They say the Dark Queen has eyes everywhere.
Marie Claire’s words drifted back to Ariane. Her hand crept to her neck and she nervously fretted the chain holding Renard’s ring. Her skin tingled with the eerie sensation that somewhere out there in the darkness, someone was watching . . . waiting. Ariane fought a fierce urge to bolt back to the safety of the convent.
“Stop it!” She would not allow Catherine to fill her with fear, tarnish the way she viewed the world, even her own island.
Butternut came to a halt, the pony resting his weight against her, threatening to fall asleep right there in the middle of the road. Ariane gave him a brisk pat, grumbling with a wry smile. “That’s right. Go ahead and lean on me. Everyone else does. I wish just once I had someone’s shoulder to lean upon.”
“Will I do?” a deep voice rumbled from the darkness ahead of her.
Her heart leaping into her throat, Ariane dropped Butternut’s reins as a hulking figure stalked toward her, all enormous shoulders and powerful arms. Ariane drew breath to scream only to have a callused hand clamp firmly over her mouth.
“It is all right, ma chère. It is only me.”
Pulse racing, she stared up at the Comte de Renard, moonlight throwing the rough angles of his countenance into sharp relief. He removed his hand from her mouth slowly, his fingers sliding across her lips like a caress. Where the devil had he sprung from? It was as though he’d been conjured up out of the earth itself by a wizard’s dark spell.
Or a magic ring?
Ariane’s eyes widened as she realized she had been toying with the metal band when she had made her wish. Could she have inadvertently—No, the idea was ludicrous, impossible . . . wasn’t it?
She stumbled a step back from Renard, gasping, “M-monsieur le Comte. Where did you come from? I—I didn’t summon you.”
She added weakly, “Did I?”
“Not this time,” Renard replied with a trace of amusement.
“But then what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” he said as calmly as though they both had been attending some summer fair and he’d lost track of her in the crowd.
Ariane’s initial alarm faded, giving way to anger at the fright he’d given her. “Then it was you who I sensed watching me. You have been following me.”
Renard hunched his broad shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “What else would you have me do, when I thought my claim on you was being threatened by a rival?”
“A rival? What on earth are you talking about?”
“My friend Toussaint reported that he saw you out riding with another man and I feared that you might be stealing off for a tryst in the moonlight.”
The notion was so ludicrous she laughed in spite of herself. “I was with Charbonne, the woman who works at the convent. She is a strong and strapping female to be sure, but if she heard that your friend had mistaken her for a man, she would likely break his nose. She frequently escorts me when I visit St. Anne’s.”
“I realize that now. I saw the, er, young woman letting you out of the gate.”
“And you have been out here all this time, lurking, waiting for me?”
Renard rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I fear I have been behaving like a jealous fool.”
“You certainly have been,” she said sternly. “And quite absurd besides. One has to be in love to be jealous.”
“No, only to want someone very much and be determined to protect what is mine.”
Ariane could only shake her head, finding Renard’s continued pursuit of her more mysterious than ever. “But I am not yours,” she said. “And you have no right to be spying on me. What would you have done if I had been meeting another suitor?”
“Discouraged him. Would you not expect me to fight for you?”
“Certainly not. I am not the sort of woman men battle over.”
“Then what sort are you?”
“The sensible kind that patches up broken heads when the fight is over.”
“You underestimate your own charms, chérie.” Renard stroked his fingers along the curve of her cheek. His touch was gentle, but Ariane shied away from him.
She turned her back upon him, tensing when Renard’s large hands closed upon her shoulders. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured in her ear, “Forgive me. I have behaved very badly.”
Ariane tried to remain proof against the contrite note she heard in his voice. But it was difficult, even more so when he turned her to face him. His eyes for once were completely open and sincere.
“I am sorry if I offended you,” he said gravely. “And gave you such a fright. Terrifying you is the last thing I wish to do.”
“I wasn’t terrified so much as startled,” she admitted grudgingly. “In fact, it is rather strange but I find you more alarming when you are prowling about my great hall.” Her gaze roved over his towering height, the powerful expanse of his shoulders. “Somehow you don’t seem tame enough to be kept indoors.”
“Why don’t you domesticate me?” he murmured, drawing her closer.
She peeled away from him with a shaky laugh. “I doubt that I would be up to the task, my lord.”
To her relief, Renard accepted her rebuff with a good grace. “And so if you have not been stealing off for a romantic rendezvous, what have you been up to? I didn’t think convents usually allowed visitors, especially not this time of night.”
Ariane lowered her lashes demurely. “Well, I have this extremely persistent suitor, so I was thinking of taking the veil.”
“Ariane.” Although Renard chuckled at her playful retort, there was an undercurrent in his voice that warned her he would not be satisfied with such an evasive answer.
To buy herself time to think, she slipped away from Renard, feigning a need to check on her pony although Butternut had scarcely stirred a step from where she had left him. She went to his head, stroking his nose, pretending to soothe him. Quite ridiculous, Ariane realized. If the pony had been any calmer, it would have been asleep.
