The Earl Falls in Love - Chapter 9

Spicy BL/MM/GAY Omegaverse Historical Romance

Edward

Edward Tyndall, Earl of Eastwood and newly appointed guardian to three Harrison wards, was experiencing what his physician would delicately term “acute physiological distress” and what less refined gentlemen might call “a raging inconvenience.” Submerged to his shoulders in lavender-scented bathwater, in a wooden contraption that had likely witnessed the birth of the current monarchy, he found himself in a predicament both literal and metaphorical—trapped in a too-small vessel with urges too large to contain.

The room—Ian’s bedroom, with its modest furnishings and extraordinary occupant—had transformed into a sensory battleground. Steam rose from the bath, carrying with it the mingled aromas of soap, clean sweat, and most devastatingly, Ian’s omega essence. That intoxicating fragrance of rain-washed wildflowers and sun-warmed honey seemed to have intensified over the past days, as though the boy’s body was responding to Edward’s alpha presence despite all propriety’s objections.

“Damn it all,” he muttered, tilting his head back against the tub’s rim with the resignation of a man facing his own execution.

The object of his inappropriate fascination stood mere feet away, his shirt clinging to his slender frame in a manner that bordered on indecent. The damp fabric revealed more than it concealed—the subtle curves of an omega physique, the surprising definition of muscles earned through farm work, and the unmistakable evidence that the room’s warmth (or perhaps Edward’s proximity) had affected certain aspects of Ian’s anatomy.

Did the boy have any conception of the picture he presented? The temptation he embodied with those wide blue eyes and delicate features that somehow managed to appear both innocent and knowing simultaneously? Edward rather doubted it. Ian Harrison was many things—intelligent, resourceful, surprisingly foul-mouthed when provoked—but self-aware did not appear to be among his qualities.

These past days had been an exquisite form of torture. Having Ian tend to his wounds with those clever, gentle hands; watching him manage the household with efficiency that would impress Edward’s own housekeeper; observing the fierce protectiveness he displayed toward his siblings. Each discovery about the young omega had only intensified Edward’s fascination, transforming what should have been a simple guardian-ward relationship into something far more complicated.

And now that his injuries were healing, the daily ritual of Ian’s ministrations would end. The thought left Edward with an absurd sense of loss, as though he were being deprived of something to which he had established a rightful claim.

His body’s response to these thoughts was both predictable and inconvenient. The alpha within him—the primal creature that civilization had supposedly tamed—recognized Ian as a compatible mate. That recognition manifested in ways that the warm bathwater did nothing to conceal.

Edward shifted, causing water to slosh against the tub’s wooden sides. The logical portion of his brain—the part that had negotiated complex business deals and managed vast estates—attempted to reassert control. Ian was his ward. Barely eighteen. Under his protection. The power imbalance between them was vast and insurmountable. Any action on his part would be not merely inappropriate but unconscionable.

And yet when he had trapped Ian against the door, inhaling that sweetening scent that betrayed the omega’s reciprocal attraction, all those rational objections had seemed as insubstantial as morning mist. It had taken every ounce of his considerable self-control not to claim those lips that had parted in surprise, not to press his body against the slender form that had trembled—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

He would need to address his body’s demands before attempting sleep. The alternative was unthinkable—a night of restless torment with Ian’s scent permeating every inch of the bedroom, surrounding him like an invisible embrace.

Rising from the bath with water cascading down his muscular frame like some absurd Greek statue come to life, Edward reached for a towel. After drying himself with military efficiency, he donned his robe and settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze drawn inexorably to the pillows.

Those innocent pillows. The unassuming blankets. The modest sheets. Each item in this unremarkable room carried Ian’s essence—that unique omega fragrance that called to Edward’s most basic instincts with the precision of a siren’s song. It was the true reason he had insisted on remaining in this bedroom rather than claiming the master suite that was rightfully his. Here, surrounded by Ian’s scent, he could indulge his alpha nature without crossing the unforgivable line his position as guardian had drawn between them.

He was well aware of the impropriety—the borderline depravity—of what he contemplated. The Earl of Eastwood, respected businessman and pillar of St. Louis society, reduced to seeking relief while surrounded by the belongings of his teenage ward. If his sisters ever discovered this particular transgression, their novels would suddenly feature a villain who met an especially creative and painful demise.

