The Faire Isle was inhabited mostly by women, wives and daughters of sailors gone long months at sea. The women had become hardy and independent, disconcerting to male travelers to the island, accustomed to a more docile breed.
The Passing Stranger was this peculiar place’s only male bastion. Tonight, the taproom was thronged with the usual collection of fishermen, sailors, and itinerant peddlers, the ancient Breton language mingling with more polished French accents and even a few English and Spanish ones.
All the tables were crowded, save one. Justice Deauville sat alone in one dark corner, the remains of his supper littering the table. Nursing a cup of good red wine, his heavy lids lowered to half-mast, he appeared indifferent to his surroundings. But he was keenly aware of the looks cast his way, and muttered conversations exchanged behind cupped hands.
“. . . ’tis the Comte de Renard . . . from the mainland.”
“Claims to be old milor’ Robert’s grandson.”
“Still after marrying our Mistress Cheney, I s’ppose.”
“A comte, you say? Looks more like some burly field hand.”
Renard ignored the whispers. He was well accustomed to the kind of speculation he aroused everywhere he went. Even Ariane had attempted it, probing with those remarkable gray eyes of hers. But Renard had learned a long time ago how to mask his thoughts and emotions from the greatest enemy he’d ever had. His own grandfather.
Renard called for more wine. The serving girl who came to plunk the bottle down upon the table regarded him with a mingling of curiosity and disapproval. Perhaps the wench found it odd for such a powerful nobleman to be drinking alone in the tavern as though he were a peasant farmer.
It probably was an unlordly thing to do. Renard doubted that his late grandfather would have deigned to set one polished boot in such a humble establishment as the Passing Stranger.
But Justice was not about to change all his ways simply because he had become the Comte de Renard. Tossing a coin to the maid, he waved her away and refilled his glass.
Wooing was thirsty work, especially with a woman as obstinate as Ariane Cheney. But his triumph was all but assured now. He had gotten her to take the ring and he well knew the power of that harmless-looking circle of metal.
Had not the magic of the rings already worked for a simple peasant maid from the mountains, winning her the heart of a comte’s son? Renard’s romantic and rebellious father had been all too ready to fall in love with a pretty shepherdess.
Ariane, however, was full of suspicion, as well as questions about his life. Questions he was obliged to avoid until he had her safely wed. He could still hear her demanding in that forthright way of hers.
“You could look so much higher for a wife, so why are you so bent upon having me?”
He doubted that Ariane Cheney would have liked his answer if he had replied truthfully, if he had told her the real reason he’d made up his mind to have her on that very first day they had met . . .
Renard lay sprawled on his back, the wind knocked out of him, the bank of thicket and tree root he landed upon providing no soft cushion. He drew in a ragged breath and managed to elbow himself painfully up to a sitting position.
The clearing in the forest was empty, that demon of a stallion nowhere to be seen. It had probably bolted all the way back to the stables by now. He couldn’t believe it had managed to toss him yet again, Renard thought with a grunt of self-disgust.
But the stallion was as clever as the devil himself, which was why Renard had taken to calling it Lucifer. The young squire who had previously owned the horse had all but ruined the stallion’s mouth with his rough handling of the reins. Renard had done the horse a favor by rescuing it from that young idiot, but apparently Lucifer failed to appreciate that fact.
Rolling onto his side, Renard struggled gingerly to his feet. As near as he could tell, the beast hadn’t managed to break any bones—this time. He limped off a few stiff, bruised steps, taking stock of his surroundings.
The wood was quiet except for the twittering of a few sparrows. The massive oak trees were still black and dripping from last night’s rain, the branches just beginning to bud with the first hints of spring. A fine haze curled across the forest floor, giving the silent woods a hushed, mystical atmosphere.
A hunting horn sounded faintly in the distance as the chase moved farther away from him. Apparently no one had noted his absence as yet and that suited Renard just fine. He was already wearied of entertaining his guests; a collection of empty-headed nobles who at one time would not have considered Justice fit to hold their horses.
But now they fell upon him with an acquisitive gleam, thrusting their unwed daughters into his path; for the most part, simple, blushing creatures who could not raise their eyes from their needlework.
Justice Deauville could go his own way, remain a bachelor to the end of his days. But the Comte de Renard would be expected to produce an heir. He had it in his mind to fix his interest with one of his lady guests by the end of the week.
Actually it didn’t matter which of these young women he chose as long as she turned out to be a good breeder and possessed a decent dowry. Beyond that, she merely had to have the wit to leave him to his own devices.
He’d had far different ideas of marriage once, involving affection and respect, working alongside his bride by day, curling up safe with her in his arms by night. But those had been the simple notions of a boy, and that part of his life was long gone.
Brushing dead leaves and twigs from the seat of his trunk breeches, Renard strove to get his bearings. The mist had evaporated enough that he could make out a rough path that would doubtless take him out of the forest, back across the fields to the castle nestled in the heart of the estate.
