Page 8 of Wolf's Return
“Anne, wereyouaware of this?” asked Seigneur Gaharet.
“No. All I was told was that Marie was in desperate need of work and a roof over her head. I assumed she had arrived from another estate, a product of some scandal.”
“I think Victor and I are going to have a little talk about him keeping secrets.” Gaharet turned back to her. “So, my father knew of you and your mother.”
Constance nodded. “Oh, yes. As did your mother. She was there that night.”
Should she reveal the black wolf’s secret? His blue gaze bored into her. She kept silent.
Seigneur Gaharet rubbed a hand across his chin. “And your mother was also a witch, like you, with knowledge of our kind?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know this, Anne?”
Anne pursed her lips. “As if I would keep such knowledge from you if I did. All those months poring over those scrolls in the library… And Aimon. As if I would let him suffer like that had I known there was a way to ease him through the turning.” Anne huffed. “You wound me, Gaharet. Jacques kept this a secret. Even from me.”
“A feat in itself,” muttered Seigneur Gaharet. “But…did you not help my mother through her turning?”
“Why, yes. I did. But Jacques banished me from his chamber for the first few days. He said he wished to care for his mate. Alone. Growled at me when I tried to insist on helping the lass.”
Seigneur Gaharet sighed. “For whatever reason, Constance, my father took his knowledge of you and your mother to his grave. And we, as a pack, have been the poorer for it.” Seigneur Gaharet placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Soon, Constance, you and I are going to have a long overduediscussion about all that you know of us, of our kind. Right now, however, I need your help. D’Artagnon needs your help.”
The dark eyes of the man she had once thought would take her as his mate regarded her. They did not plead. They were not solemn. Rather, they held a certainty more familiar withhervisions. He believed in her, and in her ability to help his brother.
The skin on the back of Constance’s neck prickled. The black wolf had moved closer and was barely steps away. She stilled. He focused on her, as though she were the only person in the room. What was going through his mind? Did he resent her presence? Or was he merely curious?
The black wolf sniffed and turned away. He picked up a raw haunch of venison and padded over to lie by the fire. This wolf was damaged—physically and, if he truly was stuck, possibly mentally. Would hewanther help? But, if they could not help him, he may never return to human form again.
Chapter Four
D’Artagnon lay by the fire chewing on the haunch, swiveling his ears from one voice to the next, listening to the conversation at the table. The tall thin man had silently slipped away, as a good servant does. Gascon. Brother to Anne, steward to D’Artagnon’s father and now to his brother. All the servants were from one extended family, if his memory served him. They overran the whole keep.
Anne, a not-so-good servant, had retreated to the kitchen. A wise thing, because he had yet to forgive her for the slap across his snout. Mayhap he had let her treat him such as a young man. As a wolf, he would no longer tolerate such an affront.
The others sat around the table discussing him as though he were not only a wolf, but also hard of hearing.
“Maybe he has been a wolf for so long, he does not want to return to human form,” suggested Aimon. “It is exhilarating being a wolf, running through the forest and chasing prey.”
D’Artagnon grunted. The white wolf was young, in body and in wolf, still but a pup filled with the exuberance of his new existence.
“Tell me you felt nothing, Aimon, when Gaharet commanded D’Artagnon to shift?” demanded Ulrik. “My wolfcowered, andIwas once foolhardy enough to challenge Gaharet for leadership of the pack.”
D’Artagnon dropped the haunch. Ulrik hadchallengedGaharet? That would explain the scars at his throat and the raspiness of his voice. His brother had faced so much while hehad been gone. Alone. His lip curled in a silent snarl. One more thing his enemy would pay for.
“No,” said Ulrik, the certainty in his voice ringing clear. “The D’Artagnon I remember as a boy was a follower, not a leader. He is stuck.”
D’Artagnon sniffed and resumed chewing on the bone, tearing at the sinew.
“Perhaps…” A rap of fingers on the table.
D’Artagnon swiveled his ears toward the older man. The one Gaharet had called Farren. Kathryn’s father. His mother’s brother.
“I confess,” said Farren, “I know little of being a werewolf, but would I be correct in assuming those scars on his body would ordinarily have been enough to kill a werewolf?”
His brother tilted his head and regarded Farren. “Possibly.”
“And being in your wolf form, you are stronger, are you not?”
