Page 26 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

D’Artagnon fought the urge to shift, clinging to his wolf as though his life depended on it. Mayhap it did, despite her heart-felt apology. But his wolf did not care. Not since the moment he had found her by the pond, naked, her back to him, her clothes in a pile at her feet.

He had tried to block the images swirling in his mind.

Of them together in the water, of him laying her naked in the shallows, his human body nestled between her pale thighs, but they had persisted as she had swum in the pond.

Had his dropping of the hare not startled her, had she not turned around, he feared he would have shifted, intent on living out his imaginings.

He gnashed his teeth and shook himself, drawing on every ounce of control he had fostered over his long years in exile.

He must resist her, as beguiling as she was.

Now was not the time to let his base instincts reign.

He knew this for a certainty when she kneeled by a bush and plucked a few of its leaves.

What had prompted her change of mind, he could not fathom, but he was wary of trusting it.

This could be a ruse, though he sensed no lie in her words.

She appeared to genuinely regret making the deadly nightshade potion.

She also, much to his consternation, remained steadfast in her determination to help him.

What that entailed, what the herbs would do, given she had professed she would no longer attempt to force him to shift, he could not fathom.

“A simple ward for around the cottage,” she explained, tucking the leaves into the basket.

He raised his eyebrow. A ward? For the cottage?

“Yes, Monsieur, I will ward the cottage. I have done so with every cottage I have ever lived in, and I have lived in many in my lifetime. I have warded my hut in the forest since the first day it became my home, though in my absence, its power will be waning.” A sadness descended over her like a thick blanket of winter snow.

“It takes little for people’s gratitude for your healing abilities to change into anger and fear.

Milk that turns sour, a hen that no longer lays eggs, a young boy taken by illness despite all your best efforts.

It does not matter that you do not live in their village.

” She raised her hand and swept it in an arc, taking in the forest. “Or that we appear to be far from the notice of anyone.”

D’Artagnon eyed her warily. Her body was loose and relaxed, and she maintained eye contact.

More than any other human, Constance had knowledge of them.

Pages of it in her precious grimoire. Information she could use to counter the advantage of his heightened senses.

Was she using that knowledge now? Couching a lie amongst the truth?

Constance collected her basket and veered further off the trail, stopping at another plant.

“Villagers are superstitious, and fear is a powerful emotion. My eyes have always caused concern and have made me a target more than most. The d’Louncrais village is the only one I have ever been in where people did not stare, or point fingers and whisper as I walked past.”

She kneeled, plucked a few leaves and added them to her collection.

“It surprised me that day we visited Tumas and his daughter. Here I was, a stranger with two different colored eyes—no doubt rumors of me being a witch had already spread—and beside me, a big black wolf. You cannot imagine the furor, the panic had we walked into Langeais village like that. Yet nothing but greetings and smiles from the villagers.” Constance stood and regained the trail.

“It would be a nice village to live in, the d’Louncrais village.

The people are friendly, the cottages are sturdy.

Seigneur Gaharet is as benevolent a seigneur as I have ever seen. It would be a good life.”

D’Artagnon did not need his wolf senses to hear the thoughts, the dashed hopes that Constance left unsaid.

Anne was right. Life had not been kind to Constance.

No woman would choose to live alone in the forest so far from people, had she any other choice.

How long had she lived there? The only occupant of that rundown, sad little building deep in the woods?

By the air of loneliness that followed her around like a fog—long enough.

She halted at the edge of the clearing, the cottage awaiting them. “I do not know why my mother left the d’Louncrais village,” she said. “And perhaps I may never have the answer. With her and your father gone, I have no one left to ask.”

Constance crossed the clearing and ducked through the doorway of the cottage, leaving him standing outside.

An ache pressed against his sternum. Such simple dreams she had.

A sturdy cottage, acceptance, to understand why it had all been denied her.

The urge to comfort her surged within him, pressing against the barrier of his wolf, the man inside clamoring to get out, to be set free. His poor little healer.

He dug his claws into the dirt. Since when had the little healer become his little healer?

Since Vladimir had suggested she was his mate?

A growl rumbled in his chest. She had crept in where she did not belong.

That he was here, protecting her instead of hunting down his betrayer, was proof enough.

No. She would not deter him. She would not defeat him.

When his brother called for their return, he would still be a wolf.

Grateful for the concealment his wolf’s fur gave him, he buried his feelings deep. When he had his wayward impulses under control, he entered the cottage.

D’Artagnon followed every move Constance made as she emptied the contents of the basket onto the table.

She grabbed a knife with an elaborate handle and a bowl.

“Watch me make my preparations.” She lined up three items from her collection.

“These herbs will go in a bundle I shall hang over the door. It will infuse the cottage, and both you and I shall feel its effects.” She pointed to the first item, a cluster of pink and white flowers with a root attached.

“This is the all heal plant. It has many uses, but I have chosen it for its ability to quieten emotions.”

D’Artagnon leaned in and sniffed at the root. He wrinkled his nose, wishing he had not. The inside of his old boots smelled better.