Yet he couldn’t help himself. An unmated alpha in his prime, in constant proximity to a compatible omega, was subject to biological imperatives that even the most rigorous self-discipline could only partially contain. Once back in St. Louis, with appropriate distance between them, perhaps his control would reassert itself. Until then, he would make the most of these few remaining nights in Ian’s room, indulging in fantasy while maintaining the letter, if not the spirit, of propriety.

Edward reached for a pillow, drawing it to his chest and burying his face against its softness. He inhaled deeply, Ian’s scent filling his lungs and sending a surge of desire through his body that was as immediate as it was powerful. With his eyes closed, he allowed his imagination to construct an elaborate fantasy—one in which social constraints and guardian responsibilities did not exist.

In this more accommodating reality, it was Ian himself in Edward’s arms rather than merely the lingering impression of him on cotton bedding. He envisioned the omega here in this very room, removing that damp shirt to reveal pale skin beneath, each garment falling away until he stood gloriously unclothed before stepping into the bath Edward had just vacated.

His hand moved beneath his robe, wrapping around his hardened length as the fantasy continued to unfold with embarrassing specificity. He pictured himself as Ian’s attendant, washing that slender body with the dedication of a religious acolyte. In his imagination, his hands lingered over sensitive areas—the rosy nipples that hardened beneath his touch, the flat plane of the omega’s stomach that quivered at his caress, the graceful curve of his spine that arched into Edward’s palm.

His grip tightened as he envisioned Ian’s responses—those remarkable blue eyes darkening with desire, soft gasps escaping lips that had previously delivered such sharp retorts, his omega scent sweetening with arousal until it filled the room like invisible incense. He imagined leaning forward to taste one of those hardened nipples, drawing it between his lips as Ian arched against him with a sound of surprised pleasure.

His own arousal intensified, his alpha scent growing heavier and more dominant in the small room. He continued to breathe in Ian’s fragrance from the pillow, his fantasy becoming more vivid with each inhalation, as though the omega’s essence was fueling his imagination.

In his mind, his hand slipped beneath the water to find Ian’s arousal, eliciting a surprised gasp followed by a breathless “My lord” that sent a surge of possessive pleasure through him. He imagined stroking the omega to completion while continuing to taste his skin, while in reality, his own hand worked faster, his breathing growing ragged.

The fantasy reached its inevitable conclusion as he imagined Ian crying out in pleasure, back arching and body trembling. “My lord, I’m coming!” The imagined words were enough to push Edward over the edge, his release spilling over his hand as waves of pleasure coursed through him.

As the intensity of his climax faded, leaving him momentarily sated but fundamentally unsatisfied, Edward was forced to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: what he truly wanted—what his alpha nature demanded—was Ian himself. Not just physically, but completely. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying, like standing at the edge of a precipice and feeling the simultaneous urge to step back and leap forward.

After cleaning himself and changing into nightclothes with the efficient movements of a man deliberately not examining his own actions too closely, Edward settled into Ian’s bed. The servants had removed the bathtub, leaving the room in peaceful darkness scented with lavender and lingering steam. Despite his body’s temporary satisfaction, sleep proved as elusive as propriety had been earlier.

His mind continued its betrayal, circling back to Ian like a compass needle finding north—to the way the boy had responded to his proximity, to the sweetening of his scent when their bodies were close, to the unmistakable signs of reciprocal attraction that Edward’s alpha senses could detect despite Ian’s obvious confusion about his own reactions.

Edward rose with the dawn, drawn to the window by the first rays of sunlight breaking over the eastern horizon. The view was genuinely spectacular—golden light spilling across the rolling hills of Cheswick Estate, transforming the landscape into something that wouldn’t look out of place in one of the Royal Academy’s pastoral masterpieces. He understood now why Ian never missed a sunrise; there was something profoundly peaceful about witnessing the world awakening, as though one were privy to a secret performance not meant for human eyes.

Those hills and fields would soon be his responsibility in more than just legal terms. The knowledge filled him with an unexpected sense of purpose. Unlike Eastwood, which had been in his family for generations and ran like a finely-tuned timepiece, Cheswick needed attention—needed investment, innovation, and care. It presented a challenge worthy of his business acumen and resources, a project that could benefit not just the estate but the people who depended on it.

But what excited him most about the coming day was not the prospect of surveying his new property, but rather the knowledge that Ian would be his guide. Hours alone together, away from the manor and its occupants, just the two of them riding across the countryside with nothing but open sky above and solid earth below. The anticipation of it quickened his pulse in a way that had nothing to do with estate management and everything to do with the blue-eyed omega who had somehow managed to occupy his thoughts with the thoroughness of an invading army.

