Page 21 of Wolf's Keep

“Have someone do an inventory on Tumas’ lost cabbages. I need to organize payment to him.”

“Right away, Mon Seigneur.”

“Did old Tumas really chase Brenton around the field with a hoe?”

Gascon nodded. “I am told it was quite the sight.”

“Of all the farmer’s fields for Brenton’s pigs to get into it had to be Tumas’.”

Gascon nodded in agreement. “Truly. There is another small matter for you to attend to, Mon Seigneur.”

Gaharet sighed, gesturing for Gascon to tell him this new concern.

“Henri from the stables has asked that you come down and look at Crooner when you have a moment. He is lame again. He mentioned you wanted to be informed.”

“Of course. I will visit the stables presently. I have a few accounts to settle first.”

“Very well, Mon Seigneur.” Gascon departed, leaving Gaharet alone in the hall.

Gaharet pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. As a boy, the idea of one day being the master of the keep had held great appeal—being in charge, running the estate, the challenge of it all. His father had handled it with such ease. Of course, Gaharet’s mother had been by his side, and as Gaharet and D’Artagnon had grown, his father had placed small amounts of responsibility on them, too. Gaharet had no such luxury now, and the day-to-day running of things, of being responsible for so many people, their lives and their livelihoods, weighed heavily on his mind.

Like his father, he had also taken on the leadership of the pack. In this, he at least had the support of his men. Most of them. The one person he had once thought he could count on caused him more trouble than he would have thought possible. Ulrik. Yet another matter that would soon need attention.

He sighed, getting to his feet. He had accounts to deal with and a lame horse to see to. His responsibilities would not wait and in good conscience he could not, would not, shirk them, no matter how much the intriguing woman upstairs drew him. He had obligations—to his men, to his servants, his farmers, his animals, anything and anyone that relied on him for their wellbeing. That duty, as difficult as it might be, always came first.

Chapter Nine

The first thing Erin did upon returning to the bedchamber was to remove her damn watch. Stupid of her to forget it. Look at what it had instigated. She raised her fingers to her lips. The feel of his mouth on hers was forever scorched into her memory. She scowled, scrubbing her hand across her mouth. He’d shaken her resolve, that’s all. Knocked her off-kilter. A setback nothing more. Erin wouldn’t be making the same mistake again.

She glanced at the time before stuffing her watch into the pocket of her jeans. Four-fifteen. She’d been unconscious all night and most of the day. Using the pitcher and basin to wash, she gently bathed the blood from her face and inspected the gash and the bump with her fingers. The cut wasn’t as large as she’d feared, but her forehead was tender. How far the bruise stretched she’d no way of knowing, but it would fade in time.

Assured she’d received no permanent damage, combing her hair back with her fingers and retying her ponytail, she set about exploring every inch of the room, examining every item of furniture and every feature. The mattress made of down, the woolen covers on the bed, the tallow candle, the brazier in the corner, the washbowl on the table—nothing escaped her intense scrutiny. For one, the chance to study artifacts in situ like this might never again present itself, and Erin couldn’t let the opportunity slip by. And two, anything she could learn, no matter how insignificant, would only increase her chances of survival.

As the afternoon dragged on and no one came, not a servant to offer her food, or this Anne with more appropriate clothes, Erin’s curiosity waned. The coals in the brazier burned down, the room became colder, and as the evening crept in, slowly, but surely, darkness descended. She swaddled herself in the wool blanket and huddled on the bed, considering venturing from the bedchamber.

The fire would be lit in the hall, and Gaharet hadn’t said she couldn’t leave the room. She’d left it earlier, when she could hold her bladder no longer, to find and use the garderobe and no one raised the alarm. Either Anne had yet to return from the village, or they’d forgotten about her. Sitting here in the cold and dark seemed foolish. At least in the hall, she’d be warm.

Shrugging off the blanket, Erin slid off the bed, strode to the door and ran smack into a solid wall of muscle.

“Erin? What are you doing hiding in the dark? Why has Anne not taken care of you?”

Her breath hitched. Gaharet.

He stepped back out through the doorway and called for a servant, giving a few orders and sending the man hurrying away. He re-entered the room and she tensed. Alone in the dark with him. Not ideal. Not where she wanted to beat all.

“Why did you not join me in the hall? It is much warmer down there.”

She could only make out his silhouette, but she tilted her face to look up at him. “I was heading in that very direction.” Being in the dark had one benefit. He couldn’t see her blushing. The lack of control she had over her body’s response to him was humiliating.

He reached out, touching her cheek, and she shivered at the gesture, backing away, beyond the reach of his outstretched hand.

“Goodness, you are cold.”

A short, prodigiously large, older woman with an enormous bosom that jutted out like the prow of a ship appeared in the doorway sparing her from answering. The woman lumbered into the room, a lit candle in her hand, a food splattered apron tied around her waist and a bundle of clothing over her arm. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, was pinned back from her lined face, and she smiled at Erin, setting the candle on the table. She turned, catching Erin’s shivering form, and frowned at Gaharet.

“Good Lord, young man,” she said. “Where are your manners? The poor girl must be freezing. It is like the dead of winter in here. And she is injured. Poor child.”

Gaharet frowned. “Did I not ask you to arrange clothing for her?”

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