The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “What is it, Ariane?” Gabrielle asked. “You look as white as your apron. What did you find?”

  Numbly, Ariane held the bridle out for her inspection. “Renard . . . it was Renard’s horse Miri took.”

  “Merde!” Gabrielle gasped.

  Ariane forgave her sister the vulgarity. She almost felt like swearing herself. Old Fourche’s jaw dropped open. Only Miri appeared undismayed.

  “Who is Renard?” she asked.

  “I swear, Miri! You truly do live on a different world from the rest of us.” Gabrielle rounded on her. “The Comte de Renard is Ariane’s suitor.”

  Miribelle’s eyes widened. “Ariane has a suitor?”

  Gabrielle flung up her hands in exasperation. “Where were you last week when Renard sent that magnificent coach to fetch Ariane to their wedding? The entire island was abuzz about it, thinking the king himself was descending upon us.”

  Miri clutched at Ariane. “Oh, n-no, Ariane, please! I—I don’t want you to go off and marry anyone and leave us.”

  “Then you should have thought of that before you stole Renard’s horse,” Gabrielle said. “I thought we had managed to be rid of the man and now you have drawn him straight back to our gates. Ariane will probably have to marry him just to keep you from being arrested.”

  Tears welled in Miri’s eyes. “Oh, Ariane, I—I am so s-sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t think—”

  “You never do—” Gabrielle began hotly, but Ariane cut her off.

  “Gabrielle, this isn’t helping.” Ariane wrapped her arm around Miri’s shoulders. “Don’t cry, dearest. I fear Monsieur le Comte would have returned anyway.”

  “But—if the comte tries to f-force you—”

  “He will do no such thing.” As Ariane hugged her sister, she concealed her own worried frown. The truth was she had no idea what Renard might be capable of. The Deauvilles had the reputation of being hard and ruthless. What if Gabrielle was right? What if Renard did try to use Miri’s misadventure to coerce Ariane?

  She was given little time to consider the matter. Their serving lad, Leon, suddenly burst into the barn, his thin face streaked with dust and sweat, his carrot-colored hair sticking up from his head.

  “Oh, m-mademoiselle! Mistress Ariane.” He panted. “Louise sent me to find you. There is a rider at the gates. ’Tis—’tis the Comte de Renard.”

  Ariane experienced a moment of blind panic. This was one of those times she wished her Papa had spent less money on the stables and invested in a good sturdy drawbridge instead. And a moat, preferably one with dragons.

  Take hold of yourself, girl, she admonished herself. After all, no matter how intimidating he might be, Renard was only a man, the same as any other . . . wasn’t he?

  She certainly was not about to betray her nervousness, especially not to her younger sisters. Managing a weak smile, Ariane said, “Apparently, Monsieur le Comte wasted little time in acquiring himself another horse.”

  “He probably found one at Port Corsair. That fool at the inn would lend a horse to the devil himself as long as he had a title.” Gabrielle’s mouth pursed in a worried frown. “So what are we going to do, Ariane?”

  Ariane rubbed her hand across her brow. Thinking swiftly, she began rapping out orders, “Fourche, fetch the rest of Monsieur le Comte’s tack from wherever you and Miri have hidden it and saddle that horse. Gabrielle, I want you to take Miri up to your bedchamber and stay there until I send for you.”

  Fourche shuffled to obey, but Gabrielle said, “If anyone needs to hide, it is you, Ariane. I won’t leave you to face that great ogre alone.”

  “And, what about Hercules?” Miri cut in. “I won’t abandon him. I promised—”

  “There is no time to argue,” Ariane said. “Gabrielle, take Miri and go. I will deal with Renard.”

  Gabrielle cast her a frustrated look before flinging up her hands in resignation. “Oh, very well.” Ignoring Miri’s wail of protest, she seized the girl by the hand, half dragging her from the stables. Miri cast a piteous look back over her shoulder, pleading with Ariane not to surrender Hercules.

  As the girl vanished from view, the horse thrust its head out of the stall, its lip curling back in a shrill whinny.

