Page 38 of Wolf's Return
He stared at her, a magnificent, scarred beast, his tongue sweeping out to lick his muzzle.
Her body came alive and her face heated, the memory of his tongue laving her nipple too recent. She wrapped her arms around herself. Could he scent her arousal? Read her thoughts?
“The water looked so inviting, I…” She swallowed.
A low rumble reverberated in his chest. She clenched her thighs together. Perhaps he was still suffering the effects of her potion. Or was something else happening here? As his shifting twice before, and the kiss she had thought but a dream, suggested?
She pushed away all memories of last eve. It did not matter. She had amends to make.
“I am going to come out now,” she warned him. “We need to talk.”
Monsieur D’Artagnon turned away and sat on his haunches, facing the forest. An ache formed in her chest. She did not merit such consideration after what she had done, yet still he had granted it to her.
Constance dressed, mindless of her chemise clinging to her wet body and the squelch of her wet feet in her boots. She kneeled in front of him. She would face this head on, let him know the truth, the sincerity of her words. “I deceived you.” Her voice echoed across the whisper of the forest. “I imagine you know what I am talking about.”
The black wolf snarled.
Constance firmed her resolve. “I made a potion from the leaves of the henbane plant, mandrake root and deadly nightshade berries, and Anne slipped it your food last eve.”
He made no move toward her, but his snarl remained.
“What happened…between you and me…when you shifted…” She dropped her gaze to her boots, sucking in a few deep breaths, before facing him again. She deserved his anger, the accusation in his eye. “You may not have been responsible for your actions. The potion is known to have that effect. And I made the potion strong.” She had come this far, she would not stop now. “The berries were a mistake.Imade a mistake, and I am sorry.”
Dark shadows flitted within the blue of his iris, and his fur rippled.
She swallowed, then lifted her chin, never more sure of her decision than she was right now. “I know what Seigneur Gaharet has asked of me, but I will not force you to shift. Not anymore.”
His eye narrowed, and he cocked his head.
“But I am going to help you.”
He would be wary, and though he was a wolf, a predator who feared few things, he was a wounded one. Like any patient, to help him, she must first gain his trust. After last night, she had much catching up to do.
“I have a few more herbs to collect”—she held up her basket—“then I shall return to the cottage and prepare us a noon meal.”She gathered up the hare. “This will make a lovely stew for supper.”
She set off along the path, sweeping the forest with a practiced eye, searching for the plants she would need. Monsieur D’Artagnon made no move to stop her, but his eye—which saw too much—followed her every step. This time, Constance made no attempt to conceal her intentions.
Chapter Twenty-Three
D’Artagnon fought the urge to shift, clinging to his wolf as though his life depended on it. Mayhap it did, despite her heart-felt apology. But his wolf did not care. Not since the moment he had found her by the pond, naked, her back to him, her clothes in a pile at her feet.
He had tried to block the images swirling in his mind. Of them together in the water, of him laying her naked in the shallows, his human body nestled between her pale thighs, but they had persisted as she had swum in the pond. Had his dropping of the hare not startled her, had she not turned around, he feared he would have shifted, intent on living out his imaginings.
He gnashed his teeth and shook himself, drawing on every ounce of control he had fostered over his long years in exile. He must resist her, as beguiling as she was. Now was not the time to let his base instincts reign. He knew this for a certainty when she kneeled by a bush and plucked a few of its leaves.
What had prompted her change of mind, he could not fathom, but he was wary of trusting it. This could be a ruse, though he sensed no lie in her words. She appeared to genuinely regret making the deadly nightshade potion. She also, much to his consternation, remained steadfast in her determination to help him. What that entailed, what the herbs would do, given she had professed she would no longer attempt to force him to shift, he could not fathom.
“A simple ward for around the cottage,” she explained, tucking the leaves into the basket.
He raised his eyebrow.A ward? For the cottage?
“Yes, Monsieur, I will ward the cottage. I have done so with every cottage I have ever lived in, and I have lived in many in my lifetime. I have warded my hut in the forest since the first day it became my home, though in my absence, its power will be waning.” A sadness descended over her like a thick blanket of winter snow. “It takes little for people’s gratitude for your healing abilities to change into anger and fear. Milk that turns sour, a hen that no longer lays eggs, a young boy taken by illness despite all your best efforts. It does not matter that you do not live in their village.” She raised her hand and swept it in an arc, taking in the forest. “Or that we appear to be far from the notice of anyone.”
D’Artagnon eyed her warily. Her body was loose and relaxed, and she maintained eye contact. More than any other human, Constance had knowledge of them. Pages of it in her precious grimoire. Information she could use to counter the advantage of his heightened senses. Was she using that knowledge now? Couching a lie amongst the truth?
Constance collected her basket and veered further off the trail, stopping at another plant. “Villagers are superstitious, and fear is a powerful emotion. My eyes have always caused concern and have made me a target more than most. The d’Louncrais village is the only one I have ever been in where people did not stare, or point fingers and whisper as I walked past.”
She kneeled, plucked a few leaves and added them to her collection. “It surprised me that day we visited Tumas and his daughter. Here I was, a stranger with two different colored eyes—no doubt rumors of me being a witch had already spread—and beside me, a big black wolf. You cannot imagine the furor, the panic had we walked into Langeais village like that. Yet nothing but greetings and smiles from the villagers.” Constance stood and regained the trail. “It would be a nice village to live in,the d’Louncrais village. The people are friendly, the cottages are sturdy. Seigneur Gaharet is as benevolent a seigneur as I have ever seen. It wouldbe a good life.”