After a hearty breakfast, during which he found himself constantly aware of Ian’s presence at the table—the way he passed dishes with unconscious grace, the slight furrow that appeared between his brows when concentrating, the sound of his voice as he answered Reuben’s endless questions—they prepared for their expedition. Edward watched as Ian expertly saddled two mares, his movements efficient and graceful. Despite his slender build, the omega handled the horses with confident ease that spoke of long familiarity.

“We’ll take it slow and start from the east,” Ian instructed, mounting his horse with practiced agility that made Edward wonder what other physical skills the boy possessed.

Edward nodded, following suit. They set off at a leisurely pace, the morning air crisp and invigorating against his face, carrying the scents of autumn—fallen leaves, damp earth, and the distinctive fragrance of the omega riding beside him.

Though Cheswick was modest compared to Eastwood’s sprawling grandeur, Edward could immediately see its potential. The land was fertile, the positioning excellent, and with proper investment, it could yield significantly better returns than it currently did. His mind began cataloging possibilities with the precision of an accountant’s ledger—crop rotation improvements, irrigation systems, potential areas for expansion.

Ian proved to be an exceptional guide, as Edward had anticipated. He knew every inch of the estate with the intimacy of a lover—which paths were safe in all seasons, which views were worth pausing for, which areas were most productive for specific crops. His knowledge was impressive, particularly for someone so young, and Edward found himself increasingly appreciative of the omega’s practical intelligence. Here was no decorative, helpless creature requiring constant protection, but a capable young man who had shouldered responsibilities far beyond his years.

After several hours of exploration, they arrived at the spot where Edward had been attacked. The grassland sloped gently down to the stream where Ian had found him, the tall grasses now showing little evidence of the violence that had occurred there. Nature, it seemed, was as eager to forget the incident as the local magistrate, who had made polite noises about investigation without demonstrating any actual intention to pursue the matter.

“It’s here,” Ian said, pointing toward the stream, his expression somber.

Edward dismounted, approaching the area with a critical eye. Six days had passed since the attack, and between the rain and wind, any evidence had long since been washed away. The bandits had disappeared as thoroughly as if they’d never existed, which only strengthened his suspicion that the attack had been carefully orchestrated rather than a random act of opportunistic violence.

“It’s like those bandits just disappeared into thin air,” Ian remarked, echoing Edward’s thoughts with uncanny precision. “I wonder if there’s anything more we can do.”

There was much that could be done, Edward thought grimly. Once back in St. Louis, he would hire the best private investigator available—not the bumbling local constabulary who couldn’t find a criminal if he announced himself with a brass band, but a professional with experience and discretion. He had been deliberately targeted, and until he understood why and by whom, both he and those under his protection remained at risk.

He remounted his horse, pushing those dark thoughts aside for now. This day was too fine, the company too pleasant, to waste on shadows and suspicions. “How about showing me some of your favorite spots?” he suggested, eager to see Cheswick through Ian’s eyes rather than through the calculating lens of a businessman.

Ian’s face brightened immediately, the transformation as dramatic as sunshine breaking through storm clouds. “I have a private sanctuary if you’re interested,” he offered, a hint of boyish enthusiasm breaking through his usual composure.

Fifteen minutes later, they were ascending a wooded hill that opened unexpectedly onto a clearing. Edward found himself chuckling in delighted surprise at the sight before them—a meadow of lush grass bordered by a small waterfall that cascaded into a clear pool. The spot was genuinely beautiful, secluded and peaceful in a way that explained why Ian would seek it out when the pressures of his responsibilities became too great.

“This is my favorite place,” Ian explained, his voice softening with affection. “I come here in summer, or whenever I need solitude. Sometimes I take a dip when it’s particularly hot—the water stays cool even in midsummer.”

Edward’s imagination, that treacherous faculty that had already caused him so much discomfort, immediately conjured an image of Ian swimming in that pool—pale skin glistening with water droplets, hair darkened and slicked back from his face, blue eyes bright with enjoyment. The thought was both alluring and inappropriate, and he forced himself to focus on the actual landscape rather than the fantasy his mind was constructing with embarrassing enthusiasm.

