The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  “I have also heard that you are a witch,” Renard retorted.

  “I am skilled in the arts of healing and the usage of herbs. That is a very different thing.”

  “Then it appears we would both be far wiser to pay less heed to idle gossip.”

  Ariane acknowledged the justice of his mild reproof with a gracious nod of her head. “You are right, my lord. I am sorry. But that still doesn’t change the fact you are a stranger to me. I have only ever met you twice before. Once that day in the woods and then when you arrived on my doorstep, insisting that I marry you.”

  Renard closed the distance between them, brushing his fingers down her cheek in a light caress. “Ariane, many couples do not even meet until their wedding day.”

  “But in such cases, the match has usually been arranged by one’s parents,” she argued.

  “Is that what is troubling you? Your father’s absence? I hope the good chevalier will return soon, but I doubt that he would refuse to give you to me.”

  “I realize it is the established custom for fathers to dispose of their daughters, often against their will,” Ariane said indignantly. “But the women of Faire Isle are not accustomed to being bartered off.”

  Renard’s lips curled cynically. “Everyone is bartered off sooner or later.”

  “I don’t see it happening to men.”

  “You’d be surprised.” An odd look flashed into Renard’s eyes, something akin to bitterness, although he continued to smile. “Alas, it would seem I have offended you again. I fear I have made a very bad beginning. I beg you to allow me to make amends.”

  “No amends are necessary, monsieur,” Ariane said earnestly. “Please let us put this talk of marriage aside and part friends.”

  “Ah, how could any gentleman refuse such a charming request?”

  Ariane brightened. “Then you agree—”

  “No. I fear I have never been much of a gentleman.”

  Ariane stifled a frustrated sigh as Renard reached for a purse knotted to his belt. She eyed him warily, hardly knowing what to expect next. He unfastened the drawstrings of the small leather pouch and withdrew an object, which he held up for her inspection. It was a ring, an unpretentious circle of metal with unusual markings on it, large enough that a man could have slipped it upon his small finger.

  “For you, milady. Just a small token of my esteem.”

  Ariane stared at the ring, completely nonplussed before shaking her head in protest. “My lord, I cannot possibly accept—”

  “Oh, I realize it does not look like anything much, a mere trinket. But its worth is invaluable. It is a magic ring, you see.”

  “Magic?” Ariane did not trouble to hide her skepticism.

  “You do not believe in magic, mademoiselle?” Renard clucked his tongue at her. “You? A sorceress of such great repute?”

  “A healer, nothing more,” Ariane corrected him flatly. “And yes, I do believe in magic, but you strike me as being far too much of a cynic to do so.”

  “When you know me better, chérie, you will find that I always try to keep an open mind.”

  “Well, I don’t. Not when it comes to magic rings. The power of plants and herbs to cure, the miracle of the human spirit, phenomena of the mind too extraordinary to be explained. But as for charms and tokens like that ring, no, I fear not.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Don’t you want to know what this ring can do?” he coaxed.

  Ariane studied him, trying to determine if he was in earnest or in jest. Whatever this new game was that Renard seemed bent upon playing, Ariane decided to humor him.

  “Very well, my lord. What does the ring do?”

  “This unusual ring is part of a set that I acquired—er—from an old gypsy woman during my travels abroad. You see that the companion to the ring now rests upon my own finger.” Renard held up his hand. The rings were identical except that the band that Renard wore was wider, heavier.

  “According to the legend, when you slip this ring upon your finger, we will be linked in a way that defies all distance and time. You will be able to summon me to your side with merely a thought.”

  “Forgive my frankness, my lord, but summoning you to my side is er—ah—not exactly high on my list of priorities.”

  Renard grinned. “You prefer to consign me to perdition?”

  “Not quite that far. Comfortably back at your own castle will do.”

  “You can have your wish. Wear the ring and I will leave you in peace.”

