Page 25 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

The sun was well on its way to reaching its zenith as Constance stepped down from the cart and surveyed her surroundings. Nestled in the center of a small clearing, bathed in warm sunlight, was a small but sturdy cottage, more reminiscent of the huts in the village than her own.

As the servant unloaded the supplies, she turned her face to the sun and let its warmth soak into her skin, squinting up at the sky, breathing in the smells of the forest. Birds twittered, the last of the summer insects hummed and the whisper of a breeze caressed the treetops. She had missed this.

Constance took it all in—the space, the quiet, the fresh air.

So familiar to her, it comforted her and soothed away the consistent hum of tension that had plagued her since she had arrived at the keep.

The opulence of it, the constant noise of people—servants and the like—the busyness of it all, and the expectations resting on her shoulders as oppressive as the walls that had surrounded her.

The muscles in her shoulders loosened. She had spent a good portion of her life alone in the forest, and while she was more than a half day’s ride from her crude little cottage, this place felt like coming home.

Monsieur D’Artagnon emerged from the cottage. With a bark and a jerk of his head at the open door, the black wolf trotted off into the forest, his nose to the ground. She watched him go. Good. She needed time to think, to sort out her muddled feelings. Time without his constant presence.

Constance collected her things from the cart, turned her back on the forest and stepped inside to take stock.

She unpinned her head veil and dropped it on the table beside her grimoire.

In the not too recent past, someone had lived here.

The pots of herbs, salt and honey were all full, and the bowls, platters and mugs were new.

The pot hanging over the fire was so new it had yet to blacken with layers of soot.

She pushed aside the heavy drape over the bedding nook. One cot, barely wide enough for two people. It was, after all, a farmer’s cottage, but whoever had spent their nights here were not mere farmers. The bed covers were thick and soft, and the mattress was of goose down, not straw.

She sat on the cot. Not as comfortable as the large bed in the keep, but close.

Far more so than her own straw-filled mattress in her cottage.

She ran her hand over the bedcovers. Would Monsieur D’Artagnon sleep at her feet as he had done in the keep?

He had not glanced in her direction once the entire journey here.

The servant’s appearance in the doorway jerked her from her musings. “That is the last of it, Ma Dame.” He placed a basket full of vegetables by the wall. “I will be on my way.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you.” There was no point correcting him, telling him she was no more a dame than he was a monsieur.

He bowed and disappeared, the clop of horse’s hooves and the creak of the cart wheels fading into the distance.

She grabbed a small basket from a hook beside the door and stepped out into the sun.

She would gather a few herbs for a ward around the cottage.

Now they were no longer within the fortified walls of the keep, something stronger, more akin to the one she maintained around her cottage was warranted.

Many plants grew close to water. Spotting a trail she hoped would lead her to this pond Anne had spoken of, Constance set off through the forest.

She followed the trail, stopping to pick leaves for her ward as she found them, until the path opened into another clearing.

She paused at the edge of the tree line.

The morning sun glinted on a pond, and moss-covered rocks glistened under the gentle spray of a small waterfall.

She swallowed. Such a beautiful place, and yet she carried the ugliness of her actions and the pain she had caused in her heart and mind.

It threatened to bubble up and choke her.

Constance breathed through the sensation and stepped to the water’s edge, dipping her fingers in and sending ripples across the water.

Constance stared at her reflection, willing it to impart sage advice, to live up to the wisdom Anne saw in her eyes.

She ran her fingers through her image. Despite the fancy dress she wore, it revealed nothing but the face of a peasant, an outcast healer.

A healer.

That is what I am. What she had dedicated her life to.

Healing. She helped people . When they were in need and at their most vulnerable.

As her mother before her had done. And her mother before her.

Yet, from the moment Constance had stepped into the hall in the d’Louncrais keep, she had forgotten the most basic principle of her trade.

The patient’s needs took precedence over all else.

Had she worried that forcing D’Artagnon to shift might cause him harm?

No. Had she considered his pain when she had suggested using silver?

Also, no. Had she made any attempt to ease the suffering she could so clearly see in his eye?

She heaved out a sigh. No. All she had thought about were her own needs.

How the rekindling of her connection with the Langeais wolves would afford her protection.

How, should she succeed in the task Seigneur Gaharet had set for her, she might ask for a permanent place for her self in the village.

And from the moment she had first laid eyes on the black wolf beneath his brother’s hand, she had wondered if he might be the wolf from her vision. A wolf that would take her as his mate.

