The past, part 3 – 28 years earlier
Paris, June 1792
The pony that the farmer’s wife had arranged to take Drew to Paris was a sorry old bag of bones.
The blacksmith in the village had the beast tied up at the front of his shop, waiting for Drew. Its dark brown coat was mangy and dull, and its eyes were listless. Poor thing looked like it had been near worked to death already.
“You can do what you like with it when you get to Paris,” the smith told Drew unsentimentally. “You might get something for it, I suppose.” His tone was doubtful.
Drew would have been quicker stripping and shifting to his wolf, but he needed to arrive with clothes on his back and in full control of himself, so the pony it had to be, though the going proved to be frustratingly slow.
Finally, though, he was on the outskirts of Paris, and when he happened upon a group of Roma people, he was able, in a mixture of halting French and sign language, to make a deal with them: the pony in exchange for a guide to the Place de la Révolution. A boy of around twelve was assigned to be his guide—he listened to his elder’s instructions in silence, then, with a curt comment to Drew to follow him, set off at a swift pace.
Drew followed the boy into the city and through a maze of streets. The boy was half-running the whole way and Drew had to walk briskly to keep up with him, and so it wasn’t long before they were approaching their destination.
Drew thanked the boy and gave him a coin. He tucked it into his ragged breeches, gave an unsmiling nod, and dashed off, disappearing into the crowd.
The Place was thronged with people and traffic. Drew pulled Francis’s written instructions out of his pocket and began to read them while passersby jostled him. He was just about to cross to the opposite corner of the Place when, quite unexpectedly, the faintest thread of an achingly familiar scent reached him, making him turn abruptly and collide with a woman carrying a large basket crammed with skeins of wool. She cursed him roundly while he muttered a distracted apology and pushed past her, following that trace of… Oh Christ, that was Lindsay’s scent.
How Drew could possibly know that, he had no idea, only that he did know it.
Without stopping to examine the wisdom of his actions, he followed the scent, walking faster, then faster still, following his nose, despite the fact it was leading him away from the Place de la Révolution.
There were too many people clogging the streets, too many voices chattering—far too many other scents—but Drew ignored them all. He gathered pace, beginning to jog, then run, cutting through the crowds without caring how many people he elbowed or how many angry curses he provoked. Lindsay’s intoxicating scent was luring him on and his wolf was wildly excited. It was such a perfect, wonderful smell—rain, dripping from tree branches, soaking into the loamy earth—and God! So utterly out of place in these filthy city streets.
He knew the instant before he turned the final corner that Lindsay was going to be on the other side of it. Knew even as he barrelled around, too fast, narrowly missing a small group of sans-culottes with their distinctive red caps, who berated him as he sped past. And then he saw him—Lindsay—standing further up the long street, looking frantically about him with a stunned, disbelieving expression. Elegant as ever in a beautifully-cut bottle-green coat and gleaming boots.
Drew stumbled to a halt and for an instant he stood there, paralysed, until Lindsay’s gaze swung to him as unerringly as the needle of a compass.
He saw Lindsay’s lips move, his mouth framing Drew’s own name. And then they were moving towards one another.
Drew realised with some part of his brain that he had to get control of the wolf instincts that had driven him here and that were now compelling him onwards, towards Lindsay. He had to think about what he was going to say and do. He slowed his pace, drawing to a halt, but Lindsay was still moving and as he closed the final few feet between them, his astonished expression began to transform into something very like joy. He reached for Drew as soon as he was close enough to touch him, grasping him by the shoulders and staring right into his eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” he said breathlessly. His smile was painfully happy. “You’re here. In Paris.” His lips parted and his eyes shone and for an instant all Drew could think was how much he wanted to kiss him.
And then he felt it. A powerful, dominant pulse of possessive desire, breaking against him like a wave slapping the hull of a great ship. It came from Lindsay and it was so intense, so demanding—it made him want to drop to his knees and expose his throat; to show his maker how much he revered him.
His final glimpse of Francis and Duncan as he left the farmhouse flashed in his mind. Nausea roiled in his belly. However much this might feel like true joy, genuine love, it was not. This was the manufactured bond that a bite created between maker and wolf. The same bond that had Francis and Duncan trapped in that farmhouse right now.
