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Chapter Seventeen

Isobella bowed her head. What person went on a dangerous mission into the past without knowing why she’d been chosen, or what exactly it was that she, and no one else, could do?

Someone who was dying, that’s who.

She raised her gaze to find Gaharet contemplating her. There was no hint of tension in his shoulders, no tightening of his jaw to suggest he was angry. Instead, he seemed almost amused, and… Something else glittered in his eyes. A kind of knowing smugness. As if he knew exactly why she was here. Which was impossible. How could he, when she didn’t? But what if he did?

Before she could formulate the words to ask him, a rotund woman with gray hair pinned in a bun and a flour-dusted apron wrapped beneath her enormous bosom waddled up to the table. At her side was a large, grizzled wolf. A werewolf. But who? It couldn’t be Lance, not here in the d’Louncrais keep, and Stef had never mentioned any other members of the pack.

“If you have finished with your meal, child,” she said to Isobella, “I will take you to your bedchamber and get you settled.”

Isobella stared at her plate, shocked to find it empty but for the meat juices. She’d been a vegetarian since she was a teenager, and she never thought she’d change. The wolf in her had had other plans. It bewildered her how tempted she was to lick the plate.

“Anne, why not have the other maids take care of things?” There was an unexpected gentleness to Gaharet’s voice. “Take some time for yourself. To grieve.”

Stef had spoken of Gaharet in glowing terms, almost awe. He’d brought the Langeais wolves back from the edge of extinction. To the modern-day Langeais wolves, he was a legend. He was still intimidating, but his concern for Anne was touching.

Anne dragged in a heavy breath, her body deflating as she released it. “Tumas is gone.” She reached down. The old wolf nudged his head under her hand and she ran her fingers through his fur. “Life moves on. And so must I. Working keeps my hands and my thoughts busy. I will take care of the girl.”

Gaharet sighed. “Very well, but should you need time, all you need do is ask.” He turned to Isobella. “Anne will take care of you. Rest well, and we will talk more of this on the morrow.”

Isobella rose, and Edmond followed suit. Aubert remained seated, staring at his plate.

“Aubert, Edmond, we have things to discuss in the library.” Gaharet’s tone brooked no disagreement.

Were they in trouble for turning her? She should stay and defend them. It wasn’t their fault. She’d asked them to—begged them. Aubert wouldn’t look at her, focused on his food.

Edmond jerked his head toward the door. “Go with Anne. Sleep. You are newly turned and need your rest.”

“Are you—?”

“All is well, Isobella.” Edmond urged her toward the doorway. “We will see you on the morn.”

“If you’re sure?” She would speak up if they needed her to. She owed them that much.

“Go,” Aubert snarled.

Isobella flinched, then ducked her head. She couldn’t blame Aubert for being angry. But it still hurt. She sighed and let it go. She would talk to Gaharet tomorrow. Erin regarded her, a well of sympathy in her eyes. Or talk to Erin, and Erin could talk to Gaharet. Yes, that’s what she’d do. No point in making a fuss in front of everyone. With one last glance at Edmond and Aubert, Isobella followed Anne from the hall.

“Come, child.” Anne led Isobella up a stone staircase. “It is late, and you must be tired.” She gestured to the wolf close on her heels. “Never mind this one. He is more of a nuisance than a harm, getting under my old feet and leaving fur all over my kitchen.” Yet as Isobella followed her up the stairs, Anne’s fingers wove through the fur of the wolf’s ruff.

In a room with a large bed and simple furniture, not dissimilar to Isobella’s vague recollections of another room in another keep, Anne drew her toward a table beneath the shuttered window with a basin of steaming water.

“Come now. Let us get you out of these travel-worn clothes.” With gentle but determined hands, Anne unlaced the stays of her dress. She sent a glare at the wolf. “If you have not a mind to leave me be, old wolf, you can at least turn your back. Give the girl some privacy.”

The wolf curled himself into a ball by the door, his nose tucked beneath his tail and his eyes closed. Isobella might be new to being a werewolf, but it was obvious to her what was going on. With the press of his lean body into Anne’s side, the angling of his grizzled head beneath her hand, the tap of his nose to her palm, the wolf touched Anne as much as any of the werewolves downstairs did their mates. As much as Gabriel touched Annabelle. Isobella suspected the wolf would not leave Anne were Gaharet to command him to. She was also certain, for all her grumbled words, Anne didn’t want him to.

Anne pulled Isobella’s dress over her head. “On the morrow, I will have the boys bring you up a nice big barrel for you to bathe in, but for tonight a quick wash will have to do.”

Isobella’s underdress followed and then her chemise, and Anne busied herself stoking the coals in the brazier and folding down the covers of the bed as Isobella washed. The woman was efficient, motherly, but sadness hung over her like a heavy blanket. She’d lost someone. Isobella had figured that much out in the hall. Tumas. Son, husband, brother?

Isobella recognized grief in the slump of her shoulders. In the way she would pause as though a memory had snuck through her careful façade, then close her eyes and sigh, before busying herself, her hands, as though work, distraction, could give her a moment’s reprieve. A moment to pretend as though nothing had changed.

It had been the same for Isobella’s papá when her mamá had died.

“Here, child.” Anne handed her a clean chemise. “You will want something to sleep in. Seems uncomfortable to me, but you young ones seem to prefer it. Especially those that have turned up unexpected like.”

Isobella slipped the chemise over her head.