The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  His lips over hers, his gentleness caught her by surprise. His mouth moved caressingly over hers as though she was as fragile as spun glass.

  His arms felt so strong and sure. It had been such a dreadful day, between the quarrels with her sisters, her worry over the mounting debt, and now this alarming business with Captain Remy and the Dark Queen. Renard’s mouth was warm, tempting her to forget her problems.

  He coaxed her lips apart until she tasted the full sweet heat of his mouth, her breath mingling with his. Shivers of excitement rippled through her as he molded her to him, the softness of her body seeming to fit so well with his muscular frame. She stole her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his shyly at first and then more eagerly, staggered by the new sensations coursing through her, the wild rush of her pulse, the mad pounding of her heart in rhythm with his.

  Renard’s lips claimed hers with increasing hunger, a passion that seemed to invade her entire being. Now gentle, now more insistent, now pulling teasingly back, now mating with her tongue in a fiery dance. It was as though . . . as though he was making love to her with no more than a kiss.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her blood on fire, and she crushed closer to him, as though she could not get enough of the hard feel of him. Ariane at last understood how a woman could be seduced.

  Shakily, she drew her mouth from his. Still she did not seem to have the strength to pull away from Renard. Her breath coming quick, she stood trembling in his arms.

  Renard smiled down at her. “Was that better this time?”

  Ariane could only stare up at him, not knowing how to answer. He bent toward her again and her heart lurched. She was not sure if she was more disappointed or relieved when he only brushed his lips against her forehead.

  “You look quite . . . overwhelmed, ma chère. It has been a long day. You should go into the house now. Go to bed.”

  She gave a dazed nod, scarcely hearing his soft “good night” as she stumbled away from him and through her front door, closing it firmly behind her.

  Agnes had nodded off while waiting up for her, the older woman snoring softly in Maman’s chair. Ariane was glad of the fact. It gave her a moment to compose herself, for her flaming cheeks to cool.

  She leaned up against the door, drawing in a deep breath. It was only then that the full import of Renard’s words struck her.

  “Oh, ma chère. Your first kiss? I do crave your pardon. I was a clumsy brute.”

  Her first kiss? How could Renard possibly have known? It was as if—as if he had been reading her thoughts, reading her eyes.

  Impossible. She had never known anyone but a daughter of the earth to possess such a skill. Surely no man ever could.

  Heart thudding uncomfortably, Ariane cracked the door open to peer out. But Renard was already gone, both horse and rider vanished as though the night had simply swallowed them up.

  Ariane fingered the ring fastened around her neck, studying it with a renewed sense of unease.

  “Who the devil are you, Renard?” she whispered.

  The Passing Stranger appeared dark and silent, landlord, servants, and guests having long ago sought their beds. All save one. A light flickered behind one of the windows of a second-story bedchamber.

  It was a well-appointed room for such a humble inn. The bed with its thick feather tick mattress looked comfortable and inviting, but Renard showed no inclination to sink down beneath the coverlets. Moonlight spilled over his massive form, etching his intent features as he bent over the table he had positioned before the window, lighting the five candles, one by one. Four glowing wicks to invoke the four elements, fire, air, earth, and water. One to represent the soul of man.

  Five candles arranged in the shape of a pentagram beneath the moon will enhance any spell, old Lucy had always declared. Five candles to dispel the darkness . . . or to invite it in.

  The darkness of temptation.

  Renard’s mouth set in a grim line, hesitating as he lit the last candle, but he already found himself staring into the tiny flames as though mesmerized.

  Except that it wasn’t the candles that he was seeing, but the fire in Ariane’s wide eyes after that kiss. Truth be told, he’d been shaken by it himself. Renard could not remember the last time he had found such passion in a mere kiss.

  When he’d read in Ariane’s eyes how badly he’d bungled her first kiss, he’d been determined to do it right. He’d never expected to find such pleasure in sampling her mouth, giving his prudent witch her first taste of desire and arousing in him such an unexpected hunger.

