Wolf's Prize, page 9
Aimon eyed his alpha, his maker, as Gaharet considered the news. How would he feel to lose everything his family had built up over centuries? His wealth, his title and his land?
Gaharet shifted his gaze to Erin.
Perhaps having her, having his mate, was enough. What would that feel like? Aimon’s gaze sought the sleeping Erin. He remembered the bone aching weariness after his turning. He had slept for days.
“So, Lothair believes one of my vassals sold us out for wealth, land and power, and he set a trap. I wonder… Could Lothair have the right of it?” Gaharet tugged at his beard, his expression thoughtful.
“There is more. It complicates things.”
At the thought of Kathryn, an unusual reluctance to divulge his discovery crept over Aimon, stilling his tongue. He flushed with a possessiveness, unfamiliar and disconcerting. What had happened last night—from his stolen kiss in the forest to Kathryn clinging to him, safe in his arms after her transformation—felt personal and was something he was not eager to share. Not even with his mated alpha. It confounded him.
“What is it, Aimon?”
He shook off his reticence. “I have fallen foul of Lothair’s trap with the Beauchenes.”
“Aimon?”
“I am sorry, Gaharet. There was no help for it.”
Gaharet’s lips twisted in a smirk. “Has our kind’s compulsion to find a mate sunk its claws into you, Aimon? I cannot say I am surprised. We all feel it. You were bound to succumb to it eventually.”
Aimon looked down at his hands. “No. That is not it. I had no choice but to visit the Beauchenes. If I could have sought confirmation another way, I would have, but I saw no other option.”
“Confirmation?”
“Kathryn Beauchene is one of us.”
Gaharet shook his head. “No, she is not. Of that, I am sure. Neither is her father. My father turned my mother, Kathryn’s aunt, when she became his wife. He made the decision to leave the rest of her family alone.”
“Farren is human,” Aimon confirmed, “but Kathryn is most definitely a werewolf. I caught her scent at Langeais and followed her to your keep, to make certain.”
Even here, a half day’s journey from the d’Louncrais keep, Kathryn’s spicy scent tugged at his awareness.
“You must be mistaken. You have had little experience with our females before they were all gone. The wolfsbane in the clearing could have confused your senses. Perhaps it has a prolonged effect.”
“As I thought, too, at first,” said Aimon. “But Gascon had his suspicions, and when I confronted Farren, he revealed the truth of it.”
“How is this possible?” Gaharet’s gaze darted about, his brow furrowing. “How did we not know? I do not recall the pack sanctioning her turning.”
Aimon took in a deep breath, releasing it on a long sigh. “This was not a turning, sanctioned or otherwise, Gaharet. Kathryn was attacked. She was but a decade and two years old.”
Gaharet recoiled. Attacking a child was not something the pack would take lightly. It crossed the unwritten laws of their kind, rules and traditions that had guided them for centuries.
“It gets worse.”
Gaharet raised his eyebrows, and Aimon squirmed beneath his direct stare. “How much worse could it get, Aimon?”
Aimon spun his mug around in his hands, avoiding Gaharet’s gaze. He had given Gaharet enough bad news, but this was personal. Aimon had never met Gaharet’s mother—she had died long before his turning—but he had heard of the close relationship she had had with her sons. From all accounts, her death had devastated Gaharet.
“Aimon, what is it?”
His mouth went dry. He took a large swallow of mead and placed his mug down on the table. “Her Aunt Elise…your mother…she died in the attack.”
Gaharet exploded from his seat, knocking it over, and rubbed his face with his hands. Erin stirred, moaning in her sleep, and Gaharet moved to sit by her side, brushing his hand across her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him before slipping back into a deep sleep. For a moment Gaharet remained there, quiet, looking down at his mate.
“One of our own attacked my mother? Killed her?” His voice cracked. “Are you sure?” Gaharet turned to him, his jaw clenched and his expression bleak.
“I am so sorry, Gaharet.”
