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

Chapter Seventeen

With a pounding of horse’s hooves and the jingle of harnesses, Lothair swept into the bailey of the d’Louncrais keep, a score of keep guard at his back. Three days of searching and not a single trace of Ulrik Voclain or this mysterious woman. He was running out of patience. It was time to see if the wolves of Langeais knew of his whereabouts.

As the dust settled, he dismounted and stared up at the stone keep. It was not as large as his, or as fortified. Nor did it have the strategic location guarding the River Loire, but it was a symbol of power and wealth accumulated, nonetheless. They had always had influence, the d’Louncrais. In Lothair’s father’s and grandfather’s time, too, but only he had allowed one of them into his inner circle. Gaharet. He had trusted him, relied on his steady presence and his wise council. Dare he say he had called him friend. For that, Gaharet had betrayed him and fled Langeais to God knew where.

So he had given the d’Louncrais estate to the Beauchenes. Used it and the unmarried Kathryn Beauchene to bait the pack. His plan had worked, though not quite as he had expected. It had not flushed out Renaud’s informant, but Lothair could work with the end result.

Two figures appeared at the door, one a servant, the other the chevalier he had come to see. Aimon Proulx, his white-blond hair loose about his shoulders, smiled in greeting, but his gaze was wary.

“Mon Seigneur Comte. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Come now, Aimon. Do not be obtuse.” He turned to his keep guard. “ Capitaine, secure the keep. You four” —he pointed to the guards on his left—“follow me.” He planted his hand on Aimon’s shoulder. “We have much to discuss. How fares things with Mademoiselle Kathryn?”

The young chevalier stiffened beneath his touch, sharing a look with the servant, who scurried away. To hide Kathryn from him? To warn Gaharet of his presence? The latter, he hoped. He would welcome Gaharet’s counsel, though he doubted Gaharet would risk revealing himself with so many of the keep guard present. He was an alpha werewolf, not invincible.

Lothair swept through the keep and into the library. Aimon followed, and Lothair’s four guards took position outside the door. Aimon was a werewolf. Kathryn, too. Lothair had not survived so long by taking unnecessary risks.

He poured himself some wine, chose a chair by the brazier and scanned the room as he sipped from his goblet. Chests of scrolls, parchments and books lined the walls. Never had he seen so many in one place. Not in his keep, nor in the cathedral at Tours he had once visited in his youth. Rumor had it there were works in here from as far off as Constantinople. What knowledge would he find were he to take the time to look? What secrets might it reveal? He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Perhaps he should take the vaunted d’Louncrais library for himself.

Aimon stood, waiting, his face revealing nothing of the emotions, the fear, Lothair was certain whirled inside him. He was learning. Ensnared in his trap for the informant, and unpracticed in the art of intrigue, Aimon had been too easy to play. Recent events had changed that, but Lothair had yet to meet a man he could not read.

“Tell me, Aimon, of your meeting with the pack. Did you uncover Renaud’s informant?”

Uncertainty flashed in Aimon’s bright blue eyes. Maybe he had been wrong to send in Aimon. He was no match for the experience of the others, Lance in particular.

“Tell me you have something. An impression. A feeling in your gut. Who fought hardest for Kathryn, apart from yourself?”

Aimon’s gaze hardened. “Godfrey.”

Mmm, interesting . He picked up the poker and stirred the coals in the brazier. Aimon ventured no further information. Well… that would not do.

“Aimon, I thought we had an understanding. In return for your assistance, I would let you have the girl, but…” He shrugged. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you do not wish for Kathryn as much as I believed.”

A stillness came over Aimon, one Lothair recognized well. The readying of a predator before the attack. In the air a musky scent pervaded, and Aimon’s intense blue stare fixed on him.

With a nonchalance that betrayed his own alertness, he set aside the poker and approached the young chevalier, casually draping his hand across the hilt of his sword. “Do you want to keep her?”

He stood toe to toe, eye to eye with Aimon. A man who could shift into a werewolf. The thrill of it zipped through his veins. Who would triumph in a match between them? The beast? Or the warrior whose precarious hold over his county, and at times, his life, had long since stripped away any conscience he may have been born with?