Constance grinned at him. “An unpleasant smell, but a very useful plant. It will represent the water element of my spell.”

Her finger hovered over three heart-shaped leaves.

He did not need an introduction to recognize burn nettle.

A careless romp in the woods as a pup, a tussle with his brother and a lack of awareness of their surroundings had seen them both land within its stinging clutches.

The leaves looked innocent enough, but the fine, needle-like hairs created a burn he had not soon forgotten.

D’Artagnon snarled at the leaves and kept his nose a respectful distance away from them.

Constance smiled. “I see you have knowledge of the burn nettle leaf. Painful to touch, but good for dispelling darkness and fear, and it will aid healing. This will represent fire.”

The final element, delicate green leaves, she held out to him.

He pulled back. The first herb was unpleasant, the second could burn.

What would this one do? She waited, her hand outstretched.

He inched closer, and she rubbed the leaves between her fingers, releasing their aroma.

He sniffed, then sneezed. Shaking his head, he sneezed again.

He scrunched up his nose, bared his teeth, and sneezed again.

D’Artagnon jumped off the seat and rubbed his muzzle along the dirt floor, desperate to be rid of the bitter scent that coated the inside of his nostrils.

Her laugh filled the cottage, a joyous sound that washed over him, and like her voice, it sank deep. D’Artagnon huffed and shook himself, casting off the warmth before it could take hold. She had tricked him again. He sneezed once more and glared at the leaves in her palm.

Constance pressed her hand to her mouth, hiding her smile. “I am sorry, Monsieur. I should not laugh, but I did not expect it to make you sneeze. It is but wormwood.” She set the leaves back on the table. “It represents the earth and is helpful in removing anger.”

D’Artagnon half sneezed, half snorted. Herbs to quieten his emotions, to dispel fear, to remove anger?

He sniffed again and shook himself. A bunch of herbs and an incantation or two would not wash away the darkness, anger and grief that swirled inside him, so deep there seemed no end to it.

Emotions that had only grown and solidified during the icy winters of his time with the Rus wolves.

Constance stooped before the baskets of supplies stacked against the wall and began digging through them.

“I need one more ingredient and I am hoping Anne has packed it, for it is not something I can forage for in the forest.” She selected a pot, lifted the lid and sniffed.

Then put it back, selecting another and another before she smiled, triumphant.

She held it out for him to see. “Savior plant. For grief, loss, purification and healing. It will represent air for this herb bundle.”

She set the pot beside the other three ingredients.

“All spells require a balance of wind, earth, fire and water, corresponding to the east, north, south and west. Everything in nature has balance.” She selected a bowl and picked up the knife.

“Summer and winter, autumn and spring, light and dark, night and day, body and spirit. If one element is missing, the spell is unbalanced and has less chance of being successful, or working in the way we intend it to.”

D’Artagnon jumped up onto the seat again and surveyed the table. Set aside were four more ingredients. He planted his paw beside the little pile, careful not to touch it. He met her gaze.

“What are these for? These are the herbs I will use to ward the cottage.” Constance used her knife to separate them.

“Mugwort represents the earth and is for strength, protection and to amplify my magic and my second sight. Angelica is for wind and is a powerful protection herb. It also aids visions. Pine needles are for fire, offering protection and for divination, and the root from the mallow plant is for water. It also enhances protection.”

Hm. The herbs were not for him alone.

Constance selected and cut the herbs, and placed them in the bowl, taking care with the burn nettle leaves. “This is a spell my mother taught me when I was very young. It is one of the first spells I learned. My grand-mére taught her, and her mother taught her. It is a very old spell.”

Constance paused her grinding of the herbs. “There was a time when there were many of us in our coven, when the rituals performed included a score of witches—men and women. That was long before I was born. When villagers revered the knowledge and the skills our coven had.”

Constance took up her ceremonial knife and nicked her finger, holding her hand over the bowl so her blood dripped onto the ingredients.

“Things have changed since then. Are changing still. Now people seek help from the church, from the monks.” One, two, three drops.

She set aside the knife and pinched her fingers to stem the bleeding.

“I harbor no ill will to the monks, nor the church.” Her smile carried a tinge of sadness.

“Sadly, the church does not feel the same way toward people like me. Miracles of healing come only from God, they say. All else is a heathen act, not born of the sanctity of heaven and is discouraged or punished if the witch is not repentant.” She screwed up her nose. “The monks use the same herbs I do.”

D’Artagnon had never been one for wagers, but he would bet a purse full of livres the monks did not use their blood as part of their preparations.

Nor chanted spells. No, the church did not view people like Constance kindly.

Especially not churchman like this Eveque Faucher.

It was why they were hiding here in the farmer’s cottage. To keep Constance safe.

D’Artagnon huffed. He would do as his brother asked. Protect her from Faucher, though she insisted on attempting to heal him. He would do so, until his brother deemed it safe for her to return.

D’Artagnon eyed the little witch, the confident way she mixed the herbs, the little frown of concentration on her brow. He could only hope his brother did not tarry. One slip of his control, one too many glimpses of her smile, and D’Artagnon feared he would not be able to hold himself back.