AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Rowan had summoned a priest from a port village. Anger coiled in his belly like a snake as he stared down at the gaping hole in the earth, where four of his men lowered Governess Agnes’s coffin.
Blanchette’s features were drawn tight, etched with lines of heartbreak. Her gaze appeared to extend beyond the confines of the present moment. The vibrant blue of her eyes had dulled, replaced by an emptiness that mirrored the void left by Governess Agnes’s departure.
Her murder, his mind amended.
Blanchette Winslowe looked beautiful. Lost. He longed to gather her into his arms, to kiss away the shadows that clung to her brow, but the chasm between them felt insurmountable. His hand, unconsciously seeking solace, found the hilt of his sword, its snarling wolf pommel a silent witness to the turmoil within him.
Mary stood beside him, at his left side, her tiny head bowed, curls falling about her shoulders like a golden shroud.
Gold shall be their shrouds.
Everyone I’ve ever cared for…
Guilt again. Rowan suspected he knew who was responsible for the governess’s death. Once again, the Black Wolf had brought doom to Blanchette’s door.
The priest’s voice, gentle and consoling, washed over the gathering like a salve for wounded souls. But for Rowan, it only fueled the flames that raged within. A silent question echoed in the recesses of his mind—when would the cycle of pain and suffering finally come to an end?
As the earth swallowed the coffin and the priest’s incantations faded into the quiet of mourning, Rowan couldn’t escape that haunting question that lingered in the air.
How much pain and suffering must he cause the woman he’d grown to love?
* * *
Blanchette watched from her balcony as the setting sun cast streams of red and gold upon the world. Rowan directed his men in the training yard, his dark hair blowing.
Blanchette’s eyes rose to the clearing just beyond the great walls of the castle; it was where Governess Agnes now slept and would sleep until the end of time. She saw herself as a girl, jetting into the canopy of trees, a young and wild heathen, poor Governess Agnes at her heels.
Who would have harmed her?
God… what is happening?
Her gaze tracked back to the training yard and stable. She saw herself again, walking through the crowds and past the clang of sparring swords, her curls drinking in the sunset.
As the figure approached, the delicate features became clearer—and Blanchette realized she wasn’t looking at her ghost but at Mary Dietrich and Smoke.
* * *
“I remember seeing Lady Beatrice on many occasions… at feasts and often in my father’s company,” Blanchette carefully said as she eased into what had once been the king’s solar. Rowan turned from the window; he was dressed only in his shirtsleeves, which were untied at the neck, and the low-burning fire danced across his exposed skin. His face was stern yet sorrowful.
“Lady Beatrice had the look of her homeland, I recall. It was one of the things my father fancied about her. Dark eyes. Dark hair. She was exotic. Beautiful.”
Rowan visibly tensed. She watched as he opened and closed his fingers several times. “Aye. A true dark-haired and dark-eyed beauty. No one could deny that. Especially not King Bartholomew.”
Rowan lay his hands on either side of her face. She held in a breath, then released a drawn-out sigh as his thumbs traced the lines of her cheeks in soothing strokes. One finger tentatively traced the line of her scar—up the raised ridge, then down again, stopping right at the corner of her lip. Blanchette wetted her lips with her tongue. She heard and felt Rowan’s shiver as her tongue kissed the edge of his finger. She smelled a fragrant ale on his breath—and in her mind’s eye, it brought her back to the fields of Norland. She saw her and her sister running, the scents of wild fruit and earth around them.
Then her thoughts came full circle; she saw Mary, her curls as blond as her own, her porcelain skin glowing in the moonlight as she slid by the stable and through the training yard like a lost spirit.
Her eyes blinked open. She held Rowan’s gaze, which was steady and probing. It seemed to echo the words she found so hard to speak—the truth that balanced on her tongue.
“I was watching Mary from my window. She looked so much like a ghost from my past… it was like I was watching myself. Watching her wander the castle alone, watching her observe the darkness around her but not really looking…” Blanchette bowed her head until her cheek lay across Rowan’s beating heart. Several moments passed by before she finally met his eyes again.
The emotion, the intensity she found there, nearly stole her breath.
Rowan’s lip lifted at the corner. He lowered his head until his lips grazed her forehead.
Blanchette realized then that this man—the Black Wolf of a Norland, the knight who’d taken down her kingdom, the cause for such much unbearable pain and grief—was someone she could not lose. She’d lost so much so quickly, so the thought of never having his arms around her again, the feel of his warm breath on her face, unearthed her.
She swayed in his arms as emotion overcame her. He adjusted his grip and pulled her closer still.
