a pair of large woolly slippers, and, for some unaccountable reason, a set of curling tongs. Who in my pack uses curling tongs? Biffy imagined it was Channing and amused himself greatly.
The werewolves circled about Hemming and his bundle. Fingers were shoved at the bundle. Food was shoved at the bundle. The bundle wiggled and screamed ever louder.
“I have never heard anything yell so much,” said Ulric, wandering over to them. “Not even Lord Maccon. How can such a tiny thing make so much noise?”
Lyall looked at Biffy, measured. What will you do, Alpha?
Biffy narrowed his eyes at Lyall for one second and then cut through the hubbub to where Hemming stood.
He was no imposing presence, although the man had near-perfect posture, and a near perfect posterior, which was imposing enough as far as Lyall was concerned. But his movements were so beautiful and his appearance so impeccable, he managed to be intimidating for all he was the smallest in the room. Apart from me, of course.
Romancing the Werewolf Page 4