Page 18 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance rushed from the library and D’Artagnon, swift on his paws, followed her.

A plan was afoot, involving him, herbs and perhaps a spell from her book.

A plan to make him shift. Uncontrolled shifts in his sleep were disturbing enough.

Having Constance force him to shift sent ice slicing through his veins.

If she were going to attempt some sorcery on him, if she was going to solicit the aid of the canny old cook, he was going to do everything in his power to stop her. To stop them.

As soon as they entered the kitchen, memories and familiar smells assaulted D’Artagnon—smoke from the large wood fire, fresh baked bread wrapped on the shelves, herbs, cooking meat, laughter, squeals of pretend fright.

Anne’s bellowed curses as she chased him and his brother from the room, stolen treats clutched in their hands.

The fond memories of his childhood before tragedy had struck.

Before his life and its purpose had changed forever.

Some of the tension eased from his body as he soaked in the warmth of the room and his memories.

“Constance?” Anne looked up from the pot over the fire. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I see you still have your faithful shadow.”

“I have need of some assistance with some preparations, Anne. If you would be so kind as to assist me.”

“Of course, child. My kitchen is at your disposable.”

“To begin with, Erin’s ginger brew—add lemon to it, and substitute some of them with either a peppermint or raspberry leaf brew. That should help with her nausea a little. And I need to make one for Kathryn, and…” She cleared her throat. “And another I think could prove useful.”

D’Artagnon snorted. Did she think he did not catch her side glances in his direction? That he could not smell the subtle hint of deceit in the air?

Wickedness glinted in the old cook’s eyes. “What do you need?”

Constance flipped through the pages of her book until she found the one she was looking for.

“I would like to create something to assist Kathryn with her forgotten memories.” She smoothed the page.

“It uses rosemary and balm, but some of the herbs I need come from a region further south. As Seigneur Gaharet is quite…um…wealthy, I had hoped you might have some savior plant in your larder. I will also need a particular root known for calming”—she caught his eye, before her gaze skittered away—“henbane and”— another side-eyed glance in his direction—“there is a little black berry. Perhaps you have seen it growing around here?”

“The herb garden here is quite extensive. I have some of the ingredients right here in the kitchen. The others you speak of can be found nearby in the forest.” Anne pointed to the bunches of hanging herbs. “Do you need them fresh or will dried herbs suffice?”

Herbs that were used for cooking? How could they have any effect on a werewolf?

“Fresh is best.”

“Then I will send out one of the kitchen hands to fetch all the ingredients you need.”

Anne beckoned a young girl over, handed her a basket, gave her the list of what she needed, describing the items the girl was not familiar with.

“Do not mind if the root screams as you yank it from the soil,” cautioned Anne.

Screams? Mandrake root. He had heard the tales. Mandrake root was not for a memory potion. He narrowed his eye on the little healer. And henbane. Plants used by witches. And what of these berries she was loath to name?

“You will not hear it scream,” placated Constance. “I assure you. No human… It is a scream of the spirit. Human ears are not attuned to it.”

The girl, wide eyed, turned to leave.

“Wait,” Constance called out. “You will need to wear gloves when handling the berries.”

Gloves? To handle berries? Did this plant have thorns? Or was there something about these black berries?

A little pale, the girl departed.

“Anything else you need, child?” asked Anne.

“Bowls.”

Anne set three bowls on the bench.

Constance turned to the doorway. “I shall fetch my ceremonial knife from my… the bedchamber.”

She was coming to consider his bedchamber as hers? The thought pleased him, though he could not think of a reason why.

Constance disappeared to fetch her blade, leaving D’Artagnon alone with Anne.

The old cook fixed him with a stare. “Now, young man. You are not going to make this more difficult than it is for the young lass, are you? I believe life has been harder than most for the girl, living alone in the forest as she does. Not much goes in her favor in the Langeais village neither, I would suspect. Not with those eyes of hers. The villagers there are not as accepting of the unusual as they are here.”

He flattened his ears against his head. Empathize with the little healer? After she suggested using silver on him? And now hatched some nefarious plan involving black berries?

Anne planted her hands on her hips. “Mmm. I see. You have your mind set on thwarting her. Even though shifting is for your own good, and for the good of the pack. Harrumph. You always were a stubborn one. Well”—she leaned closer, and pointed a stubby finger at him—“I am warning you, I will not stand for it. I will help that child in any way I can.” She stared him down.

“And you know from experience, I am not one to be trifled with. That young girl deserves some happiness in her life, and I aim to see she gets it.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. The old woman was as stubborn as he was. And she was right. She was a force to be reckoned with. She had been when he was younger and, it appeared, nothing had changed since then.

Anne had never cared much for rank and title, charging through accepted courtesies with all the subtlety of a battering ram.

Even his father had trodden carefully around her.

D’Artagnon would have to do the same. The villagers, the other servants, the chevaliers and his brother, all held her in such high regard.

Were she to be disrespected, were harm to come to her at his hand, he would most likely find himself locked in the training room. His brother had made that clear.

And what does Constance’s happiness have to do with me shifting?

Constance returning, followed by the servant girl, broke the standoff between them.

Anne took the basket of herbs the kitchen hand had collected, shooed the girl away and sorted them into two piles on the bench.

