Luck of the Wolf

“Just …” She averted her gaze. “Just what I am now.”

“You are a woman, are you not?”

She seemed to struggle with an answer. “Not every woman is a lady.”

If Cort had been prone to despair, he might have felt it then. “That is true,” he said. “Some are—”

“A lady would never go to the places those men took me.”

“You are hardly at fault for what they did. If you come from one of the families I mentioned, you are a lady by birth and breeding. And not all ladies are as you described.”

“They all wear those awful dresses, don’t they? The ones with the.” She gestured at her blanket-clad body with eloquent distaste. “The stiff things they wear on top, and the bottoms like hobbles for ponies, and the pointed shoes and the silly hats and—”

Cort raised his hand to stop her. “The dress I have brought you is quite plain, mademoiselle,” he said with all the patience he possessed. “It was purchased ready-made and can be put on without the help of a maid. You need have no fear of resembling the fine ladies you speak of.”

One of her feet emerged from under the blanket, as if she were dipping her toes into frigid water. “But I’ve never worn a dress before,” she said plaintively. “At least … I don’t think I have.”

“How were you dressed when the men took you?”

“Like you.”

He barked a startled laugh. “Like me? You were wearing a man’s clothes?”

“Yes. Is that so funny?”

Appalling, Cort thought, but hardly funny.

“No,” he said, attempting to soothe her agitation. “It was a wise precaution if you were alone on the streets. Someone must have told you to disguise yourself.”

“I don’t remember.”

That refrain was rapidly becoming tiresome. “You have no clothes of your own. Wherever you come from, whatever your past, society has certain expectations of any young woman.”

“Even loups-garous?”

“Even loups-garous.” He took the lid off the box, unfolded the paper in which the dress was wrapped and draped the garment over his arm.

“Surely you have no objection to this,” he said.

Her cheeks flushed. “How can I run in something like that?”

“As long as you remain under my protection, you’ll have no need of running.”

He could see her preparing to remind him that she didn’t need protection, but she seemed to think better of it. “Can you take it back?” she asked in a small voice.

As he had guessed, she wasn’t nearly as confident as she pretended. “I suggest you try it on before you make any decisions.” He laid the dress over a chair and glanced at the other boxes with a frown. One contained sensible but attractive boots, another stockings and undergarments and the last the corset no lady did without. The shoes and undergarments would surely not be objectionable, but the corset?

He left that box aside and opened the others, leaving their contents in place. “I will wait in the other room while you dress,” he said, and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

For what seemed like hours he paced the small room, twice bumping into the beds with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He imagined her letting the blanket fall, standing naked as she examined the dress. He envisioned her slipping the drawers over her strong, slender thighs and easing the chemise over her head. The thin lawn was just sheer enough that her nipples would show pale brown and tempting through the fabric.

Cort wiped the image from his mind. He heard the rustle of heavier cloth, noises of frustration and the clatter of shoes. When he could bear it no longer, he opened the door.

The girl was standing in the center of the room, the dress in place, balancing on one booted foot. She was very red in the face.

“Here,” she said. “Are you happy?”

Happy was not the word for his feelings at that moment. The dress was very plain, as he had said, intended more for a shop girl than a well-bred lady. But she … she made it look like the most expensive French couture. Her figure needed no corset, nor could her stiffness and embarrassment hide her natural grace. His body stirred in unwelcome rebellion.

“Parfaitement,” he said in a half-strangled voice.

She gave him a suspicious glance and suddenly lost her balance. Cort was beside her in an instant, but she shoved him away.

“I hate these shoes,” she said, kicking off the one she had been wearing.

“But you like the dress, yes?” he asked.

She pulled the sides of the skirt away from her body. “No.”

He took a seat in the chair and rubbed his chin. “How can I help you, ma chère, if you refuse my assistance?”

The girl bristled. “What do you want in return for this ‘help’?” she demanded.