  “I don’t need to hear anything more from you either.” Ariane reached out cautiously to stroke the stallion’s muzzle, a little astonished when it allowed her to do so, regarding her with sad equine eyes.

  If she had possessed one tenth of Miri’s ability with horses, she would have been tempted to fling herself on the horse’s back and bolt, ride far away from all her troubles, the arrogant Renard, the mountain of debts, the uncertainty of their future if their father did not return. Just run away.

  Aye, exactly like Papa did.

  It was that reflection more than anything that caused Ariane to steel her spine. Heading from the stables, she braced herself to receive her most unwelcome guest.

  Chapter Two

  Ariane dashed into her bedchamber long enough to strip off her damaged apron and make sure her hair was tucked neatly beneath her veil. By the time she emerged, she discovered that Renard had already been ushered into the great hall. Standing in the shadows of the musician’s gallery, she peeked down into the chamber below, studying the man who had invaded her home.

  When the comte had come to demand her hand in marriage, he had advanced upon her like a conquering prince, accompanied by a small army of retainers. This time, he appeared to be alone, but that didn’t render Renard any less formidable. The broad span of his shoulders strained beneath a black leather jerkin opened to reveal a sweat-stained shirt and a vee of darkly tanned chest. With a large hunting knife strapped to his belt and his rough countenance, he could have passed for a wandering mercenary, which was exactly what many folk declared him to be.

  There was something mysterious about this man who seemed to have sprung out of nowhere to claim his inheritance. His accent spoke more of Paris than the rougher Breton dialect. Some whispered that he might not be a Deauville at all. Others declared that he was a bastard, the product of a misalliance between the late comte’s youngest son and a harlot and that was why the old comte had never acknowledged his existence.

  Still others believed that in his youth, Renard had done some dark and terrible deed that caused him to be banished all this time. If that were true, Ariane shuddered to think what his crime must have been. None of the Deauvilles had ever been saints.

  Renard’s heavy boots rang out on the wooden floor as he paced across the great hall, stripping off his leather riding gloves and tucking them in his belt. Ariane scanned Renard’s features, but it was frustratingly impossible to tell anything from Renard’s impassive countenance.

  His disposition would certainly not be improved if she kept him waiting. Fortifying herself, Ariane slowly descended the stairs to the gallery.

  The chamber’s most striking feature was the magnificent collection of tapestries that adorned the stone walls, beautiful and intricate weavings done by women right here on the island. Instead of the usual hunting or battle scenes, the tapestries celebrated remarkable ladies of the past, Eleanor of Aquitaine riding bare-breasted to the Crusades, Matilda of Flanders dispensing alms to the poor, the brilliant Anne of Brittany surrounded by her court of artists and scholars.

  Renard had come to a halt before one of these tapestries, pausing to study it, his broad back turned toward Ariane. She did not think that Renard was even aware of her approach until he startled her by speaking.

  “Hildegard of Bingen?” he asked, without turning round.

  “W-what?”

  Renard gestured toward the weaving. “The tapestry. I was wondering if it was meant to depict the Abbess Hildegard, the noted German mystic and writer.”

  “No.” Ariane was astonished that Renard knew anything of Hildegard or any other female intellectual. Most men would have only seen the portrait of a medieval woman wielding her quill when she should have been doing something more useful.

&nb
sp; “The tapestry honors my Great-aunt Eugenie who was also something of a scholar. It was designed by my sister, Gabrielle,” Ariane added. Back in the days when Gabrielle had still had faith in something besides bottles of perfume.

  “It is a magnificent piece of work.”

  “Thank you,” Ariane murmured, nervously twining her fingers together. She had anticipated anger over the theft of his horse, resentment because she had defied his plan to marry her. She had never imagined having a calm discussion about her sister’s tapestry. But from the first moment of their acquaintance, Renard had made an art of the unexpected.

  He turned to face her. There was no haste in Renard’s movements. Heavy lids veiled eyes of deep forest green. Whatever else about him might be true, the man was no imposter. Ariane had known his late grandfather and Renard had the same eyes, that shuttered expression that gave so little away. They regarded each other in silence for a moment until Ariane recollected her manners. She sank into a respectful curtsy.

