Page 16 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance trudged up the stairs to the bedchamber, her feet as heavy as her heart.

Supper had come and gone, and she was tired, yet still her mind would not rest. Her mother had once lived here.

In the d’Louncrais village. A place so accepting.

A village that had wanted her to stay. Was hoping she would take up with one of their sons. And she had. This Didier.

But what had caused her to leave? Didier?

Tumas had not spoken highly of him at all.

Had she truly run from him? And if so, why?

Could he be…? She paused on the steps leading to her bedchamber.

She should have asked Tumas more about Didier.

Constance shook her head. No. What point was there in wondering?

Her mother was gone. Perhaps Didier, too.

Though Tumas still lived. As did Anne and Seigneur Gaharet’s head steward.

In a village where the seigneur took good care of his people, it was possible for peasants to live long lives.

Perhaps Didier was also still alive. Constance might not have been born when her mother left the d’Louncrais village, but that did not mean Didier was not her father.

Slovenly or not, if he lived, she would like to meet him.

She started back up the steps. Thankfully, the witch, Cordelia, was long gone.

A shiver danced up her spine. She was no closer to knowing if there was a family connection, but in truth, Constance did not want to know.

Not after what had happened in the village.

It was possible Cordelia had done to Brun exactly what Old Tumas had said—boiled him alive. From the inside out.

Though Constance had never heard of a specific spell to boil a person’s blood, she did know of one to boil liquid.

It helped speed up the process of certain spells and was useful when a fire to bring fluids to boil was not prudent or possible.

You need only to choose the liquid. A witch would have to have a black heart to use it on a person.

Constance stepped into her bedchamber— Monsieur D’Artagnon’s bedchamber—with the black wolf on her heels.

She had one more task to do. She shooed the young maid away and prepared herself for bed, laid her dress across the chest and washed her face.

Then, as the black wolf sat, his keen eye fixed on her, she removed a small knife, a bowl and a few herbs from the collection she had brought with her.

A pinch of each herb went into the bowl, then she pricked herself with the blade.

Monsieur D’Artagnon stilled and slunk into a crouch as though ready to pounce.

Blood welled up on her finger. “Fear not, Monsieur D’Artagnon. I do not aim to boil you alive. I am merely casting a warding spell around the bed. It is something I have done every day of my life, and it has kept me safe. I do not plan to stop now.”

Ignoring the black wolf, she let droplets of her blood drip into the bowl, and using the lit candle from the table, she set the herbs and her blood alight.

Starting from the wall, she walked the bowl of smoldering herbs in a semi-circle around the bed, reciting her warding spell as she went.

Monsieur D’Artagnon eased onto his haunches, his head cocked to the side.

Constance pinched her fingers together, stemming the bleeding, and set the smoldering bowl on the table beside the bed.

“It is a simple spell to warn me should anyone approach the bed.” She cleaned her knife and replaced it with her belongings.

“If anyone were to cross it, I would feel a tingling across my body. It will not stop you from sleeping…” Heat rose up her neck.

Constance swallowed. “I…I mean, I would not dare prevent you from sleeping on your own bed, Monsieur. If that is where you would like…you wish to…” Constance ducked her head, her voice trailing off.

Would he sleep on the bed again? Beside her? Despite the thread of longing that refused to be snuffed out, Constance dared not hope he would.

Monsieur D’Artagnon padded over and sniffed at her ward. Then he huffed and leaped onto the bed, the tingling of her skin not only from his crossing of her ward.

“Oh, well… hmm.” Constance pressed her hands to her cheeks, willing the heat in them to subside.

“Of course you wish to sleep on the bed. It is yours, and I imagine it is by far more comfortable than the floor.” Yet she could not help the smile that tugged at her lips as she slipped beneath the covers and slid her feet down beside the black wolf.

Monsieur D’Artagnon circled on the spot at the end of the bed before curling up with his tail tucked around him and his blue gaze centered on her.

She closed her eyes. Her heart was heavy with the things she had learned from Old Tumas, from things unresolved, but with the comforting presence of the black wolf at her feet, and the possibilities it presented, sleep and dreams of a one-eyed naked chevalier soon claimed her.

* * * *

Constance snuggled deeper into his warm embrace.

With his chest flush to her back, his knees tucked behind her and his arm across her body, he pulled her in tight.

Soft lips fluttered along the curve of her neck, sending a delicious shiver up her spine.

His musky scent surrounded her, and she breathed it in as her body melted into his.

A trail of open-mouthed kisses weaved their way up to her ear, and with a gentle brush of his teeth, he took her lobe between his lips.

She arched, thrusting her hips back, and a tremulous moan escaped her parted lips.

Something thick and hard prodded her bottom, sending a thrill up her spine and heat to her core.

She moaned again, giving another backward thrust of her hips.

“D’Artagnon,” she whispered, and his grip about her waist tightened.

Thank the Fates this is only a dream. She would never dare to call him anything but Monsieur D’Artagnon whilst awake. But this was her dream, and it was a splendid, splendid dream.