Ian sighed beside him, a sound tinged with melancholy that drew Edward’s attention back to the present. He glanced at the omega, noting the faraway look in those blue eyes, the slight downward curve of his lips. He suspected the boy was contemplating the impending loss of this place—his sanctuary, his home. A pang of something like guilt tightened Edward’s chest. He wanted to reassure Ian that Cheswick would always be his home, that this place would always be his sanctuary, but the words seemed presumptuous given how little time they had known each other.

“Shall we return?” Ian suggested, turning his horse back toward the path.

Edward nodded, following him back through the woods and across the grassland. They were passing through another wooded area when Ian suddenly stiffened, his posture changing from relaxed to alert with the speed of a startled deer.

“Them again?” the omega muttered, his voice hardening with unmistakable anger. Before Edward could respond, Ian had spurred his horse forward, disappearing between the trees at a gallop that suggested either exceptional riding skill or a reckless disregard for personal safety.

“Ian!” Edward called, urging his own mount to follow. The mare responded immediately, but Ian had already gained significant ground, weaving through the trees with a confidence that spoke of intimate familiarity with these woods. It was like chasing a forest spirit—glimpses of movement between tree trunks, the sound of hoofbeats ahead, but never quite catching up.

Edward rounded a bend and emerged into a clearing just in time to see Ian dismount with fluid grace and sprint toward three young men on the far side. “Stop it!” the omega shouted, his voice carrying across the open space with surprising authority for someone of his stature.

The scene before him became clear as Edward approached. The three youths—all significantly larger than Ian and possessing the particular brand of dull-witted arrogance that seems exclusive to young men of a certain age—were standing over the carcasses of several chickens, a pig, and what appeared to be partridges. Blood stained the ground where they had slaughtered the animals, and a sack of vegetables lay nearby. Poachers, then, stealing from Cheswick’s already limited resources.

Anger flared in Edward’s chest, hot and immediate. While such petty theft would barely register as an inconvenience on Eastwood’s vast holdings, here it represented a genuine loss. He knew from conversations at dinner that Ian personally tended the livestock, and he recognized the pig as “Pinky,” Rosie’s beloved pet. The violation felt personal in a way that surprised him.

As he approached, Edward could hear Ian confronting the largest of the three boys—a burly youth with the particular brand of ugliness that comes not from unfortunate features but from the habitual expression of unpleasant emotions.

“You thieving bastards!” Ian’s voice cut through the clearing like a whip crack, his stance vibrating with fury despite being significantly outmatched in size. “I swear to God, Tom, if you’ve touched one more thing on this property, I’ll make you regret the day your mother failed to drown you at birth!”

The youth—Tom—laughed with the particular nastiness of the chronically insecure, leaning toward Ian with contemptuous familiarity. “Look who’s got a mouth on him! You dare to speak to me like that, sissy boy? You the Lord of Cheswick now, you bastard child?” His eyes traveled over Ian’s form with unmistakable interest, a predatory hunger in his gaze that made Edward’s alpha instincts surge with protective fury.

“I don’t need a damn title to kick your worthless ass off my family’s land,” Ian snarled, not backing down an inch despite the size difference. “You’ve killed Rosie’s pig, you miserable piece of shit! Did that make you feel like a big man, slaughtering a child’s pet?”

Tom shrugged with the particular insolence that makes even the most peaceful man contemplate violence. “Finders keepers. Besides, it’s just a pig—not like that little brat will notice the difference.”

Ian’s face transformed with rage, his blue eyes practically incandescent. “That ‘little brat’ is my sister, you pathetic waste of breath! Touch one more thing that belongs to my family and I’ll cut off your fingers and feed them to the foxes!”

“Big words from such a pretty little thing,” Tom sneered, grabbing Ian by the collar and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. “What are you going to do about it, eh? You can’t do anything, can you? You know what? I still don’t believe you’re a boy. Let me see once and for all if you really do have a dick.” He reached for Ian’s shirt, roughly pulling it from his waistband and popping several buttons in the process.

Edward’s vision went red with rage, a primal fury that had nothing to do with his usual controlled demeanor and everything to do with the alpha within him responding to a threat against his omega. He urged his horse forward, prepared to intervene with extreme prejudice, but before he could reach them, Ian had acted with startling efficiency.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” Ian roared, his fist connecting with Tom’s face in a precise, powerful blow that sent the larger boy staggering backward. “I’ve told you before what would happen if you touched me again!”

Edward reined in his horse, momentarily stunned by the unexpected display of physical prowess. Far from being the victim he had anticipated rescuing, Ian was clearly capable of defending himself with surprising effectiveness.

