"England is rich in sheep and lambs, I hear." He laughs. "I don't think you're one, though." Hell no. Alarm bells in his head are ringing, Sancia... Caterina... and Miquel snickers. "Soft like the finest combed wool perhaps, but I'd be sorely mistaken and a poor judge of character if said wool didn't hide... claws."
Which suits me well.
"For tea." He smiles. "Or anything you'll have me for."