Drew took a swift step back, breaking Lindsay’s hold on him. “I am here because Francis asked me to come to Paris with him,” he said stiffly. “Didn’t he tell you I was coming?”
Lindsay let his arms fall to his sides, his smile fading as his dark eyes searched Drew’s face. “I had no idea till I caught your scent a few moments ago. I thought—” He broke off, glancing around as though he’d only just remembered where he was.
Drew realised they were attracting some curious looks. “Are we close to your house?” he asked.
Lindsay frowned. “Don’t you know where you are?”
Drew felt himself flush. “Not really. I was in the Place de la Révolution when I caught your scent and then I started—” He broke off, flushing.
“What?”
“Following it,” Drew admitted helplessly.
Lindsay blinked. “When did you notice it?”
Drew cleared his throat. Shrugged. “A few streets back.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened. “But how did you know it was me? It’s been four years. And you’d only just transformed when I left. How could you—”
“I know your scent,” Drew said. When Lindsay’s lips curved, he added quickly, “I know the scent of everyone I’ve ever met. Francis says I’m like him. That I have an affinity for scents.”
“Oh,” Lindsay said, his smile fading. “I see.”
A man with a wide wooden handcart stopped beside them. He pulled off his red cap and began to complain in angry rapid French. Drew couldn’t make out what he said but his hostility was clear. Lindsay made a sharp reply even as he tugged Drew out of the man’s path to let him pass.
He was frowning when he met Drew’s gaze again.
“Let’s go to the house,” he said. “These streets become more uncivil by the day. The sooner we leave this city the better.”
Lindsay led Drew back in the direction he had come from. They crossed the Place de la Révolution and headed for one of the nearby side streets. Halfway down, Lindsay paused outside a tall, narrow house with a glossy black door.
“Here we are,” he said, and mounted the steps.
Drew followed him, watching as Lindsay unlocked the door and gestured to Drew to enter the small, tiled hallway.
“Are you hungry?” Lindsay asked behind him, as he followed Drew inside and secured the front door.
In truth, Drew was starving, but he wanted to deliver his news first. Before he could respond though, an old man’s voice interrupted. Thankfully his French was rather more comprehensible to Drew’s ear.
“Home, are you?” the voice said, as its owner shuffled out of the shadows and into the hallway. “Well, there’s cassoulet in the kitchen, and good bread from the market. I will bring you some.” As the speaker emerged into the light, Drew could see that he had been a tall man once and broad, but now his back was bowed and his shoulders were rounded with age. His eyes were bright, though, and they gleamed with affection when they rested on Lindsay. “Ah, my apologies. I didn’t realise you had a friend with you.”
Lindsay sent Drew an uncertain look, as though unsure of that description. Then he turned back to the old man.
“This is Drew Nicol. He’s a wolf. Drew, this is Monsieur Blaireau, Marguerite’s majordome.”
Drew gave a respectful nod and got one in return, but Monsieur Blaireau’s friendly expression faltered at the mention of Drew’s name and Drew had the distinct sense that the man already knew who he was… and wasn’t particularly pleased to meet him.
“I see,” Blaireau said. “Well, Madame is out just now. Perhaps—”
He got no further. Lindsay spoke over him, though his tone was kindly.
“Mr. Nicol and I are going to speak in the parlour for a while, my friend. Then we’ll have some of that excellent cassoulet. Does that sound all right?”
Blaireau sighed, but he nodded. “Very well. I’ll serve up in the dining room in half an hour.”
“Thank you,” Lindsay said, patting the man’s shoulder. Then he headed for the stairs, saying to Drew over his shoulder, “Follow me.”
As they climbed, Lindsay asked, “So what do you think of Paris? It’s your first visit, isn’t it?”
“Unsettling,” Drew said honestly. “The atmosphere is very strange. You can feel the threat of violence in the air.” In his case, he could scent it too. A sour, amorphous smell—the simmering rage of the mob. “That man with the handcart, for example. He was so angry. Just because we were standing there.”
