Page 36 of Wolf's Keep
“I think I’ll take this dough now.” Anne eased Erin’s hands away. “It is well and truly kneaded. Why don’t you run along to your chamber? Gaharet had me place some drawing materials there for you.” A knowing smile tugged at her lips. “Unless you plan to be here when Gaharet comes looking for the meal I promised him earlier.”
Erin relinquished the ball of dough, removed her apron, snatched up her headscarf and quickly vacated the room. She’d come to the kitchen to escape Gaharet, not to be handed over to him on a platter.
Climbing the narrow stairs, she cast a puzzled look back at Anne. That room on the top floor held secrets. Secrets Anne wanted her to know, wanted Gaharet to tell her. Did it have something to do with the amulet, the Theban inscription? Could it be the clue to why he ended up in an underground cell, chained to a wall? The more she learned about that damned man, the more he intrigued her.Bloody hell.Next thing she knew, she’d be trying to save him.
Chapter Fifteen
Erin stared at the image on the parchment, her index finger and thumb stained with ink. When Anne had told her materials to draw with awaited her in her chamber almost a week ago, she’d expected to find chalk and slate. Ink, pounce, and parchment were expensive, and she didn’t for a minute expect they’d waste them on her. Yet when she’d entered the chamber, there on the table beside the water pitcher were sheets of parchment, a pot of ink, a small container of powdery pounce, a goose quill and a paring knife to shape it.
After a few false starts, a poorly angled cut on the end of the quill, thick blobs of ink soaking into the parchment and ink-stained fingers, she’d adapted to using the unfamiliar implements. By mealtime, she’d half a portrait done. That first afternoon she’d chosen to draw Anne, the wrinkled lines on the cook’s face full of laughter, love and the attitude she gave to everyone, including Gaharet. Anne’s delight when Erin gave her the portrait told Erin she’d chosen her first subject well.
Each evening since, by candlelight, she’d taken up the quill and drawn a portrait—the burly, ruddy faced blacksmith who often sat beside Gaharet at mealtimes, Gascon, Gaharet’s tall, thin, balding head servant. Last night she’d drawn Brenton, the grizzled farmer, after he regaled her with the tale of his escape artist pigs and the mess they made of old Tumas’ cabbages. She’d laughed so hard she’d almost cried at Brenton, his face scrunched in a mimicry of a furious Tumas chasing him around the field with his hoe, cursing him and his pigs. The night before she’d sketched Eleonore, a heavily pregnant woman whose husband, Henri, worked in the stables. The baby was due any day now and Erin wanted to gift them the drawing.
Dipping her quill in the inkpot, the scratch of its tip against parchment the only sound as the keep settled in to sleep, she drew faces, listening for footsteps passing her door. They came every night, a soft tread, barely discernible even in the stillness of the keep. They paused outside her door every single night, and Erin would hold her breath.
Would this be the night he entered?
The image of Gaharet hesitating on the other side of the door flushed goosebumps over her skin. Her hand would pause over her drawing, her breath held in anticipation until he moved on and she’d release a long sigh of…relief? Disappointment? A combination of the two?
She’d peeked once, after the footsteps receded, nudging the door ajar enough so she could see down the corridor, catching sight of him descending the stairs. Where did he go so late at night? To the hall? She didn’t think so. On a hunch, the portrait of Eleonore almost complete, she’d opened the shutters and waited, watching the courtyard. She’d spied him leaving the keep, heading for the forest.
What did he do out there every night? Did he shed his clothes and enter the forest naked? Did he still follow the old religions, celebrating rituals with other like-minded individuals in the dark of night, in the depths of the forest? Could that have been what he was doing when she’d first encountered him?
She paused, staring down at her current work in progress, Gaharet’s eyes staring back at her. She’d drawn him again, outlining the shape of his jaw, his nose, his brow line before giving it a second thought. And once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. The differences between this drawing and her first were obvious, and they had nothing to do with the materials. He stared out at her, no hint of arrogance visible, the burning intensity of his eyes softened, a look of affection and admiration shining through, and a hint of a smile curling on his lips.
Nowhere in the drawing could she see the man who advised the brutal Comte de Anjou, the mounted chevalier from the wall hanging, wielding a bloody sword. Or the man with alarming sexual hunger who’d chased her like a predator chases prey because she ran from him. She grunted, dissatisfied with her effort. This would be the first drawing she’d have to scrap and start again. How could she have got it so wrong?
A knock interrupted her, and Anne bustled in, a bundle of clothing over her arm. She placed the items on the bed and moved to Erin’s side, looking over her shoulder at her newest creation.
“I haven’t quite finished yet,” said Erin, chewing on her thumbnail. “I think I may have to start again. His expression isn’t quite right.”
“It looks right to me. I saw him with that exact look only the other day.”
Erin looked at the drawing again. “You think so?” She held the parchment away from her, studying it. “Maybe.” She couldn’t deny it was Gaharet, but that expression, the gentleness of it, surprised her. Who would he have been looking at with that expression? Anne, perhaps? “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with that expression.”
“Then perhaps, when you next see him, you need to look a little closer.”
Erin screwed up her nose, pushing the drawing aside and setting down the quill. She didn’t need to be staring at Gaharet any more than she already did. It was embarrassing enough. He’d caught her in the act more than a few times.
“What are you afraid of, child? That you will see something you do not like, or something that you do?”
Erin stared at Anne for a moment, startled by the old woman’s perception, then dropped her gaze. Both. She feared both, but the latter more than anything.
She dipped her hands in the bowl of water, washing off the ink as best she could. “It’s best I don’t forget who he really is, what he stands for.”
“And what does he stand for?”
“You said it yourself, Anne. He’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants. He’ll use charm, wealth, or power, whatever it takes. And men like that never appreciate what they have.” Gaharet’s smiling eyes stared back at her and her conviction wavered. Could she have him all wrong?
“Whatever gave you that impression, child?”
Everything. His looks, his confidence, the way he stared at her, his gaze hot, his intentions clear. “He advises the Comte de Anjou. I know what Lothair is capable of, and he does it all with Gaharet at his side,” she said instead.
“Our comte is ruthless, I will grant you that, but Gaharet is a good man. There is none better in my opinion. Without Gaharet’s influence, we would see much worse from the Comte de Anjou.”
Of course Anne would believe that. She’d known Gaharet since he was born, helped raise him. Besides, if he was such a good man, as Anne professed, why hadn’t he helped her to get home? Why did he avoid talking about the amulet? Every time she raised the topic, he suddenly found somewhere else to be, something that needed his attention—accounts to be seen to, a sick farmer to visit, a new acquisition in the stables to appraise. Gaharet’s recalcitrance to discuss it was a never-ending source of frustration for her. The man was locked up tighter than Fort bloody Knox. No matter how hard she pressed, he would reveal nothing more.
“I’ve known men like him, Anne. Only heartache comes from pinning your hopes on them.”
