Wolf’s Redemption (The Wolves of Langeais #3)

Chapter Ten

Ulrik rose out of the water. It felt good to be clean again and to be free of the silver that had burned his skin and subdued his wolf. He looked down at his erect cock, the cold water doing little to tame his desire for the woman he had rescued. Ulrik grinned. He had heard her muffled gasp. As if she could hide her reaction to him. As if he had not known she only pretended to sleep.

Ulrik suppressed a chuckle. He had enjoyed goading her, stroking himself while she watched, but it left him throbbing and wanting. Should he take himself to completion while she lay there listening? His hand brushed against his cock, and it jerked, happy for any attention. He would prefer it to be her hand, not his. Better still, her mouth.

A noise behind him cut off his moan. He stilled.

Merde.

She was no longer by the fire but fleeing through the forest. He spun, surging out of the water, only to find his breeches, his boots, his sword and his dagger, gone. Clever wench. She could not hide from him, nor could she escape him, but if she made it to the nearby village before he caught her, she could bring the keep guard down on them. Worse still, the village belonged to the Vautour estate. To Lance.

L’enfer.

Until they routed the traitor, he could trust none of his pack save Gaharet. Not even Lance, whose council Gaharet had often sought. Nor could he guess how any of his pack would view him, given what they must believe he had done. They could accept him as their new alpha, or they could want his blood for supposedly killing Gaharet.

He kicked dirt on the fire, threw the partly cooked hare carcass into the forest, and called forth his wolf. He took off at a run, sandy hair exploding across his body, his fangs elongating in his mouth and his bones cracking as he shifted mid stride. With his nose to the ground and his ears pricked, he followed her trail.

That she had thought to delay her escape, stopping to throw his boot away from her path and into the forest, caught him by surprise. She was wily, more like the she-wolves he remembered from his younger years. Not canny enough, though, to notice her magic light hidden inside. With his boot and its precious cargo in his jaws, he set off again, hunting for the rest of his clothes.

Ulrik found his breeches in the prickly grasp of a thick gorse shrub. He shifted back to human, his snout too sensitive to brave its needle-like foliage, and carefully extracted them. He donned his breeches and secured her magic light against his hip, tightening the laces to hold it in place. Pulling on his boot, he set off again. There was no time to waste. Lord knew where she had hidden the rest of his clothing.

He found his tunic beneath a rock near the stream and slipped it on. Its torn remnants did little to hide his torso, but he would attract more attention bare chested. Attention he did not need. He tracked her scent to a crevasse beneath an overhang. There, he reached in and retrieved his sword. He strapped it around his hips and continued on.

He found his other boot inside the trunk of a fallen tree. A colony of ants had made the rotting hollow their home, and his boot was crawling with them. He snarled, tipping this boot upside down and giving it a vigorous shake. He doubted she had known of the trunk’s occupants when she stuffed it in its hollow, but it had benefited her. Yet another delay.

Shoving his foot into his boot, he ignored the bites of the few ants he had failed to remove and stomped through the forest after her. Had she known to follow the stream? That it would lead her to the village? Or was it luck she headed directly for it? Given she had had the presence of mind to take and discard his clothing, in five separate locations, no less, he suspected it was the former. Ulrik grinned. He liked a challenge. This woman was by the far the most intriguing he had come across in a very long time.

An unexpected scent caught his nostrils, banishing his smile. He froze, all his enhanced senses alert. Wolf. Not a real one. A werewolf. Familiar and yet… He raised his nose to the air, inhaling deeply, searching for the scent again. Nothing. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Wolfsbane? His last encounter with that foul herb had seen him confined beneath Langeais Keep. He snarled. Not this time.

With a cautious tread, he circled back the way he had come, peering into the forest and sniffing the air. Not wolfsbane. The scents of the forest, of oak, beech and pine, were sharp. And the sounds—insects scurrying, the hint of a breeze through the canopy, the distant braying of animals in farmers’ fields—were clear. But the twitter of birds and the scurrying of rodents and game were absent. A predator lay in wait. The sense of being watched crawled up his spine.

Ulrik allowed his wolf to hover close, should he need to shift. It was not Lance. He would have recognized him, or any other member of his pack. A wolf from another pack, maybe? From across the continent? From Rus? Werewolves did not range far from their pack. Could it be a rogue? A wolf banished for misdeeds too vile to forgive. If so, Gaharet would need to know. Another reason to find his alpha. And fast.