“He was spoiling for a fight,” Lindsay said. “I suspect he picked on us because we weren’t wearing any patriotic emblems.” He sighed. “Thankfully we’ll be leaving Paris soon enough.” He led Drew down a tight corridor and into a small, cosy parlour, gesturing for Drew to sit, which he did, only to wish he hadn’t when Lindsay stayed on his feet.
“So, tell me,” Lindsay began. “Why is it that Francis decided to bring you to Paris with him?”
“He didn’t want to leave me alone in Edinburgh,” Drew said, flushing. His inability to control his wolf properly, even after four years, shamed him. “I’ve not dealt with a shift on my own since—well, since you bit me.”
Lindsay’s scent altered, signalling discontent. “I remember when we first discussed him staying with you in Edinburgh,” he said, frowning. “I wanted him to promise to be there for at least a year, but he refused to commit to any particular length of time.” He gave a short laugh and glanced ceilingward. “To think I was worried he’d leave you too soon. And now it’s been four years without his ever leaving your side.”
Drew watched Lindsay in silence, trying to interpret his sharp words and aggrieved expression. He sounded more irritated than anything else, but his scent was darkly jealous, and loweringly, something wolfish inside Drew responded to that.
When he spoke though, he did so calmly. “Francis is just as—and no more—protective of me as he is of everyone else,” he said.
Lindsay gave a rueful laugh. “I do actually know that.” He shook his head, as though exasperated. With himself perhaps. “Anyway, where is he?”
Drew took a deep breath. “In a farmhouse, a few miles outside Paris.” When Lindsay looked up sharply, plainly surprised, Drew added, “Duncan MacCormaic began following us a few days ago.”
Lindsay swallowed hard—Drew saw the betraying bob of his throat.
“He’d been trailing us for some time apparently,” Drew continued. “Once Francis realised, he let Duncan get closer and closer, till he was able to compel him. Earlier today, he managed to reel him in.”
“Francis is with Duncan now, then?” Lindsay said.
Drew nodded. “When I left him, he was holding him in a room at the farmhouse I mentioned. Francis commandeered it—he gave the farmer’s wife almost all his coin just to let him have the house for a day or two.” He gave a huff of laughter at the absurdity of that, running a shaking hand through his already dishevelled hair. Lindsay watched him, unsmiling.
“Anyway,” Drew went on. “He sent me ahead to tell you to leave Paris. You need to go soon because apparently Francis can only hold Duncan so long.”
Lindsay held his gaze for several long moments, then he turned away, strolling to the window. “Well, I didn’t expect that.” he said lightly, twitching the curtain aside and staring out at the street below. “Not Duncan—not you—not any of it.” He gave a brittle laugh. “To think, I was complaining to Marguerite of being bored over breakfast! I even thought I was heading for a spell of l’ennui.”
Francis had explained l’ennui to Drew during their journey—a state of melancholy that long-lived wolves sometimes went into.
“It is not easy to live these long years. One begins to question one’s purpose.”
When Francis had said that, Drew had shrugged and told him that such feelings were not the sole preserve of werewolves. He’d had exactly such thoughts as a human, following the death of his wife and child. He did not like to remember how Francis had looked at him then. The unbearable sympathy in his gaze.
For some reason, the thought of Lindsay feeling like that bothered him.
Lindsay’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“How long do I have before I must leave?” he asked.
Drew cleared his throat. “Not long, I’m afraid. Francis says he can only hold Duncan till tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s plenty of time,” Lindsay said. “Wynne and I are used to moonlit flits—or daylit in this case, I suppose. We can be packed and on our way very quickly.” He was still gazing out of the window, now resting his left temple against the glass. In profile he looked melancholy and Drew felt an unexpected bolt of resentment on his behalf.
“If it were up to me, I’d have killed Duncan so he couldn’t ever come after you again. But Francis won’t allow it.”
Lindsay shifted at that, turning to look at Drew, his expression curious.
Drew was aware of his heart beating, his blood rushing. Inside him, his wolf whined and paced.
