True Love Brides 02 - The Highlander’s Curse by Claire Delacroix Read Free Book Online

time.”
    “I can only hope,” Andrew acknowledged. It was most unlikely that the squire would return in time to help Orson back into his saddle.
    Orson clearly reached the same conclusion. He seized the reins of Andrew’s destrier, his eyes narrowing as he prepared to force his seniority upon the younger knight.
    Andrew nearly winced. If Orson asked outright, would it be folly to decline? He knew a refusal to be of assistance would not be received well and braced himself against Orson’s temper.
    He did not dare to loose his own, even to defend himself.
    He was saved by Percy’s shout.
    “My lord!” the boy cried. “My lord, I have found it!”
    Orson’s astonishment was complete. “What have you found, Percy?”
    “A wolf pelt, sir.” Percy stumbled out of the forest, his hair disheveled and dirt on his clothes. His face, however, was lit with relief. “A beautiful wolf pelt, stretched and cured, all silver grey with black tips. It is huge, sir, and luxuriantly thick. I should think a lady might believe it a fine gift.”
    Orson smiled, his gaze dancing over the forest on either side of the road. His distaste for the region was clear. “A perfect gift for a bride in these parts. Well done, Percy! Bring it quickly.”
    The boy faltered for only a moment, his surprise at the unusual praise more than evident, then disappeared back into the forest again.
    Andrew was skeptical about the quality of the pelt, for he could not believe any soul would abandon such a prize. But the pelt proved to be every bit as magnificent as the boy had claimed. Indeed, it was the finest Andrew had ever seen.
    And it was familiar.
    The sight of it put a cold weight in Andrew’s belly, though he hid every sign of his reaction from his fellows.
    Who had committed this travesty? Andrew would ensure that whoever had killed this wolf paid a high price.
    Meanwhile Orson smiled as he fingered the luxuriant pelt, the sight of his fingers in the fur enough to sicken Andrew. He knew the other knight would not only give the pelt to the lady, but concoct a tale of his own valor to accompany it.
    “We should agree, Andrew, upon how many wolves we have killed upon this journey,” Orson said. “It would not do for our tallies to differ when the tale is told.”
    “Three,” Andrew suggested impulsively, not really caring about the detail. Perhaps the hunter was at Seton Manor, for there were not many holdings in this vicinity. If Orson took the pelt and presented it as his own kill, the true hunter might argue the matter with him.
    Orson considered Andrew’s suggestion, then nodded. “Three. It is a fine number. Not so many that we appear rapacious; not so few that we appear incapable. I took this one, and the female he defended. You took the male who came to his aid. That one was mangy and the female was small, so we did not keep their pelts.” He flicked Andrew a cool glance. “The tale will travel from one sister to the other, upon that you can rely.” He whistled and Percy fell to his knees before him, creating a mounting block with his body. Orson ascended to his saddle, as regally as a king.
    Orson wagged a finger at Andrew. “I shall show you, my friend, how the most can be made of an opportunity seized.”
    Andrew made no comment upon that.

Chapter Three
    It was a fine Sunday, although there was no sunlight in Annelise’s heart. It had been two weeks since she had met the hunter in the woods, two weeks since he had failed to come to the hall, and she had not managed to drive him from her thoughts.
    Much less his sweet kiss.
    Her nightmare of the wolf continued each and every night, leaving her awake and terrified in the dark. Some nights, she was snared in the dream until she died. Others, she managed to awaken at the beginning of the attack. The hunter never came to her rescue in these nightmares, and Annelise feared the portent of that.
    But the white wolf appeared in each dream and always it wept.
    It was most odd. Annelise had