  He’d ached to spend the night with her, holding her in his arms, teaching her how to kiss, his body growing hard with the need to teach her even more. It had taken all his will to let her go, but he’d seen clearly that he’d already given her enough of a lesson for one night.

  He’d played the gentleman, allowed her to flee to her house, a decision that he now regretted, for Ariane had not been the only one receiving a lesson. That kiss had taught him a few things as well, that his witch was neither as prim as she seemed nor as transparent.

  Ariane had an unsounded depth of passion he longed to explore. She also had an unexpected capacity for concealment that disconcerted him. The lady was keeping a secret from him and he had been completely unable to read her eyes.

  Fortunately there are other ways, Justice. Lucy’s voice seemed to whisper slyly in his ear.

  Renard shook out some of the contents of a small leather pouch into his hand. Dried jasmine petals, fragrant, sweet, harmless in themselves, but when combined with certain other ingredients—.

  The door to the inn room wrenched open, cutting off Renard’s dark reflections. As Toussaint stomped into the room, Renard dropped the pouch and spun about to face him, attempting to conceal the pentagram of candles arranged on the table.

  But Renard could have been conducting a witch’s sabbath in the room and he doubted Toussaint would have noticed, the old man was in such an ill humor. He cast Renard a surly glance before slamming the door behind him, grumbling under his breath.

  “Fine thing for a man of my years to be spending half his night in the stables.”

  “It was your own idea,” Renard reminded him. “I rubbed down Hercules, gave him water. He didn’t need any more coddling.”

  “But I never saw the poor brute in such a lather. I don’t think he likes having that pony in the stall next to him. He was upset.”

  “The pony will be gone, returned to Mistress Cheney in the morning. And I daresay that devil horse was only upset because he didn’t manage to dump me on my arse again. We had a rather heated dispute about the route we were going to take after I left Ariane at Belle Haven.”

  Whatever had inspired Hercules’s brief lapse into docile behavior, it was over. Old Lucy had always said that four-legged beasties were more clever and sensitive than men gave them credit for.

  Renard frowned. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I almost think that horse believed I was returning him to Ariane’s sister. I didn’t have any problem until I tried to ride away from Belle Haven. He kept tossing his head and whinnying as though he was actually calling out to the girl.”

  “That’s because the both of you are bewitched by those Cheney women.” Toussaint sagged down onto a jointed stool and yanked off one of his boots. “Only you, my lad, should have better sense than a beast. Haring about town at all hours, chasing after—”

  The old man broke off, his eyes narrowing as he at last caught sight of the candles on the table behind Renard.

  Toussaint froze in the act of removing his second boot. “What—what the devil have you been doing in here, lad?”

  Renard affected a yawn. “Waiting for you so I can finally get to bed.”

  One boot left on, Toussaint rose from the stool and hobbled toward the table. Renard knew a guilty urge to block his way, then felt annoyed with himself.

  Shrugging, Renard stepped aside. Toussaint stared at the carefully arranged candles and released a
shaky breath.

  “Mother of God! How—how could you—? Damnation, Justice. You swore you would leave this stuff alone.”

  Toussaint shot him a reproachful look. His fingers actually trembled as he snuffed all the candles but one. Then his hand fell upon the leather pouch, the dried leaves scattered across the table.

  “J-jasmine,” he quavered.

  “To perfume the room. The air in here is rather stale.”

  “Don’t take me for a fool, boy,” Toussaint growled. “I know what jasmine can be used for. Brewing up an aphrodisiac. Lucy made them often.”

  “Ah, my grandmother used one on you, did she?”

  Toussaint flushed bright red. “No, but she sometimes traded them down in the village for some bit of livestock or an extra bushel of potatoes. Sold the potion to unscrupulous men who would stick at nothing to get round a lass’s virtue.”

  “The women were just as bad, seeking out Lucy’s potions to seduce some hapless male,” Renard pointed out.

  “Perhaps they did, but never did I think to see you resort to such vile trickery.” Toussaint’s old eyes were no longer angry but filled with such disappointment that Renard squirmed.