Aimon’s lip curled back in a snarl, revealing an elongated canine. “Kathryn is mine.”

His words were little more than a guttural growl as dark shapes shifted in his eyes. The musky scent intensified. How close was Aimon to shifting? Could he channel his inner wolf, the strength and the enhanced senses, without changing form? Lothair longed to know, to be on the other side of this standoff. To have what they had. He would have it. They would give him what he wanted. Eventually.

“I will ask you again. Do you want to keep her?”

He would not, could not, allow a challenge to go unchecked, not even in the privacy of this library. Aimon could still prove useful, but Lothair would not hesitate to cut him down. As a chevalier, Aimon was good, but not as practiced, nor as cunning as he. As a werewolf, he might think he could best him. But would a turning only a few years old give him the edge over an experienced warrior? One whose ruthlessness the pontiff had likened to that of the Devil? Had Lothair faced Gaharet, the outcome would be in question. But Aimon… Lothair was certain he had the advantage.

Aimon, it seemed, came to the same conclusion, for he backed away.

“It is time for you to earn your keep, Aimon.” Lothair released his hold on his sword, pleased with the outcome of their little battle of wills, yet disappointed he had not the chance to test himself against a werewolf. “Tell me what happened at the pack meeting.”

Aimon stared at the floor. “I could not discern who the traitor is. Godfrey was unusually angry, and he is hiding something.”

Aimon’s loyalty to his pack was strong. For one such as him, it would cut deep to give up their secrets. But his desire to protect Kathryn burned brighter, and Lothair would use that to get what he wanted.

“And?”

Aimon’s face twisted into a grimace, as though telling him anything caused him physical pain. “Lance gave me a plausible excuse for why he lied about the night in the clearing, about where he was when Ulrik—”

“Yes, speaking of Ulrik. Where is he, Aimon?”

Aimon frowned, concern and confusion flickering across his face before it went as blank as un-scribed parchment.

Lothair considered the young chevalier. “Did you aid him in his escape?”

Aimon shot him an incredulous look. “How? You had him shackled in silver. I am no more immune to it than he is.”

“And the woman?”

More confusion. “What woman?”

“The woman who helped him escape. The woman who, the guard swears, did not pass them, yet somehow got into a locked and guarded underground chamber.”

Aimon shook his head. “How is that possible?”

“It is possible because I left the alpha’s amulet with him.”

Aimon’s Adam’s apple jerked as he swallowed.

Lothair smirked. “Yes, Aimon. I know how the amulets work. I understand the purpose of the alpha’s amulet. What woman did you send to rescue Ulrik?”

Aimon again shook his head. “I did not…” He frowned. “Gaharet would not… Neither of us would risk our…” He swallowed again, his gaze darting about. “I do not know.”

He did not know, but he had a suspicion. Lothair was certain of it. Could she have a connection with Gaharet’s woman? None of his inquiries into this Erin Richardson had revealed a shred of information about her family or her past. Not even a whisper of a rumor. Not a single trace, as though she had appeared out of nowhere. He snatched up his goblet and threw back the remnants of his wine.

Lothair stood and wandered about the room, running his hand over tomes, picking up scrolls before setting them down again. “Where would Ulrik go? To Gaharet? Do I suspend my search for Ulrik and hunt, instead, for Gaharet?” He raised an eyebrow at Aimon’s sharp intake of breath. “No?” His lips thinned, and he brushed past Aimon. “Then find me Ulrik.”

He exited the library, his guards falling in step, passing a flustered Farren with a hand on Kathryn’s arm, holding his daughter in check. Defiance glittered in the feisty she-wolf’s eyes. Silly girl, if she thought to challenge him.

“ Capitaine. Search this keep. From the ramparts to the storerooms.” At the keep’s entrance, he paused. “Remember, Aimon. What I give, I can easily take away.” He stared pointedly at Kathryn, and Aimon drew her closer into the protection of his arms. “Never forget that.”