Page 19 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

D’Artagnon lay in the corridor beyond the library doorway, resting his head on his foreleg.

From his position, both the conversation between the men and that of the women in the library were within earshot.

A night and one full day had passed since Constance had made her potion.

Two since he had shed his wolf in his sleep.

He had followed her everywhere, listening into conversations and sniffing his food with extra caution.

Nothing. No mention, much to his relief, of his shifting at night.

Nor of the kiss he had stolen as Constance had slept.

No hint that either Anne or Constance had used the noxious concoction.

The bowl Constance had taken from the kitchen sat untouched on the table beside the pitcher in his bedchamber. What were they waiting for?

“Are you truly teaching Kathryn how to use that sword you gifted her?” The rasp of Ulrik’s voice, still so foreign, filtered to him from the hall.

D’Artagnon sniffed. If Aimon did not train her, someone would have to. He was in as much danger of being skewered by Kathryn and her sword as he was from Constance’s potion.

“Of course,” said Aimon. “I gave her my word I would teach her anything she wished.”

The sincerity in Aimon’s voice, the devotion, slid under his fur, and his thoughts, unbidden, turned to Constance.

The flutter of her eyelashes against her sun-warmed cheeks as she slept, her blonde hair loose and tousled from sleep, the way she looked at him when she thought he was not paying attention. Full of wishful longing.

“She is a werewolf. She has teeth and claws,” said Ulrik. “Personally, I would rather spend my time teaching my mate something else. Perhaps something a little more…intimate. If you need some ideas…”

The hint of curves beneath Constance’s thin chemise. The feel of her body beneath him and the taste of her lips on his.

Someone choked on their wine. “That is my daughter you speak of, Ulrik.”

“My apologies, Farren.” Ulrik did not sound sorry.

“Given what has happened to her in the past, perhaps it gives Kathryn some comfort, having another means to defend herself,” said his brother, backing the young chevalier.

Should Constance have another means to defend herself?

Of all the women in the keep, she was the most vulnerable, especially when she returned to her forlorn little hut in the forest. Not so long ago, he had hidden in the shadows of the forest as tendrils of smoke filtered through the hole in the thatched roof of her humble little cottage.

Had not the storm raged around them, it might have looked less small, less sad, but even on a sunny day the poorest cottage of any village would have outshone it.

The thought of her leaving, returning there, did not please him at all.

As it should. Rather, it lodged in his gut, a discomforting unease.

“You would not think to train your mate to defend herself, Ulrik?” Incredulity crept into Aimon’s voice. “She is from another century. One where men do not wear chain mail, nor carry swords. It must be daunting, nay, frightening for her.”

L’enfer. How had Constance survived out in the forest all alone? At the mercy of nature and the capriciousness of villagers.

Ulrik snorted. “Bek was dangerous when she had only her fists to defend herself with. The woman knows how to use them. Near broke a guard’s nose when she first materialized in Lothair’s godforsaken chamber. Now she is a werewolf. Trust me, Bek does not need lessons with a sword to be lethal.”

Though, Constance was a witch. The berry potion in his bedchamber was testament to the fact she was not without means to defend herself. And she had her wards.

Gaharet chuckled. “Erin did a similar thing to Archeveque Renaud. She is also fairly handy with her knees and feet.” His brother shifted in his chair, his discomfort sharp in the air.

“I can attest to her ability to defend herself. It took everything I had to stay on my feet after she kneed me in the groin. That is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

But still, knowing how to use a sword was an added layer of protection. Although, if Constance knew of spells like the one Cordelia had used on Brun, she would have no need of one. Constance might be more powerful than any of them realized.

“And yet,” countered Aimon, “a mercenary stabbed Erin, and the keep guard captured Bek and threw her back into that underground chamber beneath Lothair’s keep.”

“That was before either of them were werewolves,” refuted Ulrik.

D’Artagnon’s heart did a little skip. Constance was not a werewolf. She did not have the healing abilities their blood afforded them.

“He does have a point. Gascon.” His brother called out for his steward. “Speak to the blacksmith. We will need swords for both Erin and Bek. Given our current circumstances, we should not neglect anything that may keep our mates safe.”

Constance was not one of their mates. He should speak… No. That would mean he would have to shift.