  “Damn it, Toussaint. Don’t look at me that way. All an aphrodisiac does is enhance what passion is already there. If a woman despises a man, it cannot work. But if she feels a mutual attraction, deny it though she will, the potion merely—”

  Toussaint broke in flatly. “The consent of the body is not always the same as the consent of the heart. God’s truth, lad. Is that how you’d win the lady?”

  Renard glared at him defiantly for a moment, then felt himself flushing with shame. “Brewing up the aphrodisiac was only an idle thought. I wasn’t really going to do it.”

  At least, he hoped that was true. Sometimes Renard harbored such dark thoughts, he felt like a stranger even to himself, and it frightened him. He marched over to the table, brushed the dried jasmine back into the leather pouch, and pulled the drawstrings tight as though temptation could be neatly cinched away.

  Renard offered Toussaint a rueful smile. “I am sorry. I have always had an unfortunate fascination with the darker side of magic.”

  “I know,” Toussaint said sadly. “That is why I wish you would leave Mistress Cheney and whatever hidden store of books she possesses well alone.”

  “Don’t let us have that argument again. I have already told you, Toussaint. She is my destiny. I will have Ariane for my wife.”

  While the old man sank back down on the stool to finish removing his boots, Renard continued, “I am not without worries. While I may not have any serious rival for Ariane, there is something else afoot. I don’t believe she told me the truth about why she felt impelled to visit a convent in the middle of the night.”

  “Couldn’t you do that thing that Lucy taught you?” Toussaint asked. “I never saw any harm in the reading of the eyes.”

  “Nor do I, but alas, it does not always work. Usually I can employ it quite successfully with Ariane, but not tonight. She is hiding something from me.”

  “Well, you might try the method the rest of us mere mortals use. You could just ask the lady what is wrong.”

  “Ariane Cheney would never confide in me. She doesn’t trust me.”

  “Astonishing! I wonder why that would be.” Toussaint stroked his grizzled chin. “If you want my advice, lad—”

  “Not if it is going to be irritating.”

  Toussaint scowled at him but continued, “If you must give your lady that infernal ring, at least take the conditions off it. Win her confidence. Tell her the truth about yourself.”

  “Even about old Lucy?” Renard asked tersely.

  Toussaint met his gaze levelly. “Especially about Lucy.”

  Renard shook his head. “I don’t believe that would be a good idea. In my experience, truth can be vastly overrated in dealings between men and women.”

  “Oh, there is a sentiment truly worthy of your late grandfather.”

  Renard’s lips thinned dangerously. If this conversation continued, he knew that he and Toussaint were only going to end up in another of their quarrels.

  He snuffed out the candle and flung himself down upon the bed. He was aware of Toussaint standing motionless for a long moment. Then the old man heaved a wearied sigh and settled down upon his own pallet.

  Long after Toussaint started to snore, Renard remained awake, fretting over the old man’s words.

  Despite what Toussaint said, he wasn’t like his grandfather, plotting to drag Ariane off by her hair. Perhaps he had waxed a trifle ruthless when he had considered using the aphrodisiac, but if a man could be hanged for having wicked thoughts, the entire male population of the earth would be wiped out by now.

  He would just have to school himself to be patient. He did not know what Ariane had gotten involved in tonight. Whatever it was, Renard had a strong presentiment that Ariane Cheney would be tempted to make use of his ring. And very soon.

  Chapter Eight

  Despite the softness of Maman’s great bed and how exhausted she was, sleep continued to elude Ariane, her mind churning with questions about the man who had so recently vanished from her doorstep.

  If she was ever so foolish as to suspect a man of practicing sorcery, that kiss alone would be enough to condemn Renard. For surely there must have been some sort of wicked magic in an embrace that had left a lingering fire in her veins, making her still feel as though she wanted more, imagining his long, clever fingers undoing the laces of her gown, caressing her skin, cupping her bare breasts. He had such large, strong hands . . .

  “Oh, stop it, Ariane,” she muttered, thumping her pillow, shocked by the direction of her own thoughts.

