Page 22 of Master Wolf

Drew’s mouth was dry, his throat tight.

“I’m well,” he managed, amazed at how ordinary he sounded, as though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Lindsay in a dozen years. “Busy as always, but in good health.” After a beat he added harshly, “Unlike you, it would seem.”

Lindsay actually laughed at that, seeming genuinely amused at being told how ill he looked. “I’m a little the worse for wear,” he agreed with a twisted smile, “but still standing, as you can see.”

And right then, in that moment, something struck Drew.

He had not scented Lindsay. Not as they approached the house, and not when he arrived—and not now.

He realised his heart was pounding and his throat was closing with emotion. He could feel his wolf pacing anxiously within him. This waswrong. Lindsay’s scent couldn’t be gone.

Lindsay moved forward, coming further into the room, and Drew realised that he was holding a cane in his right hand. He used it too, leaning heavily on it as he walked forward.

“Marguerite, my darling,” he said, smiling, his eyes on her now. “First Lady of the Treasury. How are your piles of gold?”

She glared at him. “Do not with yourdarlingsand your jokes,” she snapped. “I have just learned you have been using unadulterated Wolfsbane! What are you thinking of?”

Lindsay’s smile died on his face and he halted where he stood, in the centre of the room, looking sorry and ashamed.

Drew’s heart clenched to see him so diminished. Yet even as Lindsay stood there, his new physical weakness horribly exposed, Drew could see in the depths of his eyes the unflinching strength of the man. There was something… not placid, perhaps beatific, in his dark gaze. As though he had come upon some secret of the universe.

He went to move forward again, his gait unsteady, and Marguerite rushed forward in a flurry of skirts. She took hold of his left arm and steered him deftly towards the sofa.

“Let go, darling,” Lindsay protested. “I’m perfectly capable of sitting down by myself.”

“That is plainly not so,” she replied hotly, settling down beside him. “You were obviously about to fall over.”

“I was not,” Lindsay said. “My balance is a little off but I’m used to managing it, truly. You needn’t fuss.”

Wynne said, his tone very even, “He prefers not to be helped. He snaps at me when I try.”

Marguerite didn’t even glance up at that. Her dark eyes stayed on Lindsay. “Well, he will have to get used to it. I am not about to sit here and watch him struggle for the sake of his stupid pride!” She blinked back tears. “Now, come here!” She reached for him, taking his pale face between her hands and kissed his face, then nuzzled his neck and hair in a display of intimate, wolfish affection.

He nuzzled her back. “Ah, I’ve missed you, Mim.”

“Not that name,” she muttered into his hair, and he laughed.

She drew back then. “I do not know how you can sit there and laugh. When you limp in here like a man with consumption!”

“I realise it’s alarming, my love,” Lindsay said, his voice soothing. “You are used to seeing me strong and steady, but what you have to understand is that, although the Wolfsbane weakens me physically, it has also weakened Duncan’s hold on me.”

“Oh, really? And how can you tell?” Marguerite demanded, her expression angrily sceptical. “Have you seen him since you began using it?”

“No, but—” He broke off, turning his head as the door opened again. “Ah, here is the wine.”

Marguerite pressed her lips together impatiently as the servant re-entered the room and set about pouring and serving the wine. When he was finished, Wynne said, “Thank you, Robert. You may go for the evening.”

“Very good, sir,” the young man said, and departed.

Lindsay glanced at Drew when he was gone. “Would you be a darling and sit down? I’m finding it rather distracting having you standing there. I’m not sure I can talk sensibly with you looming over me like a mountain.”

“All right.” Drew felt nervy and agitated and the thought of sitting was unappealing, but he selected an armchair opposite the sofa and settled himself into it, making a conscious effort to be still and quiet.

“So, tell me,” Marguerite said imperiously. “What are you doing to yourself?”

Lindsay took a long draught of his wine in the manner of man steeling himself, then he met her gaze. “You know that Wynne has scried for me.”

Marguerite eyed him carefully. “Yes.”