“When he spoke of you, I wanted to kill him,” Drew admitted. At Lindsay’s soft look, he added quickly, “I know it’s the bond, but—” He broke off, shaking his head. Rubbed at the back of his neck again. His human self felt like a suit of ill-fitting clothes. Everything in him cried out for Lindsay, and his skin itched as though there were a thousand ants under his skin.
Was this how Lindsay felt too?
He certainly felt something. There were flashes of arousal and need and other things too fluid for Drew to identify in the knotty tangle of scents Lindsay was giving off.
Drew’s growing agitation forced him to his feet. He stood in the middle of the chamber, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.
They stared at one another.
Lindsay said quietly, sincerely, “I think about you every day, you know. I long for you every single day.”
Drew closed his eyes, remembering the yearning he’d scented from Francis and Duncan. It was part of the bond. Manufactured and inescapable. It was not real.
“Do you ever think about me?” Lindsay’s voice broke on the words, quiet desperation in every syllable.
“How can I not?” Drew said hoarsely. “The bond compels me to do so.” He heard Lindsay’s soft footsteps approaching but couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.
“You think that’s all it is? The bond, compelling you to want me?”
“Isn’t it?”
Lindsay’s laugh was hollow. “I don’t know. My feelings for you are too big to measure and they haven’t diminished in the last four years. You are… everything to me. Have you any notion how terrifying that is?”
Finally, Drew opened his eyes. He said bleakly, “But it’s not real, Lindsay.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t everything we experience real?” Lindsay raised his hand and rested it over his heart. “I feel it here,” he said. “An ache that will not ease.”
He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, till only inches separated them. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered. “Four years, Drew. Four years. And in all that time, you never wrote to me, never sent word. Never asked me to return to you, or to receive you. Nothing until today, until this moment.”
Drew shook his head. “I did not come to see you. I am not even here on my own account, only because Francis—”
Lindsay said hoarsely, “Stop saying his name. Please, Drew…”
“Why?” Drew whispered.
Lindsay didn’t answer. His eyes had dropped to Drew’s lips and Drew found himself leaning towards him, as though tugged in by an invisible thread.
They were so close, Drew could feel Lindsay’s breath against his lips. Could see tiny flecks of amber in his dark eyes.
“Lindsay?” he breathed, and their lips grazed, ever so softly.
Lindsay groaned, and caught Drew’s mouth with his own, sucking sweetly for a moment then pressing their mouths more firmly together.
Drew gave a muffled groan of his own, breathing in Lindsay. His scent engulfed Drew fully, wonderful and overwhelming all at once. And God, but his lips were warm and supple against Drew’s and he was so eager in Drew’s arms, almost whimpering now, as Drew took control, sliding his tongue into Lindsay’s mouth.
Drew felt drenched by him, his every sense brimming over with the scents and sounds and tastes of Lindsay. It was only when he felt his beast begin to rear inside him, that he tore his mouth free, framing Lindsay’s face with his hands and staring into his eyes as he gasped in an effort to regain his breath.
Lindsay whispered urgently, “Come to Ghent with me. Please?” And for an instant, all Drew could think was Yes, yes I will go anywhere with you.
And then the door flew open and a feminine voice said, “Lindsay, Blaireau informs me that you—Oh!”
The woman’s scent burst over Drew all at once. Violets and astonishment and… oh Christ, she was a wolf! With mounting alarm, he realised he was about to meet Marguerite de Carcassonne.
He turned around to find himself looking at a dainty beauty. Her blue gown was trimmed with blond lace and the blue cap artfully arranged over her dark curls was decorated with a very large red ostrich feather. Red, white and blue. A luxurious nod to the new Republic, he inferred, remembering Lindsay’s reference to patriotic emblems.
“Monsieur Nicol, I presume?” she said tartly.
The waves of power emanating from her were unmistakable and he found he could not meet her gaze, so he bowed, saying, “Yes, Madame de Carcassonne.”
When he straightened, Lindsay had moved past him to greet her.
“I do not like this feather, Mim,” he said lightly, as he bussed her cheeks and nuzzled into the dark cloud of her hair. “This red is very lurid.”