The Château Tremazan, his grandfather’s estate, lands that Renard had never wanted, but they were his now. The old man had gone through three wives in recent years, desperate to get himself another male heir, all to no avail. Renard had been told that his grandfather had died cursing the name of Justice Deauville, knowing that he’d failed to keep him from inheriting his property. The thought filled Renard with a certain savage satisfaction. He’d managed to win out over the old bastard in the end.
But the satisfaction was short-lived as Renard moved deeper into the forest. After what seemed like hours of trudging along, he had made little progress. He saw no sign of any fields or castle. Only more trees, the branches getting thicker, scratching at his face, tearing at his jerkin.
It might be his land, but he was lost. He was hot, he was tired, and his body felt like a solid mass of bruises. Renard’s first impulse was to charge ahead like a frustrated boar, tramping down the brush and tearing the branches from his path.
But he forced himself to pause, reflect. He’d clearly spent too much of these past years on the decks of ships, or caught up in the roar of crowded cities. As a lad, he would have known exactly what to do if he found himself lost in the woods or up in the mountains.
Center himself to the earth. But it was a magic he had not practiced for ages. He was no longer sure he could do it. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to be still. He could almost hear the old woman’s voice whisper in his ear.
“Concentrate, Justice. Don’t fight the woods. Embrace them.”
Renard flung back his head and extended his arms wide, breathing deeply in a slow steady rhythm, trying to root himself to the earth. But nothing happened, no heightening of his senses, no sharpening of his instinct. He opened his eyes and lowered his hands.
He was still lost.
He had no choice but to blunder on. After another frustrating ten minutes, he paused again to listen intently. A faint rushing sound . . . of a stream, not that far off. Perhaps about two hundred yards . . . to his left.
Heartened, Renard headed in that direction. The land began to slope downward, silvery glimpses of water visible between the trees. He caught a soft equine whicker. Was it possible that his demon of a horse was idling by the river for a
drink?
He crept forward. If he could catch the devil, he wouldn’t have to walk all the way home after all. Crouching behind a thicket of trees, he parted the branches, peering down toward the brook.
To his disappointment, he saw a sturdy pony tied off to a large gnarled root protruding from the muddy bank. Renard craned his neck, looking about for the pony’s owner.
He spotted her a little farther down the bank, wading in the stream. A tall woman, supple as a willow wand, her skirts hiked up to her knees, revealing a flash of white, shapely legs. Her dark blue gown and apron appeared to be of simple homespun fabric, her thick chestnut hair swaying down her back in a tight braid.
Yet this was no peasant maid. Her skin was too fair and there was a solemn dignity about her face that put Renard strangely in mind of a druid priestess.
Renard found himself seized by an unexpected flash of memory . . . something the old woman had foretold long ago.
“Someday, Justice, you will be lost. More lost than you have ever been. You will come upon the woman with the quiet eyes.”
“Quiet eyes?” He recollected tormenting the old woman. “What sort of shade is that, Grand-mère? Something between muddy brown and hazel?”
Old Lucy had given him a whack with her walking stick. “Pay heed, Justice! The woman with the quiet eyes will be the one . . .”
Renard took great pains to block all memory of Lucy’s fireside visions. Her predictions had never brought him anything but trouble.
Shaking off the memory, Renard parted the brush and started forward. The pony continued to chomp placidly at some ferns, taking no notice. The woman likewise was too absorbed in her task. She bent down, scraping some substance off the river rocks and transferring it carefully to an earthenware jar.
When a twig cracked sharply beneath Renard’s boot, she froze. Renard was fully aware that both his size and the rough contours of his face made him an alarming sight.
He held out one hand in a reassuring fashion. “Don’t be frightened, mistress. I mean you no harm—”
But she was already sloshing out of the water, scrambling to let her skirts down.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Renard continued. “I am not some bandit or wandering vagabond, so please, don’t scream.”
“I wasn’t going to.” She finished smoothing down her skirt and lifted her head. Though no beauty in the classical sense, her face was a curious blend of calm strength and femininity, a stubborn chin and prim mouth offset by the delicate arch of her cheekbones. Her dove-gray eyes were clear and direct.
“I have seen you out riding across your lands and I know who you are, Monsieur le Comte.” Still clutching her jar, she dipped into a polite curtsy.
“Then you have an advantage over me, fair trespasser. For I have no idea who you might be.”
“I am Ariane Cheney. My lands border yours, or rather my father’s do.”
Renard’s breath stilled. Once again, he felt that strange tingling. Somehow he’d known who she would be even before she’d said it.
“Pay heed, Justice! The woman with the quiet eyes will be the one . . .”
Renard experienced a strong impulse to bolt back into the safety and sanity of the woods. Intrigued against his will, he managed to incline his head in a respectful nod. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle. I—I have heard much of your father.”
Louis Cheney was well known throughout France, a knight famed for his courage in the wars against Spain as well as his wit and charm. But although Renard failed to say so, he had heard much more of Ariane’s mother, Evangeline.
He’d passed many long winter nights in the cottage up in the mountains, staring idly into the peat fire while old Lucy told him tales about the Lady of the Faire Isle.
“A true daughter of the earth, she be, Evangeline Cheney. A sorceress beyond compare.” Old Lucy’s eyes had gleamed in the firelight. “The wisdom that lady is said to possess! Not like mine, gleaned by word of mouth, most of it half-confused or forgotten, but learning from books!