  When Ariane eyed him doubtfully, Renard said, “I give you my solemn word of honor. Keep the ring and I will keep my distance. But if you ever find yourself in need of me, just hold your hand over your heart and think of me. I will come to you at once. You may summon me three times.”

  “Only three times? And then what happens? Do I turn into a newt or a toad?”

  “No, you turn into my wife,” Renard replied affably. “When you use the ring for the third time, you must cry forfeit and surrender. Marry me. Is it a bargain, ma chère?”

  “Certainly not. I would never agree to anything so outrageous, even if I did believe in magic rings, which I don’t.”

  “Then what have you got to lose?” Renard grasped the ring between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it temptingly before her eyes. “Keep the ring and you may be rid of me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Renard smiled his languid smile, but there was a steely glint in his eyes. “I fear I would feel obliged to fall back upon more direct methods.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, perhaps I shall build a willow cabin at your gate or play the troubadour beneath your window.” His teeth flashed in a predatory grin. “Or I might take a lesson from how the Romans dealt with those stubborn Sabine women and simply fling you over the bow of my saddle.”

  Ariane’s eyes widened. Something in his voice sent a dark shiver through her. If she refused the ring, would he really attempt to carry her off? Force her to the altar and into his bed?

  Ariane searched his gaze—a skill long practiced by wise women, the art of reading the eyes, those mirrors of the soul. Ariane was so adept at it, she could often take not only the measure of a man’s character, but divine his very thoughts.

  Ariane struggled to read Renard’s mind, but it was frustratingly impossible. He stared fixedly back at her, as though he guessed what she was trying to do and it amused him. In the end, Ariane felt obliged to look away.

  Renard held out the ring to her with a quizzical lift of his brows. She hated feeling backed into a corner, but compared to risking Renard’s more “direct methods,” the ring seemed by far the safer proposition.

  “Very well,” she said reluctantly. “Give me the ridiculous thing.”

  “And you agree to my terms? Use the ring three times and you are mine?”

  Ariane nodded, but she could not help tensing when Renard slipped it on her finger. With the matching band adorning his large hand, it was as though they had already plighted their troth.

  “There, you see,” he said. “The ring fits you perfectly.”

  “It feels rather snug to me.” But Ariane was astonished to realize the ring was indeed a miraculous fit, as though it had been destined for her hand. A disconcerting thought.

  This was all nonsense, she reassured herself. The ring was not magic. When Renard came to his senses and married someone else, she would send the useless trinket back to him. Then why was she left with this uneasy feeling, as though she had just slipped her foot into a snare?

  She thought she detected a flash of triumph in Renard’s eyes. But the expression was quickly masked behind a look of the blandest innocence.

  She drew away from him, saying, “And now, my lord, I don’t wish to seem rude, but you did say if I took the ring you would leave me in peace. I am sure that Fourche has saddled your stallion so—so—”

  “So why the devil am I not already gone?” Renard finished with a rueful chuckle. “You are rig
ht, mademoiselle. I promised I would go away until you use the ring and you will find me a man of my word.”

  He removed his riding gloves from his belt, preparing to leave. She did not ever expect to see Renard again, but there was one thing she needed to know.

  “My lord, may I ask you a question before you go?”

  Renard glanced up from smoothing on his glove, an inquiring lift to his brows.

  “Is there a strain of insanity in your family?”

  The inquiry surprised a bark of laughter from Renard. “I have a distant cousin who is perhaps a little addled in his wits. Why do you ask?”

  “Only that I am at a loss to account for your determined pursuit of me. I am possessed of neither great wealth nor great beauty—” Ariane began.

  “That is a matter of opinion, ma chère,” Renard murmured.

  Ariane refused to be distracted by his compliment or the provocative look that accompanied it. “If my father does not return from his voyage, everything we own may be swallowed by debt. You could look much higher for a wife, so why are you so bent upon having me?”

  An odd smile touched Renard’s lips. “I will answer that question, but only on our wedding night.”