He turned full circle, his gaze darting about. If he could catch sight of it, scent it again… But he could not. This wolf was clever, experienced. Not young then, or newly turned. Definitely male. But there was something about this wolf that triggered a feeling of familiarity. Had he met him during his banishment in Bretaigne?

As suddenly as the scent had caught his attention, the sense of the other presence dissipated and Ulrik was left standing alone in the forest. He let his wolf retreat, but he did not relax his vigilance. Should he try to track it? Perhaps this wolf was Renaud’s informant. Perhaps it was not one of their own who had betrayed them. Or mayhap it was tracking Rebekah. A cold fist of steel gripped his entrails. Rebekah.

Ulrik set off after her, his pace faster now. He reached the edge of the forest and paused. The small mud-brick huts of the village lay beyond. Curls of smoke rose from chimney holes and the heavy scent of meat and vegetables simmering in pots over fires filled the air. In the surrounding fields, villagers plowed the ground, tended their grazing animals and harvested their crops.

About to break the calm routine of their working day strode Rebekah. His dark umber surcoat flapping about her ankles and the stripes in her hair a vibrant green in the morning sun, she approached a man guiding a team of oxen pulling a large wooden plow. The farmer did not stop, nor did he acknowledge her, continuing with his task as though she were not there.

With a shrug of her shoulders, Rebekah crossed the field and waved a greeting to a woman harvesting vegetables. Without a word, the woman picked up her basket and walked away. Rebekah placed her hands on her hips and stared after her. Undeterred, she approached another woman. This time Rebekah retreated fast when a man, most likely the woman’s husband, stepped toward her, shouting at her and waving a pitchfork.

Ulrik had always found those who lived and worked in the shadow of the Vautour Keep to be unwelcoming. Not that they had ever viewed him with hostility when he had visited, but rather they had a deep sense of distrust of strangers. Rebekah would seem stranger than most.

With a frustrated set to her shoulders, and warily skirting the man with the pitchfork, Rebekah made her way toward the huts. She would find no more help there than in the fields.

Ulrik kept to the edge of the forest, avoiding the farmers and their fields, and slipped up behind her. Before she could approach anyone else, he grasped her elbow, clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her behind the tanner’s hut. The smell of putrefying flesh and animal waste assaulted his nostrils. He would bear it, for it would hide their scents, and he planned to be gone before too long. A villager would, for certain, once finished with their chores, alert their lord to the strange woman in the village.

He stood her against the wall, blocking her escape, and removed his hand from her mouth. “Where do you think you were going, Rebekah?”

Her eyes were wide and her pulse raced at the base of her throat, but she met his stare, undaunted. “I see you found your clothes.”

He grunted. “Yes. Thank you for that. By the time I retrieved my boot from the fallen tree you so kindly stowed it in, a colony of ants had taken up residence.”

She laughed.

He scowled. “I am glad you find it amusing.”

She gulped and licked her lips, and his gaze lingered on the gleam of moisture that clung to them.

“I…”

He held out his hand. “My dagger, if you will.”

Without a word, she retrieved it from beneath his surcoat and handed it to him. She was lucky she had not cut herself with it. The blade was sharp.

“Now, we are going to walk out of this village together and return to the forest.”

She scowled at him and opened her mouth to speak.

He pressed a finger to her lips. “You will go quietly.”

She shoved his hand away.

His wolf surged forward, and a rumble rose in his throat. He placed a hand on the mud-brick hut on either side of her head and stepped closer, his lips a mere breath from hers. He stared into her eyes, so full of defiance. Any other time, he would take up her challenge. It tested his control not to, but he was no more an untried, inexperienced wolf than the one he had encountered in the forest. She would not best him that easily.

“Do not test me, Rebekah.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me over your shoulder? Mm, that’d make a scene. Believe me, I won’t be quiet if you do. Not this time. I’ll scream this whole damn village down.”

The mutinous expression on her face told him she would, too . Merde. Could the woman not understand he was trying to help her?

He inhaled a calming breath. This close to her, his nostrils caught her scent above the stench of the tannery—an intoxicating mix of all that was Rebekah overlaid by his own scent from his surcoat. It lodged in his throat and stirred his darker half. His wolf prowled in his mind, urging him to… He shook his head, reining the beast in.

“I will do what needs must, whatever it takes, to get us from this village unseen.”

