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

Chapter Twenty

Bek lay curled into a ball, wet, cold and more miserable than the day the judge had sentenced her to twelve months in Bronzefield prison. The woolen dress clung to her, saturated and weighty. Her boots were a muddy mess and her feet were like two blocks of ice. She was so cold she couldn’t move, though the warmth of the fire beckoned.

The woman spoke to her, words in French, gesturing to her wet dress, the fire and a pile of dry clothes. Bek nodded, her teeth clacking together, and let the woman help her peel off her wet garments and hang them up to dry, as Bek slipped into the dress provided. The woman, Constance she’d said her name was, eyed Bek’s knickers and bra with curiosity, but said nothing as she draped them over a seat by the fire.

Constance handed her a mug, steam rising above the lip, and Bek gratefully wrapped her hands around it. She took a sip. Ginger. She took another sip and warmth spread through her chest and down to her stomach.

“Thank you. For helping us.” Bek dredged up long-forgotten French words, hoping the basics hadn’t changed too much over the centuries. “ Merci beaucoup. ”

Unlike the villagers who’d turned their backs on her, this woman had taken them in. Would she evict them, force them back out into the storm if she knew Ulrik was a fugitive from the local count?

The woman’s two different colored eyes—one blue, one green—regarded her. Did she live all the way out here on her own? Had people shunned her, as the villagers had shunned Bek? Because she was a little different? Because she was born with a peculiar genetic feature? Or was there another reason for her isolation?

A woman in the woods, Ulrik had said, and he’d paused and Bek had wondered then, as they’d sat watching the hare carcasses cook over the fire, if she was a previous lover. What if… Her mind raced. What if he’d been going to say the witch in the woods?

Bek’s narrowed gaze swept around the hut. The drying herbs, the bowls of powders, leaves and things she couldn’t name and the cluster of colored rocks and crystals. The only thing missing was a Book of Shadows, a grimoire. And maybe a broomstick. Perhaps this woman was the last person who would turn them away.

Constance beckoned her to a seat by the fire, beside her drying undergarments. Bek dropped her saturated boots at her feet and sat, warming her frozen toes and sipping her ginger tea. Whatever Constance’s reasons for taking them in, Bek was grateful. She hoped they could stay here for a little while. At least until she could thaw out and the storm had blown over.

The door swung open and a gust of wind swept in, buffeting the fire, before a bedraggled Ulrik closed the door behind him. He stood, dripping water, with several dead hares in one hand and his muddy boots in the other. Constance accepted the hares, and they exchanged a few words, too fast for Rebekah to catch any but merci. A few long strides took him to a pile of clothing Constance pointed at. More French. Whatever he’d said, Constance was pleased. He’d probably offered to hunt for her again.

Serving drinks in a dingy, noisy bar, Bek had learned pretty quick how to read people. It had served her well more times than she could count. With the language barrier, the skill would come in handy.

Constance arranged the hares on the table and grabbed a large cleaver. She raised it up and brought it down with a loud thunk, chopping off a hare’s head. Bek jumped and nearly spilled her ginger tea. She looked away from the decapitated hare, her gaze sliding over Constance’s shoulder to Ulrik. He’d turned his back to them and was peeling off his sopping shirt. It hit the floor with a wet plop.

The cleaver descended again. Thunk . Bek flinched, drawn back to the macabre scene unfolding on the table. Constance had removed the hare’s front paws. Another chop and the back paws were off, too. Bek grimaced. It’d fascinated her when Ulrik had done this, watching his long fingers and those competent hands of his prep the hare, but now it made her a little queasy.

Her gaze lifted to Ulrik again. Muscles played across his naked shoulders as he dried his chest with a cloth. Broad shoulders that tapered down to lean hips. What would it be like to rake her fingernails across them? Or run her tongue down his spine. Would he arch his back? Would he growl?

The clunk of the cleaver against the table as Constance set it aside snapped Bek out of her smutty thoughts and drew her attention back to the hares. Now Constance held a wicked-sharp knife. With deft hands, she cut several slits in the skin. Then, gripping the fur tight in her fist, she stripped it away from the flesh. Behind Constance, Ulrik rubbed the cloth over his hair before dropping it at his feet.

The hare pelt set aside, Constance made a hole in the hare’s stomach and slid the knife along its belly. Ulrik reached for his trousers. Constance gently eased out the slippery entrails. Ulrik peeled his trousers down.