“My father always suspected something was amiss with the way she died, but…this!” He turned away from Aimon and focused on Erin, caressing her cheek. Her presence seemed to offer him comfort. “To be killed by one of our own. And to attack a child? Which one of us could have done that?” He stood and began to pace. “If Farren knew how my mother died, why did he not tell us? Why let us believe bandits killed her?”
“I guess he had his reasons—mistrust, fear he would lose his daughter. Right or wrong, he only wanted to protect her.”
Gaharet’s pacing came to an abrupt stop. “Farren must have trained her.”
Aimon pursed his lips. “No, not really. He taught her to suppress it.”
Gaharet snorted. “That is not possible. Our wolves are embedded in our psyche, linked to every thought and every emotion. It does not matter if you are born, turned or attacked, you simply cannot repress it. It is always there, clamoring to get out.” Gaharet righted his seat and resumed his place at the table.
“As I told Farren, but Kathryn’s control is phenomenal. I do not have that level of control. Certainly not in the beginning. Not now. I have never seen anything like it. Not in any of the others. Not even in you. For someone who has hidden it and never called on it… And she has had no training at all.” He took another sip of mead. “But it all came undone the moment I revealed my wolf to her.”
“I am not surprised.”
“The poor woman believed herself cursed. I think, I hope, I have begun to convince her otherwise.”
“Where is Kathryn now?”
“I left her in the care of Anne and Gascon. I made them aware of our situation.”
“She will need training. We owe her that much.” Gaharet’s gaze slipped once more to his mate. “Erin’s training will start any day now. Perhaps… Perhaps I should train them both.”
“No!” Aimon burst out of his seat, growling, his canines extending and his jaw shifting. He leaned over Gaharet. A musky scent filled the room.
“Aimon! Control your wolf.”
Gaharet’s words slammed into him, the dominance of his alpha rolling over him.
Merde. I challenged my alpha. Why? What am I thinking?
Aimon slumped back in his seat and offered his neck in submission. “My apologies, Gaharet. I…I do not—” He shook his head. “I do not know what came over me. The thought of you with Kathryn…I… Forgive me.”
Gaharet regarded him with no hint of anger or rebuke in his expression. He should be furious. Why had he not transformed and taken Aimon down, reminded him of his place in the pack? It was his right. Aimon deserved it. He had behaved no better than Ulrik, challenging his alpha.
“All is forgiven, Aimon.” Gaharet studied him, no hint of anger in his scent, only curiosity. “You feel a certain protectiveness toward Kathryn?”
“Yes, I think I do. She is so…innocent, so frightened, and yet she faces every day with such courage. I want to help her through this. Show her the advantages of being a werewolf. That it is something she may come to embrace and not shun. Help her find joy and pride in what she is, as I have.” Aimon rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I have found myself doing all manner of foolish things since I have met her. Challenging you, snapping at Anne.”
Gaharet gave him a wry grin. “You are taking your life into your own hands there.”
“Anne threatened to rap me over the knuckles,” Aimon admitted.
Gaharet chuckled, and some of the tension left Aimon. “She would do it, too. She has given me a few sharp slaps across my snout over the years, especially when I was younger.”
“No one messes with Anne,” agreed Aimon.
Gaharet tapped his fingers on the table. “Given you have revealed yourself to Kathryn, and you understand how it feels to be turned, perhaps you should train Kathryn, not I. I will need to speak to her, though, about this attack.”
“Of course. Do you want me to bring her here?”
“No. It is unsafe for us to remain here much longer. When you return to the keep, tell Gascon to prepare the farmer’s cottage by the stream. It has lain empty for a few years now. I will cover our tracks from here as best as I can, and nobody, not even Lothair, would expect me to turn up on my own lands. Give me a sennight, then bring Kathryn to the farmer’s cottage. Gascon will direct you. It may be helpful for both her and Erin to know they are not the only female among us.”
“What about the others? If I am training Kathryn, how can I help uncover the traitor?”
“Right now, Kathryn’s safety is more important. You may yet find answers by staying in the keep. If someone is after my estate, or my position, they may very well make an appearance.”
“And Ulrik? We cannot leave him in that cell. Nor can we leave his rescue to the pack.”
