"There is a great difference. And I'll tell you if you can calm yourself."

The tang of human sweat and beer was thick in the air. He could hear her heart pounding within her breast. But she stopped struggling. For that he was grateful. When her pulse slowed, he looked her over. "Are you calm then?"

She glared but nodded shortly.

"You won't run?"

Daisy made a noise. "Just get on with it, Northrup."

Lovely woman. He moved closer so that only she could hear him. "What you have to understand is that a lycan-"

"Lycan? What is that?"

"If you'd let me get a word in-"

"It is a pertinent question."

One. Two. Three. He opened his eyes and focused on the little furrow between her brows.

"Lycan is the name we use. It hails from the Greek lycos, which means *wolf,' and the myth of Lycaon, the Arcadian king who served Zeus the flesh of man disguised as a roast. An angered Zeus turned him into a wolf as retribution."

"How very gruesome," Daisy murmured with a moue of disgust.

He couldn't contain the smile that tugged at his lips. "Quite."

"But why not simply call yourselves werewolves?" she asked, folding her arms on the table to provide a lovely bed for her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

No. Do not look.

"Because there is a difference. A lycan," he said, raising his voice, for the blasted woman had opened her mouth again-as curious as a pup, this one-"has control. He turns at will."

"So stories of the full moon and all of that..."

He laughed shortly. "Doesn't turn us. Mother Moon does, however, intensify our strength. The brighter she glows in the night, the stronger we are. And we are weakest on the new moon, when the sky is utterly devoid of her silver rays."

"Why? What is it about the moon's rays that give you strength?"

"I don't know."

She frowned the way a child might, as though put out for not getting the answer she wanted, and a strange, aching sensation spread within his chest.

d.a.m.n if she didn't remind Ian of himself. Before he had lost heart. When he had tackled life with l.u.s.ty abandon, and frank curiosity. But there was a look that clouded her eyes, as if something was killing her natural vivaciousness, like a frost creeping along tender spring gra.s.s. As if she too were slowly giving up the struggle. He found himself wanting to banish that look, perhaps save in her what he couldn't save in himself.

He almost laughed. Ian was no one's savior, and no one wanted him to be. He shook himself out of such fanciful thoughts and gave her his best schoolmaster expression.

"Look, we don't know how we started, why we live this endless life, or from where we came. It's all speculation. But the closest our elders can figure, it has to do with reincarnation. Once we were wolves. Over several lifetimes, our spirits evolved and we became men, but the wolf spirit lived on as well. Think of it as a soul divided."

"Two souls in one body?"

"Precisely. So wolf and man are at odds." He spread his hands out in supplication. "Man wants to be in control and so does the wolf. A lycan is a being in which the man's soul is in control but the wolf's soul alters his makeup to create an immortal capable of using the strengths of both. Man may call upon the wolf, shift into a hybrid of wolf and man, gaining extra strength and speed, but man is always in control."

She sat back with a little huff. "Seems hardly fair to the wolf trapped inside of you. Surely, he wants his time in the sun?"

His beast whined, agreeing, and Ian pushed against it. Discomfort and irritation coiled within. "Had the wolf his way, the wolf would remain so, the man's body shifting fully to wolf and his soul fading into the background, never to return."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because," he hissed, "it has always been so. Have you any idea how many of my brethren I've seen lost to the wolf? None came back."

"Perhaps it is because the wolf has had to fight for his right to be free. Perhaps if it were given a turn..." His wolf paced within him, making his bones ache, surely lighting his eyes if Daisy's paling expression were any indication. She closed her mouth abruptly.

He took a sip of her ale and felt the fangs that had threatened to grow recede. "D'ye think any man wants to risk his soul to test the generosity of his wolf by fully shifting?"

"No." She trailed her nail along a groove in the wood. "I suppose not."

"I give him what I can," Ian said. "I let him run far and long each night." His conscience and his wolf chided that this was not precisely true but was a recent occurrence. Ian swallowed down his guilt. "It is essential that I keep control."

She didn't seem frightened anymore but curious. "And if you fully lose control, that is the werewolf of which you speak?"

"Yes. The wolf is in control but he is not a normal wolf. He is bigger, much bigger, his head at the height of my shoulder."

Daisy's blue eyes went as round as saucers. "Yes, exactly."

