Page 17 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance groaned and snuggled deeper into the covers as the door opened and Anne swept into the room.

“Good morrow, child.” The old cook bustled over to the shutters and banged them open. “Good morrow, D’Artagnon,” said Anne, addressing a spot beyond the end of the bed.

Constance frowned, and kicked her leg out, encountering linens and bed covers but no wolf. She sat up and peered over the end of the bed. By the brazier. Oh. Disappointment burned the back of her throat.

At some point in the night, he must have slunk off the bed.

Perhaps her dreaming had disturbed him. Heat rose over her chest and her nipples hardened at the memory.

Oh, no. Had I…? Did I…? She flopped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Could she have muttered his name in her sleep?

Her eyes widened. Or worse, had she reached for him?

She would not have. Surely? The accusation in Monsieur D’Artagnon’s eye told a different story.

“Come, child. The ladies are all waiting for you downstairs. Erin is eager to assist you in your search for something to help D’Artagnon.” An indulgent smile curled on Anne’s lips. “Never have I seen a more curious girl than her.”

Constance tucked away her embarrassment and climbed out of bed.

She would simply pretend she had no recollection of it, as though it had never happened.

But as she let Anne dress her, as Monsieur D’Artagnon’s glare deepened, she suspected it might not be that simple.

She may have—unintentionally—hardened his resistance to her.

She needed Monsieur D’Artagnon willing. And with another morn she had slept late, this time keeping Dame Erin waiting, she had a lot of ground to make up.

She might have skills the Langeais wolves required, and be their best hope of unlocking Monsieur D’Artagnon from his wolf, but she needed her connection with them more.

This was not the way to impress them. Or convince Monsieur D’Artagnon to trust her.

She snatched up her grimoire and headed down the stairs to the hall, a subdued and wary Monsieur D’Artagnon following a few steps behind her.

Seated at the large table with all the men, Seigneur Gaharet looked up as she paused in the doorway. “Good morrow, Constance. The women are convening in the library this morn.” He turned his attention to the black wolf beside her. “Will you join us, D’Artagnon?”

Monsieur D’Artagnon hesitated. He had barely left her side since her arrival, but this morn…

Not waiting to see what he would choose, Constance curtsied to Seigneur Gaharet and made her way down the corridor.

To Constance’s surprise, Monsieur D’Artagnon followed.

Mm, mayhap she had put too much stock in his expression.

Perhaps it had naught to do with her. An uneasy night’s sleep, maybe? If the fates were on her side for once.

With a lift in her shoulders, Constance entered the library and sprang back, hand clutched to her throat as a blade swished through the air, narrowly missing her. “Oh, my.”

Beside her, Monsieur D’Artagnon growled, the hair on his ruff standing on end.

Dame Kathryn flounced away, stabbing and swinging a sword with reckless abandon. D’Artagnon whined and Constance, her heart pumping a little too fast, dropped her hand, reaching for the black wolf and running her fingers reassuringly through his thick fur. “Yes, she took me by surprise, too.”

Dame Erin looked up from reading the journal and smiled. “Morning, Constance.”

Constance eased into the cozy room lined with chests of books and scrolls, keeping a wary eye on Dame Kathryn. D’Artagnon slunk past her, and scooted under a chair, out of reach of Dame Kathryn’s flailing.

Constance curtsied. “Good morrow, Mes Dames.”

Dame Erin waved her off. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here, Constance. It’s just Erin and Bek and Kathryn. Please. Calling me Dame makes me feel like an old woman.”

“But…but Ma Dame, I am but a peasant, and you are—”

Erin laid the journal on the desk. “In my world, I had no title to speak of. And Bek worked in an alehouse. We’re all friends here.”

Friends? To be included in this select group of women, if only in this moment, warmed her.

Constance bobbed her head. “As you wish, Ma D—Erin.” She dodged another swing of Kathryn’s sword.

Erin rolled her eyes. “Kathryn, will you put that thing away? You’re going to hurt someone if you’re not careful.”

Kathryn clutched her weapon with two hands and swung, beheading an imaginary foe. “Aimon gave it to me this morning,” she said, puffing from her exertions. “He is going to teach me how to use it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe…should you wait, then, before you…” Bek waved her hand at Kathryn’s prancing about.

Sprawled in a chair by the brazier, dressed in the finery of the nobility, she frowned.

“Why you need…know how…a sword, anyway?” Bek’s words were halting, muddled and difficult to comprehend, each word punctuated by intense concentration.

“You werewolf. No need…fight with swords. We got”—she tapped at her mouth—“teeth”—she wiggled her fingers—“and claws now.”

The last time Constance had met Bek she had not spoken Franceis. Women from the future were so quick to adapt.

“Werewolf blood has improved Bek’s memory, and her ability to learn, but she still has a long way to go,” said Erin.

“She understands more than she can speak, though she is getting better. Sometimes it takes Kathryn and I a few moments to decipher what she’s trying to say.

” She turned to Bek. “You need to work on your tenses and sentence structure. You’re all over the place. ”

Bek jabbed her middle finger at Erin in some sort of rude gesture. In response, Erin poked her tongue out. Both of them laughed, neither woman taking offense. Quick to adapt and a little unusual.

“The men are all werewolves, and they know how to use a sword.” Kathryn twirled and stabbed, her flame-colored hair swinging about her shoulders as wildly as her sword. “Why should I not know, too?”

Constance settled herself in the chair Monsieur D’Artagnon hid beneath as Kathryn reluctantly lowered her sword and sheathed it in its scabbard.

