TOUCH OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“You’re hurt,” Cassidy said, feeling sudden pity. His odd behavior wasn’t just from drunkenness or the cut on his head. She remembered his terror at the ceremony; it was as if something had gone wrong there.

“Let me get help,” she said.

“Stay back,” he hissed, though she hadn’t moved toward him. He pushed to his feet and scurried for his discarded bottle. “Stay away, or I’ll kill ye.”

Cassidy raised both hands, palm out, and backed away. “I’m leaving,” she said. She wanted to dress, but if she did it here she’d be defenseless. The footman glared after her wildly as she continued to retreat. Only after she’d put the burn and a layer of trees between them did she dare to stop and pull her dress over her head.

Braden had told her that the servants at Greyburn were loyal, and she’d witnessed the initiation that ensured such loyalty. She knew there were things about the ceremony she still didn’t understand, things she didn’t like—but it was clear that this footman hadn’t learned whatever he was supposed to have learned.

Or was it because she hadn’t Changed into a wolf, and so he didn’t recognize her as one of the Forsters? Either way, he was, dangerous as much to himself as anyone else. She’d seen drunken men turn violent before. She would have to tell someone—

A stunning pain slammed into the back of her head. She glimpsed the twisted face of the footman one last time, and then slid into nothingness.

Isabelle had to use every ounce of her courage to defy the earl of Greyburn and stay by Cassidy’s side when he brought the injured girl back to the house that evening. He had found her in the wood, half-dressed and bloodied, and the entire household collectively held its breath as he carried her up the stairs.

The earl was a formidable opponent at any time, but he was positively savage with Cassidy so limp and quiet in his arms. He looked for all the world as if he would rend anyone who approached with his bare teeth and fingers, including Quentin—bereft of words for once—and a pale Lady Rowena.

Isabelle had been very, very careful.

“Cassidy needs a woman’s care,” she said. “I’ve seen such injuries in America. Let me examine her.”

At first he had been ready to send for a doctor, until she’d assured him that the bump didn’t seem serious. If Cassidy woke soon they had little reason for concern. “And I know that your people heal very quickly,” she added. “I can do what must be done.”

She had guessed correctly that he would prefer to avoid bringing a human physician to Greyburn, and he was forced to agree. But he never left Cassidy’s side, not from the moment he laid her down in her bed and ordered a bevy of servants to bring hot water and cloths and blankets, nor for a single instant of Isabelle’s careful tending. He was there when Cassidy began to stir with a soft groan and shake other damp hair.

“Isabelle?” she said drowsily.

Isabelle let out a deep sigh. “You’re fine, Cassidy. You were hit on the head, but it’s not a bad injury. Now that you’re awake…”

Cassidy’s heavy-lidded gaze found the earl. “Braden?”

He knelt beside the bed, and Isabelle watched as he touched Cassidy’s forehead with surprising tenderness, careful to avoid the bandage. “I found you in the wood,” he said. “I brought you back. Who did this to you?”

Cassidy reached from under the blanket and felt for Braden’s hand. He took it, though Isabelle caught his nearly imperceptible flinch. “There was something… wrong with him,” Cassidy said. Isabelle put a glass of water to her lips. She drank thirstily and smiled at Isabelle.

“Who?” Braden demanded, his voice like thunder. “Who hurt you?”

She tried to shake her head again, and winced. “The new footman. The… one at the ceremony. He was loco. He didn’t know—”

But Braden wasn’t listening. “John Dodd,” he said. “What did he do?”

Cassidy squirmed in the bed. “He… said funny things. Something about devils. I—” She flushed. “I hurt him first, when he came too close.”

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