Page 3 of Wolf's Return
Constance wavered. His voicedidsound familiar. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Seigneur Gaharet was in hiding from his own pack. Two wolves had tracked Seigneur Ulrik through the storm.
“Do you remember when we first met? When you found me slouched in the grass watching your cottage? I had hidden myself at the edge of the forest, but you found me all the same. As though you sensed I was there.”
She remembered. A white wolf with bright blue eyes. He had followed Seigneur Gaharet. A protector, bound to his maker by a bond of blood and teeth only death could break.
“Do you remember what you said to me that night? You said, ‘Heed my words, wolf. That which was thought lost you will find. Hidden in plain sight, it is time for its presence to be felt. Guard it well and the reward shall be yours.’” He chuckled. “I dismissed your words as some nonsensical riddle. But you were right, Constance. I found that which was lost. It was Kathryn. A she-wolf unknown to us. My mate.”
Another wolf had found his mate? Yes, she could sense it around him now, and it only added to the deep knot of misery sitting heavy in her chest. Yet, he had spoken true. Shehadpredicted it. The man who stood on the other side of her door was Monsieur Aimon, the white wolf.
Constance set the knife down, removed the wooden barricade and opened the door. Blue eyes framed by white-blond hair stared down at her.
“Gaharet has requested your presence at the d’Louncrais Keep,” said Aimon. “We have need of your skills.”
“Seigneur Gaharet has returned to his keep?”
“Yes. Much has changed since we last met.” Concern flickered in his eyes. “Will you come, Constance?”
“Of course I will come, but is there not a healer in the d’Louncrais village? It is quite a journey from here.”
“No other healer will suffice. We needyourparticular skills, and your knowledge of us.”
Oh.Constance stepped away from the door. “Come in. Let me set you some food and drink while I collect my things.”
With Monsieur Aimon seated at her table, a bowl of venison stew and a mug of mead in front of him, Constance grabbed a small sack from a hook on the wall. “Tell me of the injury or illness so that I may bring the correct herbs?”
“It is not an injury of body, but…”
She raised her eyebrows. “Another turning?”
She had received no vision of it. She had already prepared an herbal potion for Seigneur Ulrik’s mate, Rebekah’s turning, when a d’Louncrais’ servant had arrived requesting one, but they had not asked her to deliver it in person.
Constance collected the herb pots she would need, wrapped them in cloth and placed them carefully in her sack along with the preparation for the Dufont boy. They would pass through Langeais Village, and she could deliver it then. She put out the fire and grabbed her cloak. From memory, the d’Louncrais keep was a half day’s ride.
Monsieur Aimon shook his head. “It is not a turning. It is…” His forehead settled into a frown. “Best you see for yourself.”
“Oh.” Her gaze darted to her grimoire. “I shall bring this then.”
Constance scooped up the book and cradled it against her chest. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
Chapter Two
The black wolf yawned and stretched out his body, the heat from the flames in the central fire pit easing some of the stiffness in his old injuries. It had been many winters since he had enjoyed the warmth of a blaze, a rug beneath his bones and the security of four walls surrounding him. He could take a moment to enjoy it.
The familiarity of this hall soothed him, with its large oak table where he had enjoyed many a meal, the fresh meadowsweet rushes that covered the floor and the flicker of the oil lamps that gave the air a smoky haze. But his keen eyes noted the changes. There were wolves here he had not met, living in this keep, if his nose did not betray him. It never did.
The uproar his arrival had produced had died down. His brother had stopped asking him to shift, and they had all settled at the table to discuss him, resigned to await the return of a white-haired chevalier he did not recognize. Gaharet had sent him for a healer the moment his brother had set eyes on him.
D’Artagnon huffed. His scars were old and he had long grown accustomed to them. There was nothing even the most skilled of healers could do for them now. Nor would he want them to. They were a reminder of his purpose, of his failure. Every twinge, each time the skin pulled tight, every time he blinked his one good eye, it fueled the coals of his rage and stoked his determination. He had no need of a healer.
The thin, balding human who had shown him to the hall—he remembered him, though the servant’s hair was grayer andthinner now. The sandy-haired wolf had once been a childhood friend. Ulrik? They had sent him away after some trouble.
There was a human male, vaguely familiar, who he could not quite place, and with him a redheaded she-wolf. An image of another redheaded woman, one with eyes blue like his own and a fiery temper, hovered in his mind. His mother. This she-wolf reminded him of her.Is this female my sister? He did not remember having a sister. From the matching color of their eyes, she was kin to the human male. The human male was most definitelynothis father. That was a face he remembered well.
Another unfamiliar she-wolf had fled the hall the moment the kitchen maids arrived with the midday meal, one hand on her stomach and the other covering her mouth. His brother’s scent on her had been strong, though not strong enough to mask the pup growing in her womb.
In his absence, his brother had found his mate. A good thing, a wonderful thing, but it gave him pause. He had come here with the purpose of reuniting with his brother, of fighting side by side with him once again, but his brother’s circumstances had changed. His brother had a mate now, and the future of the d’Louncrais line to protect.
