Highland Beasts

Kilts | Formal Fuck | Occult

◌

Based on a series of conversations with a follower, this is my first attempt at a historical piece. It takes place in the same fantasy universe as "Good Ol' Beasts." It's also my first attempt at a piece involving a particular kind of formalwear: highland evening garb. Despite my research, I suspect I have made mistakes, so I invite any Scottish folks or any experts on historical etiquette to inform me of inaccuracies.

Except for the wolfy bits. All of the wolfy bits are super accurate.

Enjoy.

An illustration from an avid follower, who wishes to keep his lupine nature anonymous.

Edinburgh, January, 1933.

Henry had no idea when the dreams began. As a child, he never told his parents how, each month or so, he would awaken with these nightmares of running through the woods. “Nightmares,” “dreams.” Sometimes he looked forward to them, found them thrilling, and sometimes he awoke speechless with terror. Defenseless, naked, incapable of words. The moon would always glare overhead.

When he was twelve years old, he was in school reviewing Latin with a stern headmaster, translating. There was a passage from The Satyricon in which a Roman hosted a soldier in his house as a guest. The Roman and the soldier went out one night into a cemetery. The Roman saw the soldier stripping away his tunic, urinating a circle around his pile of clothes. The soldier then tore off into the woods. When the Roman touched the discarded clothes, they turned to stone, anchoring to the spot. Later in the story, the Roman returned to his wife: terrified, she told him that their sheep pen had been attacked by an enormous wolf, and one of the house-slaves managed to stab the creature with a spear before it escaped back into the forest. Rushing back to the cemetery, the Roman looked for the clothes, but found only a puddle of blood.

Henry had certainly heard of lurid tales before of werewolves, but somehow, translating one in class seemed . . . disruptive, invasive. The classroom was supposed to be a rational sanctuary, sealed away from such bizarre notions as humans who turned into beasts—

That night, the dream happened again: the foggy woods, the moonlight, the heightened smells, the thrill and terror of knowing that something chased him. But this time, there was a difference. Was it a musclebound Roman stripping his tunic away from his marble body? No, it couldn’t be—why—why could Henry see the rugby team captain, stark naked? Henry’s sleeping mind remembered how he ached to catch glimpses of the handsome rugger in the school locker room: tall, broad-shouldered, aristocratic, with a dusting of manly chest hair, he was cocky. A meathead prick who made fun of Henry’s birthmark at the base of his neck, teased him that it looked like someone had branded him like cattle. How dare this lout invade his dream like this? These dreams were his, they were supposed to be his alone. Enraged, Henry felt himself swelling with lust. Each time Henry caught sight of him between the dreamlike trees, his musculature bulged more, veins tracing through, with more hair spreading across his chest and arms, his posture hunching, his nostrils snorting—fogging the air—closing range—Henry’s birthmark at the base of his neck searing—

Years passed. The dreams continued, awakening him in a jolt of sweat-glazed terror. Over time, the forest changed. Sometimes the woods were the sparse pines of the Italian countryside, like what he saw when he went on his grand tour of the Mediterranean after finishing his bachelor’s. Others, it was the foreboding conifers of Germany. Always by the light of the moon.

Always a male figure in the distance. Throughout his adolescence, that feature of the dream became prominent. Sometimes he was fully nude, like one of the heroic sculptures Henry would admire in the museum. But more and more the figure was someone closer to home: a handsome lawyer whom Henry had seen on the trolley, perhaps, or a tall, bearded banker whom Henry had passed in the park. Henry had a fondness for smartly dressed fellows. Attired in their pinstripes or their Prince-of-Wales flannel, they would look a bit out of place in the woods. Never in the tweeds or sporting jackets that one would’ve worn while shooting grouse, but always in the suitings they would’ve worn in the city.

First Henry would pass them through the trees, upright in their posture, dignified. Then a cloud would shroud the moon for a moment, bathing the trees in darkness, before the figure would reappear. Closer, this time, grunting, licking his whiskered chops, suit jacket snug, pinstripes gliding over musculature that was not there a moment ago. Then crouching on all fours, cufflinks and gloved hands sinking into the forest floor, fine shoes popping off his heels, collar detaching off to one side as veins throbbed in his temples, his neck distended with freakish muscle, rending finery with feral strength.

Closing range. Sniffing, prowling, getting closer.

