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Ashwood must’ve noticed his elongated silence because he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up. I know you don’t want to hear any sort of fondness from me…even though the truth is that I’ve missed you terribly.” He sighed, then looked off into the distance as if pondering Bellamy’s previous remark about a wolf’s age. “It would be nice to have a mate if one’s to live so long. How very boring it would be to withstand the test of time alone, though I suppose some might rely on their pack if they have one.”
“You certainly do.” There it was, that anger lighting a trail of fire in Bellamy’s stomach. “Why aren’t you with your pack right now?”
“You probably won’t believe me, but…I…left them. I waited to see if they knew where you’d gone, and then I…I decided to flee. I couldn’t be there anymore, not after…” He looked Bellamy in the eye. “I swear I didn’t know Kipling was involved in your mother’s death. I just thought…I’m not sure, exactly.”
Bellamy motioned that he was finished eating, and Ashwood placed the bowl back on the tray. “Let’s get you washed up for your carriage ride,” he said, his tone resigned, and that didn’t sit well with Bellamy, though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d wanted? Pleaded for, in fact? He watched as Ashwood rose and walked to the sideboard to fill a basin from an ewer of water.
“If you didn’t know, then how was it that he—you—set your sights on me in the first place?”
Ashwood brought over a damp cloth and set it against his forehead. Bellamy moaned, shutting his eyes, no longer caring how he sounded, just wanting to revel in any sort of comfort, even if it was coming from the most unlikely source. He would admit he felt more refreshed than he had in hours, but still desperately exhausted from the sickness wreaking havoc on his body.
“Kipling told us he thought it possible you were born a wolf and that you might contribute well to our pack when you came of age. He’d planned to steal you away, but I convinced him to let me get friendly with you, try to find out if you were aware of your wolf. And if you were, then perhaps when the time came, I could persuade you to join the pack.”
“How very kind of you.” He wrestled the cloth away from Ashwood and patted his own face and neck, trying to hide his bitterness. “How could he possibly know if I had wolf blood?”
“That’s something he never shared.” He shrugged. “Only said he knew of your mother, so perhaps someone in your family—”
“That doesn’t make much sense. Even I didn’t know of anyone. In fact, most had died of consumption, and if they’d had wolf in them, wouldn’t they have been able to heal? My mother took me far from there—she must’ve thought that would protect me from the illness—and as far as I know, only the two of us survived…”
He gasped as a memory filtered through his thoughts—a late-night carriage ride, a bottle of potion, his mother’s secrecy and warnings about the forest and the moon… He tried to hide his reaction from Ashwood because he needed to sort through it himself. He felt vulnerable enough already.
Ashwood stared at him strangely but didn’t ask any more questions, as if sensing Bellamy’s sudden turmoil and his need to work through his own thoughts.
After a while, Ashwood said, “Bellamy, listen carefully, did you ever observe your mother—”
“No…never,” he bit out, not only refusing to believe such a thing, but also not allowing Ashwood that intimacy. Never again. “We were always together. I would’ve noticed…” Bellamy could see the skepticism in his eyes—Ashwood knew Bellamy didn’t trust him enough, and it was just as well.
Ashwood swallowed thickly, nodded. “As time went on, I convinced Kipling that we’d become friendly and that my idea might work,” he said gravely, reminding Bellamy of his deception again, which only solidified his reasons for keeping his thoughts to himself. “Besides, Gladstone was not one of his favorite people, so Kipling relished having one of his own being disingenuous right under Gladstone’s nose. He also put me up to eavesdropping on Gladstone, to find out more about his other operations.”
“Such a lovely plan. My apologies for becoming aware of it before you could follow through properly,” he deadpanned. “Why should I believe anything you say?”
“You’re right to be angry, but if you’d only allow me to finish?”
“Be my guest,” Bellamy replied drolly, averting his gaze.
“So that was my strategy”—he walked back to the water basin to replace the cloth—“but then something changed. I grew to know you, became besotted with you, and suddenly my future did not feel quite so bleak.”
Bellamy held in a gasp, his skin prickling as the memory of them flooded his senses. He refused to admit that was exactly how he’d felt all those months in Ashwood’s presence—he even remembered uttering similar words to him once in the back of the haberdashery, the place that had become their haven. He could not chance mentioning it now, and not only because his heart was vulnerable enough. This might turn out to be an embellishment on Ashwood’s part, an appeal to his sentimentality while his pack waited in the woods for his further instructions. How was he to know whether Ashwood had convinced Kipling he’d try to lure Bellamy again, under the auspices of healing him?
