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Did the Black Wolf really kill the governess? Huntley didn’t think so, but he held his tongue. Believing he was a monster was very much in his favor.
“How shall this alliance benefit Demrov?” the king asked plainly. But his face was far from plain.
“Aside from the safe recovery of the queen’s sister? Lady Blanchette and I shall marry, as it’s always been written—something she will be eager for once I pry her from the wolf’s jaws and take back her castle. And when I sit on the throne, I mean to pay my debt back to you with generous interest. Ours will be an alliance they’ll celebrate across the sea. I mean to hang your banner proudly from our masts.”
“And you?” King Adam said, directing his glare past Huntley and straight at Edrick. “Why should you help us? Why sell yourself to benefit our alliance? Why trade your honor for… this? Whatever this farce is?”
Edrick bristled. Then he set his jaw and pinned the king with an unblinking stare.
“Because I don’t mean to make the same mistake twice. I shan’t sell myself short. I will teach you and your army how to break through the Black Wolf’s defenses—and the castle’s. If you agree to meet my price, that is.”
He did.
* * *
The castle’s woodshop had become a hidden sanctuary for Rowan. Surrounded by the earthy scent of aged timber, his hands deftly moved over the rough-hewn planks of oak, guiding the edge of his chisel with precision. The evening sun streamed through a high-set window, casting a warm glow over the bench, tools, and blocks of wood.
Rowan thought of Mary as he worked.
His focus remained unwavering as he carved a wooden block into a wolf. The toy was to be a symbol of strength, a reminder to Mary that she was as fierce and brave and very much his daughter. He envisioned her running through the halls and bailey, her golden hair flowing behind her, clutching the wolf with pride.
The scent of freshly cut wood enveloped him, mingling with the faint aroma of the linseed oil he used to polish the wood. He inhaled deeply, savoring the earthy fragrance that filled the air.
Time stood still as Rowan continued to carve, pouring his heart into every stroke. He felt an overwhelming sense of fulfillment—that he was doing something right and finally setting some wrongs.
As the last stroke of his chisel marked the final detail of the wolf, Rowan smiled to himself. He smoothed the edges with gentle hands and applied a final coat of linseed oil, enhancing the wood’s natural grain and color.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the woodshop. Rowan carefully cradled the wooden wolf in his hands.
* * *
That next morning, Blanchette dined with Mary and Rowan in the great hall. The three of them talked easily and comfortably as if they’d been brought together by something much sweeter than an almost decade-old tale of vengeance.
Blanchette quietly sipped at a rich summer wine and observed the Black Wolf. Only a few soldiers and servants filled the two dozen trestle tables. The hard lines of Rowan’s face visibly eased and softened at the sound of Mary’s laughter. For once, his dark, penetrating gaze seemed outward instead of within. Mary had opened like a rose to sunlight and chattered on about her years at Rochester Castle. And when Rowan and Blanchette’s eyes met over the wineglasses, the air stirred and heated, and her head felt fuzzy.
And it wasn’t from her drink.
“Governess Jane taught you your sums and letters, then?” Rowan asked Mary. She gave a smile that was very becoming of her, then nodded.
“Good. Then it’s time you apply them here. One day, you may be the lady of Winslowe Castle.”
The words caught Blanchette by surprise, but she didn’t object. “Yes, Mary. It shall be great fun,” she told her, “and I could use your help. Would you like that?”
“I would,” she said shyly. “I’ll be the lady one day?”
“When you’re big,” Rowan said. “Just like this.” With a wolf-like growl, he swept her into his massive arms and, in a fluid movement, raised her onto his shoulders. Laughter burst from Mary, and the great hall suddenly seemed much brighter. Rowan’s entire countenance changed. A luminosity came to his eyes, which Blanchette hadn’t seen before.
“Run, Father! Faster! Faster!” Playfully, she kicked her little legs into his sides as if urging a pony.
He did as his daughter instructed, darting through the trestle tables and the archway, then into the bailey, where the morning sun beat down. Blanchette leaned against the castle wall, clasping her chest, as a group of Rowan’s men stopped to watch the Black Wolf and the blond angel.
“Faster, faster, faster! Come on, horsey!”
Rowan lifted her in midair above his shoulders and spun her like a toy top. Mary’s giggles and playful screams were music to Blanchette’s ears.
Smoke found them out in the bailey and ran alongside Rowan and Mary. He gave a good-natured yelp and bounded onto his back legs. Blanchette watched from the shadows, her heart fairly pounding, as Rowan stopped, out of breath, his handsome cheeks flushed.
“This old man has to rest for a moment,” he said, kneeling beside her with exaggerated gasps.
