“Why did you summon me?” he asked Francis. “You usually ignore me.”
Francis didn’t answer him. Instead, he turned to Drew. “Time for you to go, my dear.”
“My dear?” Duncan mocked. His eyes blazed and a new scent bloomed in the air which Drew automatically identified.
Jealousy.
Duncan studied Drew with resentful interest. “Are you being sent off after the Dauphin?” he asked. Drew frowned and Duncan added tightly, “Lindsay. Marguerite’s little prince. Are you being sent after him?”
As he uttered Lindsay’s name, his scent altered, a new emotion emerging. Not jealousy this time. Nor anger precisely, but something dark that Drew couldn’t identify.
“Why do you hate him?” he asked curiously.
Improbably, Duncan laughed. “Lindsay? I don’t hate him! I think he’s glorious.” He gave a sigh of pleasure. “Tell me: have you seen him collared and naked and covered in lovely welts? I’m sure you can imagine it if you haven’t.”
Drew’s gut twisted at the picture Duncan painted, but he said nothing, merely watched the man impassively.
Duncan smiled. “No? Well, I suppose between the two of you, he is the master.” He sighed. “The maker is ever the master and the made is ever his slave—however much either party might wish otherwise.” He eyed Francis again, eyes glittering. “Isn’t that right, master?”
Francis said calmly, “I told you how it would be before I bit you.”
Duncan gave a harsh laugh. “You did not say I would be unable to disobey you, a slave forever to your whims.”
Drew could scent Francis’s distress at that accusation, but the man’s expression remained remarkably tranquil. “I have never sought to command you. You are no slave—and I am no master.”
Duncan snorted. “A master is a master, however gentle, and whether he gives commands or not. My chains are real, Eunuch. I feel their weight.”
Drew’s stomach churned—Duncan’s words were uncomfortably similar to his own thoughts about Lindsay.
“What you really mean is that you have always wanted to master me,” Francis replied. “To make me your slave, to force me to give you what I did not wish to give. You have never been able to bear the fact that I am able to refuse you.”
“You made me a wolf!” Duncan cried. “You made me crave you—and then you refused me. Was that fair? Was I was supposed to be happy with your milk-and-water friendship for the rest of eternity? When I had told you time and time again I would do anything for your love?”
Francis’s expression twisted and his scent was distressed. “You do not know what love is!”
When Duncan went to speak again, Francis held up a shaking hand and the man fell silent again, though his eyes burned.
At length, Francis lowered his hand and after a brief silence, it seemed that Duncan had regained the power to speak.
“So, tell me, Eunuch,” he said. “What do you have planned for me now? What are we going to do in this cosy little farmhouse? Have you finally grown some balls? Are you going to kill me?”
Francis eyed him quietly for several moments, then he said bleakly. “No. I don’t plan to kill you. I will keep you here with me for a while, then release you. As I always do.”
Duncan’s upper lip curled. Drew realised that he considered Francis a weakling, and that it shamed him to be unable to overcome Francis’s power over him.
“Is that all?” Duncan said, his voice bored.
Francis’s expression hardened, and he said bitterly, “And then I will order you out of my sight so I don’t have to even look at you anymore. Or hear you, or smell you, or even remember you exist.”
Duncan’s scent shifted abruptly, and the force of the emotion behind it struck Drew viscerally. Pain.
It was so bone-deep, so acute, that Drew might almost have felt sorry for him, but just as quickly, the momentary vulnerability was gone, replaced by a surge of angry frustration and a desire to hurt so strong, Drew felt sickened.
He glanced at Francis and could see from his expression he had sensed all that too.
“You cannot mean to release him,” Drew said, his voice incredulous. “We could rid the world of him here and now.”
But Francis only shook his head.
Drew made an inarticulate noise of disbelief. The thought of Duncan unleashing that vile rage was horrible.