*

Henry never told anybody about these dreams. His twenties passed. He was all too happy to discuss the Classics, though. His fascination with all things Greco-Roman led him to architecture: day in, day out, laboring at his sketch table in Edinburgh, drafting pediments and columns. His boss would complain that Henry kept wanting to put “copies of the Farnese Hercules” on everything, of course. (And, of course, Henry wanted to correct his boss: it’s Heracles, the Greek spelling. But Henry kept that criticism to himself.)

“When are you going to marry?” his mother would always ask him, when he’d return to the countryside to see her on holiday. He would dodge that question. He didn’t want to explain to her that he’d enrolled himself in one of the health clubs in Edinburgh, loathing every moment on the rowing machines, but secretly admiring the fine specimens of masculinity there. Each evening, over whiskey at his flat, he’d sketch from memory some of his favorites, read a bit more Ovid—hapless muscular men transforming—and retire for the night.

Until one day, when Henry came to the health club after work and toiled away at the rowing machine, he noticed a rugged, handsome fellow come strolling to the registration desk. The man removed his hat, revealing short brown hair that looked as though it had started the day slicked into a tidy sidepart, but now seemed a tad tousled. Likewise his jawline hinted at the shadow of stubble. A dignified nose and grey eyes with a certain playful gleam finished the picture of a fellow of lean, powerful build. Every garment from his moleskin coat to his three-piece suit fit his frame to perfection, hints of his cufflinks flashing into view as he shrugged off his overcoat, his tie and collar asserted by a pin. A new face here, the man said very little as the clerk had him fill out some paperwork before letting him have the keys to his locker. A few minutes later, as Henry continued rowing to nowhere, the man strode back out of the locker room clad in a sleeveless athletic vest, with full-cut trunks, kneesocks, and laceup boots. The vest clung to every muscular curve of the man’s torso, leaving nothing to Henry’s imagination: downed with curls of brown hair, the man’s pectorals bulged in near full display, straining at the straps.

Henry picked up his pace as the man strolled by. Huffing to keep up his strokes, Henry took a moment to notice that the man had turned on his heel, and seemed to be looking straight down at Henry’s neck, his nostrils flaring, sniffing the air. A shudder rocking the man’s entire frame from his shoulders, down his spine, to his hips, the way that a dog might when spooked.

“Turn your desire to stone,” Henry told himself. He’d read that in Marcus Aurelius. He kept rowing.

Henry finished his exercises. The man swung weighted clubs in one corner of the gymnasium, watching Henry as the minutes passed. Henry noticed a pair of reddish, circular marks overlapping at the base of the man’s neck, framed by his snug athletic shirt, the cords of his broad shoulders tensing with each hurl.

Henry made his way to the steam room. Relieved that he was the only person in the sauna, Henry settled into a bench and relaxed. Clad with only a towel around his waist, he had to admit that he disliked this portion of his health routine, self-conscious about his lean looks among so many classical athletes. In his cloudy reflection in the mirror, Henry noted that his arms had grown perhaps a hair thicker over his weeks of coming here, the panels of his pectorals showing a shadow of definition. He at least found himself to be a decent-looking fellow, from the neck up: a square jawline, an aristocratic nose, blue eyes and brown hair trimmed in a neat sidepart. But the idea of having to compare his physique to everyone else’s—of sitting in near nudity in the presence of so many sweaty, muscular physiques to admire—that was what always made him tense, the trip to the sauna. He only did it because the doctor said it would expand his lungs. He had to keep his eyes closed the whole time, lest he be caught stealing a glimpse, hungry for the slip of a towel.

A few minutes later, Henry felt a draft in the steamy air. He opened his eyes, and saw none other than the muscular man from before, now clad in only a towel as well.

A pause. The man’s grey eyes fixed on Henry with a certain prowling air. Gulping, Henry gave a terse nod. The man returned that nod in greeting, then closed the door, sitting on a bench opposite Henry. Dripping with sweat, the man’s every muscle was downed with brown hair, veins tracing through his heroic biceps, a fine bulge in his calves, sculpted feet that could have belonged to a gladiator, a dying Gaul. Turn your desire to stone. Henry closed his eyes again: his cock was growing too stiff already, stirring in the damp folds.