  “Monsieur le Comte.”

  “My lady Ariane.” He sketched her a brief bow. “I believe there is someone here who belongs to me.”

  “No, I—I don’t,” Ariane faltered in dismay. “I already told you that I wouldn’t—”

  “I was referring, of course, to my horse.” Renard’s brows rose in a look of mock surprise, but his lashes swept down, veiling a wicked gleam.

  Ariane flushed over her error, a mistake she suspected he’d deliberately encouraged. She had never known any man who could fluster her as quickly as Renard. She owed him an apology and an explanation, at least about the horse. But it was difficult to think where to begin.

  “Won’t you please be seated, my lord?” she invited diffidently.

  Renard lowered himself onto the wooden settle near the hearth. Even seated, he was a Goliath, resting one powerful arm along the back of the bench and stretching out long muscular legs. He gave the appearance of indolence, but Ariane suspected it was as deceptive as a powerful lion lazing in the sun moments before it pounces.

  She had her entire household to come to her aid should the need arise and yet she had felt far more comfortable that day she had been alone with Renard in the woods. Despite the rumors surrounding him, she had been rather charmed by the new comte’s self-deprecating wit and sense of humor. Of course, she had known he was in the market for a wife. He had assembled at his castle some of the loveliest and wealthiest noblewomen in Brittany from which to make his selection.

  That was why when he had come to call upon her at Faire Isle, she had been surprised, but not the least apprehensive of his errand. She had even politely asked him if he had found himself a bride.

  “Indeed I have,” Renard had replied with one of his lazy smiles. “You.”

  Ariane had been so confounded that as she had backed up to sink into a chair, she had ended up on the floor instead . . .

  Banishing the memory, Ariane settled herself stiffly opposite him. Drawing comfort from the familiar feel of her mother’s chair, she folded her hands demurely in the folds of her gown.

  “To begin with, my lord,” she began. “I suppose I should explain why I—I felt obliged to take your horse—”

  “To begin with, my lady, you should not attempt to lie to me,” Renard replied. “You have neither the face nor the heart to make a good deceiver. I saw quite clearly who made off with my horse and it was not you. My horse was stolen by a petite blonde elf of a girl. Your youngest sister, I believe?”

  “Yes.” Ariane’s hands tightened on her lap. “Miribelle is no more than a child, my lord. What she did was very wrong, but she gets these unusual notions in her head. She has a most tender heart toward animals and is forever rescuing some injured creature. For some reason, she had the impression that your horse was being abused.”

  “It was.”

  “It—it was?” Ariane stared, scarcely able to believe that Renard would so callously admit to such a thing.

  “The stallion was being abused, but not by me. It had been handled badly by the drunken lout I bought the horse from. The young fool had already done considerable damage to the poor creature’s mouth,” Renard said. “But happily he had not managed to break the horse’s spirit.”

  “I noticed that Hercules seems to have plenty of that.”

  “Hercules?”

  “Er—y-yes. My sister, Miri, believes that is what the horse prefers to be called.”

  “That explains everything,” Renard drawled. “Not perceiving any heroic qualities in the brute, I was calling him Lucifer. No doubt that is why he parted company with me before I was quite prepared to dismount. I thought at first he’d been spooked by a snake or a badger. That was before I realized there was a young sorceress hidden in the trees, enchanting him away from me.”

  His words sent a jolt of alarm through Ariane. “Oh, no, my lord. It was nothing like that. My sister’s ability with horses must seem quite unusual in one of her age and size. But she is far stronger than she looks and she has been riding since almost before she could walk. There is nothing in the least unnatural about her ability and—and—”

  “Easy, ma chère.” Renard leaned forward to rest his hand on hers to halt her panicked flow of words. “I was merely jesting. Do I seem to you the sort of man who would charge a child with witchcraft?”

  “Well, I—I—” Ariane had no idea what kind of man he was. No one else seemed to know either.

  Renard enveloped her fingers in a reassuring clasp. “When you know me better, you will realize I am not so alarming.”