He had already given her an explanation, but apparently she had yet to accept it. Once again Cort wondered what she had suffered before he had found her. What had she seen on the streets? Had she been living under circumstances where men routinely used women as objects of pleasure and convenience?

“I regret if I have given you the impression that I want anything from you,” he said stiffly.

Her face fell, and she stared down at her bare feet. “I’m … sorry,” she said. “I’m just not used to …”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but he couldn’t doubt her contrition. It was a step toward gratitude, in any case. And gratitude was exactly the emotion he wished to arouse. That, and unquestioning trust.

He would have to work very hard to earn that particular prize.

“Whatever you have suffered in the past,” he said gently, “not all men are like the ones who abused you. There are motives other than.” He stopped, unwilling to put his thoughts into words. They seemed far too dangerous when he himself could not quite control his physical reaction to her. “Have you known no kindness in your life?”

“I …”

Don’t remember, of course. “If that is true,” he said, “I regret it deeply.”

She met his eyes. “I believe you.”

Another small step. “You do me honor, mademoiselle,” he said.

All the yearning he had seen before filled her face again. “Do you really think you can find my family?”

“I am certain of it.”

“There is so much I don’t understand. Everything is so strange.”

“I will guide you.”

Something in her seemed to give way, and she stumbled back against the table. Cort jumped up to support her, and this time she didn’t push him away. All the resistance went out of her body, and she looked up, vulnerable and frightened and trusting. Her eyes were like the sea at its most tranquil, right before a storm.

He didn’t intend to let that storm break. He held her, feeling the warmth and suppleness of her body, taut with the kind of muscle built by vigorous exercise. If he had ever doubted that she had experienced something very different from the soft, easy life of a Madeleine Renier, he had no such doubt now.

And yet she was so beautiful.

“Ma belle,” he murmured.

Her eyes half closed, dreamy and inviting. Her lips parted. She could not have offered a more appealing invitation.

He lowered his head. She made no move to stop him. With a staggering flash of insight, Cort recognized that she didn’t fully comprehend what he was about to do. She had understood enough to realize that the men who had taken her had planned something unpleasant for her.

But in this matter of a kiss her expectations were only half-formed, like those of a child who has heard snatches of conversation between her elders about things no youngster should know. Cort was certain now that she had never been touched.

A string of bitter curses ran through his mind, each one more profane than the last. He had lied to Yuri when he’d said he had no interest in this woman. He might tell himself so, but his resolve was not nearly so firm as a certain part of his anatomy, which had quickly developed the troublesome habit of demanding his attention whenever he was near her. And even when he wasn’t.

Perhaps if he had never seen her body in that diaphanous gown, or witnessed her Change, he might have dismissed such unwelcome sensations more easily. But he had seen it. All he wanted now was to feel her flesh touching his, taste her lips and her breasts, hear her eager little cries of joy when he introduced her to a world of pleasure he was certain she had never known.

And that would make him no better than the others who had lusted after an innocent girl. Would turn him into a barbarian who would use her for the sake of his own satisfaction. Destroy the very trust that was so essential in what was to come.

Slowly he released her. She swayed a little and found her balance again. The protective stiffness returned to her body. She edged away from him and toward her safe harbor on the sofa.

The sound of ripping fabric made Cort wince. She started, glanced at the shoulder seam of the bodice and bit her lip. He no longer doubted that she had little experience with dresses.

At least the garment hadn’t been too expensive.

He smiled at her. “Would you feel more at ease in a shirt and trousers?”

“Oh, yes.” She grinned, all embarrassment forgotten, then her shoulders slumped again. “But if you really think I need to wear a dress to see my family …”

“I do. In spite of your doubts, I remain convinced that you are of good family. I am certain that they would be deeply dismayed if they had any suspicion that you had suffered as you have. Dressing properly will help ease their worries. That is what you would wish, is it not?”

She hung her head. “Yes,” she said. “I will learn to wear a dress.”