  Ariane frowned, annoyed by his evasive reply, but she saw there was no hope of gaining a more sensible answer.

  “Then it seems my curiosity is destined to go unsatisfied. I bid you adieu, Monsieur le Comte.” She made a prim curtsy, holding out her hand in a gesture of farewell.

  “Let us rather say, au revoir.”

  Renard took her hand. Ariane supposed he meant to carry it courteously to his lips, but before she could even blink, he hauled her off-balance, tumbling her into his arms. He stifled her protest by claiming her lips with a swift kiss.

  A kiss? It was more like a heated collision, a dueling of lips, warm, fierce, and ruthless. Dazed by the unexpected assault, Ariane clung weakly to the front of his doublet. She had never been kissed before. Whenever she had imagined what it might be like, she had always pictured something tender and soul-stirring.

  Instead, she felt the blood rush through her veins, making her hot, flushed, almost giddy. And for one insane moment, she experienced a mad urge to kiss him back just as fiercely.

  When Renard released her, she struggled to come to her senses. She ought to box his ears for his impertinence, but it was all she could do to catch her breath. She finally recovered enough to cast Renard a reproachful look, but the villain was unrepentant.

  “Forgive the liberty, milady.” He smiled lazily down at her. “But I needed one sweet memory to last me until you use the ring to summon me back again.”

  He swept her a magnificent bow and turned to stride away. Ariane pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. The need to always have the final word was Gabrielle’s habit, not hers. But something in Renard’s swaggering step, his insufferable manner of self-assurance goaded her into shouting.

  “Renard!”

  He paused to glance back.

  “I am never going to use that ring.”

  Renard’s answer was an infuriating smile.

  Chapter Three

  Twilight settled over the house, the barnyard filled with the bleating of lambs settling in for the night. A soft breeze perfumed the air with lavender from the herb garden, wafting the sweet scent to Ariane through the open window.

  But the tranquility of the evening was lost upon her as she sat hunched over the oak table, trying to balance the household accounts. It was difficult to render a good accounting when there were more debts to be settled than there was coin to go around.

  Ariane sighed, pausing to light the candles as the day faded. The soft glow flickered over the room that had once been her mother’s bedchamber. There in the massive bedstead with the rose-hangings, she, Gabrielle, and Miri had been born. And there was the jointed stool where all the girls had frequently sat while Maman brushed and braided their hair.

  Ariane gazed bleakly around her. The room that had once seemed so warm and bustling with life felt cold even in the midst of summer. With Maman gone, it was as though the very heart had been cut from the house.

  Everyone now looked to Ariane to take her mother’s place as the Lady of Faire Isle, and she felt herself a poor substitute. Rubbing her tired eyes, she turned back to the household accounts, wiping the smudged slate to begin again.

  Her task was made all the more difficult by the object lying upon the desk. The Comte de Renard’s ring. She had slipped it off her finger because the thing kept distracting her. Just a plain circle of metal and yet it was decidedly older than she had first imagined. When she had polished it with her handkerchief, she had discovered engravings upon the exterior, ancient runic symbols as mysterious as the man who had given the ring to her.

  Her thoughts kept returning again and again to her encounter with Renard this afternoon, the intimate feel of his mouth against hers, that ruthless kiss that seemed to have set the seal on the strange bargain they had made.

  When you use the ring for the third time, you must cry forfeit and surrender. Marry me.

  Such an odd proposition. The man must indeed be mad. But as Ariane’s gaze strayed back to the coffer open before her, the pile of unpaid debts, she thought that perhaps she was the one who must be mad to spurn marriage with a man as powerful and wealthy as Renard.

  But as the Lady of Faire Isle, she had a grave responsibility to choose her husband with care. That is if she ever married at all. She had been left guardian of ancient manuscripts that contained powerful knowledge, dangerous should they ever fall into the wrong hands. The man she wed had to be completely scrupulous and trustworthy and Renard’s evasiveness, his inability to return a straightforward answer to the simplest question, troubled her deeply. If there was one quality she valued above all others in a man, it was honesty.

