Free Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) by March McCarron

look,” she said when she’d at last caught her breath, “miffed as a stray cat in a thunderstorm.”
    Arlow glowered. This day was not going at all as he’d imagined. “And I suppose you enjoy being wet through and slapped by tree branches.”  
    She whipped her hat off and tossed it to him. “Here. This’ll keep your fancy head drier.”  
    She tipped her face up to the sky, letting the rain wash down her cheeks. In a moment her hair was plastered to her skull, adhering to her neck. He thought she was even less attractive wet. He reached over and placed the hat back on her head.  
    “Being gallant?” she asked, her tone mocking.  
    He shook his head solemnly. “Miss, no amount of rain could compel me to put that atrocity atop my head.”
    She snorted and turned back to the road. “We’re ’bout there.”
    She pulled up to a small log property—a hunting lodge, or so Arlow guessed—nestled between two towering pine trees; a vision of provincial solitude. Or an ideal location for a secluded homicide . “Head on in,” Mae called as she jumped down from the gig, not bothering to avoid a large puddle. “I’ll just take care of Poppy Seed real quick.”
    Arlow pushed open the door and stepped within, trailing pools of water. The lodge was small, the furnishings within of a rough quality. A moose head stared dubiously at him from above the fireplace.  
    Arlow eyed the beast with a single raised brow. “Quite right, Mr. Moose. I am most out of place.”
    Despite this proclamation, he hung his bowler upon the rack—a knobby, tree-shaped thing designed by a craftsman whom, Arlow felt confident, was familiar with neither hatracks nor trees.  
    Arlow, shaking with cold, crouched before the hearth and lit the prearranged firewood. He wasn’t in the habit of starting his own fires, but this one fortunately caught with ease. Soon, flickering light illuminated the room and a wash of warmth kissed his skin. Arlow unbuttoned his robes and peeled them off, feeling as though he’d shed ten pounds as the sopping fabric hit the cabin floor. His undershirt and slacks were damp, but he could hardly strip out of them as well—he’d brought no change of clothes. He’d believed he was merely to have a lunch meeting in Dalyson, not be taken hostage into the Spirits-forsaken wilderness, likely to be murdered by a she-vagrant and her absurdly named mule.
    The front door opened and the lady in question appeared, a sack over her shoulder. She pushed clinging strands from her face as she kicked off her shoes.
    “Unpack this for me,” she said, thrusting the sack into Arlow’s bewildered arms. “While I change.”
    She didn’t wait for his answer, but hustled off through the only doorway in the cabin, presumably to a bedroom.
    Arlow carried the bag to the kitchen and began to unload: a whole, plucked chicken, potatoes, carrots, butter, a bottle of red wine.  
    She emerged in a blouse and slacks as ill-fitting as her previous ensemble, still toweling her tresses dry. She tossed the cloth aside, leaving her cropped hair sticking out comically from her head.
    “Do you plan to cook me dinner?” Arlow asked.
    She pursed her lips at him. “Naw, I’m cooking my brother dinner, as a surprise. But you can eat too. If it’s,” she held up the chicken by a single leg and eyed it skeptically, “edible.”  
    Humming off-key, she tied an apron around her waist and began searching through the drawers and cabinets. She extracted a common spatula and stared at it with her head cocked to the side, as if unsure of its function. Arlow sat at the table and observed her with concealed amusement.  
    She disappeared through a back door and returned with a pot of water, which went in the hearth, and a sprig of greenery. “Think this is rosemary?” she asked. “I’m not quite sure.”
    Arlow lifted the herb to his nose and sniffed. “Yes. Definitely rosemary.”  
    She accepted his word as truth, and added the herb to her pile.