She heard the crunch of Renard’s boots behind her and braced herself. But as he pulled her around to face him, his hands were as gentle as his voice. “Ma chère? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
The very softness of his question disarmed her. His eyes were so kind and warm that Ariane felt her breath hitch in her throat.
“Tell me what is wrong,” he coaxed. “Let me help you.”
Ariane had to swallow hard to contain a mad impulse to confide everything to him. There was something world-weary and wise in Renard’s battered features. She doubted anything could daunt the man, not even the Dark Queen.
Ariane had to force herself to remember how little she really knew about the Comte de Renard. She had no idea what his views on politics or religion or even dark magic might be. It was the thought of that ring more than anything else that kept her silent, a reminder that any help from Renard would not come without a price.
Avoiding his compelling gaze, she said, “N-nothing is wrong. I am often called to the convent, even at night. Marie Claire, the mother abbess, opens her infirmary to anyone who needs help. There was a traveler who was injured on the road and I came to offer my assistance.”
That was the truth as far as it went. Ariane risked a glance at Renard. She could not tell whether he believed her or not, but her answer clearly displeased him, for he frowned.
“You should not be rushing to the aid of every wounded stranger. You are too damned reckless, Ariane.”
“I am generally considered by most people to be prudent and sensible. You call it reckless to try to heal someone?”
“It can be . . . for a woman. There is often a fine line between a woman being proclaimed a witch or a saint. You must learn to be more cautious. When you are my wife, I will insist upon it.”
“But I am not going to be your wife, my lord.”
His eyes darkened, his face so rife with frustration and impatience, Ariane’s heart missed a beat
. But then he forced a smile, his rugged features smoothing into his imperturbable mask.
“Ah, yes,” he drawled. “I do seem to keep forgetting that.”
“You also appear to have forgotten the terms of our agreement. You promised to return to your castle.”
“I don’t ever recall saying that precisely.”
“You did. Or something very like it. You pledged to leave me in peace if I wore your ring.”
“And are you still wearing it?”
Ariane tugged back her cloak enough to reveal the ring attached to her chain.
Renard sighed. “Very well. I will keep my side of the bargain. That is, as soon as I have escorted you safely home.”
“That will not be necessary, my lord,” Ariane began, but Renard interrupted her with a laugh.
“Oh, I think it will be.” He gestured toward Butternut. Head drooping, eyes closed, the pony emitted a series of soft wheezes.
“It appears, milady, that your trusty steed has fallen asleep.”
The road back to Belle Haven wound through the trees like a silver ribbon discarded by some careless young beauty, the still of the night unbroken except for the steady thud of Hercules’s hooves.
Whatever trouble he’d had with his mount earlier, Renard appeared to be in control now, one hand looped firmly around the reins, the other holding Ariane in the saddle before him. Ariane had never been as comfortable with horses as Miri. She would have felt more at ease upon Butternut, but she had been regretfully obliged to leave the exhausted pony in the stables at the inn.
Now as they reached the darkest and loneliest stretch between the harbor and her home, Ariane could not help being glad she had accepted Renard’s offer, grateful for his strong presence, even if it was a little like being tucked under a mighty dragon’s wing.
Ariane shifted in the saddle, stealing a glance at him. She could scarcely believe that he had followed her tonight, so determined to have her that he was prepared to wrest her from the arms of another man.
She knew she was not the sort of woman to inspire such desire or jealousy. Renard’s pursuit of her could only be set down to his strange determination to take her for a wife.
But why? She had heard so many ugly stories about his grandfather, the number of unwilling maids dragged off to the old man’s bed. It had been said the greater the woman’s reluctance, the greater the old comte’s pleasure. And yet she could not help recollecting Marie Claire’s admonishment. Surely you are too wise to hold the sins of a man’s grandfather against him.
Ariane hoped that she was, but Renard’s efforts to coerce her into matrimony reminded her far too much of the old comte. Still she detected strains of a gentleness and humor in Renard that the old man had lacked. But smiling good humor could often be a mask for something darker. If only she knew more about Renard . . . if only she could read his eyes.
The road narrowed ahead and Renard drew rein, slowing Hercules to a walk. As he did so, he must have become aware of Ariane’s intent scrutiny because he cast an amused look from beneath his heavy lids.
“Don’t worry, chérie. I truly am taking you home, not attempting to run off with you. At least not tonight.”
“How would I know that for certain?” she asked. “You Deauvilles do not have the best reputation when it comes to dealing with women. Your grandfather dragged his last poor bride to the altar after he had already ravished the girl.”
Renard forced a smile. “Ma chère, I don’t like being compared to my grandfather. There was little affection between me and the old man.”
Ariane waited, hoping he might say something more. Sometimes the best way to get a man to talk was to be silent. But it didn’t work with Renard. He merely settled back in the saddle, his mask fixed firmly in place. The silence stretched out so long Ariane was obliged to continue.
“I have heard—that—that is, on the mainland, they say . . . they say your grandfather banished you because you—you—”
“Committed some dark and terrible crime?” Renard finished when she hesitated. “The mere fact of my existence was a crime as far as the old man was concerned. He disapproved of everything that I ever was, everything that I ever did.”