Kathryn sat, hands clasped in her lap, the epitome of good breeding that had been absent but a moment ago. “Good morrow, Constance. I trust you slept well.”

“Thank you, yes.” Apart from her dream of kissing a naked and human Monsieur D’Artagnon. She glanced at the black wolf. His head poked out around her skirts and nestled on his paws. Or perhaps because of it.

“Right, down to business,” said Erin. “After what you learned yesterday from Old Tumas, I’ve been searching Gaharet’s father’s journal to see what else I could find out about these Cordelias.”

“I’m surprised…found time…you to read any, Erin,” interrupted Bek. “You…hurling too much…doing.”

Erin pressed her hand to her mouth. “Please don’t mention it. It makes me want to do it more.” Erin rubbed her face with her hands. “One more reason not to be happy about being pregnant.”

“You are not happy about being with child? Why ever not?” asked Kathryn.

“It’s not… Don’t get me wrong, Kathryn. I love Gaharet, and yes, I want to have his babies, but…

Well, for one, the timing is awful . We may not be in hiding anymore, or hunted by the comte, but things are far from safe.

The traitor is still out there. He’s already murdered numerous women and children.

I don’t think me being pregnant would stop him.

In fact, I’m a two for one deal right now.

” She blew out a long breath. “Besides, I would have liked to have a little more time enjoying my relationship with Gaharet. He’s not the only one missing the sex. ”

A vision of Erin laughing, wearing only her chemise, and a naked Seigneur Gaharet chasing her around the bedchamber, flashed into Constance’s mind.

She quickly banished it. Sometimes her visions were helpful, lifesaving even.

Sometimes they were a warning. But others… others she regretted being privy to.

“There are a few herbs useful to ease the nausea of pregnancy,” offered Constance. She tapped her grimoire. “I have some tinctures detailed in here.”

Erin brightened. “Really? That would be wonderful. The ginger tea Anne prepares for me just isn’t cutting it. Right.” Erin slapped her hands down on the table. “Now that’s settled, can we get back to the witches, these Cordelias, and what’s in that book of yours?”

“I do not suppose…? If there is something in your book for Erin’s problem”—eagerness shone in Kathryn’s eyes—“could there be something in your book that could help with memory? My memory, specifically. If I could remember something more about my attack, we may be able to work out who the traitor is.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Erin. “Kathryn was there when Gaharet’s mother died, Constance.

The murderer also attacked Kathryn, turning her.

We believe it’s the same werewolf that has turned traitor to the pack.

But Kathryn can’t remember much. If you could help her get her memories back…

Well, then there would be no great urgency to get D’Artagnon to shift.

That would make Gaharet happy. I think he’d rather not push his brother too hard in case he leaves. ”

D’Artagnon raised his head, catching her gaze, a steely glint in his eye. Constance frowned. It should please him there might be an alternative to him shifting. That sense she was missing something returned, hovering beyond reach. She let it go. It would come to her in its own time.

Constance considered Kathryn’s request. She could think of a couple of herbs to aid memory.

“I will need to use double the dosage, or maybe triple,” she cautioned.

“Most herbal potions have little to no effect on a werewolf. The herbs I used to ease Erin’s and Bek’s turnings were in high doses and had to be taken at regular intervals lest they wear off too soon.

It is the way of werewolves. There are herbs that can kill a human that werewolves would survive. ”

Kathryn and Erin excitedly discussed the possibilities, but Constance was no longer listening, her mind whirling.

There are herbs that can kill a human that werewolves would survive.

Some of the most toxic plants were also the most powerful.

She rubbed her hand absently over the binding of her grimoire, glancing at the furry head of the black wolf at her feet.

Three in particular came to mind. Ones her ancestors had used in small quantities.

Would it work? Could a werewolf’s immunity to poisons be the answer?

She opened her grimoire, flicking through the pages until she found what she was looking for.

A potion oft used by witches for purification, to enhance visions and to increase their power—mandrake root, henbane and deadly nightshade.

For most—for the inexperienced—deadly nightshade berries promised death.

Her grimoire spoke only of their potential.

In small quantities, in salves, they could ease pain and relax a patient.

Mixed with henbane and mandrake root, it was a powerful potion.

Powerful enough to relax a werewolf so he would shift?

It might well be. If she raised the quantities.

She would have to be careful. The potion had some complications. Fantastic visions and sexual arousal. Tales of witches imbibing the potion and believing they could fly abounded, not forgetting the uninhibited sexual couplings of covens who used the combination for group gatherings.

Would it affect Monsieur D’Artagnon, a werewolf, in such a way?

The memory of her dream surfaced, and she fidgeted in her seat.

The black wolf raised his head and sniffed the air.

Heat crept up her neck. Something shimmered in his eye.

Then he blinked, and his lip curled. Perhaps not.

And his werewolf blood would be sure to soften some of its effects. But would it work as she intended?

She would have to search for the plants she needed from the forest, make them into a potion and somehow slip it into Monsieur D’Artagnon’s food, but… The old cook might know where she could find some.

She snapped her grimoire shut. “I have to see Anne. Kathryn, Erin, I will speak to her about some herbs for you, and…” Her gaze dropped to Monsieur D’Artagnon.

Erin grinned. “You’ve thought of something to help D’Artagnon, haven’t you?”

“I…”

“Get back to us.” Erin tapped the desk. “I’ll be right here when you’re done in the kitchen with Anne.”

Constance rose. Yes, she might well have her answer to getting Monsieur D’Artagnon to shift.