Page 7 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Beneath Constance’s hand, the wolf’s fur was thick and coarse, not soft and luxurious as it looked.

He was real, present, not a notation in her grimoire or a character in the tales of her ancestors.

His blue eye, with dark shadows flitting across it, held a pain so deep she may never comprehend the depths of it.

She brushed her hand across his fur again, avoiding the scar.

The wolf may not be sensitive about such things, but the man might be.

Monsieur D’Artagnon. She should think of him as Monsieur D’Artagnon.

For as much as he appeared a wolf from the wild, in truth that was who, what, he was.

A man. One who had once lived in this keep.

Who had survived much to return all these years later .

For whatever reason he persisted in his wolf form, the man inside remained. Somewhere.

She set her free hand on her grimoire and turned her attention to Seigneur Gaharet.

“There are only two things I know of that can affect a wolf’s ability to shift.

” She absently picked at the edge of the worn leather-bound book.

Were they desperate enough to go to such extremes? “Wolfsbane and silver.”

Monsieur D’Artagnon snatched his head from beneath her hand and retreated, his lips peeled back to reveal large canines. Seigneur Ulrik snarled. Monsieur Aimon reared back. Seigneur Gaharet’s gaze never wavered.

They had asked for her aid, and she must give them all the information, no matter how unpleasant.

Constance pushed on. “I would counsel against wolfsbane, for it elicits an inability to maintain form—human or wolf. As you well know, shifting requires energy. Too long an exposure to wolfsbane, too high a concentration, and a wolf will soon collapse from exhaustion. Neither wolf nor human have a never-ending supply of energy. Silver, however, will subdue a wolf.”

Seigneur Gaharet tugged at his beard. “Not entirely.”

“I assure you, Mon Seigneur, it will.” She tapped the grimoire. “According to my ancestors’ experience.”

“Not according to mine. During a turning, a wolf is so strong it is possible for them to break free of any bonds of silver.”

What? Constance opened her book and flicked through the pages until she came to the one she was searching for. She ran her finger beneath the curling script, reading it line by line. There was no mention of any wolf breaking free of silver.

“Are you sure, Mon Seigneur?” Constance dropped her gaze, her cheeks heating. “I am sorry, I do not mean to question—”

“No apology is necessary, Constance. You are right to doubt it. I would not have believed it myself had I not seen it with my own eyes.”

Constance slid her gaze to Monsieur D’Artagnon.

The wolf seemed to grow larger, broader as he stared her down.

If Monsieur D’Artagnon had resisted his alpha’s command to shift, could he resist the power of silver?

He raised his head, a determined set to his shoulders and jaw, and a certainty settled in her chest, common with her visions and her second sight.

Whether his fear of being human was preventing him from shifting or something else, it mattered not, for her mention of silver had set her against him.

It could well see him refusing to shift on principle.

“Be that as it may,” continued Seigneur Gaharet, “I would not use silver on any werewolf. Especially not my brother, who has been through so much. What sort of welcome home would that be? We need to find another way.”

That made her task more difficult. “Of course. I will study my grimoire and see if I can find something else that may assist.”

Monsieur D’Artagnon huffed and retreated, though he did not take his eye off her, and a new wariness flickered in its depth.

“Anne.” Seigneur Gaharet beckoned the old woman. “Show Constance to a room.” To Constance, he said, “You have had a long journey. Rest and refresh yourself. We will discuss this again anon.”

Constance closed her book and got to her feet.

The old cook’s eyes narrowed at the black wolf. “May I suggest the room at the top of the stairs, Gaharet?”

A slow smile spread across Seigneur Gaharet’s lips. “A splendid idea, Anne. Make it so.”

D’Artagnon jerked his head to stare at his brother. The room at the top of the stairs? My room? He glared at the little healer. She had drawn him in with her soft voice and her sense of otherness that mirrored his own until her mention of binding him with silver had snapped him from his stupor.