“Shall I ask the blacksmith to make a sword for Mademoiselle Constance as well, Mon Seigneur?” asked Gascon.

The ruff on D’Artagnon’s neck prickled as his brother’s gaze slid his way through the open doorway.

“Thank you, Gascon. Yes. Constance should have one, too.”

D’Artagnon breathed easier. Yes, Constance should have a sword, too. Thank you, brother. Though why it was so important to him…

“If D’Artagnon does not come to his senses and shift, I will train Constance myself.”

A growl rumbled up in D’Artagnon’s throat, and he was almost on his paws before he realized. He eased back to the floor. A simple taunt from his brother should not goad him so.

D’Artagnon snarled at Gascon as he passed him in the corridor, and the conversation in the hall turned to preparations for their journey to Langeais Keep. D’Artagnon let their voices drift into the background. He swiveled an ear in the women’s direction.

Erin passed by the library door, flipping through the pages of his father’s journal. “Any luck with that memory spell that Constance and Anne made for you, Kathryn?”

The swishing of a sword through the air paused. “Not the kind of progress I was hoping for. And the herbs… My apologies, Constance, but they taste awful .” Kathryn made a gagging sound.

Interesting. Should his nose fail him, his sense of taste should warn him if Anne or Constance had tainted his food.

A book slapped shut. “What progress?” asked Erin. “Anything could be helpful.”

The swishing of the sword resumed. “Well…”

A footfall, a grunt. A lunge, perhaps. Kathryn’s lessons were proceeding well, from what D’Artagnon could tell.

“I have been having nightmares, but not about the attack. More about what followed. My turning.”

D’Artagnon breathed easier. If Kathryn remembered who her attacker was, D’Artagnon would need to leave before his brother took it upon himself to hunt him down.

“You’re getting…well at using that sword, Kathryn,” said Bek. “It looks fun.”

“It is. You should try it. And your Franceis is getting so much better, Bek,” praised Kathryn. “It must be all your practicing. You used the correct word for sword this time, too, instead of dagger.”

“Thank you. Maybe I will ask Ulrik for a sword. Erin, what…think you? You want to learn to be a chevalier, too?”

He sniffed. Kathryn was a long way from being a chevalier, but Gaharet was right. All the women should have a sword. Including his…including Constance.

“Mmm, maybe not,” replied Erin. “I was never really sporty. I’m more likely to cut off my own foot than do any harm to an enemy.”

“Not if Gaharet teaches you properly…to use it,” countered Bek.

“Maybe. Anyway, can we get back to Kathryn’s memory? Constance, can you tweak the spell slash herbal mix you gave Kathryn?”

The whooshing of the blade stopped, and the slide of a sword being sheathed cut through the air. “Is there something that would make it work better? And taste better?” Kathryn’s voice held hope. “Or maybe target specific memories, Constance?”

“I…well…yes. There are other herbs and things I could try that might work.”

D’Artagnon turned both his ears toward the library.

Constance rarely said anything unless directly spoken to.

When she did speak, her words held weight.

She knew things, had generations’ worth of knowledge, and she had experienced a lot in her life.

For all their incessant chatter about their mates, and how things were different in the future, the other women always paid attention when Constance spoke.

As did D’Artagnon. She was a good healer.

An asset to any community. Did the villagers in Langeais not realize how lucky they were to have her?

“You have experienced a traumatic event, Kathryn. Could it be you do not want to remember? That you are blocking it from your mind because it frightened you so?”

Agitated footsteps paced the room. “But I do want to remember. I want to help find who did this to me.” Distress laced Kathryn’s words. “Could I really be blocking my own memory?”

“It is possible,” said Constance. “Fear is a powerful motivation, and it affects people in different ways. I will make a few changes to the herbs I have been giving you and perhaps change the wording of the spell. We will see if that helps. I am sorry this is resting all on you, Kathryn. I had hoped…”

The room fell silent. The ruff on his neck rose as they all stared at him through the open doorway.

Erin’s green gaze met his as she laid a comforting hand on Constance’s shoulder. “You’ll get through to him. I have every faith in you.”

D’Artagnon yawned, got to his feet and stretched.

Beyond the large entrance doors, the sounds of the servants making their way up the hill for supper reached his ears.

He turned his back on the women and padded into the hall.

Mayhap this would be the meal Anne tried to slip the potion into his food.