Oblivious to Edward’s arrival, Ian advanced on the dazed Tom, landing another solid punch to his opposite cheek. “That’s for Pinky!” he snarled, before delivering a vicious kick to the groin that doubled the larger boy over. “And that’s for putting your hands on me, you disgusting pig!” The other two poachers, spotting Edward’s approach, scrambled onto their horses and fled without a backward glance, displaying the particular brand of loyalty common to cowards throughout history.

“Your friends are running like the cowards they are!” Ian taunted, seizing Tom’s collar and yanking the whimpering youth upright with surprising strength. “How many times do I have to beat you bloody before you learn your lesson? You think because I’m small I can’t defend what’s mine? I’ve been putting bullies like you on their backs since I was twelve years old!”

The incongruity of the situation—the delicate-looking omega thoroughly thrashing a boy nearly twice his size—struck Edward with sudden hilarity. He couldn’t contain his laughter, the sound breaking the tension of the moment and drawing the attention of both combatants.

“My... my lord,” Ian stammered, clearly startled by Edward’s presence. The omega had been so focused on confronting the poachers that he had momentarily forgotten his companion—a lapse in awareness that might have been dangerous in other circumstances but was strangely endearing in this context.

Edward’s gaze shifted to Tom, who had gone pale with recognition. The youth’s expression transformed from pain to genuine fear as he registered Edward’s imposing presence. Edward was accustomed to such reactions; his size, status, and natural alpha dominance often intimidated those unaccustomed to dealing with men of his caliber. It was a useful effect in business negotiations and social situations alike.

What interested him more was Ian’s reaction—or rather, the lack of it. While Tom quaked visibly under his gaze like a leaf in a storm, Ian showed no sign of being affected by the aggressive alpha pheromones Edward was unconsciously projecting. Either the omega was remarkably self-possessed, or there was something about their particular dynamic that transcended normal alpha-omega interactions.

“Ian,” Edward acknowledged, unable to suppress the predatory smile that curved his lips.

The boy licked his lips nervously, a gesture that Edward’s baser instincts found far too fascinating. “I... apologize for the display, my lord. Though not for breaking his nose—the bastard deserved that and more.”

“I understand completely,” Edward replied, turning his attention to the cowering poacher. “Do you know who I am, boy?”

Tom, his face reddening where Ian’s fists had connected with all the precision of a skilled pugilist, swallowed audibly. “You’re... you’re that lord from St. Louis.”

“Indeed I am,” Edward confirmed, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “And I am now the owner of Cheswick.” He moved closer to Ian, deliberately placing a possessive hand on the omega’s shoulder in a gesture that was as much about marking territory as it was about offering support. “And also Ian’s guardian.” He fixed Tom with a penetrating stare that had made hardened businessmen reconsider their negotiating positions. “As the new Lord of Cheswick, this means this land is my property. I will prosecute anyone who dares trespass and steal from me. Is that perfectly clear?”

Tom nodded frantically, his eyes wide with undisguised terror.

Edward turned to Ian, keeping his tone casual despite the anger still simmering beneath the surface. “Why don’t you see to the horses, Ian? I need a private word with our poacher boy here.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not going to let him go, are you? Because if you are, I’d rather finish what I started. He’ll just come back otherwise—he always does.”

“I assure you, he won’t be bothering Cheswick again,” Edward replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Trust me on this matter.”

Ian hesitated, then nodded sharply. “Fine. But if I see him on our land again, I won’t be as gentle as I was today.” He shot Tom a final venomous glare before stalking toward the horses, still radiating anger like heat from a furnace.

Once the omega was safely out of earshot, tending to the mares at the edge of the clearing, Edward returned his attention to Tom. His expression hardened as he seized the youth’s arm, hauling him roughly to his feet. A damp patch was spreading across the front of Tom’s trousers—the unmistakable evidence of fear-induced incontinence. Edward had seen it before in the boxing ring, when opponents realized too late they were hopelessly outmatched.

“Sir... I’m really sorry,” Tom stammered, his voice trembling like a poorly tuned violin string. “I’ll... re... return what we’ve stolen.”

“You will indeed,” Edward confirmed coldly. “And should you ever poach from Cheswick again, I will ensure your life becomes an extended exercise in regret. I have the resources and connections to make that happen.”

Tom nodded frantically, tears welling in his eyes. “I... I won’t ever do it again, sir. Please have mercy.”