"And he is damaged. Rage and unpredictability rule him. A were often kills because it feels compelled." At this, Ian lowered his head. "It isn't the wolf but the man, yearning to return, that prompts this, I'm afraid to say. Murder is man's specialty. Wolves do not kill for sport. Only for food or dominance within the pack. A werewolf is an unstable beast, and it is a lycan's responsibility to put him down, which is not easy as a werewolf has the full strength of the wolf while the lycan must retain some of his human frailties."

"And this werewolf that attacked Alex"-Daisy's voice pulled to a thin whisper, her milky skin going the color of whey-"you called him mad, but aren't they all?"

"Not in this way." He felt the weight of his words as he spoke them. "His scent is heavy with sickness. I fear that it makes him even more unstable."

"I smelled the sickness in him as well. A rotten scent."

She never failed in surprising him.

"Aye," he said.

Daisy nibbled on her bottom lip. "There is one thing I do not understand. We both smelled illness on the werewolf. How can that be if you are all immortal? One would think sickness doesn't affect you."

Ian reached for her mug and took another drink. "Lycan do not become immortal until we reach physical maturation. Until then, we are as mortal as you. We can get sick..." The mug in his hand rattled as he set it down. "We can die. If one was to contract a degenerative disease beforehand"-Ian shrugged-"our makeup is such that the change into becoming full lycan would not destroy the disease, only slow its tide. The disease would be working on this were's body, slowly breaking him down. Unfortunately, that doesn't lessen the were's strength, but simply makes the beast's behavior more erratic."

She moved to take a hasty sip of ale but set the cup back down when she found it empty. Her hands wrapped around the pewter mug as if to keep them still. "So where do we go from here?"

"As I said before, you will stay with me so that I may protect you."

Daisy sat back abruptly. "No."

"What do you mean, no?" he said. "Have you not heard a word I've been saying?"

"I heard every word, Northrup."

His mouth was hanging open for he could not fathom her resistance. "Surely you can understand that you need protection."

"Of course, I understand. Only I don't see why you have to be the one to protect me."

There were a few tempting oaths he'd like to shout, but he bit them back and went to the heart of the matter. "Are you afraid of me? Is that your worry?"

Daisy was silent for a moment, nibbling at the corner of her lip as she considered, but when she spoke, she looked directly at him. "Well, you would know I was lying if I denied feeling fear when you told me."

He gave a short nod and she continued. "But looking at you, and sitting with you now, I don't feel afraid." She shook her head slightly, and a small, self-deprecating laugh escaped her. "I suppose I must be daft"-her blue gaze grew sharp"-for annoyance is the most prevalent emotion I feel when I am around you."

"Annoyance I can live with," he said, hoping that he wasn't grinning like a fool. "Come along then, we'll go and collect your things."

This time it was Daisy who caught ahold of his sleeve. "That was a lovely attempt, Northrup, but I'll not be managed by you."

He sat back with a grunt and ran a hand through his hair. "What is your objection then? What fool notion is it, for I'm sorely tempted to throw you over my shoulder and haul you off without further discussion."

"You wouldn't dare."

He simply raised a brow, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest as if the action could somehow stop him. "Are you worried about your reputation?" he asked.

"Posh," she said with a snort. "My reputation had been reduced to tatters long before you came sniffing around. Craigmore made certain of that." Despite her bravado, her golden brows knitted as if the memory pained her.

Craigmore sounded like an a.s.s.

"Well," Ian said in satisfaction. "Then we needn't resort to complicated subterfuge. Society will simply presume you are my mistress for the season."

Her nose wrinkled as if she'd scented something foul. "Such is man's logic. Has it not occurred to you that I'd rather not be thought of as your mistress?"

"You could do a lot worse!" h.e.l.l, the b.l.o.o.d.y woman could twist a conversation. Unable to help himself, he caught her hand again, not precisely caring what she thought of his need to touch her. "I would say we are fairly comfortable in the other's presence. At least enough to spend a couple of weeks together." She looked so aghast that he smiled grimly. "Maybe less if we're lucky."

"Well, that is comforting." She rolled her eyes and pulled at her hand.

"It should be," he said, not letting go. "Perhaps I need to make a few things clear. I am a lycan. Which means I have a superior sense of smell, hearing, and sight." He inclined his head toward the bar. "Thus, I can hear your man Clemens over there berating his serving wench for not watering down the gin."

Daisy's gaze shot past his shoulder, no doubt seeing Clemens leaning over some woman named Alice as he grumbled on about lost revenue. Daisy's lips compressed in stubborn refusal.

"I heal quickly and have the strength and agility equivalent to five men." Ten when he was in top form, though he was getting closer to that once more. Every day that he let his wolf have more freedom, his strength grew.