Her scent deepened, tinged with her irritation and a little unease, but she did not flinch, and her expression revealed none of her apprehension. The woman had the heart of a lion. No. A she-wolf. Yet her scent did not lie. She was all human.

He pulled away from her and took her arm. “Come. None of these villagers will help you. No more so than they did in the fields.”

But perhaps he knew someone who could. Gaharet may well have found a way to send Erin home, back to the future, as she had wanted. If she had survived the turning. At the very least, Gaharet would protect Rebekah, and if Erin had remained in this century, Rebekah might find comfort in her company. Another woman from her time. If he had to frighten her a little to get her to do what he wanted, to keep her safe, he was comfortable with that.

Ulrik rounded the corner of the tanner’s hut, Rebekah in tow, and came to an abrupt halt.

Godfrey.

Seated on his horse and fully armed, the chevalier rode through the village, his yellow surcoat bright in the morning sun.

The stench of the tanning solutions had worked against him and had concealed Godfrey’s approach. Ulrik ducked back behind the hut, dragging Rebekah with him. He held her against the wall with his body, his hand over her mouth, lest she scream or make a fuss. She squirmed, pulling at his hand. Her sumptuous curves rubbed against him, and turned his cock hard in an instant.

Lord, she would test the vows of a saint.

He groaned. She struggled harder, and the friction stole away his breath, his concentration and his control. His hold on her mouth loosened, and she ripped her face from his grasp, drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth wide.

Ulrik was no saint.

He took her mouth in his and swallowed her scream. With the wall at her back, she had no room to retreat as he tasted her, taking what he had wanted from the moment she had first appeared before him in Lothair’s wretched underground chamber.

She fought him, and his blood soared. She pounded her fists on his chest. Ineffective against his strength, they were a powerful blow to his conscience.

What the fuck am I doing?

He released his hold on her and stepped back, her chest heaving and fury blazing in her eyes. And yet, her back arched, pushing those beautiful breasts toward him. She wanted him. He smirked and cocked an eyebrow. She drew back her arm and slapped him across his face.

Ulrik gaped at her. She had slapped him. Hard. He held his hand to his stinging cheek. L’enfer. He did not like it. Not at all. But he had deserved it. His gut roiled and his cheek burned. He had promised her he would not touch her unless she asked, and he had forsaken his vow so quickly and so easily. Merde. His parents had raised him to be a better man. He would not sully their memory, no matter how much Rebekah tempted him.

He took another step back, reining in his prowling wolf, ignoring its demands to pounce, to take and to mate. Her dilated pupils tracked him. Oh, she wanted him. Her scent did not lie. She did not want to want him, but she did.

A strangled moan escaped her throat and she reached for him. She grasped the edges of his torn tunic, dragged his face down to hers and planted her lips on his. Ulrik’s eyes widened, but he needed no second invitation. He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in tight and ground against her. She quivered, a slight softening of her body, and he knew he had her. He licked the seam of her lips. She opened for him and he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She greeted him with a swipe of her own.

Yes.

Ulrik slipped his hand beneath his surcoat, settling it on her ribcage, a bare hair’s breadth from her lush breast. Mon Dieu, he longed to cup her in his hand. He deepened the kiss, stroking her tongue with his.

Burning pain shot through his tongue, and he ripped his mouth from hers.

“ Merde! What did you—”

She hauled her arm back and slapped him. He gaped at her. She had burned his tongue then she had hit him. Again.

“ L’enfer, woman. Why did you—?”

“The first slap was for kissing me without my permission.”

He glared at her, then gave her a reluctant nod. “I will accept that. I deserved it. But why did you hit me again?”

“The second one was for making me want to kiss you.”

Triumph surged through him, and despite his stinging cheek and burning tongue, he smiled. She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at him. He rubbed his cheek, his tongue tingling as it healed. A blister on his tongue he could withstand. Other parts of his anatomy… He winced, and his cock shriveled. Was it possible she had jewelry in her ears, nose and tongue? He grimaced at the idea. Whatever had burned him like the silver shackles had his wrists and throat, he would need to identify and remove. But he would kiss her again, were she to ask, no matter how painful.

Her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving and her lips moist and plump from his kiss, she was a delight. All fire and passion ripe for the plucking. Rebekah would come to him willingly, and it would be all the more sweet for the wait.

He raked his gaze over her. “You tempt me so, Rebekah. I make no apologies for that. But I am not in the habit of taking what is not given freely. When you are ready, petite cracheuse de feu. I can wait.”