Luck of the Wolf

That was indeed a danger, but Cort was in no mood to cower in fear from a man like Cochrane. “You are free to move on if you wish, Baron Chernikov.”

Yuri drew himself up. “I am no coward.”

“Bien. If she has any family in the city, we shall find out soon enough.”

“Family? What family would allow this to happen?”

Indeed. There were few enough werewolves in this part of California, and those of any honor would hardly permit one of their own young females to roam alone on the streets or be exposed to the rough elements of San Francisco’s less polished neighborhoods. Yet it was also true that most of the loups-garous with whom Cort was personally acquainted were hardly models of virtue—lone wolves all, making temporary alliances with each other only when circumstances demanded it.

“I don’t know,” Cort said, “but as she is loup-garou, I do not believe she can be completely cut off from her own kind.”

The Russian’s eyes widened. “She is oboroten?”

Cort gave a curt nod, and Yuri breathed a laugh. “Ah. Now I see why you saved her.”

“I would have done the same had she been human.”

“Would you?” Yuri brooded as he looked the girl over. “Werewolf females don’t usually wander about in the city unescorted, do they?”

“Not as a matter of course. The men who took her could have had no idea what she was.”

“Then—” Suddenly Yuri grinned, showing his even white teeth. “Someone must want her back very much.”

“Naturally. There are only two established loup-garou families in San Francisco. If she doesn’t belong to them, we will inquire—” He broke off, struck again by his own stupidity. It should have occurred to him the moment he recognized what she was—hell, he should have thought of it when he first set out to win her.

“We could get back some of what you lost,” Yuri went on, recognizing Cort’s comprehension. “Most of it, in fact, if we handle this correctly.”

“You do realize that we are speaking of loups-garous?”

“You are one of them. Have you lost confidence in your ability to charm anyone you wish to?”

He had certainly not charmed Cochrane. There were limits even to his abilities.

But Yuri was right. There was no reason why they shouldn’t benefit from Cort’s act of charity while restoring the girl to her own people. It would, indeed, have to be handled carefully, and it would be necessary to make the girl fully aware of what he had done. A little gratitude on her part would go a long way.

Rubbing his hands, Yuri paced across the room. “As soon as she is well again, you must visit these families. I will look out for Cochrane.”

Cort turned back to the girl. “She has been given far too much opium. The fact that she is loup-garou means she is likely to recover with rest and care, but she must be watched carefully.”

The Russian clapped his hands, in high good humor. “I will leave that to you.”

“After you make yourself useful by fetching water and a cloth.”

Yuri shrugged and went into the bedroom. Left in peace for the first time in hours, Cort studied the girl as he had not had the chance to do before. The vividness of her eyes was hidden, and her virginal gown had seemed opaque from Cort’s place at the table, but now he could see that the cloth, molding as it did to the curves of her body, concealed nothing at all.

And what it did not conceal almost brought him to his feet. She was most decidedly not a child. Her breasts were small and firm, the nipples pale brown and delicate. But her body was very much a woman’s, down to the soft triangle of blond hair between her thighs.

“Ha!”

Yuri’s triumphant shout brought Cort around in a movement so sharp and swift that the Russian was forced to skip back several feet to avoid Cort’s clenched fist. Cort quickly lowered his arm, but he knew what Yuri had seen: the rough, hot-tempered, uncivilized boy Cort had been when he’d left Louisiana. The boy who still refused to be silenced after all the years Cort had worked to bury him.

The grin on Yuri’s face broadened. “Well,” he said, “I believe this is the first time I have ever been able to catch you unaware.”

Cort relaxed. “Should I be on my guard against you, mon ami?”

Yuri harrumphed, offered Cort a towel and basin of water from the washstand in the bedroom, peered at the girl and frowned. Cort recognized the very moment when he saw what Cort had seen. He glanced at Cort, eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps it is not I whom you should guard against,” he said.

Cort set down the basin, strode into the bedroom, and returned with his pillow and the tattered blanket that served as his sole bed covering. He dropped the pillow at one end of the sofa and spread the blanket over the girl, touching her as little as possible.

“You should go to bed, Yuri,” he said coldly.

“She is no child.”

“She is young enough.”

Pursing his lips, Yuri stepped back. “Just as you say.” He turned again for the adjoining room, his expression thoughtful. Cort felt an unaccountable burst of irritation, which he quickly suppressed. He picked up one of the cloths Yuri had brought, dipped it in the basin and hesitated.

She is young enough. He’d said that not only for Yuri’s benefit but for his own. How young—or not—might be revealed when he cleaned the paint from her face.

Cort wrung out the cloth and brushed it over the girl’s cheek. The paint came off on the towel, and the water made streaks across her face like the tracks of tears. Her lips, gently curved, parted on a moan.

When she subsided into silence again Cort finished cleaning her face as best he could, allowing himself to pretend that his hand was separate from the rest of his body and that his eyes saw nothing but a girl in need of rescue. When he was finished and her clear ivory skin had been stripped of the obscene “adornment,” he rocked back on his heels and blew out a long, slow breath.

The question of her age was not entirely solved, but now that he could see her face, he knew she was at least a half-dozen years older than she had appeared in the saloon … and far more beautiful than even he had guessed. Her lips, no longer smeared with some pale tint designed to give her a more childish appearance, were softly rounded and womanly in a way no child’s could be. Her eyes were framed with long lashes, darker than her hair, and her features were mature and defined, with high cheekbones and a firm chin.

Cort closed his eyes to shut her out. She was still helpless, and the last thing he wanted was to feel anything more than a detached interest in the girl’s usefulness to him and his empty wallet. He certainly had no desire to acknowledge any attraction to her, even of the most primitive physical kind.

She was nothing to him. And while he could reluctantly accept that he had been instinctively drawn to her because she was loup-garou, she could not be as helpless as she appeared. If he’d let matters take their natural course and allowed Cochrane to win her, she would have been able to defend herself once she recovered from the influence of the opium. Her potential buyers were all human, and no match for even the smallest female werewolf.

Unless she came from a family like the New Orleans Reniers, the loups-garous who ruled all the werewolves in that city and much of human society besides. They seldom Changed, and when they did it was only for ritual occasions and to remind themselves why they were superior to mere humans, and other werewolves not as privileged as they were. Madeleine had been delicate, sheltered, never expected to take wolf shape in defense of her life or her honor.

If this girl were like Madeleine.

Cort laughed. He was constructing a life for her that might bear no resemblance to reality whatsoever. He had never made any effort to learn how the San Francisco families lived, whether or not they hewed to their animal roots or preferred to ignore them altogether. Until the girl woke up, it would all be fruitless speculation.

With a quick glance at her face, Cort crouched over her. Her breath, still tainted with laudanum, puffed against his face. He lifted her head.

The contact sent a wash of sensation almost like pain through his body. The last time he had felt anything like it had been when he was with Madeleine. He had assumed then that it had sprung from his love for her, and that such feelings could never come again.

And of course they had not. That was impossible. Whatever he felt now was merely a pale imitation.

Cort quickly tucked the pillow under her head, adjusted the blanket once more and got to his feet. He pulled the room’s single chair close to the sofa and sat, stretching his legs and leaning as far back as the rickety chair would permit.

Think of the reward, he told himself. Yuri had been correct; they could be comfortable again, perhaps more than that, if they played their cards right. If he did.

And then, at last, he might find the means to take his revenge.