Page 87 of Wolves’ Witch

Chapter Forty-Three

Aubert trotted his horse through the gate and up the hill to the d’Louncrais keep. The sun had come out not long after they had crossed the meadow, and though his breeches had dried, his boots, tunic and surcoat remained uncomfortably damp. They were not the only things causing him discomfort.

He dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting stable hand. He had accused Isobella of being the same as Sabine. Never had an insult so cutting left his mouth, and she had felt the sting of it. He had meant her to. At the time. On the other side of Aimon, Edmond helped Isobella from her horse. Bedraggled and wrapped in his brother’s muddy surcoat, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Their mate. He turned away from her. She had been dying. Could he blame her for wanting to live? And he could not see Isobella using a spell to manipulate anyone. She was too sweet, too honest.

Aubert stomped his way into the keep on D’Artagnon’s heels. He had been a fool letting the warlock’s words taunt him. He was a seasoned warrior who knew better, not some squire freshly initiated. Douglas’ intent had been to sow discord between them, and Aubert had let it work. Isobella was nothing like Sabine. Hurt, with the sting of betrayal rising in his throat, he had lashed out. Now he could not take it back.

They filed into the hall, the she-wolves rushing forward to greet them, being swept up in their mates’ arms as Gascon sent servants scurrying to stoke the fire, fetch food and wine and to lay out clean clothes. Aubert slumped onto a seat by the fire, his back to them all, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He could not deny his pack mates the joy of being reunited with their mates, but he could not bear to witness it either.

A pair of familiar boots stepped into his field of vision. He huffed. Edmond.

“We need to talk. Now.”

For a moment, he did not move. His brother waited, his scent thick with his determination. Aubert sighed. Edmond would stand there all night until he caved to his request. His brother was as stubborn as he was. He nodded and rose, gesturing toward the door. There was nothing his brother could say that he had not already flayed himself with, but he would have it in private. Not in front of his pack. Especially not in front of Lothair. When his brother was done, he would do what he should have done last night. The moment he had said it. Or in the morn, when they had mounted up, and she had looked at him with such sad eyes, he had wanted to bury his knife deep in his own chest. He would apologize to Isobella.

He followed his twin. It was time he stopped using what had happened with Sabine as an excuse for his poor behavior. For hurting the people he loved. He hoped Isobella would find it in her heart to forgive him. He snorted. That was all she seemed to be doing with him. Forgiving him. At what point would she draw the line?

Edmond glanced over his shoulder at him, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. Edmond swerved toward Isobella, picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

Isobella shrieked. “Edmond! What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

What was his brother doing?

The Langeais wolves were all staring at them. Lothair, too. A smile teased at the corners of Gaharet’s mouth. Ulrik chuckled.

Edmond strode from the hall. “Aubert. Now.”

Lothair quirked an eyebrow. “What is all this about?”

Aubert did not wait for Gaharet’s explanation. He followed his twin, and they tromped up the stairs and along the corridor. Edmond stopped outside Isobella’s bedchamber and pushed open the door. He waited, not saying a word, Isobella squirming over his shoulder. Aubert frowned at his brother’s smirk, but he stepped into the bedchamber, and faced his brother with his hands on his hips.

“Duck your head, Bella.” Edmond stalked into the room and straight to the bed, dropping Isobella in the middle of it. “You two”—he pointed first at Aubert, then at Isobella—“are going to talk. We are mates. The three of us. You are going to work this out.” He turned to Aubert. “I told you I would make sure you had your time with Isobella. You know I am a man of my word. Now make use of that time.”

Edmond spun on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him. “And do not come out until you have sorted everything,” he yelled through the door, “or I will make Gaharet order you back in there again.” His footsteps receded down the hall.

The room was silent. Aubert could not look at her. He could not bear to not look at her. Isobella lying on the bed, right where Edmond had tossed her, was playing havoc with his control. After what had happened in that room beneath Langeais Keep, the things he had said, she would not take too kindly if he pounced on her. So he kept his gaze away from her face, her delectable body, and the flash of her calf where her dress had risen above her ankle. L’enfer, even her hair, a mass of frizzy curls surrounding her face, was making his cock hard.

He focused on her boots and her muddy ankles. On her hands, mud streaked with a mix of dried blood. Her blood. From when she had cast her spell.

Aubert gestured at the chair, and she slid off the bed and crossed the room, wringing her hands together. He was not the only one who was nervous. He unbuckled his sword, and leaned it against the wall, her wide eyes following his every movement. Grabbing a linen, he dipped it into the wash bowl, then dragged the other chair over, positioning it opposite her. Aubert held out his hand for hers. She hesitated, then gave it to him, and he turned it over to inspect the cut on her palm.

“About…” Her free hand fidgeted with her dress. “About what Douglas said. I promise you, I didn’t—I never would—use a spell to manipulate you.”

“I know.” Aubert cleaned her already healing cut with gentle hands. “I should not have said what I did.” He glanced up at her, then turned his focus back to her hand. “You are not like Sabine.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you.” She scrunched up the skirt of her dress with her hand. “But I do want to explain. You deserve to know the truth. All of it.”

Aubert cleaned the mud from her palm, her wrist and her knuckles then rinsed the linen again and gestured for her other hand. She gave it to him, and he cleaned the mud from it too.

“I had cancer. It’s a disease that can kill you. In my case, it was killing me.”

“Boots.”

She scrunched up her face. “What?”

“Remove your boots. Your feet need cleaning.”

“Oh.” She unlaced her boots and set them aside. “Um, so, even in the twenty-first century, I didn’t have a lot of choices. Modern medicine has come a long way, but there are still things they can’t always cure. Like cancer.”