“We can do nothing until we have a way of counteracting the effect silver has on us. And wolfsbane. I will talk to Constance. She may know of something. Until then, there is little we can do.”
Aimon nodded and drank down the last of his mead. He got to his feet and headed for the door. “Stay with Erin. I will keep watch tonight.”
Gaharet watched Aimon leave the cottage, his heart heavy with renewed grief, but his mind alive with possibilities. Not so long ago, he had reacted as strongly as Aimon had at the mere suggestion of Erin in another wolf’s company. Gaharet had not understood his own uncharacteristic reaction at the time, but he did now. His wolf had known Erin was his mate, though he had spent but a few moments in her presence. Listening to Aimon talk of Kathryn, watching his eyes dance with dark shadows and his voice full of admiration, Gaharet knew he was right. Aimon had found his mate. The question was, did Aimon realize it?
Chapter Ten
Kathryn awoke to sunlight streaming into the bedchamber and smooth linens cool against her skin. She stretched, a languid arching of her back, and a smile teased at the corners of her mouth.
“Good morning, child. How are you feeling?”
Kathryn’s gaze followed Anne as she stirred up the coals in the brazier.
“I feel…good.” When had she last woken feeling so rested?
“Are you planning on staying abed all day, or shall I help you dress?”
Kathryn rubbed her body against the linens—a quality of which she and her father could never have afforded—reveling in their silky slide against her skin. She could stay here all day, but she pushed aside the covers and clambered out of bed. She had questions. Anne had opened her eyes to a world she had not known existed, but there were things only another werewolf could answer. Aimon.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach, and she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her eyelids snapped open. She could scent him. By the door. Yes. Not strong enough to indicate his presence, but he must have stood outside her door during the night, long enough for his scent to linger. The quivering in her stomach intensified. Did that mean she had not ruined any chance she had with him?
“Come, child. Let us get you dressed.”
Anne slipped a chemise over Kathryn’s head, then a linen under-dress, buttoning it up, and finally an over-dress of blue. Kathryn laced up her boots then, leaving Anne straightening up the bedcovers, slipped from the bedchamber and descended the stairs. Anticipating Aimon, or her father, in the hall, it surprised to her to find it deserted and silent. The large table she remembered from her childhood visits to her aunt sat empty. The only sound was the flutter of flame over the oil lamps and the crackle of a small fire in the central fire pit as it chased away the encroaching autumn chill.
As she stepped into the room, memories assaulted her. Memories of grand meals at the table with her aunt, her uncle and all the estate’s staff. Of her cousins, Gaharet and D’Artagnon, racing through from the kitchen, laughing, with an angry servant on their heels. Of her aunt, pointing to the embroidered figures in the beautiful wall hanging and telling Kathryn its story. A second, newer wall hanging now hung beside it. Much had changed since those visits so many years ago. For her and for the d’Louncrais.
Kathryn skirted the fire pit and crossed the floor to stand before the familiar wall hanging. She picked out the figures of her aunt and uncle, taking in the scene—a hunt, a battle and a victory. As a child, her aunt’s explanation had made no sense to her. Women did not go into battle. Now, looking at the figures dancing across the wall, understanding dawned.
This was not a battle over land or territory. Nor was it some hunt to bag the largest, most noble beast in the forest. It was the story of her aunt and uncle’s courtship, and a testament to their love. Her aunt, as bold and as fiery as her red hair proclaimed, had tested her uncle, demanding he prove his worth. Uncle Jacques, had taken up her challenge, determined to make her his, and in the end, was victorious in his battle to claim her as his bride. Her father had the right of it. Jacques d’Louncrais had loved her aunt, and she him.
She leaned in, her eyes widening as she looked more closely at the figures. They rode horses. How was that possible? Since the day of her attack, no horse would bear her presence. Only the old plow horse, under sufferance, would allow her to sit behind him in a wagon. Was this evidence werewolves could ride? She rocked back on her heels. Wait. Her uncle, her cousins, they had all ridden horses. So did Aimon. So did all Gaharet’s men.