“For God’s sake, Francis,” he said. “Think. You’ve said yourself he will never let you or Lindsay be. He probably only pursues Lindsay so that you will come running after him. Neither you nor Lindsay will be free of him until he is dead. We could end this now. Today.”
“Oh come now, you underestimate Lindsay’s charms,” Duncan interrupted in an amused voice. “I don’t only pursue Lindsay for the Eunuch’s sake. He really is exceedingly enticing in chains on his knees.”
“Shut up!” Francis snapped, without looking at Duncan. The big man did as he was bid, though this time he appeared pleased—possibly because he was getting a reaction from Francis. Attention from the master he both despised and longed for.
Francis turned back to Drew and his expression was distraught, his scent pure misery. “I’m sorry, but I cannot agree. It would be murder. A mortal sin.”
Drew glared at him. “You would not need to be part of it,” he said. “I would do it.”
“But I would need to be part of it,” Francis said, distressed. “I would have to use my influence over Duncan to keep him from killing you. It’s too much, Drew—I cannot do it.”
“You sound as though you love me still, Master Eunuch,” Duncan interjected, his tone mocking. Drew ignored him, keeping his pleading gaze fixed on Francis.
“Just think,” he said urgently. “How will you feel if he ever gets hold of Lindsay again? You’ll blame yourself, Francis, I know you will. What would you rather be responsible for? Lindsay’s suffering in the future or this one’s death now?”
“I love Lindsay dearly,” Francis told Drew. “And I would do anything in my power to protect him. But this?” He swallowed hard. “This is not within my power, Drew.”
“But—”
“I made vows once,” Francis, his voice driven. “It was a long time ago, before I was transformed, and much has changed since then. But those vows still matter to me. I cannot break them and I do not want to.”
Drew glared, angry now. “Then you are the slave here,” he hissed. “Not him.” he gestured angrily at Duncan.
Francis said nothing, though his scent was sour with grief and painful misery.
As for Duncan, he chuckled delightedly. “Do you know,” he said, studying Drew. “Despite the fact you want to kill me, I rather like you. You have balls. Don’t you agree, Eunuch?”
“Be quiet!” Francis exclaimed, and this time his voice throbbed with a note of frustrated compulsion that made Duncan’s mouth fully close and his sneering smile die on his lips. “I don’t want to hear your voice anymore!” Francis went on, every syllable imbued with disgust. “Bad enough that I have to sit here and look at you.”
Duncan’s scent shifted again, the same way as before. Grief, then a flash of anger that simmered down to a pulsing resentful misery tinged with impossible yearning.
Maker and made, they watched one another, forever bonded no matter how much they might wish otherwise, the tension between them thick as physical ropes.
Drew could not stand to witness it, the crawling, horrible intimacy of it.
He turned away.
A moment later, Francis spoke.
“Go, Drew,” he said gently. “Go to Paris. I will follow as soon as I can.”
Chapter Six
The present
* * *
Edinburgh, November 1820
* * *
The carriage took Drew and Marguerite through the Old Town on their way to Albany Street where Lindsay and Wynne Wildsmith were staying.
Drew stared out the carriage window at the extraordinary squalor—worse now than when Drew had
left it almost thirty years before. Back then, all life had been here, rich and poor alike. Now it seemed that everyone was poor. From tiny, barely clad bairns playing in the sewers, to bare-breasted drunk women singing bawdy songs, to rough, surly men sloping through the shadows, conducting the devil’s business.
Drew found himself remembering the first time he’d met Lindsay. He’d told Lindsay he was an architect, one of the designers of the planned New Town. They’d spoken of what would happen to the poor of the city once the New Town was built. Lindsay had said that as soon as the wealthy left, the Old Town would go to rack and ruin.
Drew had argued with him, but Lindsay had been right.
Christ, but that seemed a lifetime ago now.
