Page 12 of Wolf's Return
He fought the confounding sense of satisfaction that lodged in his chest and made himself comfortable beside the cold brazier. The last nine years had taught him much, but the most useful was patience. He would give his brother his few days, then he would return to hunting for his nemesis. Nothing, not his brother’s entreaties to remain in the keep, to shift, nor this woman who intrigued him so, would stop him from fulfilling his promise to his father. He would avenge his parents’ death, andhisnear death. If it was the last thing he did, D’Artagnon would see it done.
Chapter Six
Constance stood awkwardly in the room. She had never slept in a bed so grand. She had never slept inanyman’s bed, and certainly not one belonging to a member of the nobility. Monsieur D’Artagnon, no less. A black wolf.Anotherblack wolf. The thought had her heart fluttering.
The bed looked soft and the covers warm, but she would not be sleeping here alone. Her childhood vision poked at her mind, and a swirl of heat rushed across her skin. She placed her palm on her forehead. Was she coming down with some sort of fever? She dropped her hand. No. As a healer, she knew better. The reminder of her vision, and the intensity of his regard, had more to do with the tingling in her body than any possible malaise.
Awareness flickered in the black wolf’s eye. Not only the knowing of a wolf, but the intelligence of a man. A battle-hardened chevalier, and a man who, she presumed, had spent years as a wolf surviving alone in the woods. Constance had firsthand experience of how hard it was to eke out a living from the forest. It was only through the charity of the Langeais villagers she could manage it.
As a wolf, he would have advantages she did not. His ability to hunt, for one. But Monsieur D’Artagnon had lived his whole life on a wealthy estate with far more comforts than all but a few would ever experience, surrounded by people—his brother, the servants, the villagers. There were hardships beyond the physical with a life lived in the forest, as Constance knew well.
A manservant arrived with a scoop of glowing coals and placed them into the brazier, before departing without a word.
A young maid followed, with a pitcher of water and a fresh linen. “Shall I assist you with your clothes, Mademoiselle?”
Constance shook her head. “Thank you, no. I can manage.” She had managed for almost her entire life.
The servant girl curtsied before Constance could stop her.
“Please. There is no need for that.”L’enfer, she was but a peasant.
The girl curtsied again. “Of course, Mademoiselle.”
Constance sighed. What would the servants think of her when they discovered she was no more entitled to such treatment than they were?
“If that is all, Mademoiselle…”
“Thank you.”
The girl beat a hasty retreat, leaving her alone with Monsieur D’Artagnon once more.
The black wolf had not taken his eyes off her for one moment. He did not trust her. That much was clear. Not since she had outlined the choices for a cure to Seigneur Gaharet. His resistance would make her task harder, and she did not want to fail. Could notaffordto fail. Her life was precarious enough. Sheneededthe protection the Langeais wolves could give her.
“Your brother is very concerned about you, Monsieur D’Artagnon. About your inability to shift.”
The black wolf cocked his head, ears pricked.
“About what has happened to you, and where you have been all these years.” Constance unpinned her head veil, set it aside, and unfurled her braids from around her head. She untied the bands around the ends and raked her fingers through the braids, teasing them apart. “Do you not feel safe surrounded by your pack? Seigneur Gaharet is a strong wolf. Together, and withSeigneur Ulrik and Monsieur Aimon, surely one traitorous wolf could not prevail.”
Constance turned her back on him, though the skin on her neck prickled, and poured water from the pitcher into the bowl. There was something teetering on the edge of her vision, a sense that there was more, but it would not reveal itself for her to see. Sometimes that was the way of her visions. Nothing more than a vague sense—something beyond the reach of her understanding. A foreboding.
“Whatever you may believe, Monsieur D’Artagnon, I am trying to help you.”
The wolf gave an indignant huff.
Constance pulled at the stays of her dress. “My ancestors knew much about your kind. My grimoire is full of records of our dealings with the Langeais wolves. Something in there is bound to assist us. Something far kinder than silver.”
Constance was not so sure of that. As a young girl, enamored with the Black Wolf, she had devoured those pages. Nothing she had read—in the records, the spells, the potions, or in the legend of the first Black Wolf—would aid her now. She would search through them all the same. Maybe she had missed something.
She slipped her soft wool overdress off and laid it across a chest. “Do you not want to tell your brother of the man who gave you those scars?” If only she could command a vision forth of the traitor’s face, or the knowledge of a name. “It would be of great help to your pack. They have suffered much at his hand.”
Was he watching her still? Her fingers trembled. Did she want him to be watching as she prepared for bed? It was not like she would be naked. She was wearing her chemise. It should be no different than if she bedded down with the servants, sharing a room and a sleeping pallet. But her body was convinced this was different.
With her mouth suddenly drier than the bark of an old river birch, she removed her underdress and set it aside, too. Goosebumps prickled across skin laid bare.
Pull yourself together, Constance.
She dipped her hands into the water and splashed it onto her heated face, neck, arms and legs. She dried her damp skin with the fresh linen, having regained some measure of calm, and turned to face him. He had not moved.
