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He is the people’s champion, a part of her whispered. You mustn’t forget that. The seeds of distress he’s sown may be the flowers of spring.
She looked at him closely. Searched for a trace of softness beneath the rugged facade he wore so well. Images from the village came to mind as she recalled the gentleness and empathy he’d shown those children. She remembered the words the soldier had spoken to her. They weren’t empty, bought, or borne of duty. They’d been a declaration of gratitude and love.
Could I ever love the Black Wolf of Norland? And does it even matter?
Blanchette had met her betrothed only once, years ago. She held little affection or sentiment from what she could recall of Lord Huntley.
The air seemed to thicken and thrum as Rowan leaned closer to her. Her gaze lost itself in his own. His stare was as commanding as every other bit of him, and she found herself surrendering to its power.
She shook her head, willing away the spell he wove over her. “My father’s soldiers—these men you speak of—are simply men like you and me. Like anyone else. They have lives. Families. Daughters. Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed? Where does it all end, Rowan? If not here, if not now, then when? You free them—and yes, there’s a chance they could betray you. But if you murder them, there’s a greater chance their kin will come for you. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day. After all, is that not the same fate my family paid at your hands? I could walk the dungeons right now and tell you many of the soldiers’ and their children’s names. And I could recite which children won’t sleep so easily after you’ve killed their fathers.” He began to speak, but Blanchette raised her hand and exacted his silence with that single gesture. Her voice softened to a whisper. “I may be a young girl who knows little of the ways of war or the world… but I know enough. Firsthand. I know the bloodlust that such events can inspire. Would you not agree?”
The silence that followed was complete. Then Rowan rose from his chair and slowly approached Blanchette until he stood behind her. She felt the heat of his body. Her breath caught at how indecently close he was—mere inches away. “So you are saying, Your Grace, one day someone might come up behind me like this…” He rested his hands on either side of her body, enclosing her with muscled arms. He leaned forward as he spoke. The heat from his words fanned the back of her neck. “Without warning, they may place their hands upon me,” he whispered as he did just that. His palms slipped down the table and rested on her shoulders. Blanchette fought to maintain a regal and queenly posture but felt herself melt into the chair. “Someone will come for me… as sudden as a lightning strike…” Blanchette felt the blood rushing through her veins. She could hear it, too, and her heartbeat as well. His large, callused hands—hands so unlike her father’s, unmarred by labor and life—slid down her shoulders. Slowly. Sensually. By God, they felt good. He moved with that practiced ease and quiet confidence. “Is that what you’re telling me, Your Grace?” His voice was deep and dark and dipped in honey.
She shut her eyes and imagined the proposal he’d made her.
How would it feel? What would it be like to lie with such a man?
She shivered at the thought, but not entirely from terror.
Rowan stepped back, and his voice sank to a tremor when he spoke. It resonated through her, flooding her veins like the water in the Rockbluff River. Beautiful but deadly, she reminded herself as an image of her mother’s torn body surfaced.
“Aye. You may be young, Blanchette, young and beautiful...” The very air seemed to crinkle and vibrate. She swallowed, willing away the war of emotions inside her. His voice was all she could hear, and his transient touch was all she could feel. Within that moment, nothing else existed outside of Rowan Dietrich. “But you don’t know so little of the world. Not anymore.” She could hear a note of remorse in his voice. She yearned to glance over her shoulder and into his eyes—to read whatever emotion might be there, but she felt frozen. “I shall do as you command, Your Grace. But only with you by my side.” Then he shot away from the table. Blanchette’s breath caught and held tight in her chest. He glanced back at her. “Accept my proposal, or your father’s men shall die as my prisoners.”
He reached out and thoughtfully fingered the edge of her red riding cloak. “You always wear this. Why?”
Blanchette finally found her voice. “His name is Huntley. Lord Peter Huntley. And you want a queen by your side?” she snapped, breaking his hold on her. “Then you can earn me too.”
* * *
Darkness surrounded her. Blanchette couldn’t move her body.
Trees towered around her like silent guardsmen. Twigs and branches dug into her naked back. She lay in the middle of the woods, each of her limbs tied to a tree trunk with thick ropes. A light breeze stirred across her nude skin like a lover’s caress. She shivered and tried to pull at the binds but couldn’t stir a limb.
A low growl cut through the woods. She glanced down and straight ahead. Hovering over her lower body was a massive black wolf. Saliva dripped from his bared, stark-white teeth and splattered onto her skin. Moonlight shimmered off his long, beautiful coat and set his eyes aglow. Intelligence brewed in their depths.
Those eyes penetrated her.
He stood above her, each front leg planted on either side of her body as if guarding his prey. Blanchette tried to stir, to cry out—but she found herself very much alone and at the wolf’s mercy. He bared his teeth again and slowly leaned down until his head aligned with hers. She shut her eyes tight and whispered a prayer. She felt the beast’s hot breath fan against her exposed neck. She waited for the feel of his teeth sinking into her flesh. She waited for her throat to be torn out… but nothing happened.
And then her hands were free. With her eyes still shut, she attempted to push away the wolf’s shaggy head. But her fingertips met warm skin.
Human skin.
Her hands trembled as they made their way into a dense thicket of hair. She wound her fingertips in those soft tresses. The earthy aromas of the wood—the damp dirt, the crisp tree leaves, the musty river—melded with the distinct scent of man.
Then his voice came—a sultry growl that prickled her skin and made her toes curl.
“Sweet little Blanchette, dressed in her grandmother’s red riding cloak and all alone in the deep, dark woods…” She fought to push him away. But suddenly, her hands were pinned to her sides, and Rowan’s face hovered above her own. If he leaned forward any farther, their lips would touch.
His hazel eyes bore into hers. They implored her. Shackled her in place.
She felt the heat of his words. Her heart hammered inside her chest, and her blood turned to lava.
“These woods never belonged to you or your family. It’s the wolves they answer to… and mine is the voice they obey.”
Out, she thought as she woke from her dream. I need out.
Ten