Bek stared at the twin globes of Ulrik’s bare ass, Constance and her hare preparation forgotten. The man had taut buns. You could bounce a penny off those things. And, God Almighty, wouldn’t she love to get her hands on them?

He bent over to slide his trousers off his feet, treating Bek to a prime view of his heavy ball sack and the bulbous head of his cock. She bit her bottom lip, holding back her hum of approval. The sounds of Constance skinning and gutting hares continued—the thunk of the cleaver, the snick of the knife, the squelch of entrails being removed—but Bek only had eyes for Ulrik. She clenched her thighs, conscious she no longer wore her knickers.

Another hard chop. Another hare lost its head, and Ulrik turned around, hands on his lean hips. Bek’s hands gripped her mug of tea so tight she thought it might crack. Her gaze skittered over his muscled abs, following the happy trail of sandy-blond hair down to his groin. Ulrik’s casual nudity shouldn’t surprise her. The man was an exhibitionist at heart. He’d already proved that.

A soft chuckle had her cheeks heating. He raised an eyebrow, amusement and not a little heat dancing in his eyes. He dropped his hands from his hips and held them palm up, inviting her appraisal, daring her to look. Constance still worked diligently at prepping the hares. If she had any inkling of what was happening behind her, she gave no sign.

Bek met his gaze, refusing to drop it and look her fill. She wanted to. God, how she wanted to, but she refused to give him that satisfaction. She would content herself with her memory from the pond. Of seeing his long fingers stroking… Her breath hitched, and she turned her attention back to Constance and the bloody table with its hare carcasses. Even the sight of the severed heads and the wet pile of entrails couldn’t shake the image of Ulrik with his hand fisted around his cock.

What would sex be like with a man like him? An expert with his fingers, he’d given her one of the best orgasms she’d ever had. Against her will, her gaze slid back to him. A wide grin split his face, and he folded his arms across his chest, widening his stance.

Bek’s hackles rose. Oh, he thought they were a done deal, did he? She rubbed the barbell of her tongue ring against the roof of her mouth. Were they a done deal? Could she have sex with him and walk away? And make no mistake, he wasn’t promising her anything except sex, but the sex promised to be awesome . She’d be leaving to return to the twenty-first century. Eventually. She hoped. There was no point in her catching feelings for him, but did she want to regret a missed opportunity ?

She fiddled with her tongue ring again. Should I, or shouldn’t I?

Her body hummed. Ulrik’s nostrils flared and triumph glittered in his eyes.

Cocky bastard.

She turned away, sipping her tea and staring into the fire. In the periphery of her vision, she caught the roll of his eyes toward the thatched ceiling. With a frustrated snort, he gave her his back and dressed. She suppressed a laugh. The man wasn’t used to being turned down. She was good for his ego. The women of the tenth century could thank her later.

She glanced up to catch Constance watching her. From the smothered grin and the amused side-eye Constance gave Ulrik, the woman understood more than she let on.

Bek set her mug on the table and held her hands out, motioning to the hares and the knife. “Can I…do anything to help?”

Constance handed Bek a knife and some vegetables and motioned to the pot. Bek focused on chopping up the vegetables, avoiding looking directly at Ulrik as he draped his clothes by the fire, but she was very aware of him. When he paused by her knickers, her stomach fluttered. When he fingered the lace of her bra, his brows drawn together in a frown, her breasts ached and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She’d have to remove her tongue ring, given his allergy. If she were to take him up on his offer. Sex without kissing didn’t bear thinking about. And the man could kiss. Magic fingers, a magic mouth. Would he also have a magic— His declaration in the forest, when she’d told him why some people had tongue rings, flashed through her mind and her body flushed with heat. There was that, too.

He left her bra and moved to sit beside her, his arms on the table and his thigh pressed against hers. As Constance filled a pot with hare and vegetables and set it over the fire, Ulrik conversed with her in rapid French.

Bek listened, her whole body tuned into the conversation, but all she could pick up was Ulrik’s obvious relief.

“What did she say? Does she know where your lord is?”

Ulrik nodded. “She has given me a message from my lord. I know where to find him now. We shall set off first thing in the morn.”

Bek groaned. More walking. “How far?”

“At the pace we have been setting, four, maybe five days.”

Shit. Bek’s shoulders slumped, and she leaned her head in her hands. “We should’ve stolen a bloody horse.”