“They claim the Lady Evangeline has a treasure trove of old parchments hidden away containing ancient secrets, knowledge beyond your wildest imaginings. And always remember, Justice, such knowledge is the only true power.”
As a lad he hadn’t been particularly interested in ancient knowledge or power. But the world had taught him far different since. So much so that he now scrutinized Evangeline Cheney’s daughter with such intense interest, she shifted with obvious discomfort.
Renard lowered his eyes. “I am truly delighted to have encountered you, Mademoiselle Cheney. I will be even more so if you take pity and decide to rescue me.”
“You do not appear to me the sort of man who would require rescuing, my lord.”
“Ah, but appearances can be deceiving. I became separated from my hunting party and I fear that I am a trifle—er—how should I put it—a bit—”
“Lost? You astonish me, my lord. Few men are ever willing to admit such a thing.”
Renard pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. “You cannot imagine how it devastates my manly pride to do so. However, the alternative is to keep wandering these woods until I die of starvation, leaving my bones to be picked clean by scavengers.”
“I doubt it would come to that.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “However, I should be happy to set you on the right path if you would give me a moment to put my shoes back on.”
“Certainly.” Renard noticed where she had draped her cotton stockings across a bush. He fetched them for her, saying with a hint of mischief in his voice, “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”
Ariane looked much shocked by the suggestion, a flush spreading across her cheeks. “Ah—ah, no, I thank you. I can manage.”
She snatched the stockings away from him. Gathering up her shoes, she moved some distance away, casting a worried glance at him over her shoulder.
Renard was gentleman enough to turn his back. So the lady was not given to jesting or flirting. He wondered if Mistress Cheney always took everything so seriously.
While Ariane made haste to get her shoes and stockings back on, Renard noticed the collection of apothecary jars lined up near the bank, filled with some repellent green substance Ariane had been scraping from the rocks. He picked up one to study it more closely.
Behind him, Ariane called out, “I would like you to know that I was not trespassing, Monsieur le Comte. I pay your steward well for the privilege of collecting samples from your stream.”
“My steward charges you for gathering slime?”
“It is a kind of mold that grows on the rocks, and Monsieur le Franc charges for everything. I much doubt that all the fees he collects end up in your coffers either.”
“I will definitely have to have a word with Monsieur le Franc.” Renard squinted at the contents of the jar, pursing his lips with distaste. “And what is so special about this slime—er, mold—that you are willing to pay to have it?”
“It has properties most useful in dealing with the pox.” He heard Ariane give a last shake to her skirts as she moved to join him. She took the jar carefully, almost reverently, from his hands.
“Perhaps you have not heard, but there has been an outbreak in the village.”
“When I passed the local doctor on the road last evening, he said he has taken care of the problem.”
“I am sure Dr. Carre believes that he has. His notions of treating infections extend to prancing outside the sick person’s house with bells on his shoes and a sponge tied to his nose while he boards up the door.” Ariane’s eyes darkened with the same sort of contempt Renard had often seen on old Lucy’s face whenever she spoke of medical men.
“Fortunately I have better remedies than locking people in their homes to die.” Ariane began picking up the jars to transport them over to the waiting pony. Renard grabbed up the last two and followed her.
“Ah! So then you are a wit—” he broke off, amending quickly. “A heal
ing woman, yourself.”
“I do my best.” Ariane packed her jars carefully into the saddlebags strapped to the pony’s sturdy back, then reached for the two Renard still held.
“Thank you, and now I will show you the way back to your château.”
Gathering up the reins, Ariane led the pony up the bank, setting off with an air of confidence that showed her familiarity with his forest. Apparently without any fear of encountering wild boar, wolf, or snake, it was as though she belonged to this land as much as any woodland creature. Renard had seen that sort of assurance in only one other woman before . . . old Lucy.
He hung back just a little, his appreciative gaze roving over Ariane’s lithe figure. Her hips swayed with a natural grace that could not be taught, her braid dangling down her back.
Renard had seen cords of rope that were not as tightly and precisely woven as Ariane’s hair. He was beset by an inexplicable urge to undo it, test the silken texture with his hands, and send the dark waves cascading wildly about her shoulders.
“. . . for the entire past month, my lord.”
Renard realized that Ariane was speaking to him. Mustering his wayward thoughts, he took a long stride, falling into step beside her.
“Ah-er, truly? The whole past month?”
“Everywhere one goes, all one hears about is the miraculous return of Master Justin Deauville.”
“It wasn’t all that miraculous. By ship and horse mostly. And it is Justice.”
Ariane cast him a puzzled look. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“My name is Justice. Apparently, my mother had high hopes for me.”
“A hope that I trust will be realized. Your lands could use a little justice.”
“Is that a rebuke, milady?”
“I meant no disrespect, monsieur. The late comte had been ill for so long that he entrusted more and more of his affairs to his steward. Your grandfather could be a, a hard man—”
His grandfather could be the very devil, Renard thought, but kept the retort to himself.
The Dark Queen Page 6
