Page 21 of Master Wolf
“So,” Marguerite said, once the servant had departed, closing the door behind him “How is he?”
Wynne sighed heavily. “Not well.”
Marguerite shook her head. “I do not understand it. I have never known a werewolf to become sick like this. Why Lindsay? What is wrong?”
Wynne took a deep breath. “He has notbecomesick, Mim. He is… dosing himself.”
Marguerite’s gaze narrowed. “Dosinghimself? With what?”
Wynne hesitated, clearly steeling himself. “With Wolfsbane,” he said at last.
Marguerite’s expression transformed from confused to horrified in an instant.
“What?” she cried, rising to her feet.
Drew looked between them, puzzled. “Wolfsbane? Is that different from the ’bane Francis gives me for travelling?”
“Yes!” Marguerite hissed. “The ’bane you’ve had is a vastly diluted form of Wolfsbane—the tincture is precisely measured so that the poison is just enough to hold back a wolf’s beast for a few hours and no more. Pure Wolfsbane is an incredibly powerful poison. It’s one of the few things that can kill a wolf outright in a large enough dose.” She turned back to Wynne. “You surely don’t allow him to keep that stuff in the house?”
Wynne just stared at her, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.
“You do,” she accused, and her angry glare would have had a lesser man turning on his heel and fleeing. But Wynne was made of sterner stuff.
“My craft requires me to know how to use all plants,” he said mildly.
He was still practising magic then.
“Youare administering this for him?” Marguerite hissed. “Wynne! I cannot believe you would do this.”
“I have explained the consequences to him,” Wynne said quietly, “And advised him against it but he knows what he wants—and it’s his decision to make, Mim, not mine. If I did not provide it to him, someone else would. And they would probably get the measurements wrong—the amounts are very finely balanced.”
Marguerite paced the room, agitated. “Why is he doing this?” she demanded.
“He is preparing.”
“Preparing for what?” Marguerite shot back.
Wynne’s expression was unreadable. “For Duncan MacCormaic’s return.”
“He iswaitingfor him?” Marguerite cried, incredulous. “That’s—that’sabsurd. Why?”
Calmly, Wynne said, “It is not my place to speak for Lindsay. You should discuss this with him.”
“Then wake him!” Marguerite snapped. “Let us have it out, here and now! I see I am going to have to put my foot down on this so it may as well be—”
“My darling, I do wish you’d stop shouting.”
All three of them whirled around at the sound of the new, and very familiar voice. Drew’s heart was suddenly beating wildly, every sense on high alert.
His gut lurched at his first sight of the graceful figure in the doorway.
Lindsay.
Though this was a Lindsay he had never seen before. His always slender body was thinner than Drew had ever seen it, swamped by a crimson satin dressing gown that hung open over his crumpled breeches and shirt. And his face… it was still beautiful but unmistakably etched with pain and exhaustion, the pale skin almost translucent, bluish bruises beneath his dark eyes.
Oddly, it was his hair that shocked Drew the most. For the first time in all the years that Drew had known Lindsay, it was short, cut close around his neck and ears. Drew’s heart twisted painfully in his chest at the sight, suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sadness he couldn’t account for. Such a stupid thing to react to. As though it mattered to Drew whether Lindsay wore his hair long or short. He fisted his hands by his sides, resisting his wolf’s demand that he stride over there and thread his fingers into the dark mop, tip up Lindsay’s face and gaze into those familiar dark eyes.
“Drew,” Lindsay said now, his voice husky. “How are you?”