Page 7 of Wolf's Prize

He stared them down. Aimon had to give Lothair his due. Brave or crazy, few would have the courage to confront five of their kind at once. If but one of them made a move toward Lothair, it would not end well for the comte. As tempting as that was, they would not leave this hall alive if they did. Too many of the keep guard awaited them beyond the doors. Lothair was many things. Stupid was not one of them.

“I have what I want chained beneath my keep,” said Lothair. “Ulrik will give me all I need. He will have little choice. He will bite someone, or he will die. Iwillhave my werewolf army.”

Aimon swallowed hard, the enormity of Ulrik’s sacrifice now clear to him.

“And Archeveque Renaud will cease his attempts to kill us, as he has killed our brothers and our kin?” asked Lance.

Lothair glowered. “Leave the archeveque to me. Dismissed.”

They turned to leave, all but Lance. Aimon paused.

“Mon Seigneur, what of Mademoiselle Erin? Gaharet’s betrothed?”

Aimon tensed. What did Lance want with Erin?

Lothair’s eyes narrowed. “What of her?”

“Gaharet would have wanted us to see to her wellbeing.”

Aimon relaxed. Lance could not know Erin rested safely in Gaharet’s care, hidden away in the forest. He was right to be concerned about her. His experience and steady guidance would serve them well in the coming days.

Lothair grunted. “Very well. You may do so.”

“Thank you, Mon Seigneur Comte.”

Dismissed, they retreated. Aimon exited the heavy doors, following along behind the others, his head down and lost in thought, he weaved his way through the throng of people pushing to return to the hall. He brushed against a woman and an unexpected scent invaded his nostrils. Aimon’s head jerked up. He turned and took her in with all his enhanced senses. Small, feminine, with a dusting of freckles across her nose, she stared up at him. Dark shapes flitted within the depths of her hazel eyes. Bold eyes. Unashamed, they held his stare and his wolf stirred, rising to the surface. Aimon frowned.Who is she?

He tried to place her, unable and unwilling to look away. Kathryn, Gaharet’s cousin. Kathryn Beauchene. Was it possible? Could they have overlooked her? Surely Gaharet would have been aware? If his nose did not lead him astray, then she was precious. Something they had feared lost.

He tried breathing in her scent again, but she turned away from him, and he lost any trace of her in the miasma of rank smells from the keep—of unwashed bodies, soiled meadowsweet rushes on the floor and smoke from the oil lamps. He looked toward Lance and the others. Had they caught her scent? No. Their faces grim and their focus elsewhere, they had moved too far away.

Aimon turned back to the woman in time to see her disappear through the doors into the hall. She glanced up at him and offered him a tentative smile. He smiled back, pondering this new possibility. For the scent he had caught, so briefly he could almost think he imagined it, was that of a female werewolf.

Chapter Three

Kathryn slipped into the hall, her cheeks burning. Aimon Proulx had smiled at her. For a moment their gazes had locked, and she had stared into the bluest eyes she had ever seen—intense, bright and looking straight at her. As she walked away, she had dared a backward glance and a coy smile. When he had smiled back, her heart had faltered. She caught Manette’s scowl as the woman leaned in to whisper to Odila. Kathryn smirked. Out of all the women whose gazes followed Aimon’s every move, hoping he would glance in their direction,shehad been the focus of those piercing, blue eyes. Not Manette, or Odila, or even Lisette, who had yet to secure a husband. But her. Kathryn Beauchene. Perhaps she did have a chance of garnering his attention.

Her unease returned, their reason for being here tempering her triumph as she found a place in the crowd beside her father. Smells from the keep, from the people that crowded around her, jostled her—the stench of their emotions, their unwashed bodies overwhelmed her senses. The beast within stirred, and it pushed perilously close to the surface. What if word had reached the comte of all the suitors she had spurned? She clasped her hands together so tight her nails bit into the flesh of her palms.

“All will be well, Kathryn. It is certain to be a minor matter,” said her father, patting her on the arm.

She gave him a wan smile, forcing the inner presence down and locking it away tight.

The doors closed, and quiet descended on the hall. The keep guard called up five young men, and Kathryn narrowed her concentration on them—on the stiffness of their shoulders and the sour taint of their nervousness. They stood before the comte, hoping to be found worthy of being a squire to a chevalier. No doubt wanting to be a chevalier themselves one day. Fearing the comte would reject them. The comte stepped forward, running his gaze over each of the young men, sizing them up, their jubilation and pride ringing loud in Kathryn’s mind when Comte Lothair accepted them. She applauded absently along with the crowd.

A cloth merchant came next, dragged forward by the keep guard. Accused of cheating his clients, his fear and guilt clogged her nostrils. He received seven days in the stocks. The comte was no more deceived by his vehement protestations of innocence than she was. Next, Baron and Baronne Cousineau were called on. For services rendered, the comte announced their daughter’s betrothal to his second cousin, elevating the family’s status. From the gleam in the baron’s eyes and the haughty tilt of his wife’s chin, they were most satisfied. From her unshed tears and the sting of sorrow only Kathryn could taste, their daughter was not.

Bile rose in the back of Kathryn’s throat, the clamor of the crowd’s whispered gossip receding in the fog descending over her. Was this to be her fate, too? A husband chosen by the comte? Any one of the many men whose proposals she had rejected could have petitioned Comte Lothair.

“Farren and Kathryn Beauchene.” The keep guard’s voice rang loud across the packed hall.

Kathryn snapped to attention, her nerves fluttering in her stomach, as she stepped forward with her father. Manette’s open curiosity did little to quell the dread hounding her every step.

“Mon Seigneur Comte.” Kathryn bowed her head and curtseyed to the man sitting at the apex of the hall surrounded by his guards. Scores of eyes watched them, the weight of their stares bearing down on her, eager to see if the comte rewarded or punished them. Or, as with the Cousineau’s daughter, would the reward be its own punishment?

Comte Lothair’s gaze assessed her, running up and down her body before settling on her face. Kathryn straightened her shoulders a little and lifted her chin. Amusement flickered in the comte’s eyes, his fingers thrumming against the arm of his chair. Kathryn gritted her teeth and kept a tight leash on her temper.

His fingers stilled, and the comte’s attention switched to her father.

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