Anne gathered up the Constance’s bag and cloak, her eyes twinkling. “Come, come now, dear. Let us get you settled in.”

There was a knowing look in Anne’s eyes that had D’Artagnon’s hackles rising.

The old cook was planning something. He gritted his teeth.

Had the woman not learned anything after what had happened earlier?

He snorted. What did it matter? Why should he care what Anne was plotting, or where Constance would sleep? Now was his chance to leave.

Constance followed Anne. “Time alone would be good. I must study the writings of my ancestors. I have not seen, nor read, of such a case as Monsieur D’Artagnon before, but…” She paused, and glanced back at him, consternation flickering in the depths of her eyes. “I will endeavor to resolve it.”

D’Artagnon snarled. I am not a problem for you to solve, little healer .

His brother’s shrewd gaze settled on him, as though sensing his resistance. It was difficult to hide anything from a wolf, especially one as perceptive as his brother.

Let him see. Let him make of it what he will. I am not staying.

In the guise of following Anne and Constance, he slipped into the corridor.

“D’Artagnon.” His brother’s voice followed him.

D’Artagnon paused and looked over his shoulder.

Gaharet leaned against the door frame. “Nine long years you have been gone, and you think to leave already?”

L’enfer. His brother always had been too observant, too canny.

“I could confine you in the training room. Force you to remain here,” said Gaharet.

“But I will not. I am asking you, not as your alpha, but as your brother, to stay. Please. Whatever ails you, we can help you. Whatever burdens you bear, you no longer have to shoulder them alone. You are safe here. And we could use your help to find this traitor.”

The large door of the entrance loomed close, mere steps away. All he need do was pad down the corridor, push the door open and return to the forest. Would Gaharet follow him? Perhaps, but he had learned a few tricks over the years. It would be a simple matter to evade his brother.

“Will you not stay the night? A few days?” A shadow crossed his brother’s face. “I have missed you, D’Artagnon. We all have.”

His brother’s words tugged at him. He had missed him, too.

The steady calm his brother exuded. The feeling of having him at his back.

His solid and unwavering support. And he had missed his pack.

With Ulrik returned, it would almost be like it was before.

He had been gone nine long years. What were a few days?

It was a small thing. He could do this for his brother.

D’Artagnon turned, intending to reclaim his place by the fire.

In the periphery of his vision, he glimpsed Constance before she rounded the corner of the stairwell—her slight frame and the gentle sway of her hips.

He narrowed his eye on his brother. Gaharet wanted him to shift.

Staying for a few days would give the little witch time to find some way to force him.

Already she could be hatching a plan. Anyone wishing him to shift, or thinking they could use silver on him, was not to be trusted.

Best to keep my enemy close. His father had taught him that. Though it had not worked so well for him.

With a snarl at his brother, D’Artagnon loped up the stairs after the women, the scent of his brother’s relief following him.

He caught up to Constance and Anne at a doorway at the top of the stairs and pushed past them into a large room.

His room. The aroma of old meadowsweet rushes hung in the chill air, giving it a stale, abandoned feel.

Cold coals lay in the brazier in the corner.

A half-burned candle sat beside an open book on the table by the bed, and his clothes remained haphazardly thrown about.

Everything was the same as the day he had awoken, donned his armor and prepared for battle, answering the summons from Comte Lothair.

As though not a single person had crossed this threshold since that fateful day.

So long ago. So many years living in the forest, sleeping on the ground and hunting for his food, yet he still remembered the feel of sinking into the soft downy mattress.

It seemed only yesterday he had sat in bed reading into the late hours, having no inkling of the betrayal the following morn would bring.

Anne motioned Constance into the room. “Come, child. You will sleep in here.”

D’Artagnon leaped onto the unmade bed, the covers still thrust back as he had left them.

He flopped on the cool linen sheets, rested his chin on his paws and watched her.

The healer. Constance. The woman who had threatened to bind him in silver.

He shuddered and his heart hardened. Even had his brother not rejected her suggestion, he would never allow it.