  Renard’s grandfather, the old comte, had been overbearing, ruthless, and cunning by turns, willing to do anything to gain his own ends. Renard showed signs of being cut from the same cloth.

  Yet she could not help recalling how kind he’d been when he had soothed her fears about Miri. He had also been remarkably good-humored about the theft of his horse and the trick Gabrielle had played upon him. And he had provoked her into smiling when she was trying her hardest to be serious.

  Ariane was resolved to think no more of him and yet . . . She turned his ring over in her hand. The thing could not possibly be magic, but it did serve Renard’s purpose in one way. The ring’s presence kept her thoughts focused on him. What, if anything, would happen if she ever did follow Renard’s instructions and try to use it?

  Her brow furrowed with concentration, she had the ring poised over the tip of her finger when a cry rang out.

  “What are you doing, Ariane?”

  Ariane started. She nearly dropped the ring, making a mad grab to catch it. Gabrielle stood on the threshold scowling.

  “You shouldn’t be fooling with that thing. It could be dangerous.”

  “It is only an old ring, Gabrielle.” Ariane felt a trifle sheepish. But her sister stormed across the room to snatch the ring away from her.

  Ariane had been obliged to tell Miri and Gabrielle something of what had passed between herself and Renard. After she found out that Ariane had surrendered Hercules to the comte, Miri had lost interest. But Gabrielle had badgered Ariane with questions until she had drawn out the entire story of the bargain Ariane had made over the ring.

  Gabrielle perched on the edge of the table to study the ring herself, her bare feet dangling. She was already attired for bed in her soft linen night shift, her golden hair cascading down her back. It made her look younger, more like the little sister Ariane remembered.

  They kept early hours at Belle Haven. Candles were dear and, as Gabrielle frequently complained these days, there was nothing to do on the island but sleep. However, her usual air of ennui was absent tonight, her blue eyes alight with curiosity as she turned the ring this way and that, appraising it as a jeweler might have d
one.

  She bit down upon the circle of metal and pulled a face. “Humph! I don’t know what it is made of, but certainly not gold. Where did the comte say he acquired this thing?”

  “Somewhere during his travels. From an old gypsy woman.”

  “What gypsy woman? What travels?”

  “I don’t know,” Ariane replied, carefully shifting some ledger sheets that were in danger of being crushed beneath Gabrielle’s bottom. “Monsieur le Comte is not exactly the most forthcoming man. He smiles, he jests, and he tells one absolutely nothing.”

  “Didn’t you try to read his eyes?”

  “Of course I did! But it was like—like attempting to peruse a book whose pages are sealed together.”

  Gabrielle digested this information in disappointed silence before turning her attention back to the ring. She scrunched up her face as she examined the metal band more closely.

  “What are these funny symbols?”

  “Runic letters,” Ariane replied. “Very similar to those in many of our old manuscripts downstairs.”

  “Can you translate what it says?”

  “Perhaps. I am not sure.” In truth, Ariane had been curiously reluctant to try. But Gabrielle leaped down from the table to fetch Ariane a magnifying glass.

  While Ariane held the ring under the glass, Gabrielle hovered over her shoulder.

  “Well?” she demanded, pressing closer while Ariane strained to make sense of the lettering.

  At last, Ariane lowered the glass and said hesitantly, “I believe that it translates as something like this ring to me doth bind you both heart and mind.”

  Gabrielle pursed her lips. “That sounds like a spell to me.”

  “Don’t be silly. It is only a romantic inscription. Maman did not raise any of us to place credence in such foolish tokens as magic rings and amulets.”

  “All the same, I still think you should get rid of it. Toss it down the well.”

  Ariane shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I promised the comte that if he would leave me in peace, I would wear the ring.”