In one, he recognized common herbs for cooking and some sort of mint.

For Kathryn’s memory potion? In the other, foul smelling gray-green foliage, and a rosette of oval-shaped leaves attached to a root. Henbane and mandrake root?

Next to them, Anne placed a small linen bundle, opening it to reveal purple-black berries.

He stilled. No wonder Constance had not named them.

Had she thought he would not know them by sight?

But he did. There was no mistaking the fruit of the deadly nightshade, ripe with poisonous promise.

Nor the care with which Anne handled them.

These herbs—the berries, the root and the gray-green leaves—the little healer meant for him.

Planned to slip them into his food or drink.

His werewolf blood made him immune to the poisonous nature of the berries, but she believed they would have some effect on him and would precipitate his shift from wolf to man.

She most likely had the right of it. Constance knew more of their kind than anyone beyond their pack.

Perhaps even more than they did. He would have to watch her closely.

No. He would have to watch them both closely.

Anne was her ally, not his. The old cook would not risk every human in the keep by putting anything in the cooking pot.

She would have to put it in his food alone.

With his sense of smell, that would be difficult, especially now he had the pungent scent of those leaves.

He sat back on haunches. Thwarting their plan should be easy.

But as Constance mixed up her potions, pricking her finger and casting her spell, the significance of the three bowls became apparent. One bowl for Kathryn’s memory concoction. Two bowls containing deadly nightshade berries.

Anne slid one bowl toward Constance. “Off you go, child. I will see Kathryn has her herbs. And this”—she picked up the second bowl containing the purple berries—“I will keep with me.”

Constance gathered her book and the bowl. “Thank you, Anne. Are you coming, Monsieur D’Artagnon?”

D’Artagnon sat, unable to move. Both women had the deadly mixture.

Anne, by far, was the more cunning of the two, but if he stayed in the kitchen, it would give Constance ample time to plant her portion.

Perhaps somewhere he might not expect. Yet Anne had access to all the food in the keep.

Unless he planned to hunt, he would need to eat the food she prepared.

But that would leave Constance alone to plot and plan.

Constance shrugged and headed for the doorway.

The pull to follow her was too strong. His instincts were telling him the little witch was the greater threat.

D’Artagnon jumped off the stool, ignoring Anne’s smug smile, and followed Constance from the room.

He would have to rely on his nose to tell him if his food was tainted.

He had survived in the wilds for nine long years, with only his werewolf instincts to keep him safe. Two human women could not outsmart him.

* * * *

Gaharet stepped into the room from the bailey, the smells of the kitchen enveloping him, but not enough to hide the foul-smelling henbane leaves, or the bitterness of the deadly nightshade berries. “How do you plan to get that into D’Artagnon’s food without him smelling it?”

Anne wiped her hands on her apron, unsurprised by his sudden appearance. “Perhaps his sense of smell is not as good as you, or he, thinks. He did not catch a whiff of your presence.”

Gaharet shrugged. “There is enough of a breeze to carry my scent away. And with Constance by his side, D’Artagnon is distracted.”

“Mmm, maybe. But you are right, Gaharet. Getting that potion past a werewolf’s nose will be nigh on impossible.” She handed him the bowl. “Place that on that high shelf for me, will you? It will not do to have some fool think it is a new seasoning and add some of it to tonight’s meal.”

Gaharet blanched, and did as he was told, pushing the bowl to the back behind numerous pots of dried herbs.

Anne took up a ladle and shuffled to the pot over the fire. “All we need do is keep him close to that girl, and nature will take its course.” She stirred the pot’s contents. “Needs thickening.” She motioned to the kitchen hand. “Go fetch some more potatoes from the store.”

Gaharet crossed his arms and regarded the woman who had been a constant presence in his life since he was a boy. “You have come up with a plan, Anne?”

Anne set aside the ladle. “I believe I have.” Mischief danced in the old cook’s eyes.

“Now that you and Erin are here, the farmer’s cottage is empty.

A perfect place for them to…well…do what mates will do given the opportunity.

They would be close enough to keep an eye on, and yet have the privacy they need.

And there is that lovely pond with the waterfall.

I may have overheard that Ulrik and Rebekah used them both to great effect. ”

Mm. A good plan . It could work in more ways than one. Lothair’s summons came to mind. At the bottom of the parchment were several lines he had not shared with the others.

Gaharet. The church has appointed Eveque Faucher to stand in Renaud’s stead until such time as his whereabouts can be determined.

I need not tell you of Faucher’s reputation, but I must warn you, Faucher has been asking questions about you and your men.

I will do what I can to keep him preoccupied here in Langeais, but I fear he may take it upon himself to visit your demesne unannounced.

Faucher, the witch hunter, in his keep? With D’Artagnon refusing to shift and a witch with eyes of different colors?

D’Artagnon could slip away into the forest, but then he might never return.

And Constance… Never was there a more vulnerable woman.

And she, his brother’s mate. Yes, sending them to the cottage could work well.

“That is a truly excellent idea, Anne. How long do you need to prepare supplies for them?”

“A day at most.”

“Good. They shall leave over-morrow.”

Anne clasped her hands together. “I shall see it done.”

Gaharet shook his head at his cook, smiling. “Remind me, Anne, never to cross you. For I do not think I would win.”