Page 86 of Wolf's Redemption

Lothair sat in his chambers staring at an elaborate wall hanging. A beautiful piece he had taken from a monastery as the spoils of war. A battle raged across it—armored chevaliers on horseback, bowmen and pikemen—all engaged in fighting their foe. But it was not them that held his attention. He stared at the single figure in the bottom corner, different from all the others, sword raised and roaring out a challenge. He was no ordinary warrior. Seated on his horse, he had the armor and body of a man, but the head of a wolf. A werewolf. Like Gaharet. Like Ulrik. Like all of Gaharet’s men.

He had once thought it a fanciful figure, added at the whimsy of the monk who had created the piece. Now he knew differently. When Renaud had approached him with his strange tale of a beast hidden within a man, Lothair had immediately thought of this figure—this half-man, half-wolf. As Renaud had talked, outlining their abilities and their strengths, Lothair’s desire to have it for himself had simmered within his breast.

He wiped his hand across his brow. Now, having witnessed a turning, did he still want it? Was it worth the agony? Should he take the risk? With the knives of his enemies always sharp, andpoisons readily available, how long would he survive if he did not?

* * * *

The scared wolf lay low on his belly in the forest, staring at the postern gate of the human building they called Langeais Keep. He had lost the scent of his enemy in the storm and he had yet to find it again. He had retraced his steps, scouted the estate he had tracked him to, but could not find fresh scent. Perhaps he had come here.

He blinked his one good eye at the gate, the stench of blood and death strong. The black wolf had come this way recently. With the yellow wolf. The one who had fled to the little cottage in the woods in the company of the strange woman with green in her hair and silver in her ears. The cottage with the pretty woman with the unusual eyes who he could not get out of his mind. He shook his big, furry head. He could not waste time thinking about her. Not when his attacker remained alive and undetected by the pack.

The need to find his quarry, to exact his vengeance, burned as strong as it had since the day he’d struck him down. Where had he gone? If he was inside this Langeais Keep, he was beyond his reach for now. Too many humans here for him. He would wait. His enemy would come for the black wolf, the alpha. Eventually. Like the enemy had come for him.

Movement at the postern gate caught his eye. Not the man he sought, merely the changing of the guard. Perhaps it was time he made his presence known. Joined forces with the black wolf and fought beside him, as he had once done. With one last look at the walled fortress, he turned and slunk into the forest and headed west. To the d’Louncrais estate. To reunite with his brother.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Bek woke as they rode beneath a castle gate. Secure and warm in Ulrik’s arms, she’d succumbed to sleep not long after they’d left the other knights.

“Not far now, Rebekah,” rasped Ulrik into her hair. “We are almost there.”

Almost where? Did she care? The heat from his body soaked through her dress, and his muscular arms and thighs bracketed her. He’d come for her. With his head held high and his sword drawn and bloody, he’d strode through the crowd, streaks of red splashed across his coat and droplets of it clinging to his beard. He’d been every bit the medieval Thor she’d first encountered in that cell.What a man.Her heart had pounded in rhythm with her clit.

Then he’d thrown down his sword and fallen to his knees. ‘My life for hers,’ he’d said, and her heart had cracked wide open.

How could I ever have thought he was like Spider?

Yes, he gave off bad-boy biker vibes.He’s a medieval knight. What did I expect?He could be violent, savage even, and he had a problem with authority, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Spider was callous and self-serving, Ulrik had a streak of honor flowing through his veins wider than the Thames. He wasn’t perfect. He’d made his mistakes in the past. As had she. But within that muscular chest of his, beneath all that overt sexual arrogance, beat a good heart. And, God help her, she wanted to believe it beat for her.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes as they cantered past a row of mud huts. Tendrils of smoke floated from the pitched straw roofs, and flickering light escaped around the edges of closed shutters. Perched at the top of the hill, backlit by the rising moon, loomed another castle, a keep, dominating the surrounding landscape. A stronghold against this archaic world.

There was so much she still didn’t know. Things she didn’t understand. She might not have understood all their words, but she’d understood enough. And she could read body language and tone of voice. There was trouble brewing. Back at Langeais Keep, listening to Ulrik talk with the other knights, she’d gotten the gist of it. This Godfrey guy was missing. Probably the one who’d betrayed them. She wouldn’t like to be him when they caught up with him. Not with the way the big, growly twin had gotten all up in Lance’s face.

Ulrik reined in at the keep and dismounted, and men appeared to lead the horses away. He tucked her hand in his and led her inside the forbidding building, into an immense room with a crackling fire and an enormous table. She barely had a moment to acknowledge Kathryn, rushing to greet Aimon. Or Erin’s relief at seeing Gaharet. An older woman, in a flour-dusted apron with the most enormous bosom, whisked her and Ulrik away, up a flight of stairs, along a corridor and into a bedroom.

The door clicked behind them, and they were alone.Finally.She ignored the room, all her attention fixed on the big warrior. The man who’d been willing to die for her.

Ulrik stood unmoving by the door, watching her, his fists clenching and unclenching, uncertainty simmering in his eyes. They’d been through a lot since their time at the pond, and there was still a lot that needed to be said. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Right now, with the memory of hergallant knight storming to her rescue, the last thing she wanted to do was talk.

Bek took a hesitant step toward him. He sucked in a breath, then he was on her, smashing his mouth to hers. His big hands roamed her body, seeking access to her skin. He wasn’t the only impatient one.

“Fuck, why do you knights have to wear so much bloody armor?” Bek pulled at his wrist braces, struggling with the buckles as he fumbled with the laces of her dress. “Damn it.” She slapped his hands away. “You do you. I’ll do me.”

He grunted his agreement and tore at his clothes and armor. By the time she had her jeans in a crumpled pile, he’d stripped his tunic over his head and had his breeches around his ankles.

She paused, her hands on the hemline of her dress. God, the man was a work of art. Chiseled abs, slim hips, muscular thighs and… A sound lodged in her throat, part moan, part purr. She wanted her hands on him.

Ulrik kicked his legs free of his breeches and reached for the neckline of her dress. She glimpsed an extended claw as, with a brutal swipe, he tore the material from neck to knee. Her dress slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet, leaving her breathless and naked.

He reached for her and, laughing, she threw herself at him. He caught her and she wrapped her legs around his hips, crushing her breasts against his chest.

Hell, yeah.

Bek curled her fingers through his hair, yanking his face to hers and kissed him, desperate, needy and oh so hungry. The crack and the sting of his palm against her ass cheek broke the kiss and made her squeal. She clenched her legs tighter, crushing his hot, hard cock between them. She opened her mouth to protest and he slapped her other cheek.

“The first one,” he said, before she could utter a word, “is for not staying in the cottage like I told you to.”

She pouted. “And the second one?”

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