Page 55 of Wolf's Return
He shook his head. “What happened between us that night was not because of some…potion. It happened because I wanted it to.” He had not spoken so many words since before his exile, but it was important she did not doubtanythingthat had happened between them. “Constance, I have wanted you from the moment I skulked in the grass near your cottage, watching you through the storm.”
He dropped his arms and stepped away from her. Before Aimon could say anything more, before he could change hismind, D’Artagnon shifted. His heart aching, but his mind clear, he went in search of Lance Vautour.
His words buzzing around in her mind, Constance tracked the black wolf until he disappeared into the forest. He had wanted her. From the moment he had… The presence she had sensed in the rain-drenched forest the night Seigneur Ulrik had stumbled into her cottage. It had been him. He had wanted her, and now he was gone. Despite her words, her prediction.
The shadow, the vision, that had hovered on the edge of her sight had come to her. And as the meaning became clear, that deceitful thread of hope had wound around her heart, before it had snapped as easily as the first thin film of ice on a pond in winter. It had not mattered her words’ true intent. D’Artagnon had made his choice. To hunt down the traitor on his own.
Mayhap he would not return. She stared at the forest, the black wolf no longer visible. He had gone to spare his brother, but every bit of her second sight told her D’Artagnon believedhewould not survive this.
Aimon stepped up beside her. “Come, Constance. We need to get back to the keep. Gaharet will want to go after him.”
Constance nodded. “I shall fetch my grimoire.”
Inside the cottage, the evidence of their days together remained, the covers on the cot rumpled from their night of passion. Constance blinked back the sting of tears. The healer in her understood he had to leave. That he would not rest until he sated his need for vengeance that roiled within him. That his need to protect his brother and his pack came first.
The woman in her mourned he had not chosen her. That his grief and his anger were too big, too all-encompassing she had not been able to reach him. That their time together, their night spent in each other’s arms, had not swayed him from his path. There had been a chance for them, for a mate bond to form, buthe had not been able to let his feelings of betrayal go. Perhaps he never would.
A hollowness settled in her chest. Constance closed her eyes, holding in the tears. She would keep the memory of these days in the forest close, cherish it. It may well be all that sustained her through the years ahead.
“Constance?”
Aimon’s voice snapped her from her misery. She left the cottage, her grimoire cradled to her chest, her hopes and dreams, her childhood vision, no more than the burned ash and blackened coals of last eve’s fire.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The ride back to the keep passed in a blur. Aimon pushed the horses hard, forcing Constance to focus on holding on to the horse, leaving her little time to dwell on her thoughts. The bailey bustled with activity as they rode up the hill to the keep—stable hands bringing out horses and groomsmen rushing around to saddle them.
In the hall, the scene was no less chaotic. Servants rushed about doing Constance knew not what, with Gascon and Anne directing them. Erin, Kathryn and Bek helped Seigneurs Gaharet, Farren and Ulrik into their armor. Another two huge men, twins, already armored, stood with them planning strategy. After the quiet of the cottage, the noise, the busyness, the people—too many people—grated against the frayed edges of her emotions.
Constance stood in the doorway, tempted to run and return to the forest hut. Or perhaps back to her own humble cottage, where memories of D’Artagnon would not assault her bruised heart.
Seigneur Gaharet raised his head as Aimon rushed over. “Good. You have returned.” He peered over Aimon’s shoulder at Constance and beyond to the empty doorway. “Where is D’Artagnon?”
Aimon pressed his lips together. “When I got there, he was in human form.” Aimon shook his head. “But once I told him we knew who the traitor was, he shifted back. He has gone after Lance on his own.”
“Merde.”
Seigneur Gaharet’s dark gaze met hers. She saw no judgment there, only pity.
He turned to his men. “We ride out now for the Vautour estate. I will not have D’Artagnon face this threat alone. Anne, Gascon, I leave it to you to see to it our mates are safe. Organize the men to man the walls. And lower the portcullis when we leave. Lance will not know we are coming for him. He is most likely lying low with Eveque Faucher hunting him, but I will not take unnecessary risks.”
Constance’s blood chilled. Eveque Faucher? Was he the priest of her vision?
Erin, lacing up Seigneur Gaharet’s vambrace, scrunched up her face. “If Lanceislying low, then he probably won’t remain at his estate, will he?”
“No, you are right, Erin,” admitted Seigneur Gaharet. “But where would he go? Where would he hide?”
Ulrik pulled his hauberk over his head and growled. “I know where he will be. There is a pleasure house in Langeais…” He avoided looking at his mate, his expression uncharacteristically bashful.
Bek crossed her arms over her chest, quirked an eyebrow and tapped her foot on the floor. “Go on.”
“I have not left your side since we met, Rebekah, but…” Ulrik sighed. “Itisa place I once frequented. A lot.BeforeI met you. I have seen Lance there many a time over the years.”
Bek appeared mollified.
“I know the place,” said Seigneur Gaharet. “Those women keep more secrets than the priests taking confessional. It is the perfect place to hide.” He strapped his sword to his waist. “We ride to Langeais. If we are lucky, it will take D’Artagnon some time to track Lance from his estate to Langeais. If he has gone wolf, let us hope he will not risk entering the village.”
Some of the tightness loosened in Constance’s chest. She forced her emotions to calm so she could bring forth her second sight. To be of some help. Could she get a clear vision of D’Artagnon? Of Seigneur Gaharet finding him before he confronted Lance? A sense, a knowing D’Artagnon would survive? Her gift, her curse, remained stubbornly silent.