A few minutes passed. Perhaps Henry should say something? Something that acknowledge the other man’s presence, something that could relieve the awkwardness of it, something that would draw Henry’s thoughts away from his stiffening cock, because even with his eyes closed the image of that rugged, beautiful man was burnt onto his eyelids, each flash of it growing intenser with the light of his inflamed imagination. Henry felt his frame settling and relaxing into the slick leather of the seat. But amidst the subtle hiss of the steam vent, Henry swore he heard sniffing.

At length, Henry cleared his throat, opening his eyes. “I believe that you are new here, sir.”

The man snorted in response. Gleaming with sweat, his pectorals tensed. Something throbbed beneath his towel.

Henry saw it. His own cock twitched in his lap. “You . . . you must visit other health clubs in town, sir. It seems you know the equipment well.”

“Aye,” grunted the man. The cords of his neck and shoulders tensed like iron cables, drawn taut, as though the man were focusing every ray of his concentration on holding something back. The man’s hand rested very close to it, the pulsing phallus under his damp towel.

“Where are my manners?” Turn your desire to stone, Henry told himself again, planting his hands on his knees, trying to steady himself. “My name is Henry Thomas. It is good to meet you.”

With a grumble, the man got up from his seat. One side of his towel dipped below his hip, negligent and tantalizing. Prominent on the man’s back were the two overlapping reddish circles.

“You have a mark,” said the man as he inspected the door. “A mark like mine.”

“Oh, um, do you mean my birthmark, sir?” Henry felt the back of his neck. He only knew from other folks’ descriptions that it was a mark of a smaller circle set inside of a larger one, a little too perfect to be natural. Why was it tingling?

“Andrew Ramsey,aid the man, his glistening latissimi dorsi swelling with what appeared to be deepening breaths. Henry recalled the name of those muscles from his anatomy studies at university. Every sweat-slicked contour of the man’s body seemed to grow tenser now, a net of musculature barely containing something within. Andrew slid the bar in place, locking the door. “Yes, I have been to gymnasiums around the city.”

“Gymnasia,” corrected Henry. “It is a Greek plural.”

“A grammarian? Huh.” Swaggering across the steam room, Andrew let his towel continue its slide down one hip, his mighty phallus draped in the damp fabric, plain for Henry to see.

“An architect, actually.” Henry squirmed in his seat, his own cock swelling, betraying his animal lust. He lowered his voice: “I have studied many a classical sculpture, and you look just like one of them, though quite a bit . . . hairier, perhaps.”

Feet shoulder-width apart, Andrew positioned himself right in front of Henry. With a flick of his thumb, he let the towel tumble down his thighs, all seven inches of his cock bobbing into view before him, priapic, obscene, ripe with sweat.

“Much . . . much more well endowed,” Henry stammered, his cock tenting his towel at full mast. “The Greeks preferred smaller manhoods on their heroes.”

“I didn’t sign up for a lecture.” Droplets of moisture trembled on Andrew’s chest hair. His whole torso seemed to be vibrating somehow. A growl? A purr? Leaning over Henry, Andrew gave himself a long stroke. “You want it. I can smell it on you. Do it.”

This had only happened a handful of times. In the boarding school, Henry recalled that arrogant rugby captain shoving his cock into his mouth, and he recalled how, in response, his own thrummed with desire. He recalled how some of his drawings for his anatomy class he had to toss in the fireplace, after working himself to completion over them. He recalled, too, how he caught sight of a Turkish wrestler once in Athens—burly, Herculean—one of his favorites—not far off at all from the hirsute athlete who stood before him.

But Henry knew also that these encounters were forbidden, criminal. And he knew that there would not be much time to enjoy it. Seizing Andrew’s cock, he parted his lips and went to work, polishing the mighty scepter with his tongue, back and forth. Shoving his hips forward, Andrew let his growls escalate, planting one rough hand on the back of Henry’s head, while with his other he pulled Henry’s towel away, wrapping his calloused fingers around Henry’s pulsing cock.

Why the growling? And why did Henry find himself whipped to such a frenzy by the strange noise emerging from Andrew’s body? Henry buried his nose in Andrew’s crotch, noticing how strangely keen his olfactory senses had become, savoring that heroic musk as his tongue massaged Andrew’s shaft.

