Page 32 of Wolf's Keep
“Very well.” She disappeared out through the door.
Curious indeed. Smiling, he tossed the leather-bound book on the table. He would spend more time with it tomorrow, reading it in more depth, especially his father’s entries. Leaving the library, crossing the corridor to the hall, he paused in the doorway, watching Erin unobserved.
“Must’ve cost a fortune,” she muttered, tracing her fingers across an embroidered figure, her fascination with the piece keeping her engrossed and oblivious to his presence. The sway of fabric as she moved betrayed a hint of her body, the gentle touch of her hand across the fabric… Would that she touch him with such reverence.Mon Dieu.Just looking at her affected him, his darker half a throb of lust and raw emotion. He gritted his teeth and ran his hands through his hair. Midnight runs for the foreseeable future, it seemed.
Moving across the room, he came to stand beside her. “I trust you slept well?”
She spun to face him, her hand clasped to her chest. “Gaharet! You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in. A bit of warning next time.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes. To answer your question, I slept well. Thank you.”
Liar.He could sense the untruth as it spilled from her mouth, saw the dark circles under her eyes. Had she, too, laid awake thinking of him, of his mouth on hers? The pupils dilated in those lovely eyes of hers. Yes, she had. He allowed himself a small smile.
He motioned to the wall hanging of figures on horseback galloping across its surface. “It interests you, this one?” Of all the pieces to captivate her, it had to be this one. An old, familiar sadness welled up inside him. How long had it been now? Eleven, twelve years? Time had blunted the pain, yet not removed it. Would one day his sense of loss lessen and fade?
“Yes, I like it very much. Is there a story to it?”
Her voice snagged him away from his memories. She leaned closer to the piece, two little lines appearing between her eyebrows. For the first time in a very long time, Gaharetwantedto talk about his parents.
“Yes. My father had it commissioned after he married my mother.”
“Pardon?” She glanced up at him, raised her eyebrows, then turned back to the piece again. Stepping back a few steps, she took the whole of it in. “I see no marriage motif, no images of dowries exchanged, no merging of families. From what I can tell, it depicts a hunt of some sort, then here,” she said, pointing to the far right, “at the end there’s a battle. How can it have anything to do with your parents getting married?”
He chuckled, some of the ache easing, fonder memories overwhelming the bad ones. “Most people see only that. Those who did not know my parents well. You have to understand my mother and her relationship with my father to fully comprehend this piece. Here”—he pointed to a figure on horseback dressed in deep green, flame-red hair streaming behind her—“this is my mother. Her temper was as fiery as her hair. All of us, my father, my brother and I, were on the receiving end of her wrath at one time or another. My brother and I would escape to the forest whenever we could.” He grinned. “As boys, we spenta lotof time in the forest. I confess we gave her much to be angry about—stealing food from the larder, salting the boiled fruit and creating havoc for the servants.”
In truth, they had terrorized the servants, and his mother had had every right to lose her temper with them. They were incorrigible. He had fond memories of laughing as he fled the pantry, his brother in tow, Anne not far behind brandishing whatever kitchen implement came to hand—a rolling pin, a large pot, a carving knife.
“My father”—he pointed to another figure with black hair and beard several horse lengths behind his mother—“thrived on her temper. D’Artagnon, my brother, and I believed my father deliberately provoked her at times, delighting in her reactions.” Given that his parent’s disputes had often ended in the bedchamber, Gaharet could well understand why. “From the first time he met my mother, my father was besotted, so taken with her strong will and defiant spirit he determined right in that moment she would be his wife. Their courtship was…unconventional. She led him on a merry hunt and would not concede to marry my father without a fight, or so the story goes.”
“Huh.” She studied the figures, moving back and forth along the wall hanging. “The way you tell it makes it sound like they were in love.”
“They were.” He smiled. “Their arguments were legendary, but their marriage was strong and passionate.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“I suppose. My father loved my mother very much, and she him, until the day she…” He sighed. “My father was never the same after she died.” Her death had changed them all, three men adrift in the world without her, but his father the most. He had retreated from life, from his sons, from his responsibilities to the pack and all had suffered because of it. Before today, Gaharet would have sworn his father had died of a broken heart, aided by a sharpened sword wielded in battle. Now he was not so sure.
Those two little lines appeared between her eyebrows again.
She studied him for a moment. “Your parents were very lucky, then. Love in a tenth-century marriage is a rare thing.”
“Yes.” Not rare amongst his kind. Not when they found their mates. “What of your parents? Do they have wall hangings to celebrate such things in your time?”
She snorted. “My mother’s relationships wouldn’t make for a good piece of art.”
He raised his eyebrows.Relationships? Plural?
“She was married. Once. My father died when I was a baby. I think she would like to be married again, but…” She blew out a breath. “She just doesn’t seem to choose the right kind of man. None of her relationships, other than with my father, have ever gotten to the point of a proposal.” She frowned. “She used to talk about my father a lot. About how he was this wonderful, caring, gentle man who used to buy her flowers, bring her breakfast in bed on Sundays and massage her swollen feet when she was pregnant with me. I sometimes wonder if she chooses the men she does because they arenothinglike him. Perhaps she just can’t bear the thought of replacing him, but she doesn’t want to be alone. I’d rather be alone than put myself through all that heartache.”
“She is not alone. She has you.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? She doesn’t see it that way.” Pain flashed across her face then smoothed away, replaced with resigned acceptance.
She stepped back from the embroidered story of his parent’s marriage, moving in front of a different wall hanging. His little filly was not merely skittish. She was wounded. She would require a gentle hand and patience if he were to get close to her, gain her trust. Letting the conversation drop, he followed her.
“What about this one? What’s its story?”
“Ah, this is an actual battle. At Montsoreau. Here you see the two opposing sides.” He indicated the rival forces.
“Is that you? With the black beard and the red surcoat?” She pointed to a figure, standing in the stirrups, bloodstained sword raised, preparing to strike another chevalier.
