Page 31 of Wolf's Return
“It is possible,” said Constance. “Fear is a powerful motivation, and it affects people in different ways. I will make a few changes to the herbs I have been giving you and perhaps change the wording of the spell. We will see if that helps. I am sorry this is resting all on you, Kathryn. I had hoped…”
The room fell silent. The ruff on his neck rose as they all stared at him through the open doorway.
Erin’s green gaze met his as she laid a comforting hand on Constance’s shoulder. “You’ll get through to him. I have every faith in you.”
D’Artagnon yawned, got to his feet and stretched. Beyond the large entrance doors, the sounds of the servants making their way up the hill for supper reached his ears. He turned his back on the women and padded into the hall. Mayhap this would be the meal Anne tried to slip the potion into his food.
Chapter Seventeen
Constance climbed the stairs to her bedchamber, her heart beating a little faster than it should. Had Anne laced Monsieur D’Artagnon’s food with her potion? Anne’s wink suggested she had. The black wolf sniffing and tasting his food, then eating it with gusto, implied she had not. As inconspicuously as she could, Constance had observed Anne serve Monsieur D’Artagnon’s meal—slices of meat bloody and partially raw, chunks of bread lathered with butter and large helpings of the vegetable stew.
It would have to be in the stew. There was nowhere else to hide it. If the old cook had slipped anything into it, she had been fast. So fast Constance had not caught her. Perhaps living with werewolves her whole life gave her an advantage.
The following hours would tell if Anne had succeeded. Constance had never gotten the chance. Not with the black wolf’s singular gaze following her every move. He had suspected she was planning something. It had been hard to disguise. Had he recognized any of the plants she collected?
Anne had known, but would he? Monsieur D’Artagnon was a chevalier. In his youth, before he had sustained his injuries, he would have focused on his training. But there were years of his life not accounted for. Years where he had spent doing who knew what. Surviving, yes, but where? And with whom? There was no accounting for what he knew now, and Monsieur D’Artagnon was not talking.
As usual, Monsieur D’Artagnon followed her into the bedchamber. Constance, as she had every night she had been here, placed her grimoire beside her pillow and undid the braids in her hair. She removed her clothing but for her chemise, washed down her face and prepared her ward around the bed. She did not want him thinking this night was any different from any other.
Constance hopped into bed and pulled the covers up. “Goodnight, Monsieur. Pleasant dreams.”
It would take time for the herbs to work. If she had the dosage correct. She snuggled into the soft mattress and closed her eyes. If not, she would try again on the morrow.
* * * *
Constance stirred and her eyes fluttered open. The coals in the brazier had burned down and the chill night air had seeped into the bedchamber. During the night, she had rolled onto her side and pulled the covers up under her chin, but something was different. Something had disturbed her sleep. A noise? Was her spell working?
She listened, not daring to move.There.A pop and crack, and a subtle change of weight at the foot of the bed. More pops and cracks.
Is he shifting?
For all her knowledge of werewolves, she had never witnessed one shift before. Dare she risk a peek?
The bed dipped, and a warm body, far too big to be a wolf, curled in behind her. A hot breath brushed against her cheek, and an all too human arm snaked over her and pulled her close. Constance’s heart fluttered. She did not move. She yearned to turn over and look upon the man that was Monsieur D’Artagnon. If she gave in to her desire, he might startle and revert to wolf form. She could not risk it.
Soft lips dropped kisses against the bare skin of her neck.Oh my. Those oft spoke about consequences had made an appearance. Her spell was workingtoowell. The hand about her waist dipped lower, holding her firmly in place as his hips ground into her bottom from behind. Despite the thickness of the covers between them, there was no mistaking the effect her potion was having on him.
Constance shivered, but her body flushed with heat. His warm lips moved up the column of her throat and, Mother help her, she arched her neck to give him greater access. A lick of her earlobe, and a nibble, just like in her…
Like in her dream.
Constance rolled over. The light from the coals was soft, but as her eyes adjusted, she got her first look at Monsieur D’Artagnon the man. No. Not her first look. She had seen this man before. Standing over her, watching her sleep, and again a few eves’ past. That nose, the untamed beard, the puckered skin of his scar beneath a lock of black hair where his eye had once been. This was her dream D’Artagnon. Except…he wasnota dream. He was here. Real. Shifted. And as she stared at his face, it was clear to her this wasnotthe first time.
Constance opened her mouth, and he dove right in, stealing her words before she had the chance to utter them. With his mouth, with his tongue delving deep, speaking of all manner of carnal sins, he swept away all her thoughts, all her shock. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the solid feel of him, the heat of his skin, and the musky swirl of his scent that surrounded them both. Her hands, as though they knew their own mind, trailed over his shoulders, around his neck and she twirled her fingers in his hair.
She should not encourage him. She shouldstophim. He was not in control of his actions. Were it not for her potion… But she had not given him anything yestreen, and her dream… She triedto grasp hold of her thoughts, make sense of them, but when he rolled her under him, parted her thighs beneath the covers and slipped between them, she lost the fight. She let her concerns slide away, too caught up in what was happening to care. With a moan, she pressed her hips to his, seeking the delicious rub of his length against her core. Chasing the promise of her vision.
He tugged at the covers, pulling them down to her waist, and her nipples puckered, but not from the cool night air seeping through her thin chemise. His large hand cupped her breast, and she pushed against his palm, offering him her body. Never had she thought herself so brazen, so demanding. To forget who, what, she was. A mere peasant and an outcast. And he a d’Louncrais. She had taken such care when handling the berries and the herbs, but maybe, somehow, she had absorbed some of their properties through her skin.
He groaned against her mouth, pinching her nipple, and heat rippled through her, intense and far beyond anything she had experienced before. The whisper of his beard as he dropped kisses across her jawline, down to nuzzle at her neck only heightened the sensation. With a tug on the neckline of her thin chemise, he tore it, laying her bare from neck to hips. He stilled, and Constance held her breath, not daring to move lest he came to his senses. Not wanting this moment to end.
Oh, Constance. You are surely going to hell for this.
But would she? Had he not shifted yestreen? Had they not found themselves right here until sleep had claimed her? Taking advantage of Monsieur D’Artagnon when he was in this condition, while her potion influenced his actions was wrong, but…was she? Was this happeningonlybecause of her spell, or was something else at work? Something more in line with her vision?
It did not matter, because—Mother forgive her—she could not bring herself to make him stop.
Monsieur D’Artagnon stared down at her naked breasts, his chest heaving. Muted light from the coals in the fire bathed his face, and dark shadows shifted in his eye. With a rumble of sound, he dipped his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth. Constance grabbed hold of his shoulders and held on, arching her back and pressing her head deep into the downy pillow. She found it hard to breathe, her body a riot of sensations. Any thought of pushing him away scorched from her mind like the fog of a winter’s morn burned away by the sun. She embraced the heat, her desire, and squirmed against him. Wanting more.Needingmore.