  It had only been a kiss. No doubt the embrace had seemed more potent to her than it really was, merely because of her lack of experience and . . . and she had been very tired. Exhaustion could do strange things to a person. It could even be used as a kind of torture, playing tricks with the mind, compelling one to behave in ways most unlike oneself. Just like Renard’s kiss.

  Although if Renard’s kiss had been torture, Ariane reflected with a soft sigh, women all over France would be rushing to fling themselves into dungeons.

  There were other far more disturbing things about the comte than his kiss, she reminded herself. What about the fact that he wielded those glinting green eyes of his like weapons, shielding his every thought, while at the same time seeming to pierce her clean through? And then there was the question of his strange ring.

  Even now, she could feel Renard’s ring nestled beneath her night shift, a cool, but oddly reassuring weight resting against her skin. It was strange, but she had already grown accustomed to wearing it.

  Tugging on the chain, she drew the ring out, barely able to make out its shape in the night-darkened room. Somehow she did not believe Renard’s tale about acquiring it from a gypsy woman. What if . . . what if Renard had forged it himself?

  Perhaps all the speculation about Renard was wrong, the wild rumors that he’d existed all these years as a pirate or roving bandit. Perhaps there was something even more sinister about his past.

  She had heard of a few instances where daughters of the earth, lacking female offspring, had passed their knowledge to their sons. A few men had actually managed to learn, to master the old ways, the late Nostradamus for one.

  But for the most part men who claimed to be sorcerers either turned out to be charlatans or credulous fools. So what did that make Renard?

  Tucking the ring back inside her night shift, she closed her eyes, determined to will herself to sleep. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on her breathing, deep, slow, rhythmic, forcing herself to relax, to grow drowsy.

  She was wrenched wide-awake by the sound of a muffled cry. Ariane lay still for a moment, heart thudding, wondering if she had imagined it or had merely started to dream.

  The cry came again. Faint, but unmistakable and coming from the direction of her sisters’ bedchamber. Ari
ane flung off the covers and was out of the bed and moving, not even pausing to light a candle.

  She made her way down the corridor more by feel and memory than by sight. Of course there was no reason to suppose that either of her sisters could be in danger. None, other than the tension and anxiety that had been coursing through Ariane ever since her meeting with Captain Remy.

  She rushed toward their room, nearly tripping over her nightdress in the process. Easing the door open, she called anxiously, “Miri? Gabrielle?”

  She was met with silence, the chamber seeming as calm as when she had checked in upon her sisters earlier and found them both asleep. Miri had left the shutters wide open, no doubt. Moonlight spilled across the small chamber Ariane had once shared with her sisters before her mother’s death, before she had become the Lady of Faire Isle.

  The bedchamber was still filled with Gabrielle and Miri’s treasures, evidence of girlhood that Ariane had long ago put behind her. Gabrielle’s precious apricot silk lay tumbled across a chair, a small table laden down with her perfumes and hair ribbons. Nearby was stacked a pile of wood, hammer, and nails for the small boxes Miri was forever building to house the smaller woodland creatures she rescued.

  On the wall opposite the bed hung the painting Gabrielle had started for Miri, a silvery unicorn bounding out of the forest. Only the mythical beast’s powerful head and shoulders were complete, its mane whipping in the wind.

  It was the last canvas Gabrielle had ever worked upon before that terrible afternoon in the barn. Now the painting seemed destined to remain unfinished. Ariane turned sadly away from it to tiptoe closer to the bed. Gabrielle’s burnished gold hair fanned across the pillow as she sprawled out, as usual taking up more than her share of the bed.

  The cry must have come from Miri. The coverlet had been kicked off onto the floor and the girl lay shivering, curled up like a frightened field mouse. As Ariane crept round to Miri’s side of the bed, she saw that her little sister’s eyes were wide open, staring. That did not necessarily mean that Miri was awake. Ever since she had been a little girl, Miri had been known to talk, sometimes to even walk in her sleep. One had to take great care not to terrify her by jarring her suddenly awake.