“The mark,” growled Andrew. It was indeed a growl now, Henry could tell. Andrew pulled Henry’s head further forward, his fingers finding their way down to Henry’s birthmark at the base of his neck.

The warmth of Andrew’s precum began to slick Henry’s tongue, sending a strange twinge across his palette. As he swallowed—pulse racing, blood pounding his eardrums—a panic, a thrill—like he was being hunted in the woods in his dreams—his belly turned to fire—a searing heat radiating from that spot—the birthmark at the back of Henry’s neck, turning into a ring of flame—

Henry withdrew, hyperventilating. Henry swore that Andrew was nearly clean-shaven a moment ago, but now his jaw and cheeks were darkened with stubble, whiskers that seemed a little too far up his cheeks, a little too far down his neck. Even in the sultry air of the steam room, Henry’s sweat felt like ice. “What was that? What was—”

“More.” Shoving Henry’s face into his balls, Andrew planted both hands on Henry’s head, hunching over him and flicking his tongue over—

Henry’s birthmark again seared back into pain. Something strange stirred inside of him, an appetite, as he continued lapping up the precum that oozed from Andrew’s shaft, as Andrew tongued the mark at the base of Henry’s neck, before slapping his arms under Henry’s armpits and hoisting Henry up the steamroom wall.

Henry had no time to ask why his heart raced, his sweat froze, his birthmark burned. He had no time to ask why the strange forest-dream flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked—the pale, fiery disc of the moon gazing down on him—instead, he dropped his jaw and let Andrew’s tongue in, feeling the vibrations of Andrew’s grunts and growls, purring—strange, beastly noises—the stubble of Andrew’s face growing rougher—

“Excuse me?” There was a knock at the door. “Is the sauna out of order?”

Andrew broke off the kiss with a snarl, sweating pectorals heaving—even denser in brown hair than Henry remembered a moment ago. Andrew licked his lips, trying to catch his breath, as though he was having trouble forming words.

Henry gulped, trying to answer in a calm voice. “One moment, please.”

Andrew’s purr of pleasure turned into a growl of frustration. He snorted down at Henry, covering his phallus with a towel.

“Take a few breaths to calm down,” said Henry. He, too, felt the sensations dimming, his heart sinking back into some semblance of an ordinary rhythm, as he draped the towel over his own cock.

A moment later, with reluctance, Andrew unlatched the door. The man who walked in—one of the gymnasium regulars—glared at him before taking a seat on one of the benches. Andrew left, slamming the door behind him.

The man glared at Henry, too. Henry smiled, folding his hands on his lap.

*

A cold shower, then the locker room. That was when Henry caught sight of Andrew again. The athletic man had managed to equip his socks and garters, stepping into his pinstripe trousers, his still-proud cock hanging out as he tucked in his shirt. Andrew’s crude stubble looked out of place against the detachable collar.

Henry knew better than to engage in conversation: too many prying eyes and ears about. With disappointment, he opened his locker, dried off, and began getting dressed, catching glimpses of Andrew at every moment he could. Another strange detail dawned on Henry: Andrew wore no vest under his shirt, no underwear under his trousers. That wasn’t very sanitary, was it? Andrew emitted one of his now-familiar snorts of frustration as he tried fastening the stud in the back of his eton collar.

Once a few more of the gymgoers left, after Henry had attired himself in his own socks and garters, his trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, he went over to Andrew, clearing his throat. “Do you need help with your collar, sir?”

Andrew glared and snorted, his bare cock leaping back to life. Indeed, the hairy man had taken his time with the rest of his clothing, but left his phallus free and proud, where he had been taking every opportunity to paw at it, desperate to get a full stroke off without attracting attention. With difficulty, he managed to tuck himself back into his trousers. He grumbled, “Yes.”

Henry reached around, fastening one stud of Andrew’s collar on the back, then managed to fit the stud into place around the front, concealing Andrew’s mark. Andrew had to hold his breath, gagging at the starched ring of cotton that now threatened to throttle his neck.

“I know a tailor,” Henry offered. “You don’t suppose your avid gymgoing necessitates some alterations, sir?”

“Happens every now and then. Neck getting big.” Threading his tie through, Andrew grunted. “Thanks.”