She was so earnest that Cort almost felt ashamed. Her loneliness was like a wound in his own body. Whatever companionship she’d had before he had won her, it couldn’t have been enough. She would do anything to ease that emptiness inside.

Once he would have done the same.

“I promise,” he said, “that I will not ask more of you than you can give.”

Her smile was radiant, giving without holding back any part of herself. “Thank you,” she said, glancing down at her updrawn knees. “I have remembered something.”

Cort braced himself. “And what might that be, mademoiselle?”

“My name,” she said. “It’s Aria.”

CHAPTER FOUR

ARIA.

Not Lucienne, as Yuri had hoped, but something far more enchanting.

Aria. A song. She was a song, as enticing as a waltz, as earthy as an Acadian air, as full of fire as a Beethoven symphony.

God forbid that he should learn that melody too well.

“Aria,” he repeated. “A lovely name.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

The tone of her voice brought Cort to attention. “You wish to keep it a secret?”

“I … I just don’t want anyone else to know.”

Which was most peculiar. Was that the name she had been using since her abduction, the name her captor had given her? But why would she want to conceal an assumed name? Had she remembered something she didn’t want to share even with him?

“You can confide in me, Aria,” he said. “Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

“I don’t know why!” she said, her voice rising. “It must be important, but—”

“Do you remember ever having gone by any other name?”

She frowned. “I remember someone calling me ‘Anna.’“

Anna. Not an inspired name for a woman like her. “Would you prefer that I call you by that name?”

“Yes,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Except when we’re alone. But I still don’t want you to tell anyone else about Aria.”

Cort saw no good in pushing her too far. “I will not share your name with anyone without your permission,” he said. “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Have I permission to tell Yuri your real name?”

“I … I suppose.” Her eyelids began to droop, the fringe of long lashes brushing her cheeks. She quickly opened them again, but Cort knew she was losing the battle to stay awake.

“You will have my bed tonight,” he told her. “Yuri and I will sleep in this room.”

“I don’t mind sleeping here,” she said.

“There is no need.” And I would prefer you sleep well away from the door. If Cochrane should send someone after Aria, it would be at night. Cort would spend the dark hours in the hall, watching for intruders. Yuri could guard the inner door.

“I will find you other clothes,” he said. “Yuri will remain with you while you rest.”

Aria made a faint sound of protest. “Why does anyone have to stay with me?”

“Because the others who … wanted to take you when I found you may come looking for you.”

“Here?”

“They are dangerous men, and I won’t take any chances with your safety.”

“Very well.” She sighed and closed her eyes. In seconds she was asleep.

Innocence. That quality seemed to radiate from her face like the gentle light of a candle burning bravely in the darkness. Whatever she had experienced, it had left no real mark on her.

Why should he find that appealing? He hadn’t been attracted to innocence since he’d courted Madeleine, and in the end, she had proven anything but innocent.

Yes, indeed. They would have to acquire new lodgings very soon. Lodgings that would allow for more distance between him and Aria.

At least her feelings about him would not be likely to proceed any further unless he encouraged her.

And he wouldn’t. No matter how much she provoked him.

Cort took hold of himself and went out to see if Yuri had returned.

The Russian was smoking in the hallway. “Well?” he asked.

“She’s sleeping again. I have a few more errands to attend to.”

Yuri gave him a long look. “What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”

Cort told him briefly about her reaction to the dress.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “This will not be easy.”

Feeling an unaccountable desire to defend Aria, Cort glared at Yuri. “She has remembered her name.”

“Lucienne?”

“Aria,” Cort said.

Yuri eyed him askance. “You do not seem disappointed.”

“I never assumed she was Lucienne Renier.”

“You were confident enough to agree to my plan. In any case, she might not remember her real name. Or she might be lying about not remembering.”

“You think she is feigning her amnesia?”

“It is possible, is it not?” Yuri took a drag. “Have you changed your mind about our plan?”

