Luck of the Wolf

He closed his eyes again, focusing all his senses on the girl. He could safely rest for a time, knowing that he would be aware of any change in her condition and would be fully wake long before she was.

And then, in a matter of days, she would be gone from his life forever.

CHAPTER TWO

ARIA WOKE SUDDENLY, her head pounding and her eyes stinging. Her mouth was dry and her tongue leaden, coated with a foul taste that made her gag.

For a moment all she could do was lie still, listening to her pulse boom behind her ears. She was afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what might lie on the other side of her eyelids. Memories fought a furious battle in her brain, some so unbearable she tried to force them away.

But she couldn’t. They were too strong, etched into her senses in sound and scent and taste. Hunger. Confusion. Harsh, mocking voices, and a rag soaked in bitter poison slapped over her mouth.

Had those been the last memories, she might not have struggled so hard against them. But there were others far worse.

She tried to swallow the bile in the back of her throat. She didn’t know where she was, but it might be somewhere even worse than the last place she had been before they had forced her to take the potion.

You must face it, she told herself. Hiding from her fear would gain her nothing, and knowing the truth would allow her to make a plan to escape. How many others were here? She had a hazy vision of many men looking at her, and the low hum of many voices. There had been one man in particular, though she could not recall his face. Someone who had touched her gently.

Open your eyes.

She did, and the room swam into focus. Peeling paint on a low ceiling. A few scraps of mismatched furniture. A wall covered with torn and faded paper. She was lying on some sort of couch, and a blanket covered her up to her chin.

She breathed in slowly. Mildew, dust, stale cooking. Bread and cheese closer by, setting her stomach to rumbling.

And another scent she recognized, cool and clean and masculine.

The room spun as she turned her head. The man sat a few feet away, long legs stretched before him, his head resting on the back of his chair. He was tall, well formed and elegantly dressed; his hair was deep auburn, and what she could see of his face was as handsome as that of any man she had seen in her long journey west.

He was not one of the men who had captured her. But she knew his face.

Cautiously raising herself on her elbows, Aria pushed the blanket aside. Sickness spiraled up from her stomach, and she had to sit still for several minutes. She watched the man’s face for any sign of waking, but he seemed completely unaware of her. Once again she tested her strength. This time she was able to sit up, and after a moment the hammer beating inside her skull fell silent.

Wherever she was, it wasn’t what she had expected. Despite the voices she could hear outside the room, she felt no sense of threat. She still wore the gown they had put on her, but when she touched her face she realized that it was clean again.

They meant to sell me, she remembered. They had spoken of it when they were certain she couldn’t hear. She was to become the “property” of the man who won her in some sort of card game, like the ones she and Franz had sometimes played on snowy evenings. Property just like the sheep who belonged to Matthias the shepherd, or the pony she had left behind in Trieste.

She looked hard at the man. Had he been the one to win her? Was he waiting to do the kinds of things to her that she had seen men doing with women in the back alleys of New York and San Francisco?

Even if he was, he seemed to be alone. She had some chance of escape.

Biting her lower lip, Aria pushed the blanket below her knees and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Her feet touched the bare, pitted floorboards. She put a little of her weight on them, testing her steadiness and the surface beneath her soles.

The boards made no sound as she pushed herself up. Another wave of dizziness caught her, and she stopped, half crouched, her heart drumming under her ribs. There was a door across the room, not far. All she needed to do was open that door and find her way to freedom.

Aria straightened, ignoring the protest of her stiff muscles. She took a single step. The man didn’t move. She took another step, and another, until she was passing him and only a few feet from the door.

“You had best stay here, ma petite,” the man said behind her. “You are not well enough to leave just yet.”

The words were as soft as lamb’s wool, the English touched with the pleasant lilt of an accent, yet she was not deceived. There was steel behind the voice, and she knew she would never escape without a fight.

“You need not fear me,” the man said, getting to his feet. He turned, and she could see he was indeed very handsome … and very dangerous. Though his face was almost expressionless, his eyes, more yellow than brown, seemed kind—but Aria did not believe for a minute that this man was kind.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“One who means you well.”

She retreated until her back was against the door. “You’re one of them,” she said.

“You remember?” he asked, arching his dark brows.

Aria curled her hands into fists. “You were with them,” she said. “You were in that place.”

“If you remember so much, you know that I took you away from those who would have harmed you.”

She knew no such thing. She thought this was the man who had touched her during the few brief seconds when she had fought her way free of the mist that filled her head. She thought he might have lifted her up in his arms.

But that meant nothing. She bared her teeth.

“If you want me,” she said, “you will have to kill me first.”

The man sighed. “I do not want you, and I have no intention of killing you. Come sit down before you fall.”

Taking stock of her body, Aria realized that she might very well lose her strength at any time. The mist was gathering behind her eyes again, and her legs felt far less steady than they had when she first stood up.

“Stay away from me,” she warned.

The man sighed. “What is your name?”

“What is yours?” she retorted.

“Cortland Beauregard Renier, at your service.” He bowed deeply, then walked to the couch and picked up the blanket. “And as I am a gentleman, I recommend that you cover yourself.”

Aria stared at the blanket and glanced down at her dress. Heat rushed into her face. She had not been aware enough until now what the gown revealed, and though she was not ashamed of what nature had given her, she had seen the look in the eyes of the men who had handled her. The same look she saw in the stranger’s eyes.

With a burst of courage, she darted forward to snatch the blanket from the man’s hand. As soon as she grasped it she lost her balance, tottered and began to fall. He caught her, lifted her up with a strength she could not resist and returned her to the couch. She scrambled away from him to the end of the sofa, drawing up her knees and pulling the blanket over them.

“Bien,” the man—Cortland Renier—said, and sat down in his chair. “Now we will talk like civilized people.”

Civilized. How she had come to hate that word. Franz had used it to refer to the world she was about to enter, as if it were a good thing. But “civilized” meant you went hungry because there was nowhere to hunt, nothing to do but root through heaps of discarded food along with the stray dogs. It meant asking questions no one could or would answer, and most of all it meant people who looked nice but proved to be otherwise.

“Let me go,” she said.

“You can hardly leave until you are properly dressed.” He settled back as if he meant to reassure her. “I have no suitable clothing at the moment, but if you will be patient—”

Aria wanted to laugh. “I can make you let me go. When I am stronger—”

His brows arched higher still. “I do not plan to keep you prisoner,” he said mildly. “It is my intention to restore you to your family, a plan I will set in motion when I know your name.”

“My family?” The laugh burst out of her, thick and wrenching. “I have no—”