A dozen questions crowded Henry’s mind. Why did he feel that strange burning sensation on his own birthmark? Indeed, how was it possible for two men to bear such similar marks at the base of their necks, without any blood relation at all? When could he see this handsome, hairy man again? (Why did Henry find himself suddenly drawn to Andrew’s hairy musculature, after a lifetime of lusting for the smooth marble of antiquity?)

“That was wonderful,” murmured Henry, hoping that no one would overhear. “Back in the steam room.”

Andrew gave a tacit nod, dark grey eyes scanning the room before he took up his waistcoat and fished a card out of the pocket.

“Burns Night is coming up. A friend of mine is throwing a party at his country house. Call me. I’ll secure you an invitation.” Planting the card in Henry’s hand, Andrew continued working his fine silk tie into a Prince Albert knot. “Let’s finish what we started.”

Henry glanced at the card: Andrew Ramsey, Esq. Attorney. Henry answered it with a card of his own: Henry Thomas, Architect. They shook hands, pretending that it was a business transaction like any other.

*

The smells. The damp pavement, the acrid odor of coal smoke, the rubber of automobile tires. Why were the smells suddenly so much sharper than Henry remembered? And why did Henry long to smell things like wood, moss, and earth?

On the trolley, Henry stared down at Andrew’s card. He’d turned it over and over in his gloved fingers so many times, yet it bore a trace of his musk, clinging to the fine paper.

Another stop of the trolley, and Henry’s nostrils picked up a new scent: another musky odor mingled with fine wool, polished leather, as a tall, imposing man shouldered past Henry to grip one of the poles as the trolley lurched into motion. Henry pretended to inspect the brim of his fedora, trying not to be obvious about inspecting the man. But Henry’s mind was a camera: he could review every last photographic detail at a glance. Indeed this man, like Andrew, struck his fancy. Beneath his fur-lined overcoat, the cuffs of the man’s trousers suggested a prince-of-wales suit in an immaculate cut, laceups polished to a mirror shine. His knuckles stretched the soft leather of his gloves, revealing just a glimpse of crisp cuffs and gleaming cufflinks, a starched collar framed by a cashmere scarf, a tie knot arching forth in a fountain of fine silk between the lapels, a hambourg crowning his head. He was taller and leaner than Andrew, but somehow more imposing, a frame pronounced by strength for which his sartorial finery served as a complement. Intense hazel eyes glared over a rich brown beard and a handlebar mustache.

The man sniffed the air. He glanced over at Henry. Henry cleared his throat. The man’s eyes darted down at Andrew’s card. His nostrils wrinkled with a hint of a frown—almost a snarl—as he set his bearded jaw, fixing his gaze forward, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his grip on the rail, as though he clutched it for dear life, trying to hold something back.

Everything about the man intimidated Henry, fascinated him: the smartness of his attire, the way his whole body remained rigid, tense, like a rope about to snap. And that intoxicating scent! Yet it was distinct from Andrew’s somehow, too, like a signature, a fingerprint: a pattern that Henry somehow knew to be peculiar to this person, yet like someone else’s.

Henry found himself studying the man’s imperious features throughout the ride. Why did he find himself—his cock—filled with longing, insatiate? Beneath the starched confines of his collar, Henry’s birthmark twinged in a familiar way.

The trolley swung to a halt. Releasing the rail—leather gloves creaking again with what sounded like the release of an iron-bending grip—the man sidled past Henry and strode off the trolley without a word.

*

That next day, Henry sent a post to Andrew’s law firm requesting an invitation to this Burns Night affair. Henry then went about his business at the architecture firm, then arrived at the health club, as was customary. Andrew was not there.

The day after, though, Henry made his evening appearance at the health club again. Andrew arrived in all his sultry musk: Henry found himself able to pick out Andrew’s scent amidst the sweat, rubber, and leather of the gymnasium. A few minutes later, the bearded man strolled into the lobby—the intimidating fellow from the trolley. He was unmistakable: his full beard finely coiffed, and his attire of superb quality, he strode into the gymnasium in his overcoat and three-piece suit, sweeping his hat off his gleaming bald head. A few minutes later, he emerged from the locker room in a sleeveless athletic shirt just like Andrew, every lithe and vein-threaded sinew of his arms, the hard sculpture of his biceps and triceps, all on full display, with a chest full of dark brown hair stretching the athletic shirt to its brink. Toiling away at the rowing machine, he watched them both: Andrew hefting his weights, while the other man wrapped his knuckles with leather, gladiatorial, and began targeting his aggressions on a boxing bag. Indeed, the new man’s intense hazel eyes remained transfixed solely on his inanimate target, and never deviated to notice Henry. The new bearded man had a mark like Andrew’s, too: two overlapping circles at the base of his neck.