  The unexpected gentleness of his tone disarmed her. For a fleeting moment, his eyes were so warm and kind, he coaxed a reluctant smile from her.

  “I am not here seeking retribution for the theft of my horse,” he continued. “The stallion is of little importance. I am sure you know I had another reason for coming to see you.”

  “O-oh.” Ariane glanced down, surprised that her hand was still resting comfortably within his grasp. When she eased away from him, he made no effort to restrain her. He settled back in his seat, his heavy lids veiling his gaze once more. An uncomfortable silence fell.

  “Are you not even going to ask me, ma chère?” he prodded softly.

  “Ask you what?” Ariane faltered.

  “About how magnificent our wedding feast was.”

  Ariane stared at him, aghast. “Our—our wedding feast? You still had it?”

  “But of course. What else could I do? The feast was arranged, the musicians engaged, the bishop waiting, and all the guests assembled. Everything was perfect except for one small detail. When the bridal carriage arrived, it was empty.”

  “My lord, I—I—” Ariane tried to interrupt, but Renard flung up one hand to stay her.

  “No, wait. I correct myself. The coach was not empty. There was a lady inside, most elegantly attired in the satin gown I had sent for a wedding gift. But when I reached for my bride’s hand to help her alight from the coach, lo and behold! I discovered to my astonishment, she was made entirely of straw.”

  Ariane felt a hot flood of color surge into her cheeks.

  “Not that I am complaining. This straw bride of mine, she was not much on conversation, nor was she passionate in bed. But when it came to dancing, she was light on her feet.”

  Ariane shot to her feet, pacing agitatedly before the fireplace. She heartily regretted now that she had not made more of an effort to stop Gabrielle from playing her prank with the straw bride. But she had been certain that substitution would be detected by Renard or his retainers long before the comte ever reached the church door. Although the man had brought it upon himself, Ariane cringed at the thought of his humiliation.

  “I—I am so sorry, my lord. It was indeed a cruel and ill-mannered jest. But I told you I would never marry you. Why did you not listen?”

  Renard fetched a mock sigh. “I have a very poor memory.”

  Ariane stopped pacing to eye him reproachfully. “I tried to refuse you politely. It was never my inte
ntion to—to hurt or embarrass you.”

  “Do not distress yourself, chérie. I have a very thick hide. I was more disappointed than embarrassed. However, I do now realize my mistake.”

  “By not accepting my refusal?”

  “No, by not coming to claim you myself.” Renard uncoiled himself from the settee with an alarming suddenness. As he stalked toward her with a purposeful gleam in his eye, she knew a craven impulse to retreat behind her mother’s chair. But the Lady of Faire Isle was not supposed to permit men to chase her around the furniture.

  Refusing to give ground, she tipped her head challengingly. “And so what now, milord? Do you propose to remedy your error by tossing me over your shoulder and carrying me off?”

  Renard’s green eyes glinted. “A tempting solution, ma chère. It would be the most direct way of getting what I want and I am usually a most direct man. I tend to forget how romantic you ladies can be. It is only natural you should wish to be wooed.”

  Ariane gasped when he stole his arm about her waist. No man had ever been so bold. She didn’t know whether it was her dignity that kept men at bay or the fact that she was not alluring enough to tempt them. Compared to Gabrielle’s delicate beauty, Ariane often thought herself far too tall and gawky.

  Being hauled close to Renard’s overwhelmingly masculine frame was not entirely disagreeable, but when he sought to kiss her, Ariane scrambled away.

  “Please, monsieur!” she said. “I assure you I have not the least wish to be wooed. All I desire is for you to give over this madness.”

  “Madness?” Renard’s brows rose in astonishment. “Without wishing to seem immodest, most women would deem me a good match. Your father’s lands in Brittany border mine. You have to be familiar with my rank and holdings.”

  “I know your estate, my lord, but I know little of you. Only what I have heard whispered on the mainland and down in the harbor.”

  “Ah, no doubt you have gleaned some fascinating tales.”

  “They say that you spent your youth as some sort of—of pirate or bandit.”