Drew couldn’t help but be relieved when the carriage crossed the North Bridge, leaving the cluttered slums behind. Soon they were driving through new and unfamiliar streets—and some strangely familiar ones that he’d had a part in designing himself. They were pristine, devoid of beggars and noisy hawkers.
Within a very few minutes, they were turning onto Albany Street and the carriage was slowing.
Oh God, he was about to see Lindsay Somerville for the first time in twelve years. His chest felt as tight as though a great rock was crushing it.
“Are you awake, mon cher?” Marguerite said, interrupting his thoughts. “We are here. You might at least pretend to help me down.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, and climbed out of the carriage, pulling down the steps and offering Marguerite his hand, which she delicately laid her own in before lightly stepping down.
By the time she’d alighted, the door of the townhouse was open and Wynne Wildsmith stood there, elegant in a dark blue coat, fawn breeches and polished Hessian boots. Once upon a time, Wynne would have been opening that door in his role as Lindsay’s manservant, but not these days. Now he only played that role when it suited them to pretend. For the most part they presented themselves to the world as what they were: companions and friends—though Wynne looked like the older of them now.
Wynne had changed a great deal since those early days. He had been a willowy youth when Drew first met him, in his early twenties. He’d been Lindsay’s valet then, and a most unprepossessing young man. But as the years had passed, he’d grown in both physical confidence and character, his slender body filling out and his slightly anxious reserve gradually transforming into a quiet strength. In the twelve years since Drew had last seen him, he seemed to have developed something else, a certain presence and poise.
And clearly, Drew thought, as he mounted the steps to meet him, he had also learned in those years to mask his scent. Disconcertingly, Drew could detect nothing from him. He glanced at Marguerite but she was watching Wynne—and he her, his gaze steady.
“Mim,” he said simply when she reached him, and Drew’s eyes widened at his use of that intimate pet name that he’d only ever heard Francis use before now—or Lindsay occasionally, though she always told him off for it. Marguerite didn’t scold Wynne, though. She raised a hand and laid it on his cheek in a gesture so tender, Drew didn’t know where to look.
For a moment Wynne closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his eyes were sad, and then Marguerite was walking past him, into the house.
It was only then that Wynne seemed even to notice Drew, and he did not appear happy to see him. “I was not expecting you,” he said, frowning. “And neither is Lindsay. Why are you here?”
“Marguerite asked me to come with her,” Drew said shortly.
“I see.” Wynne stepped aside, an odd reluctance in his movements even as he gestured at Drew to enter. “You’d better come in then,” he said. “Lindsay’s sleeping just now at any rate.”
“Is it not rather early for him to be abed?” Marguerite asked. She had halted a few steps beyond them.
“He sleeps a great deal just now,” Wynne replied in a neutral tone. His eyes betrayed him though—the pain in them was clear.
For a time, Drew had wondered whether Wynne was in love with Lindsay. Even before Drew’s transformation, when first he’d met Wynne, he’d sensed something between them. A closeness that was unusual for a master and servant. He’d even felt a faint jealousy over their obvious intimacy, envying the ease of their friendship and obvious affection for one another while insisting he wanted nothing to do with Lindsay himself. Not even once he’d realised there was nothing loverlike between the two men had that envy entirely vanished.
Once they were all inside the house, Wynne led them up a flight of stairs and into an elegant drawing room. It was illuminated by several branches of candles and a blazing fire. He crossed the room to ring the bell and after a few moments a young man appeared, to whom Wynne gave a few murmured instructions while Marguerite settled herself down on a small sofa and Drew paced to the mantel. He felt too on edge to sit.
“So,” Marguerite said, once the servant had departed, closing the door behind him “How is he?”
Wynne sighed heavily. “Not well.”
Marguerite shook her head. “I do not understand it. I have never known a werewolf to become sick like this. Why Lindsay? What is wrong?”
Wynne took a deep breath. “He has not become sick, Mim. He is… dosing himself.”
Marguerite’s gaze narrowed. “Dosing himself? With what?”
