Page 67 of Wolf's Return
D’Artagnon grunted. He would try, but nothing, not Didier, not Faucher, would stand in his way when it came to Constance. If they did, their life was forfeit.
Gaharet beckoned Remi over. “Take the boy with you. He could prove useful.”
D’Artagnon nodded. “Gaharet”—he faced his brother, shaking out his limbs in preparation for his shift—“when you find Lance, kill him slowly.”
Gaharet squeezed his good shoulder, a hard glint in his eyes. “You have my word.”
Lothair might be certain Faucher would confine Kathryn beneath the Langeais chapel, but D’Artagnon would trust his nose over the comte any day. He called forth his wolf. Dark hair sprouted across his naked body, and with a crack and pop of bones sliding, readjusting and realigning, D’Artagnon dropped to all fours. The awe, the longing in Lothair’s eyes, he ignored. His brother could deal with the comte. D’Artagnon had his mate to find.
On swift paws, he flew down the back stairs, through the kitchen and into the bailey. He skirted the keep guards, their shouts, their wary eyes following him, and raced down the hill and beneath the portcullis. All the while, he kept his nose to the ground, following the trail left by the banished stable hand and Constance.
He had barely made it into the forest when the trail went cold, but the pile of fresh manure told him what had happened. Didier had mounted a horse. It did not matter. D’Artagnon could track the horse as easily as he could Didier. He picked up its scent and set off after it. As he bounded through the forest, Aubert and Edmond, mounted on horseback, flanked him. The boy, Remi, bouncing along in his saddle behind them. As D’Artagnon crossed out of d’Louncrais territory, a familiar presence tracked alongside them. Vladimir.
He settled into a loping gait.I am coming, Constance.He would not return without her.
Chapter Forty-One
The early rays of morn were turning the walls of Langeais a soft golden color as Didier guided the poor lathered horse from the gloom of the forest. Constance’s whole body ached—from sitting behind Didier on the horse, jolted by every stride, and from holding on tight, her arms clasped about his waist so she would not fall off.
Many a time on their journey through the night she had contemplated letting go, sliding off the back of the horse, but Constance had tended many a patient who had fallen from a horse. Broken bones, a cracked skull. A fall at that pace could have been fatal. Perhaps she would have a better chance of evading him in the streets of Langeais.
Didier—Constance could not bring herself to acknowledge the man as her father—dismounted at the gate, dragging her from the horse and into the village.
He handed the animal to a beggar boy with a few coins. “Take her to the stables.” He fisted his hand in the boy’s worn shirt, dragging him close. “Do not think of double crossing me, boy. I will hunt you down and you will regret the day you were born when I am through with you.”
The boy nodded, his eyes wide. “Oui, Monsieur. I will take the horse to the stables, as you say.”
Didier let the boy go, cuffing him across the ear. “See that you do.” The boy hurried the horse away, and Didier hauled her along the street.
If she could get free, maybe she could lose him in the crowd. She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. “Where are you taking me?”
Didier smirked. “I never imagined I had a daughter. But now I know I do, you are going to earn your keep.”
What did he mean by that?
As Didier weaved his way through the streets, Constance searched the people they passed—merchants, nobles, villagers—looking for a kind face, someone who might help her. Madam Dufont, her little boy in tow, turned her head away as they walked past. A merchant, whose boils she had prepared a poultice for, refused to look at her. The drunken blacksmith who had burned himself in his own forge, the girl from the pleasure house with the unwanted pregnancy—all these people she had helped, and none of them would come to her aid.
Constance was on her own. She eyed the dagger strapped to Didier’s leg. Unlike Kathryn, she had not the skill to brandish it like a sword, but Erin was right. She was a powerful witch. She was not without a weapon. All she needed was a drop of her own blood.
She would have to be careful. Cries of witchcraft in the Langeais village would attract the comte. And Didier knew what she was and what she was capable of. She would need to distract him.
“You say you are my father. How can you be certain?” She edged closer as he tugged her along, keeping her hand low. “My mother never mentioned you.”
Didier shoved his lank hair out of his eyes. “Just like Helene, always asking questions, demanding answers. You women never learn when to hold your tongue.”
Constance swallowed but pushed on as they entered the busy square. “You said I have your mother’s eyes. Is she still alive? Is she a healer, too?” A man jostled her shoulder and her fingersbrushed the sheath. If she could grasp the hilt, she need not draw the full blade. A nick of her skin was all she required.
“Healer?” Didier snorted, dragging her close. “My mother is a witch to the core.”
She grasped the hilt and tugged. The blade slid up, but before she could nick herself, he stepped back. She eyed the crowd, waiting for the moment she would have reason to bump into him, get close again. “I would like to meet her. I have never met another like me.”
“You think you are stronger than Helene, girl? That you would be a match for yourgrand-mére?” Didier barked out a laugh. “Meeting my mother was enough to make Helene flee.”
Villagers gathered around a market stall of fabrics. If she could…
“Once boiled a man alive because he crossed her, she did.”
Constance gasped. Nausea swirled in her gut and Constance shivered. “Cordelia?” Could it be…? No. Tumas had been but a boy when the witch Cordelia had boiled the blood of farmer Brun.
