Page 15 of Wolf's Return
Hope died a vicious death, stomped on by the superstition of others.What had she expected? That the d’Louncrais villagers were any different from those of Langeais? Or any other village in the county? Of course they were not. But she would like to know more about this woman with eyes like hers. Could it be all who were born with the second sight were marked so? Her mother had been less than forthcoming on the matter than Constance would have liked. As if she, too, was unsure how to manage Constance and her affliction.
“I shall prepare a salve for you, Master Tumas, and deliver it on the morrow.” She glanced at Seigneur Gaharet. “If that is acceptable to you, Mon Seigneur?” She would like to talk to Master Tumas some more about this witch, but not here in front of all these people.
A big, black furry body pushed in between her and Tumas, forcing the farmer to shift along to make space. Monsieur D’Artagnon sat on the bench seat on his haunches, looking for all the world as though he planned to partake of the meal along with everyone else.
A hint of a smile crept across Seigneur Gaharet’s lips. “I will have someone to escort you on the morrow, Constance. But letit be known”—he raised his voice so all at the table could hear—“Constance is here at my request. There will be no casting her out for whatever nonsensical reason. And, if you have ailments, you will consult with Anne first. Anne will decide if your complaint requires Constance’s expertise.”
Nods and mumbled agreements rumbled around the table. With the arrival of platters piled high with food, the conversation and attention turned away, much to Constance’s relief.
Anne sat her sizable bulk on the other side of Constance, placed a bejeweled pewter goblet in front of her, and filled it with wine.
The cook handed her a knife with an elaborate carved handle. “Do not be shy, child. There is more than enough food to go around. And it all tastes wonderful, if I do say so myself.” Anne placed a plate in front of Constance and filled it with meat, bread and spoonfuls of thick stew. “Eat up now.”
Constance slid her grimoire beneath her bottom, safe from food spillage and prying eyes, and picked up the bread and dipped it into the stew. She did not have to look to know everyone was watching her. Maybe they were not staring outright, but from the corner of their eyes, or with furtive glances between bites of food, or over their fancy goblets. It was not the first time she had come under such scrutiny, so she did what she always did. She ignored it.
The big black wolf next to her was harder to ignore. His fur brushed her sleeve, and the warmth of his body seeped through to her skin. With his perpetual snarl, he stared down all who would look her way. If they were not already curious enough, having a scarred wolf, one of the d’Louncrais, sitting next to her and challenging everyone at the table, would assure her place in the village gossip tomorrow.
Constance shuffled the food about on her plate with the tip of her knife. More than she ever did when she visited the village of Langeais, she was conscious of her difference. It did not matter she was not the only peasant at the table. That beside her sat Anne, the cook, and across from her, the maid who had curtsied to her earlier. Half the village had to be here, comfortable in their place at Seigneur Gaharet’s table. Eating his food. Drinking his wine. Though she was here at his request, she was more an outsider than they were. What she would not give to be one of them. Someone who belonged.
“Tell me, child, what other herbs would you use to cure cranky old Tumas’ boils?” Anne leaned closer and gave a conspiratorial wink. “Though I have a right mind to let him suffer this one on his own.”
Constance set aside her knife, grateful for the distraction. “What herbs have you already tried?”
“Well now, I started with a warm compress, and while that helped some, it is a persistent lesion. I suspect Tumas, like most men, only adheres to my instructions when it suits him.”
On the other side of Monsieur D’Artagnon, Tumas grunted.
“Then I used chamomile flowers to soothe the redness, willow bark for the pain and honey to prevent infection.”
Constance nodded. “You have a good knowledge of herbs. I would only add scrapings from the bark of a slippery elm tree and wash it with some vinegar. Perhaps you are right, Anne. Many a patient ignores advice about their health.”
This time, both Tumas and Monsieur D’Artagnon huffed. Across the table, Seigneur Gaharet bit back a smile. Beside her, Anne beamed.
Constance picked up her knife and poked a piece of meat and chewed on it without tasting it. No matter how congenial, how much they tried to include her, she longed for the comfortable solitude of her rickety little cottage in the forest. She glanced atthe black wolf beside her. There she would be comfortable, but she would also be alone.
Chapter Eight
The little healer—Constance—was uncomfortable with the curiosity of the servants and the farmers, and with their attention. He had scented her unease the moment Anne had insisted she wear the blue dress, and her discomfort had only increased when they had entered the hall. Then Old Tumas had called her a witch. A growl rumbled in his chest, and he glared at the grizzled and grumpy farmer. Tumas had upset Constance.
D’Artagnon gritted his teeth.Why am I defending her? Protecting her? Caring howshefeels?Why had he leaped onto the seat, squeezing himself between Constance and that which disconcerted her? Thiswitchwith her angelicbraids peeking out from under her veil, and her pretty upturned nose, discussing herbs and poultices with Anne. He snorted. And his brother, openly grinning at him from across the table. Gaharet was as taken with her as Anne was. He had thought them both more shrewd than that.
Well, she would not foolhimwith her honeyed voice and her hesitant smiles. She would not work her magic onhim.
Old Tumas shrugged at him and turned his attention to his supper. D’Artagnon eyed the rest of those assembled at the table, snarling at any hint of a furtive glance. It rankled that he did so, that he could not stop himself. His brother’s continued amusement only infuriated him further. He growled at his brother. Gaharet chuckled.
His brother’s mate frowned at him. “What’s so funny?”
Gaharet leaned closer to her. “D’Artagnon.”
She raked her gaze over him. “Oh?” Her focus slid to Constance and her green eyes widened. “Oh.” A slow grin spread across her lips. “That’s a good thing.”
“It is,” his brother agreed. “A very good thing.”
What is?What were they talking about? Beside him, Constance toyed with her food. Other than her lack of appetite and her discomfort, nothing seemed amiss, nor struck him as something to be smiling about.
“D’Artagnon.” Gaharet gathered the green-eyed woman’s hand in his. “This is Erin. My mate.”
D’Artagnon quirked the eyebrow over his remaining eye. Did his brother think him witless because he would not shift? His senses were stronger than they had ever been. Years of using them to survive had honed them. He focused them on the woman now, searching beneath his brother’s musk, the heady aroma of sex and the scent of the pup in her womb. Confidence and curiosity surrounded her. Gaharet kissed his mate’s hand, and she softened against him. His brother had found a good mate. A strong one.
