Page 15 of Wolf's Redemption

“Wait.” She held out her hands, holding him at bay. “I’ll walk.”

He straightened.

“But”—she wagged her finger at him—“if you so much as look at me the wrong way, that sword of yours is going to go somewherereallyunpleasant.”

He chuckled. Bek scowled.

She might be half his size, but she was no wilting wallflower. “Try me, buddy.”

“Though it would amuse me to see you attempt to shove my sword up my ass, now is not the time. Come.” He grabbed her arm. “The guards will think something amiss when we do not return.”

Bek cast one last glance at the castle behind her as he propelled her along with him, taking her deeper into the gloom of the forest. Had she made the right decision? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d put her trust in the wrong man.

Chapter Seven

Ulrik moved through the forest, his senses alert to his surroundings. He would not lead Lothair to the witch’s hut east of them. Gaharet and Erin might still be there. He could not make for his own demesne, or Gaharet’s, to the west. Chances were Lothair had reclaimed those lands, or at the very least had men watching them. To the south lay the River Loire.

He headed north, skirting villages and farms, angling toward the county of Blois. He would change course in a day or two. If Lothair tracked him somehow, let him think Ulrik had fled the county. Only then would he return and seek the witch. He hoped she would have news of Gaharet.

He slowed his pace, matching it with the woman’s. Her boots, a pale washed-out shade of gules and absurdly fluffy, were no good for traversing the forest. He had no clue what function the sewn-on ears and button nose performed, or if they were merely fashionable. Women’s customs in the future must be strange indeed.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Bek.”

“Beck?”

What sort of name was that? Maybe she came not from the same place as Erin. Erin, with her strange accent, though unusually defiant, had passed easily as a woman of their time. Beck, with her green-streaked hair, colorful and intricate markings on her arms and her ears and nose decorated with silver, would not.

“It’s short for Rebekah. Rebekah Clarke.”

“Rebekah.” The name rolled off his tongue. He liked it.

“Only my parents call me that.”

A familiar dull ache pressed against his sternum. His own family was lost to him. Chances were, hers were now, too. If Gaharet had not found a way to reverse the spell to send Erin back to her time, there was not one to be found. That Gaharet had been willing to search for one to help his mate leave confounded Ulrik. If he were ever to meet his mate, under no circumstances would he ever let her go.

“Family is sacred. I shall call you Rebekah.”

She gave an indelicate snort. “My sleaze bag of a boss calls me Rebekah, too.”

What a sleaze bag was, Ulrik could only guess. From her tone, it was nothing good.

“It irritates the hell out of me,” she said. “That’s why he persists in doing it.”

Ulrik smirked. Oh, he would definitely call her Rebekah now.

“So, Ulrik,” she said, as she trudged along beside him. “You’re really a knight?”

“I am a chevalier, yes.”

Perhaps not in name anymore. Lothair would be sure to relieve him of that title, along with his family estate and its title as well. A sobering thought. Gaharet’s father had fought hard to have it reinstated to him when he had returned from Bretaigne. Once again, his actions had been the cause for its removal.

“So then, if you’re a knight, what were you doing in the dungeon?”

“What was I doing in the keep?”

“Well, you weren’t just in the keep, you were locked in the dungeon.”

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