Cort considered telling Yuri that he had decided to place advertisements in local papers and thought better of it. Yuri wouldn’t be pleased. “I believe we must be cautious,” he said.

“I am still confident that she is Lucienne. We must proceed on that basis, or we cannot proceed at all.”

Yuri was right. Yet a little prick of unease kept Cort silent. By the time he had finished his errands, however, he was thinking clearly again. Night was falling, and for once the sky was clear. He returned to the boardinghouse in far better spirits.

Yuri met him in the hall.

“She is going to need a great deal of work,” he grumbled.

Cort’s good mood began to fade. “Have you had an argument?” he asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“She doesn’t like you.”

“So? That means nothing to me. She trusts you, and that is enough.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“You can try to turn a Russian bear into a pussycat if you wish.” He shook his head with a sigh of resignation. “We will have to begin as if she were a peasant child from some backward derevnia in Siberia.”

Cort began to grow angry. “A peasant?” he repeated softly.

“She eats like a peasant, behaves like one and speaks like one.”

“As I did?”

Yuri threw up his hands. “You are one no longer. Nor will she be when we are finished.”

Damn Yuri. It would be the same discussion all over again if he let this continue. “I have things to give her,” Cort said. “You’re free to go out.”

“Spasibo, Your Highness,” Yuri said, bowing with an ironic snap of his heels. “When have I your permission to return?”

“Before nightfall, Baron Chernikov. And bring back a proper dinner and a bottle of wine, s’il vous plaît.”

Growling like the Russian bear he had spoken of, Yuri strode out the door. Cort went on to their rooms, knocked lightly and waited for Aria to answer.

She opened the door a crack, her face pressed to the jamb, a single turquoise eye visible in the narrow gap. The eye widened, and Cort almost thought he caught the edge of a grin.

“Oh. It’s you,” she said with an air of indifference, and opened the door. She was wearing a sheet from one of the beds, gathered and tied around her waist with what looked like one of Yuri’s suspenders. She glanced at the packages, skipped out of his way and took her accustomed place on the sofa. Beside her lay the damaged dress. She picked it up and began industriously stitching the shoulder seam.

“I asked Yuri for a needle and thread,” she explained. “I will have this mended very soon.”

Cort set down the packages and watched her, careful not to reveal any of his thoughts. Her skill was evident in her deft motions and the painstaking care she put into the task. Ladies of good family might embroidered handkerchiefs or antimacassars, but few made or mended their own clothing.

“Where did you learn to sew so well?” he asked.

Aria looked up, and Cort could see the pleasure she quickly concealed. “It isn’t difficult. Anyone can learn to do it.”

Especially anyone who didn’t have the luxury of replacing worn clothes with new ones.

“I’ve brought you a few more items you’ll need,” he said.

Aria set down her sewing. “My shirt and trousers?”

“Among other things.”

“Thank y—” She wrinkled her nose. “Something smells awful.”

Cort couldn’t have agreed more. He knew better than to give a loup-garou female perfume, no matter how subtle, but the paper the shop girl had wrapped the items in was scented.

“It will fade,” he said. He laid out a selection of hair combs, a mirror, a brush and other toilet items. Aria slid off the couch and approached, real interest in her expression. She picked up and examined each item in turn. The mirror she held a little longer, staring ferociously into the glass as if she could make no sense of what she saw in it. After a minute she put it down.

“Thank you,” she said.

Cort was unaccountably pleased by her gratitude. “Voilà,” he said, opening the last package.

As soon as she saw the trousers she gave a crow of delight and nearly knocked Cort over in her eagerness to take them from him. She held them up to her waist.

“They are perfect!” She danced like a foal kicking up its heels as he displayed the shirt and cap and shoes. “How wonderful!”

Bemused and reluctantly charmed by her antics, Cort considered how mortified any respectable mama would be to see her daughter in such bliss over a secondhand, outgrown set of common boy’s clothes. But Aria was unaware, or simply didn’t care, how she must appear or who might disapprove.

