Page 17 of Wolf's Return
Constance awoke to darkness broken only by the soft, orange glow of waning coals in the brazier. Cocooned in delicious softness, a heavy weight rested on her chest. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.Monsieur D’Artagnon? She could barely make out a lump of midnight fur, two twitching ears and the glint of his eye. His large head so close his breath fanned across her chin. He had slept beside her?All night?When had he moved from the foot of the bed? She had always slept lightly. How had she not stirred?
Suddenly the weight was gone, and the dark outline of a wolf slipped off the bed and materialized by the brazier in the corner. Constance felt the absence.
She might not have awoken, but she had dreamed. Of a man, a glorious, naked man, standing beside the bed. With one pale blue eye, and a lock of dark hair hiding the scar where his other eye should be, he had stared down at her. Her body tingled. Was that what he would look like were he to shift into a man? Muscled, strong, a little wild and untamed? It was a fanciful notion, but an appealing one.
Constance peeled back the covers and slipped from the bed. With the glint of the wolf’s gaze following her, she crossed to the window and threw open the shutters. Light streamed in, the sun hovering well above the horizon.L’enfer. Below, the bailey bustled with activity—servants, farmers, workers on the estate—all going about their daily business.
“I have slept late.” Constance splashed water on her face, washed the sleep from her eyes and toweled herself dry. “What will Seigneur Gaharet think of me?”
The wolf tilted his head at her, his ears flicking forward.
“He did not call me here to laze about in bed all day. I have a task to complete.”
The black wolf growled. He might have slept curled against her side, his head on her chest, but that had not changed how he felt about her reason for being here. Constance sighed and dropped the damp linen beside the washbowl. Dreaming about Monsieur D’Artagnon might be the closest she would ever get to him.
Constance hastened to dress, snatched up her grimoire then headed down the stairs. Monsieur D’Artagnon, like an ominous shadow, trailed along behind as she followed the sound of voices to the hall.
She paused in the doorway. They were all here. Seigneur Gaharet and his mate, Erin. Monsieur Aimon and his mate, Kathryn. Seigneur Ulrik and hismate, Rebekah. Pale with dark shadows beneath her eyes, Rebekah leaned against Ulrik, a contented smile on her lips. The green streaks in her hair remained, but the silver jewelry in her ears and nose were gone. She had undergone her turning.
The only other human in the room, Seigneur Farren, sat by his daughter. She could only presume his mate…wife…had passed. She looked closer. Yes. The aura of grief long borne hovered over him, etched in the lines on his face and the acceptance of loss in his eyes. Her heart reached out to him. Sitting amongst all the happily mated couples would be hard for him, too.
A tight band squeezed at Constance’s chest, all the more constricting as a certainty settled over her. Another presence was making itself known. She shifted her gaze to Dame Erin. Yes. There. Dame Erin was with child. A little girl. Her nostrilsflared. Could she have… Had her vision been ofErinand Seigneur Gaharet andtheirdaughter? Had she mistaken Erin for herself all those years ago? She glanced at the black wolf beside her. Was it wrong to hope she had not?
The conversation halted, and Seigneur Gaharet turned. “Good morrow, Constance. I trust you slept well.”
Constance dipped her head. “Thank you, yes.” Too well. She forced herself to walk over to the table. “I am sorry I slept so late and kept you waiting. The bed was…”
Seigneur Gaharet waved her excuses aside with a smile. Relieved, Constance slid into a seat beside Seigneur Farren, finding comfort in solidarity. Monsieur D’Artagnon made himself comfortable by the fire pit. She set her book on the table.
Seigneur Gaharet steepled his fingers and leaned toward her. “Have you found anything more in your tome, Constance? Anything that may assist D’Artagnon to shift?”
Constance opened her grimoire, flicked through it until she came to the pages of the secret script, devoted to the Langeais wolves.
Erin rubbed her hands together, her eyes bright. “Ever since I spotted this in your cottage, I’ve wanted to have a look inside. An honest to goodness witch’s grimoire. Oh, my!”
Before Constance could stop her, Erin leaned across, grabbed the book and slid it across the table. Constance stifled her dismay.
“Look, Gaharet. It’s in the Theban alphabet. The script on your amulets. How is this possible?” Erin turned a few pages forward, then a few pages back. “All of it. No, wait. Some of it’s in Latin.” She paused on a page. “This is an herbal tincture for boils.” She flicked to the next page. “Here’s one for the Sweating Sickness.” She turned another page. “And this one is for Bloody Flux. This is quite a comprehensive text, Constance. Far better, and far more advanced than Bard’s Leechbook. Not asingle recommendation to stick barley into one’s ear, or to smear beetroot on one’s face. Wait a minute. It’s written in Latin.” She looked up at Constance. “You read Latin?”
Constance nodded. “My mother tau—”
Dame Erin blushed. “I’m sorry. Of course you do. It’s your book. It’s just that…my knowledge of this time period was that most peasants were illiterate. But Theban…” Dame Erin turned more pages. “This script… There’s no recorded examples of it until thesixteenthcentury.” She fingered the pages reverently. “And this book is old.Now. In thetenthcentury.” Two little frown lines appeared between her eyebrows, and she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. “I wonder where the alphabet truly originated fro—”
Seigneur Gaharet took the book from her hands and placed it back in front of Constance. “Now is not the time for that, Erin.”
Dame Erin reached for it. “But—”
Seigneur Gaharet took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Another time, love. We have more important things to discuss right now.”
Constance swallowed down the lump in her throat and fixed her gaze on her book, the characters dancing before her eyes. She had once thought this man, Seigneur Gaharet, would take her as his mate. Seeing the two of them together, the bond between them—never were two people meant to be together more.
Constance had to force herself to not look at Monsieur D’Artagnon, to keep her focus on Dame Erin. She cleared her throat. “Twins.”
Dame Erin raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
Constance pointed to the characters on the page. “The sacred script of the Langeais wolves was a language created centuries ago by twins in my coven. They used it to communicate with each other.”
“Twins. How intriguing. I wonder how it came to be—”
