He seemed to want to smile at that. “Have I ever lied to you?”
He was looking at her, into her, through her, and Servanne felt the flesh across her breasts and belly tighten, as if left on a tanner’s rack too long. “As far as I know, you have lied to me about everything.”
“Everything?” he asked, his thigh brushing not-so-accidently against hers.
Servanne shifted on her stool and laced her fingers tightly together on her lap. “You have lied about who you are, and what you are,” she insisted softly. “You hide behind the lincoln-green badge of an outlaw, yet your motives for being here in these woods have nothing to do with bettering the conditions of the poor, or righting injustices committed in the king’s name, or fighting against oppression—real or imagined. You have gathered about you a few local villagers to give some credence to the charade, but you are not from these parts. I doubt you have been in England as long as it took to grow the hair past your collar—or long enough to know there have been no black wolves in Britain since King Henry laid a high bounty on their pelts. Certainly not enough to fashion so fine a mantle, or be willing to throw so casually on a bed.”
The Wolf was mildly taken aback; moderately impressed. After some consideration for the surprised silence that had fallen over the other outlaws seated on the dais, he carefully wiped the blade of his eating knife clean, sheathed it, and stood up, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. “Come. Walk with me. There is but a half moon tonight, perhaps enough to hint at what the gardens may once have held.”
“Absolutely not!” she gasped, horrified at the suggestion.
The Wolf gave her a moment to reconsider of her own accord, then leaned over close enough that his words went no further than her pink-tipped ears. “You can either walk with me now, or lie with me later; the choice is yours where we take a few words of private conversation.”
The mist was more pervasive out-of-doors. Thick, opalescent sheets of it swirled at knee level over the slick cobbles, masking the weed and rot, the neglect, and the decay. There were no torches lit outside the hall, but as Servanne’s eyes adjusted to the faint light of the crescent moon, she could see the vague outlines of the other ruined buildings, the stone cistern in the centre of the court, the vine-covered arches that formed a narrow walkway leading toward the chapel. She was thankful for Biddy’s warm woolen cloak, and drew it close about her shoulders. Tiny droplets of mist clung to her face and throat, and coated her hair like a fine-spun silver web.
“The gardens are this way,” said the Black Wolf, walking toward the arches. “If you look closely enough, you can still find the odd wild rosebush growing amongst the bracken.”
How vitally important to know, Servanne thought angrily, stepping around a jagged gap in the stone cobbles. She stretched her arm out for balance, startled slightly when she felt his huge, warm hand take hold of hers. Rather than jerk it away and appear twice the fool, she permitted the infringement until the footing was once again solid beneath her. A short distance into the steeped silence of the ancient gardens, she balked completely, refusing to go another step in the company of a man whom she had every reason to believe would kill her without hesitation if the situation arose.
“Who are you?” she asked again. “And why have you come to Lincoln?”
He stopped on the path just ahead of her and slowly turned around. “My name is Lucien Wardieu,” he said quietly. “And I have come home.”
“You say you are Lucien Wardieu, but if you are, why do you hide here in the forest like a common outlaw? Who is the man who is now residing in Bloodmoor Keep? Why has he taken your name if it does not belong to him? And how has he managed to keep it all these years without anyone challenging his identity before now?”
The Wolf crossed his arms over his massive chest and leaned back against one of the arches.
“A great many questions, my lady. Are you sincere in wanting to know the answers?”
“I want to know the truth,” she said evenly.
“The truth should not require proof, and a man should not have to prove who he is if he swears to that truth