She had his brother and the other wolves charmed and had almost ensnared him, but he was awake to the danger now. He would keep watch. Ensure she did not attempt something despite his brother’s decree.

“This was D’Artagnon’s room,” said Anne. “Gaharet forbade me from touching it after… Well, that is all in the past now.” The old cook beamed at him. “He has returned.”

Constance moved about the room, her shoulders stiff.

“Are you certain Seigneur Gaharet would want me to sleep here?” She turned in a slow circle, her gaze flitting from one open chest, the books haphazardly stacked, to another with tunics and breeches spilling out onto the floor.

“I expected a sleeping mat in the hall, or in the larder or the grain store. Maybe an empty stall in the stables? Not a room as grand as this. Not… his room. Where is Monsieur D’Artagnon going to sleep? ”

“Oh, heavens no, child.” Anne crossed to his chest of books and dropped the lid with a thunk .

“You are our guest. Here to help the young lad. If he insists on staying in wolf form, then he can sleep on the floor by the brazier.” She gave him a sly smile.

“Or curl up on the end of the bed, if he must.” She picked up a tunic, shook it out, folded it then placed it neatly away.

“Always such a messy boy, this one. Even as he grew, he never had a care for neatness and order.” She scooped up a pair of breeches. “Not like his older brother at all.”

“But—”

“Now, shall I have the servants bring you a bath, child? There is a marvelous barrel I can have the boys roll in and fill with hot water. You can soak away the rigors of your journey.”

Constance caught his stare, and color infused her face. “A jug of water should be ample, thank you.”

The flush of her cheeks stirred something within him. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. The woman was too beguiling for her own good.

“Mm, perhaps you are right. No need to give this young man more than he deserves. At least, not until he has earned it.” Anne shuffled about the room, scooping up the clothes from the floor, folding them and stacking them neatly in the chest. She made a shooing motion at him.

“Come now, lad, the girl needs a rest before supper. Remove your furry self off the bed so I can straighten it.”

More color rose across Constance’s face and down her slender neck. “There is no need, Anne. I could not possibly sleep in this bed. A sleeping pallet with the other servants is all I require.”

“Nonsense, child. You shall sleep in this bed. What say you, D’Artagnon?”

Constance, snug in between bedsheets thick with his scent? It appealed to him far more than it should.

He glared at Anne. He was not keen to cower to her demands.

She was but the cook. In this, though, they were in agreeance.

The little healer would sleep in his bed.

Where better than in his territory so he could keep a close watch over her, a witness to whatever plan she made?

And that was the only reason. He rose and slipped off the bed.

“Now, there will be no more talk of sleeping pallets, or whatnot.” Anne straightened the covers.

“Gaharet has ordered it so, and you have D’Artagnon’s permission.

That is enough for me.” Anne shifted his unfinished tome aside.

“You can put your precious book on the table there. None will touch it, I assure you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Constance set her grimoire down on the table beside the half-burned candle.

Anne picked up the empty water pitcher and a crumpled, used linen. “I shall send a maid up with some warm water and a clean cloth for you to freshen up. And since our furry lad here refuses to shift and prove useful, I will send one of the boys with fresh coals for the brazier.”

D’Artagnon ignored Anne’s dig at him. It would take a lot more than a snide remark from an old woman to prompt him to shift. She waddled out of the door, pitcher in hand, then he was alone with her . The woman from the cottage. In his room. Soon to be sleeping in his bed.

He fought the confounding sense of satisfaction that lodged in his chest and made himself comfortable beside the cold brazier.

The last nine years had taught him much, but the most useful was patience.

He would give his brother his few days, then he would return to hunting for his nemesis.

Nothing, not his brother’s entreaties to remain in the keep, to shift, nor this woman who intrigued him so, would stop him from fulfilling his promise to his father.

He would avenge his parents’ death, and his near death.

If it was the last thing he did, D’Artagnon would see it done.