Not once had she considered the man beneath the wolf’s fur.

A man who was suffering—damaged, physically and emotionally.

A man who had comforted her, supported her at her first supper in the keep.

Had let her sleep in his bed. Had taken her to see Old Tumas, where she had learned more about her mother.

Constance closed her eyes, unable to face the disappointment mirrored in her reflection. D’Artagnon was right to mistrust her, to fear her. She had betrayed every healer and every one of her ancestors.

Constance would do better. She must do better.

It might mean her own future would be less secure, and she could lose the Langeais’ wolves protection.

Her chance for a place in the village, for friends like Georgette, might be beyond her reach.

Her vision may never come to pass. But that was not for her to anticipate.

She was a healer, and she would do what she was called to do. Heal.

As Kathryn’s memory loss was best treated as a symptom of her fear, D’Artagnon’s inability to shift had an emotional cause. Healing his pain might prompt him to shift, but forcing him to shift should never have been her focus. And it would not be moving forward.

Constance opened her eyes, her mind quieter and at peace with her decision, her heart lighter.

She stepped back from the water’s edge and glanced around at the forest. She was alone.

Unlacing her dress, she stripped off her clothing and walked into the pond.

When it lapped at her thighs, she sank beneath the cool water, cleansing herself of the past and of the mistakes she had made.

She dipped her head under and resurfaced near the waterfall. Wet leaves glimmered in the dappled sunlight, and the gentle splash of water muted the sounds of the forest. So beautiful, so serene. She could only imagine what it would be like on a moonlit night. A perfect place for lovers.

An image unbidden swept into her mind. Of her and Monsieur D’Artagnon. The two of them entwined in an embrace, naked, the pond all silvery and aglow. Her breath caught in her throat, the memory of his hand cupping her mound, his fingers—

A soft thud behind her had her spinning around. On the edge of the pond stood the black wolf. At his paws, a large hare.

“Monsieur D’Artagnon. You startled me. I thought to be alone.”

He stared at her, a magnificent, scarred beast, his tongue sweeping out to lick his muzzle.

Her body came alive and her face heated, the memory of his tongue laving her nipple too recent. She wrapped her arms around herself. Could he scent her arousal? Read her thoughts?

“The water looked so inviting, I…” She swallowed.

A low rumble reverberated in his chest. She clenched her thighs together. Perhaps he was still suffering the effects of her potion. Or was something else happening here? As his shifting twice before, and the kiss she had thought but a dream, suggested?

She pushed away all memories of last eve. It did not matter. She had amends to make.

“I am going to come out now,” she warned him. “We need to talk.”

Monsieur D’Artagnon turned away and sat on his haunches, facing the forest. An ache formed in her chest. She did not merit such consideration after what she had done, yet still he had granted it to her.

Constance dressed, mindless of her chemise clinging to her wet body and the squelch of her wet feet in her boots.

She kneeled in front of him. She would face this head on, let him know the truth, the sincerity of her words.

“I deceived you.” Her voice echoed across the whisper of the forest. “I imagine you know what I am talking about.”

The black wolf snarled.

Constance firmed her resolve. “I made a potion from the leaves of the henbane plant, mandrake root and deadly nightshade berries, and Anne slipped it your food last eve.”

He made no move toward her, but his snarl remained.

“What happened…between you and me…when you shifted…” She dropped her gaze to her boots, sucking in a few deep breaths, before facing him again.

She deserved his anger, the accusation in his eye.

“You may not have been responsible for your actions. The potion is known to have that effect. And I made the potion strong.” She had come this far, she would not stop now.

“The berries were a mistake. I made a mistake, and I am sorry.”

Dark shadows flitted within the blue of his iris, and his fur rippled.

She swallowed, then lifted her chin, never more sure of her decision than she was right now. “I know what Seigneur Gaharet has asked of me, but I will not force you to shift. Not anymore.”

His eye narrowed, and he cocked his head.

“But I am going to help you.”

He would be wary, and though he was a wolf, a predator who feared few things, he was a wounded one. Like any patient, to help him, she must first gain his trust. After last night, she had much catching up to do.

“I have a few more herbs to collect”—she held up her basket—“then I shall return to the cottage and prepare us a noon meal.” She gathered up the hare. “This will make a lovely stew for supper.”

She set off along the path, sweeping the forest with a practiced eye, searching for the plants she would need. Monsieur D’Artagnon made no move to stop her, but his eye—which saw too much—followed her every step. This time, Constance made no attempt to conceal her intentions.