From his perch on the rowing machine, Henry enjoyed comparing the two men’s physiques. Andrew was a proportion of all squares: his shoulders and torso as broad as wide, the thickness of his arms and biceps, the thickness of his legs, all in sturdy relation to the rest. But this new bearded man—his physique stretched out to a lithe length, his musculature lean and hard, his shoulders rolled back and his hairy pectorals spread open between them. He carried his frame with a certain pride and might. Whereas Andrew would work with the clubs and weights, the bearded man moved from the boxing bag to the boxing ring—weaving, dodging, his motions swift and fluid, each cinch and twist of his sinews executed with predatory precision. Henry found much to admire in both: Andrew’s brute strength, and this new man’s hypnotic agility.

Henry was glad that his only enemy was the whirring wheel of the rowing machine. The bearded man sent each of his opponents out of the boxing ring with a savage bruise, each one complaining with a “Bloody hell” as he staggered out of the arena, ceding victory.

*

The next day, Henry received word from Andrew’s law office: a sparse letter that simply said, “The pleasure of your company is requested. Mr. McAlister wishes for you to stay the night at his abode.” Enclosed, Henry found a copy of an invitation to the home of one David McAlister, who appeared to be an investment banker whose country house lay somewhere out near Beescraig, some way out of the city. Burns Night was in a little over a week, leaving Henry little time to make his arrangements. Ensuring that his Prince Charles jacket and kilt were all in decent order, he put in a request at his firm for the day off: an oddly routine thing to do, considering what sultry delights he imagined that the handsome Andrew must have had in store for him. It was Burns Night, so requesting the time off would not have been out of the ordinary.

Another day at the architecture firm, ending with another evening at the rowing machine. Andrew and the bearded man appeared again, and Henry admired the weightlifting of one and the boxing of the other. Henry retired to the steam room after his session, but Andrew did not join him. Henry supposed that this was to avoid the near discovery of his more illicit actions from their previous encounter. The bald, bearded newcomer stayed away from the sauna, as well, cutting directly to the showers, then drying off and attiring himself nattily in his finery, with nary a whisker of his beard out of place.

A week passed like that: architect by day, devotee of the rowing machine by night, watching his dual entertainments of Andrew punishing the barbells and the bearded man punishing anybody who dared raise a fist against him.

Soon, Burns Night arrived. Henry packed his bag with a daytime suit for the next day, brushed off his garb for the evening, and arranged a taxi.

*

For evening wear Henry’s wardrobe featured a tuxedo, a white tie and tails, and even tartan trews, all of which he would have worn during his occasional trips to London, or during his grand tour of Europe. But on Burns Night, only a kilt would do, and all the accessories that went with: hose and brogues, laced up to his shins, secured with flashing at his knees, a crisp white evening shirt with a black bowtie, the kilt itself in his family tartan cinched with a belt, draped with a rabbit-fur sporran, a waistcoat and Prince Charles tailcoat each in matching black barathea with rectangular silver buttons. Glancing in the entryway mirror, Henry smoothed his lapels, the heft of his kilt tugging at his waist. In such finery as this, a fellow from any station would feel like a king. Henry centered his bowtie just before collecting his luggage and exiting the door of his Edinburgh house.

His taxi conveyed him through the winding countryside. Mist veiled the sunset, and soon enough darkness hid the scenery from Henry’s view, but he could almost taste the dark spruces and pines of the woods, damp and fragrant moss on the chill air. It was only a small pair of lamps flanking a wrought iron gate that announced his arrival at the country residence of his host: a Tudor manor of moderate size, surrounded by vast stretches of woods, secluded. A hunting retreat, Henry guessed, for a gentleman who conducted his business chiefly in the city.

The driver let Henry out. As Henry approached the door, he saw that a few other guests had arrived, evidently with their own cars. The driver carried Henry’s luggage to the front door.

No butler, Henry thought? This wasn’t the largest residence in the world, but surely there was a head of staff. But the prim woman at the front door stepped up to greet him.