“You know you are not permitted to call me that absurd name,” she said crossly. “And I know you are only doing it to distract me.” She turned her gaze back to Drew. “And so, Mr. Nicol, we meet at last. I have been waiting some time for your visit—as has your mate.” She glanced speakingly at Lindsay.
“Marguerite,” Lindsay said, his tone warning. “Do not—”
“It’s all right,” Drew said. “I should have come before now to pay my respects to you, madame. My apologies I did not do so before. I have had some… difficulties gaining control of my wolf which have made travel impossible before now.”
“Well, what are you to expect when you stay away from your mate?” she replied tartly. “How do you think you are to learn how to manage your beast without him?”
“Francis has—”
“Francis is not your mate!” she snapped. “His beast cannot settle yours when it is agitated or make your shift easier.”
As Drew’s face warmed under her angry gaze and his beast cringed at her disapproval, his human mind considered her words. Would Lindsay’s presence really have made his first years as a wolf any easier? Or would it just have indoctrinated him more effectively?
Lindsay interrupted. “Marguerite, there is something I—” But she spoke over him.
“And what about Lindsay?” she demanded of Drew. “You are not the only one who has struggled, these last few years, you know. He has suffered a great deal from your separation. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a maker to be estranged from his own made wolf?”
“Marguerite,” Lindsay tried again, his tone agonised. “Listen—”
She ignored him, her gaze still intent on Drew, who felt as though her words were flaying his flesh from his bones.
“Francis should not have indulged your nonsense,” she said. “It was a foolish mistake and—and anyway, where is Francis?”
“That is what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Lindsay said in an exasperated tone. “He is with Duncan. That is what Drew has come to tell us.”
“What?” she cried, her gaze flickering between them.
Lindsay told her the rest quickly, with Drew filling in details when called upon to do so.
Drew’s scolding was forgotten after that as Marguerite became all business, summoning Blaireau to the parlour to begin making arrangements for Lindsay’s and Wynne Wildsmith’s swift departure. She sat herself down at the escritoire by the window and pulled out a sheaf of paper while Blaireau pulled up a chair beside her.
“Go and get ready,” she told Lindsay as she dipped her pen in the inkpot. “And pack lightly. All the papers you need will be ready in an hour.”
Lindsay nodded and left, and Drew, unsure what else to do, followed him.
When the parlour door closed behind them, Lindsay turned. They stood facing one another in the corridor and it seemed to Drew that Lindsay’s words from earlier still hung between them, waiting for Drew’s answer.
“Come to Ghent with me…”
“I can’t come with you.” Drew said at last.
Some light in Lindsay’s eyes dimmed at these words and the scent of his despair filled the air. Drew felt as though he was choking on it.
Lindsay raised a hand, as though to touch Drew’s face, only to check himself and let it drop again by his side.
At last he said, “You’re wrong when you say this isn’t real. I felt it before I ever bit you.”
“Felt what?”
Lindsay swallowed. “This. Love.”
Drew’s heart twisted painfully. “Love,” he said. “Is that why you bit me? Why you turned me into a monster? Because you loved me?”
“You’re not a monster,” Lindsay said in a low, driven tone. “No more than I am, or Francis is, or Marguerite.”
Drew shook his head. He felt strangely gutted. “You’re not even sorry, are you?”
Lindsay met his gaze steadily. “I’m sorry that you hate me,” he said, “But I’m not sorry I saved your life. What was I supposed to do? Leave you there, bleeding to death on the floor?”
Drew shook his head. “You did not ask me,” he said, then thumped his fist against his chest. “And now I have this beast inside me that fights me constantly. And I don’t want it, Lindsay. I don’t want this beast and I don’t want this God-damned bond that makes me feel like a slave!”
The door of the parlour opened then and Marguerite de Carcassonne stood there, her lovely face tight with anger. Without prelude she said, “Enough of these arguments. Lindsay, you do not have time to waste. Go and pack and fetch your Mr. Wildsmith. And as for you”—she pointed at Drew and narrowed her gaze—“You can come with me, Mr. Nicol. It is time we got to know one another a little better.”