“Mercy is available to those who prove useful,” Edward replied, leaning closer. “Listen carefully.”

He proceeded to outline precisely what he expected from Tom—information about local activities, rumors, strangers in the area, anything that might relate to the attack on Edward or future threats to Cheswick and its inhabitants. The youth would become his unwitting informant, a position that would benefit them both provided Tom remained loyal and observant.

“Yes, sir,” Tom agreed eagerly, clearly relieved to be offered a path to redemption. “I’ll do that for you, sir. I have good eyes and ears and I’ll report everything to you, sir.”

“Excellent,” Edward said, satisfied with the arrangement. There was one final matter to address, however—one that had made his alpha instincts flare with territorial rage from the moment he’d witnessed Tom’s lecherous gaze on Ian. “I know exactly what you’re after,” he added, glancing meaningfully toward where Ian stood with the horses.

Tom paled further, his eyes widening with renewed fear.

“Ian is under my protection,” Edward stated, enunciating each word with deadly precision. “Never again lay your eyes on him. Never again entertain impure thoughts about him. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Tom nodded spasmodically. “Yes... yes, sir.”

“Good,” Edward said with finality. “Now go.”

The youth needed no further encouragement. He scrambled backward, nearly falling in his haste to reach his horse. Within moments, he had mounted and galloped away, leaving the stolen livestock behind.

With that unpleasant business concluded, Edward turned and strode toward Ian, his alpha instincts still heightened from the confrontation.

“Did you let him go with just a warning?” Ian asked incredulously, his earlier politeness forgotten in his indignation. “That idiot has been stealing from us for years! He deserved worse than a bloody nose and wet trousers.”

Edward reached out to ruffle the omega’s hair, an increasingly frequent gesture that allowed him the pleasure of touch without crossing boundaries. “I’ve arranged something more effective than a beating. He’ll be useful to us now.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Useful how?”

“Let’s just say he’ll be providing information about local activities that might concern Cheswick,” Edward replied with a cryptic smile. “Sometimes the best punishment is making someone serve your interests rather than simply hurting them.”

Ian considered this, his expression shifting from skepticism to reluctant admiration. “That’s... actually rather clever. Though I still would have preferred to blacken his other eye for good measure.”

Edward chuckled. “Your fighting skills are impressive, by the way. Where did you learn to throw a punch like that?”

“Necessity,” Ian replied with a shrug that didn’t quite hide his pride. “When you’re the smallest boy in school with the prettiest face and a questionable bloodline, you either learn to fight or spend your life running. I chose the former.”

His gaze drifted to the slaughtered animals, his momentary satisfaction fading. “Pinky, she’s... gone,” he said, his voice softening. “Rosie will be devastated. She’s had that pig since it was a piglet.”

“What do you think about buying her a new piglet?” Edward suggested. “It won’t replace Pinky, of course, but it might ease the blow.”

Ian’s eyes widened, a genuine smile breaking across his face like sunshine after rain. “You would do that for Rosie?”

“Of course,” Edward replied, finding himself smiling in return. “It’s a small thing.”

As they spoke, Edward became increasingly aware of Ian’s disheveled state following the altercation. His shirt was partially untucked, several buttons missing where Tom had grabbed him, revealing tantalizing glimpses of pale skin beneath. On anyone else, such disarray would appear merely untidy, but on Ian it created an effect that was unfairly appealing—the flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and tousled hair combining with the exposed skin to create a picture of artful dishabille that no portraitist could have improved upon.

Edward felt his alpha instincts stirring again, this time not with protective rage but with something far more dangerous. He forced himself to look away, to focus on the practical matter of the slaughtered livestock rather than on the tempting sight before him.

“Fix yourself up, Ian,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Ian glanced down at himself, noticing his state of disarray for the first time. “Damn hell,” he muttered, attempting to straighten his clothing. “That’s the third shirt this month. Tom always goes for the clothes first.”

Edward doubted very much that this was standard fighting procedure. Most men aimed for the face or solar plexus, not the buttons of an opponent’s shirt. No, Tom’s actions had been driven by the same inappropriate curiosity that Edward himself was struggling to suppress—a desire to see more of what lay beneath Ian’s modest clothing.

“Let’s give Pinky a proper burial,” he suggested, deliberately changing the subject. “And then perhaps we should return to the manor. I believe we’ve had quite enough excitement for one morning.”

Ian nodded, his expression solemn once more. “Yes. Rosie will want to say goodbye properly. She deserves that much at least.”