Kathryn reached out and ran her fingers over the embroidered figure of her aunt on a horse. Oh, how she missed riding—galloping across the meadow, the pounding of hooves, the wind in her hair. Is it possible? Could werewolves truly ride? Will I be able to ride again? Another question for Aimon.
Kathryn turned to the other wall hanging, the more recent addition to the d’Louncrais keep. Chevaliers on horseback on a battleground. A real battle. She picked out Gaharet, black-haired, in a red surcoat with his sword raised. And there, two figures larger than the others, they must be Edmond and Aubert. A chevalier, his sword clashing with the enemy, might be Lance, and behind him, Godfrey. But it was the figure in blue, with long white hair, unhorsed and wounded, that drew her attention. Aimon.
“The battle of Montsoreau.”
Kathryn spun around, startled, so engrossed in the scene she had not heard or scented anyone approaching.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Kathryn. How are you feeling this morning?”
Kathryn flushed. “Well, thank you, Gascon.” She turned back to the embroidered scene. “This is when Gaharet…”
“Yes. When Mon Seigneur Gaharet turned Monsieur Aimon.”
Kathryn stared at the wall hanging, not really seeing it. It said something that one of only two wall hangings was of the injury that led to Aimon’s turning. The other being her uncle’s courtship of her aunt, which had also led to a turning.
“Is no one else awake yet, Gascon?”
“Seigneur Farren is in the library. I believe he has yet to sleep.” A slight frown crossed his face but smoothed out in an instant. “He has asked not to be disturbed. Monsieur Aimon left at dawn.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “Will he return? There were things… I wanted to talk to him. I thought he would be here this morning.”
She rubbed absently at her chest, the sting of disappointment hard to swallow. He had left with nary a word. Was it wrong to feel so abandoned? She had, after all, rejected him. It seemed he had taken her words to heart.
“Monsieur Aimon had pressing business elsewhere. He wanted you to know he would return as soon as he could.”
He is to return? Hope fluttered in her breast. “Well.” She lifted her chin a little and pasted on a smile. “Of course, he has important things to do. I have no claim on Monsieur Aimon’s time. Thank you, Gascon.”
“Mademoiselle.” Gascon gave her a half bow. “Monsieur Aimon did leave some instructions for you, that I might inform you of.”
Kathryn’s eyebrows rose. “Pardon?” Instructions? Not a note or a message. “And they are?”
“He has directed you not to leave the keep until he returns. You must not go into the forest without him.”
Heat rose up her neck, and her hands clenched. “Directed? He did not ask? Or suggest?” If Gascon noted the tightness in her voice, he gave no indication of it.
“Directed, asked, suggested, whatever word you would like to choose, Mademoiselle. For your safety, you are not to leave the keep.”
Kathryn snorted. “For my safety? I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in the forest, Gascon. I have done so for years. Ask my father. Aimon is not master of this keep. He has no right to give orders to me or to anyone here, and I will not be abiding by them. I need the forest, the trees, the sun and the fresh air. I cannot, I will not, stay cooped up in here until he graces us with his presence once more.”
Gascon stood unmoved by her protestations, meeting her eyes. “Monsieur Aimon does not wish you to leave the keep until he returns. I have informed the servants and the gate guards. You will not be able to leave the keep even if you so choose.”
Kathryn heaved in a deep breath. First Anne and now Gascon. Did any of the servants in this keep abide by the social norms of class and status?
“Was there anything else I might assist you with, Mademoiselle?”
Kathryn fumed. So much for him feeling her rejection. Did Aimon think he could come into her life, issue orders, and she would simply obey? How dare he? She would see about this.
“That will be all, Gascon.” Shoulders squared, her body vibrating her displeasure, she stalked past him into the corridor. She would see her father about this nonsense. Aimon could not keep her from the forest. She needed it.
Outside the library, her hand on the door, she paused. From Gascon’s account, her father had not slept. And he did not wish to be disturbed. That did not sound like her father, but last night had been a shock. Perhaps her father needed time. She dropped her hand and eyed the heavy entrance doors. She could simply walk out, but chances were the gate guards would not let her pass. Not without someone to countermand Aimon’s orders.