She rolled over in his embrace, the soft glow of the brazier revealing his face—the puckered skin where his eye had once been, his full lips, his nose and jaw much like his brother’s. His beard and hair a little wild, and desire shining in his eye. Desire for her.

Constance’s eyelids fluttered closed again.

This is how she imagined him—scarred but proud.

Untamed. Beautiful. And in this moment, all hers.

Only here, in her dreams, could she allow her vision, her fantasies, to take flight and become real.

It was divine and fleeting, but she would hold on to it, enjoy it, until deep sleep or morning signaled its end.

He dropped a kiss on her nose, oh so gently, and she brushed her hands across his bare chest, curling her fingers in the soft hair.

So fine, so real, as if he were truly there.

A low, guttural growl rumbled in the back of his throat, sending shivers across her skin.

Then his lips were on hers, a slide of his tongue along their seam, coaxing her to part them.

She opened for him. She could not refuse him, wanting his attentions, his kisses, if only in her dreams.

His tongue, hot and demanding, took up her invitation, slipping into her mouth and, oh, the taste of him, the feel of him, the sheer mastery… L’enfer. She had never experienced the like of it. She doubted she ever would. But here, now, anything was possible.

He tugged at the covers, pulling them down to her waist and cool air brushed over her, but she was not cold.

Nay, her body was on fire . From his kiss.

From the slide of his hand across her back, urging her closer, and the press of his hard body against hers.

Sensation burned through her and she curled her toes beneath the covers, wishing she were naked.

That she was free of the covers and as close to him as was possible.

That this was one of those dreams she could control and make it so.

Eager to explore, bolder than she would ever be in her waking life, she inched her hand lower, across abdominal muscles honed and taut. Further still, her yearning fingers seeking…

Blackness tugged at her, calling her from her dream. She fought it, clinging to D’Artagnon, but the pull of sleep was too strong and it dragged her under and he slipped away, lost. With a disappointed mewl, she let him go and succumbed to the darkness of a deep and dreamless sleep.

Merde.

D’Artagnon flung himself off the bed, his chest heaving, and stared down at his body. His naked human body. He had done it again . An uncontrolled, uncalled upon shift. In his sleep. L’enfer , he had done more than that. He had kissed her in his sleep. Kissed her in her sleep.

Merde.

If his father were alive, he would have had him flogged.

His mother would have strung him up by his testicles.

Even the thought of that did nothing to dampen his ardor.

His stupid cock was hard and willing. More than willing.

The way she had opened to him, moaning into his mouth and letting him…

L’enfer . She had been but a fingertip away from taking him in her hand.

His cock jerked at the memory, a bead of pre-cum glistening at its tip.

He stifled a groan. Merde . He had wanted her hand on him. Craved it. Hungered for it even now.

Constance mumbled in her sleep, her words unintelligible even to his heightened hearing. A blessing. If she had whispered his name, it would have been his undoing. Had been his undoing.

Perhaps he should have stayed off the bed, slept by the fire, but the pretty flush of her embarrassment when she had mentioned him sleeping on the bed, the coy way she had ducked her head, biting her bottom lip, had been too much of a temptation to resist. Then, as he had slept, too close a proximity to her had vanquished his control.

She rolled to face him in her sleep, her golden tresses a mess about her head, her lips parted on a soft sigh. More blood flowed to his throbbing cock, and his wolf prowled in his mind.

A fine thing for you to prowl now . To want to get out now . Where were you when I shifted?

He had not had an uncontrolled shift since he was a young boy. Since he had competed with his brother for the attention of young she-wolves. That he had done so twice in his sleep unnerved him. That this female could undermine his defenses, honed over long years of exile, astonished him.

He should have stayed off the damn bed, pretty pink flush on her cheeks or no.

Kept his distance and slept by the brazier.

Perhaps then he would not have shifted. Thank the fates she had not awoken and caught him taking advantage of her lush body.

He could only hope she would have no memory of it on the morn.

D’Artagnon closed his eye and willed his mind and body to relax, to ignore the heady scent of the little healer in the bed. In his bed.

Merde. Stop thinking about her.

He paced the floor, his agitation growing.

At his inability to exert control over himself, and at the unfamiliar feel of walking on two legs.

Every time she moved, or murmured soft words in her dream state, his damn body responded and his wolf evaded him.

His heart pounded, his mouth went dry and his hands shook. He wanted, needed his wolf back.

He called on the discipline his father had instilled in him as a youth and tried to center himself and reestablish some measure of control over his body.

It took a moment. More than a moment. Elusive and fleeting, it slipped from his grasp several times until, finally, D’Artagnon got his mind under control, if not his cock, and was able to call forth his wolf.

He heaved out a sigh and let the change flow through him, sinking to the floor on four legs, into the fur-covered form he had become more at home in, protected from the cold night air and from the world and all its dangers.

He turned from the bed, shoving his raging need and the discomfort in his groin to the dark recesses of his mind, and curled up by the brazier.

Here, with only the heat from the coals, there was nothing to tempt him.

For he could no longer trust himself when he slept.