Page 40 of Wolf's Prize

Anne hustled her from the bath. “Dry yourself, child, and eat up. You must be hungry.”

Surprised to find she was, Kathryn ate everything on the platter as Anne combed the tangles from her hair.

When she had finished, Anne whisked the empty plate away. “Now pop yourself into bed. A good sleep will ease the ache in your bones. You have more training tomorrow and you need to be well rested.”

It seemed decadent to be in bed while the sun still shone, but her eyes were drooping, so she did not protest, snuggling under the covers. Before long, her eyelids fluttered closed, her worries about Aimon the last thing on her mind as she slipped into a deep sleep.

Kathryn slept away the remainder of the day, only waking when Anne roused her to dress for the evening meal. She entered the hall to a low hum of chatter, the servants and farmers seated along the large oak table. Her father glanced up, his expression hollow and dark shadows under his eyes. He was still not sleeping well. She could ease his pain. A simple word or two would do. She remained silent.

A place beside him sat empty, and he looked hopeful she would take it. Her gaze darted to Aimon. If she wanted to sit near Aimon, and she did, she must sit beside her father. She stood for a moment, weighing her options, then chose a space on the opposite side of the table. Her father’s shoulders sagged, but he said nothing. Aimon’s lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. Oh dear, had she offended Aimon? Perhaps… She made to stand, but a young servant girl slipped into the vacant place between Aimon and her father, and she resigned herself to her chosen seat.

A grizzled farmer slumped onto the bench beside her, and she turned her attention to him, smiling a greeting. He scowled.

“Humph. Another new woman.” He grumbled under his breath. “More changes. I dislike changes. It is a bad omen.”

Startled, she leaned away from him, her wolf pulsing to the surface.

“Do not mind Old Tumas,” said the farmer to her right. “He is always grumpy. My name is Brenton. I farm pigs for the estate.”

“I am Kathryn.”

“Welcome, Mademoiselle Kathryn. You know”—he leaned in with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye—“not too long ago, old Tumas chased me around with his pitchfork because my pigs got into his cabbages.”

Tumas grunted. “If you had made better fences, your pigs would have stayed in their own paddock.”

Brenton chuckled. “My pigs were a little too smart for their own good.”

Kathryn glanced between the two men. Brenton had an amiable smile and laughing eyes, while Tumas glared past her at the friendly pig farmer.

“Best mind your pigs.” Tumas pointed his knife at her father. “He might not be as kind to you as Seigneur Gaharet.”

“Tumas.” Gascon’s steely gaze pinned the surly old man from the far end of the table. The conversation around the table quietened. “This is Seigneur Beauchene’s estate now. As decreed by Comte Lothair. Both he and his daughter are to be accorded the same respect and courtesy as Seigneur Gaharet. Is that understood?”

He looked at each person at the table, seeking their acknowledgment. When he reached Tumas, his gaze lingered. No one made a sound, save for a baby gurgling in his mother’s arms.

Her father cleared his throat. “Thank you, Gascon. And thank you to all of you for helping myself and Kathryn with this difficult transition. I do not know how Seigneur Gaharet ran the estate, but I will work with Gascon to make it as smooth as possible. I thank you all for your ongoing support.”

Nods and nervous smiles came from everyone around the table, except for Tumas.

“I still do not like changes.”

Servants entering with the food saved Tumas from a rebuke from Gascon. They placed steaming platters of meat, salted fish, crusty bread, freshly churned butter and large bowls of stewed meat and vegetables on the table. Kathryn’s mouth watered. They had not wanted for food in their previous home in the Langeais village, but they had not eaten this well.

“Tuck in, Kathryn,” said Anne, placing her considerable girth next to the lady with the baby. Anne tickled the baby under his chin. “Georges, you get more beautiful every day.” Georges gurgled, and his mother beamed.

Brenton passed her a platter of meat. She hesitated over the portions more raw than cooked before slipping them onto her plate.

Tumas’ appraising gaze followed her actions. “So that is the way of it, is it? Like Seigneur Gaharet?”

Kathryn froze, waiting for the horror, the recriminations.

With a brief nod, he turned back to his own meal. “Good enough for me.”

Kathryn breathed out a breath, her nerveless fingers almost dropping her knife.

Anne passed her a platter of bread. “Kathryn, this is Eleonore and her baby, Georges.”

Kathryn took a few pieces of bread, smiling her greeting at the young woman and her baby.

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