At this, however, Daisy did scoff. With his free hand, he clasped the pewter mug between them and crumpled it. The ball of metal wobbled about as he let it go. Ian but took a small bit of pleasure in seeing the way her eyes went wide and her pretty mouth fell open.

"It is my duty to protect those under threat of my own kind. You, my dear, are under threat. It is that simple."

She made what sounded suspiciously like a snort. "I shall hire guards until you hunt the beast down." Her expression went wry. "I a.s.sume with all your boasting, you can do that, yes?" Her gaze strayed to her wrist where he held her tight. She tugged again, harder. "Now, let me go, Northrup."

The devil. "No."

She glared daggers at him. "This is your revenge isn't it? Systematic torture disguised as good intentions."

"Torture is it?" He made a sound of annoyance. "To see you carry on... Do you think it is my driving ambition to play nanny to an unwilling woman? To one who thinks so poorly of me?"

She had the grace to blush and lower her lids, but she did not protest his claim.

"Let me get this clear. You'd rather cling to that stubborn resistance and get your fool head murdered than listen to reason and stay with me. Is that it? Well, h.e.l.l, why don't I wring your neck now and save us all a great deal of time and trouble?"

"Why you... you... a.s.s!"

It was too easy to deflect her kick under the table. He grinned wide. "Temper, temper. You wouldn't want to hurt your protector."

Daisy Craigmore, while having a most angelic countenance, could glare b.l.o.o.d.y murder quite well. "I don't like you."

He pulled her close, forcing her to lean into him. "Like has nothing to do with it. I'm watching over you until this thing is done, Daisy-Meg. You'll not fight me on this, or you'll see how great a pest I can be."

Chapter Seven.

Winston Lane was accustomed to being lied to. Even the innocent tended to shrink away from his direct gaze, as if they felt the need to protect secrets he truly had no care to uncover. Lies, evasion, distrust, such was the environment in which a police inspector dwelled. Lies he understood and recognized immediately.

The Lords Northrup and Archer were lying to him. They knew things about this case that he did not. He could feel it in his bones. And the female victims were the key. Lord Northrup had been particularly keen to study the females. Most especially Miss Mary Fenn's clothing. Northrup had smelled them; Winston was sure of it. He'd seen the man's nostrils flare, as an animal scents for danger. Most curious. Why had he done so? What had he discovered?

With a suppressed sigh, Winston eyed the hostile woman before him, a birdlike creature who likely held onto every farthing that pa.s.sed her way. "Mrs. Marple, would you say Mary Fenn was a proficient worker?" According to Mary Fenn's mother, the proprietress of Marple's Millinery worked her daughter to exhaustion. Not a surprise, really. However, it was an easy enough question to establish if Mrs. Marple was going to lie.

"Fair enough." She scratched at her sleeve. "Showed up on time, did her work, though her bonnets tended to be overdone on the flowers." She gestured to the rows of bonnets lying in a profusion of color on the shelves behind her. "Costly, silk flowers. Better to fill in with wax fruit and the like."

Beside him, his partner Sheridan made a sound of basic male annoyance, the rudiments of female fashion being beyond his ken or interest. Winston cut him a glance before forging on. "And you found her character beyond reproach?"

Mrs. Marple's eyes darted between Sheridan and himself, figuring out the angles, wondering what he wanted of her. A dicey thing, questioning the witness. Phrase it the wrong way and you led them to answer with information that sought to please, which wasn't necessarily the truth. Put the thing too bluntly and they might turn on you and close up like a lockbox. Step, turn, guide, release, one danced through an interrogation.

"Wouldn't hire a girl with poor character, now would I?"

"Certainly not."

"However," interjected Sheridan, "if you had without knowing, what is a gentlewoman to do?"

Mrs. Marple bristled at that. "Why, turn her out, of course!"

"Even if it meant losing a highly proficient employee?" Winston asked, pushing just a bit.

"See here." She took a step closer, her bony hand raised in ire. "Having a suitor doesn't make a girl untoward."

"Miss Fenn had a suitor?" Winston already knew this from interviewing the mother. A Mr. Thomas James, mild-mannered accounting clerk.

Mrs. Marple blinked. "Only saw him the once. He came by to say a word of h.e.l.lo last week during luncheon. Mary said they were engaged to be married. I heard he dealt in perfumes. Created them, I believe. Mary was quite proud of the scent he'd last given her."