AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Behind him, a soft voice fluttered. “Rowan, my wolf...” Gentle fingers came to his shoulders and rubbed the tension away. His hands stilled, and his head rolled back in pleasure. He closed his eyes as his wife kissed his brow. Her long fingers entwined in his hair and tugged softly downward. Then she leaned forward until her lips lay against the rim of his ear and whispered, “If the child is a girl… well, I should like to name her Mary, after your mother.”
Then she lay beneath him, her dark hair smattered across the fine sheets, her breasts moving with each thrust. Her hands wrapped around his back, forcing him deeper, her slender hips meeting his movements in that dance as old as time.
His head lolled forward and nestled her breasts. The heat of her body merged with his own and stoked his inner fire. She moaned his name softly, huskily…
He raised his head to meet her gaze—but eyes of blue stared up at him and Blanchette Winslowe’s delicate, heart-shaped face.
* * *
Rowan woke with a quivering breath in the solemn quiet of his chamber.
The royal chamber, he amended. The hearth burned low. Rowan threw back his bearskin blanket, gravitating to the warmth. He knelt and crossed his arms over his bare chest, remembering his dream, reliving it…
His head fell forward in a mixture of despair and desire. Smoke stirred from sleep in front of the hearth and watched him with eyes that glowed like embers.
My wolf.
Guilt. Rowan felt that, too, just as strongly. He closed his eyes. Felt the dying heat bathe his sweat-slick skin. He tried to bring his late wife’s face into his mind or even Kathryn’s… but he only saw Blanchette.
Blanchette Winslowe.
His doom and his salvation.
He was falling for her dangerously fast. As of late, his contentment centered around seeing her happy. He was losing sight of all else.
This distraction is deadly in more ways than one.
Rowan exhaled a breath. A wind whistled through the cracks and crevices in the stones of the castle. He stood, his stomach reeling. The Winslowe crown sat on the hearth’s mantel.
Who am I? Who do I want to be?
And, most importantly, who am I becoming?
He paced to the window, then sat upon the ledge and gazed out into the darkness, into those shadowy moors and beyond… into the woods, then out to the sea. He thought of the dangers beyond the walls—the threats and enemies that stirred within those trees and along the sandy coast.
But from this vantage point, only a stark emptiness lay ahead.
Emptiness lay within too.
Sometimes it’s less painful to fill that emptiness, even if it’s with something ugly.
Rowan sat at the window as the minutes turned into hours. He watched as the rising sun chased away the shadows, and Norland came to life.
He felt that sunrise within—and something stirred his shadows. He rustled through his bureau and fished out a miniature portrait. His heart did a little flip as those painted blue eyes stared back at him.
His mind made up, he swiftly crossed the chamber and gathered parchment and a quill from the writing desk.
He thought of Blanchette. Of the crown sitting feet away from him. Of the miserable father he’d had and the mother he’d never known. Of the Winslowe crypt and of its dark secrets and eternal legacy.
It was time.
He was more than just the Black Wolf.
Rowan Dietrich was rising from the ashes now.
Part Two
Spring