Wynne hesitated, clearly steeling himself. “With Wolfsbane,” he said at last.
Marguerite’s expression transformed from confused to horrified in an instant.
“What?” she cried, rising to her feet.
Drew looked between them, puzzled. “Wolfsbane? Is that different from the ’bane Francis gives me for travelling?”
“Yes!” Marguerite hissed. “The ’bane you’ve had is a vastly diluted form of Wolfsbane—the tincture is precisely measured so that the poison is just enough to hold back a wolf’s beast for a few hours and no more. Pure Wolfsbane is an incredibly powerful poison. It’s one of the few things that can kill a wolf outright in a large enough dose.” She turned back to Wynne. “You surely don’t allow him to keep that stuff in the house?”
Wynne just stared at her, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.
“You do,” she accused, and her angry glare would have had a lesser man turning on his heel and fleeing. But Wynne was made of sterner stuff.
“My craft requires me to know how to use all plants,” he said mildly.
He was still practising magic then.
“You are administering this for him?” Marguerite hissed. “Wynne! I cannot believe you would do this.”
“I have explained the consequences to him,” Wynne said quietly, “And advised him against it but he knows what he wants—and it’s his decision to make, Mim, not mine. If I did not provide it to him, someone else would. And they would probably get the measurements wrong—the amounts are very finely balanced.”
Marguerite paced the room, agitated. “Why is he doing this?” she demanded.
“He is preparing.”
“Preparing for what?” Marguerite shot back.
Wynne’s expression was unreadable. “For Duncan MacCormaic’s return.”
“He is waiting for him?” Marguerite cried, incredulous. “That’s—that’s absurd. Why?”
Calmly, Wynne said, “It is not my place to speak for Lindsay. You should discuss this with him.”
“Then wake him!” Marguerite snapped. “Let us have it out, here and now! I see I am going to have to put my foot down on this so it may as well be—”
“My darling, I do wish you’d stop shouting.”
All three of them whirled around at the sound of the new, and very familiar voice. Drew’s heart was suddenly beating wildly, every sense on high alert.
His gut lurched at his first sight of the graceful figure in the doorway.
Lindsay.
Though this was a Lindsay he had never seen before. His always slender body was thinner than Drew had ever seen it, swamped by a crimson satin dressing gown that hung open over his crumpled breech
es and shirt. And his face… it was still beautiful but unmistakably etched with pain and exhaustion, the pale skin almost translucent, bluish bruises beneath his dark eyes.
Oddly, it was his hair that shocked Drew the most. For the first time in all the years that Drew had known Lindsay, it was short, cut close around his neck and ears. Drew’s heart twisted painfully in his chest at the sight, suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sadness he couldn’t account for. Such a stupid thing to react to. As though it mattered to Drew whether Lindsay wore his hair long or short. He fisted his hands by his sides, resisting his wolf’s demand that he stride over there and thread his fingers into the dark mop, tip up Lindsay’s face and gaze into those familiar dark eyes.
“Drew,” Lindsay said now, his voice husky. “How are you?”
Drew’s mouth was dry, his throat tight.
“I’m well,” he managed, amazed at how ordinary he sounded, as though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Lindsay in a dozen years. “Busy as always, but in good health.” After a beat he added harshly, “Unlike you, it would seem.”
Lindsay actually laughed at that, seeming genuinely amused at being told how ill he looked. “I’m a little the worse for wear,” he agreed with a twisted smile, “but still standing, as you can see.”
And right then, in that moment, something struck Drew.
He had not scented Lindsay. Not as they approached the house, and not when he arrived—and not now.
He realised his heart was pounding and his throat was closing with emotion. He could feel his wolf pacing anxiously within him. This was wrong. Lindsay’s scent couldn’t be gone.
Lindsay moved forward, coming further into the room, and Drew realised that he was holding a cane in his right hand. He used it too, leaning heavily on it as he walked forward.
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