With a little bob of her head, she dashed off into the bedroom. The sounds that followed told him that she was obviously in some haste to remove her makeshift robe and change clothes. Cort did his best not to listen or imagine her appearance between the shedding of one garment and the donning of another. He was studiously examining one of many threadbare spots in the ancient, dirty carpet when she reemerged.

Aria might have passed for a boy if she had taken the time to bind her breasts and tuck her hair under her cap. As it was, with her tresses tied back in an untidy queue, she looked once again a full five years younger than the twenty or twenty-one years he judged her to be.

It would be easier, much easier, for him if she wore such clothes for the remainder of his time with her. But that wouldn’t be possible. Soon enough she would be accustomed to wearing proper garments again. Perhaps, given the many layers with which modern women armored themselves, that would make things easiest of all. Her flesh would be confined, untouchable.

But that wasn’t going to happen soon enough. Her warm body fell against his. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Cort closed his eyes, working desperately to suppress his instinctive response. The smell of her hair filled his nose. Her heart thumped against his ribs. She broke away, and he realized with relief that he had been able to stay true to his resolve. She was only expressing her gratitude as a child would, oblivious to the consequences. His body remained under his control.

His emotions were another matter. He was in another kind of danger now. The danger of becoming fond of her. He could so easily step over the line from a certain admiration to something like affection. And he had given up such feelings many years ago. Any personal interest in her could only lead to disaster.

“De rien,” he said, setting her back. “It’s nothing.”

“Au contraire,” she said, speaking with a distinctly European French accent.

“You speak français very well,” he said.

“Do I? I wonder where I learned it.”

From a teacher whose employers considered it an essential skill, he was sure. But why that, and not an appreciation for other pursuits essential to the American rich?

“Well,” he said casually, “it is an ability not everyone can master.”

She plopped down in the chair and gazed at him as if he were a demigod and she his acolyte. “You are very kind,” she said.

Yuri would have laughed. Cort would have done the same if he hadn’t seen in her eyes what he had hoped to see: complete and absolute trust.

Will you betray that trust? he asked himself, then shook off the thought. “Yuri will be bringing dinner presently. Is there anything more you need?”

“I want to go outside.”

She had managed to startle him yet again. “Surely, after what has happened—”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Nevertheless, it would not be wise, especially after dark. Those men—”

“They won’t come around if you’re with me, will they?”

Not openly, perhaps. But the type of scum Cochrane would employ would use any tactics to get her back, and Cort had no more desire to fight now than he had before.

“I can’t stay in this room forever,” Aria said.

“It has only been one day. For the time being …”

She hopped off the chair. “But you’re like me!” she said. “Why can’t you understand? Werewolves weren’t meant to be confined like—” She broke off and glanced toward the door, jaw set. “You can come and go as you please. Why should you care if I go out, too?”

The girl was stubborn, yes. And apparently used to getting her way. That was certainly a Renier trait. But her insistence that being loup-garou should allow her to run free was not.

Cort listened to the quickening of her breath and observed the high color in her cheeks. It was as if she remembered racing through wood and over meadow, hunting the marshes and tasting the raw, steaming flesh of a deer or rabbit.

He remembered. Once he had relished such barbarities. But he had only Changed a half-dozen times since he’d left New Orleans, and one of those times had been today.

“You must be patient,” he said. “Your time will come.”

Aria’s shoulders sagged, and she retreated to the sofa.

It was an unpalatable victory. Cort knew better than to leave her alone in such a mood, but he could at least give her privacy to overcome her anger. He went out into the hall and sat on the stairs, counting the minutes until Yuri’s return.

The Russian came bearing a generous dinner and the requested bottle of wine. Cort and Yuri shared the wine without offering any to Aria; she seemed indifferent to the slight. The three of them ate in near-silence. Yuri looked between Cort and Aria with suspicious curiosity. Cort saw no reason to enlighten him as to the cause of the tension.