Renard spoke with his usual languid drawl, but Ariane detected a hint of bitterness behind the words.
“He would likely have disapproved of your wish to marry me,” she said.
“I have no doubt of it.” A trace of grim satisfaction played across Renard’s face. So was that then the reason Renard was so determined to marry her? Ariane was surprised to feel a sense of disappointment.
“If I had been aiming to please the old man,” Renard went on. “I’d have chosen one of those ladies whom I had gathered at my castle.”
“And why didn’t you? What happened to your judgment of Paris?”
“I put an end to it. After all, you were the one who told me that it was a foolish way to select a wife.”
“It hardly seems any wiser to select a woman you met once while lost in the woods.”
“But I have always tended to know what I want as soon as I clap eyes upon it.”
“Especially if it is something that would have infuriated your grandfather?”
Renard shot her a keen glance. “Ah, so you are worrying that I chose you for a bride merely to hurl one last act of defiance at a dead man. I might have done so when I was eighteen, but I believe I have gained a little more wisdom over the years.”
“Then why, Renard? And don’t hand me any more of that nonsense about telling me on our wedding night.”
Renard lapsed into silence for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know. There was just something . . . strange about our meeting that day. Like finding you was a matter of fate.”
Ariane studied him with pure frustration. Could he truly believe in such things as magic rings and fate? It didn’t matter even if he did because she most emphatically did not.
“Our destinies appear to be at odds with each other, my lord,” she said. “I almost consider myself past marriageable age.”
“You are a mere babe.”
“Then do allow me to introduce you to some older wealthy widows whom I know.”
Renard merely laughed. “No, I already found my bride. At least if you have made up your mind to remain a spinster, I can assume that there are no other suitors for me to worry about?”
He attempted to make the question sound light, but there was an edge to his voice that told her he was not entirely indifferent to her answer.
Ariane almost wished she could have told him she had several other admirers, handsome and dashing, but she answered with her usual frankness. “Yes, unfortunately I do have other suitors. There is old Monsieur Lecloud, who suffers badly from the gout and is in love with my poultices. Then there is Monsieur Bonair, the provost who would like to improve his standing in the world by wedding the daughter of a knight. And lastly we have Monsieur Taillebois, a merchant banker from Saint-Malo, to whom my father owes a great deal of money and who would be happy to settle the account by having me instead.”
“And these men have been plaguing the heart out of you?” Renard asked softly, his eyes keen upon her face.
Monsieur Taillebois certainly had been, becoming so persistent Ariane dreaded venturing onto the mainland. He was a large part of the reason she neglected visiting her father’s estate.
Ariane forced herself to shrug. “I can handle them.”
Leaning closer, Renard murmured in her ear, “You don’t have to, chérie. Only use the ring and I will rid you of all three of these nuisances.”
His breath tickled her neck, rousing sensations that were warm, intimate, enticing her to melt closer to him, making her wonder what it would be like if his lips actually brushed her skin . . .
Embarrassed by her wayward thoughts, she concealed her confusion beneath a light laugh. “I thank you for the offer, monsieur, but I can look out for myself. I am not one of these helpless damsels who needs a knig
ht to come riding to the rescue every time she drops her handkerchief.”
“Alas, I am beginning to perceive that, mademoiselle.” His eyes glinted with amusement, but a certain admiration as well that brought a warm blush to Ariane’s cheeks. She was startled to realize how much she enjoyed bantering with Renard.
She finished the rest of the journey in a bashful silence, relieved when they rounded a bend and she saw Belle Haven’s square tower etched against the sky.
The gate was left open, as it always was when Ariane was abroad late. Renard guided Hercules through it, but instead of heading toward the stables, he made for the open court in front of the house.
Candles had been left burning in the hall windows, no doubt by Agnes or one of the other maids waiting up for her. Just as she had done so often for Maman, Ariane thought with an ache.
Renard reined Hercules to a halt and swung down from the saddle. He reached up, lifting Ariane down as easily as though she had weighed no more than a child. She staggered a little, trying to regain the feel of solid earth beneath her feet. But when Renard’s hands tightened on her waist to steady her, she backed shyly away from him.
“I thank you, monsieur, for bringing me home, but it is far too late. I cannot invite you in—”
“I did not expect you to do so. I only wanted to bid you farewell.”
He caught her hand, preparing to carry it to his lips.
“I am wise to that trick, my lord.” She drew her fingers away, recalling all too well what he’d done the last time, the tumult of her ruthless first kiss.
Renard frowned, his eyes honing in sharply on hers.
“Oh, ma chère,” he murmured, his voice full of genuine remorse. “Your first kiss? I do crave your pardon. I was a clumsy brute. If I had realized, I would have been more gentle. Do allow me to make amends.”
Before she could escape, his arms enfolded her.
“No, Renard!” Her protest sounded faint, even to her own ears. His gaze fixed on hers as he bent nearer. His breath was warm upon her face and she could not seem to look away. His eyes held her as much as his arms. Glinting from beneath his heavy lids, the green depths were intense, almost mesmerizing.
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