“Good evening,” said Henry, adjusting his sporran and furnishing his invitation. As the woman inspected it, Henry noticed that none of the other guests had luggage, and the sight of his own driver-turned-porter drew a few glances from the well-attired folks who sauntered in.

“Mr. Thomas.” With a nod, the housekeeper bowed. “Yes, we have a room prepared for you. Right this way, please” At the housekeeper’s nod, a maid collected Henry’s luggage, relieving the driver, who, with a tip of his hat, returned to his taxi to drive back to the city. Clearing his throat, Henry offered to take his luggage from the maid, but she insisted.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Thomas?” asked the housekeeper, who regarded the luggage-carrying maid as though it were hardly out of the ordinary.

“Apologies, ma’am,” replied Henry. “It just seems . . . out of character, for a housemaid to be doing the work of a footman.”

“Mr. McAlister insists on keeping no men on staff,” explained the housekeeper. “Such are his many eccentricities.”

“Eccentricities,” muttered Henry, as he followed the head housekeeper and the maid up the stairs, past the foyer. The architecture of the residence revealed itself with every turn. Wood-paneled walls. In the newly fitted electric lamps Henry noticed the mullioned stained glass, lancet windows. Customary fittings of a brooding home that had likely had hosted hunting parties since the Jacobites. Conducting Henry up the stairs, she showed him to his room, furnishing him a key while the other maid unpacked Henry’s suit for the morning, hanging it in a wardrobe facing the bed.

“Mr. McAlister bids you welcome,” said the housekeeper. “I am Mrs. Lytton. Do you require anything else, Mr. Thomas?”

Henry shook his head, still taking in the country house. It had been quite a few months since he’d been out of the city, let alone stayed in a place of this pedigree. “I believe I have everything I need, ma’am.”

“Of course.” She nodded, stepping over to the door. “Shall I show you to the hall, then?”

Heads of deer and antlers crowned a roaring fireplace, with a pair of partisans crossed beneath a shield. Stiffening his posture, Henry smoothed the lapels of his high and trim jacket before stepping through the door, taking note of the guests. About two dozen of them had assembled for the event, each in tartans of their own families. The aroma of wine lifted from many cut crystal glasses, but through it all Henry detected the two musky, animalistic scents of two now-familiar gentlemen.

Andrew approached Henry. Like everyone else, Andrew and his tall, bearded friend wore their Prince Charles jackets, kilts, and all the rest of their highland attire. Their muscular forms cut attractive figures: shoulders squared out militaristically, arms filling out the black barathea sleeves, lapels draped over full, mighty chests, their shirts each tugging the buttons. Indeed, now that Henry had caught glimpses of the mens’ physiques at the health club, seeing them in full dress made their bodies all the more alluring, emphasis through concealment, their muscular calves emphasized by flashing and hose. The corners of a smile tugged at Andrew’s clean-shaven lips: “Mr. Thomas.”

“Mr. Ramsey,” Henry responded with a nod. “Thank you for securing me an invitation.”

“My friend Mr. McAlister requested it.” Gesturing towards the tall, bearded man near the fireplace, Andrew led Henry over. “Mr. McAlister, may I introduce Mr. Thomas?”

Mr. McAlister’s intense hazel eyes scanned Henry up and down. Beneath his rich beard, he smiled, too, though Henry noticed that he sniffed the air for just an instant. “Mr. Thomas. My friend Andrew informs me that he met you at the health club the other day?”

Met is one way to put it, thought Henry. He nodded, toasting a glass. “I’ve been going there for a while, yes. It looks as though both of you have discovered it more recently.”

Again, the knowing smirk from Mr. McAlister. “We’ve both taken notice of you on your rowing machine, yes. I would take my exercise out here, of course, but my business keeps me in the city for most of the week.”

Eyeing up both Mr. McAlister and Henry, Andrew licked his lips.

Suspecting that there might be a sequel to the sauna incident, Henry lowered his voice. “Thank you for inviting me here, sir. I noticed that none of the other guests have overnight luggage, though.”

“Correct,” replied Mr. McAlister “And please—call me David. I believe we’ll get to know each other quite well by the end of the evening.”

---

Hungry for more? Purchase and download the full .pdf here:

Highland Beasts 1 (werewolves, tuxedos, muscle growth, clothing destruction, romance, occult historical fantasy).