The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  Taillebois made an effort to hold his ground. “The entire island knows of your intentions, my lord. But you should know that Mistress Cheney has other suitors.”

  “Indeed. Anyone that I need worry about?” Renard asked softly.

  “Well, I—I— Let me make myself perfectly clear on this point, milord—”

  “No, let me make myself clear.” Renard abandoned all pretense at amiability, raising his sword until it all but rested at Taillebois’s throat. “If I ever catch you embracing my lady or hounding her again, you will end up kissing steel. Understand?”

  Taillebois struggled to summon the courage to make some reply. He gave up the effort, spun on his heel, and fled down the street as though the devil was at his heels.

  A ripple of laughter followed him. The little scene had drawn a crowd, apprentices leaning out shop windows, housewives and artisans pausing in their tasks. Monsieur Taillebois had never been a popular visitor to the island and Renard’s routing of him actually drew a burst of enthusiastic applause.

  Renard flourished the sword and swept all the onlookers a magnificent bow, while all Ariane wanted to do was sink beneath the nearest bushes. Another woman might have enjoyed being the center of a dispute between two men, but all she felt was foolish and embarrassed.

  As the comte sheathed his sword, she choked, “Renard, how—how could you! Monsieur Taillebois was not even armed.”

  “A real man would have been or at least he’d have made haste to fetch himself a weapon instead of running away.”

  “Some men choose to conduct their affairs more reasonably than brawling like a street ruffian. Monsieur Taillebois is my father’s chief creditor. I really cannot afford to have offended him.”

  “You didn’t. I did.” Renard cast her a grim look. “In fact, milady, your conduct toward him was quite the opposite. You told me last night I had no serious rivals.”

  “You don’t. That—that is—it is none of your affair. And I am quite capable of chasing off my own suitors.”

  “You can certainly try, ma chère,” he retorted. “Although you didn’t make much effort with that fellow. What sort of coin did you decide to pay him with?”

  Ariane’s face flamed. She already felt ashamed enough of the mad impulse that had induced her to let Monsieur Taillebois kiss her. Renard’s harsh words only added to her mortification. Swallowing hard, she spun away from him and charged off down the street.

  She was dimly aware of people drawing respectfully back, the curious glances cast her way. Behind her, she heard Renard calling her name, but she only quickened her pace until she was all but running. He still caught up to her easily by the blacksmith’s shop and drew her out of view behind the shed. His massive frame blocked any escape.

  She employed her basket as a shield, fighting the prickling sensation behind her eyes. She would not complete her humiliation by crying, not after only this morning resolving to be stronger and wiser. She always had prided herself on maintaining a certain dignity. Now she had kissed two men within a span of twenty-four hours and made a public spectacle of herself as well.

  Renard’s voice was gentle. “Ariane, I—I am sorry. That was a rotten thing for me to have said to you about Taillebois. I didn’t mean it. I—” He blew out a gusty breath, dragging his hand back through his hair.

  Ariane struggled to maintain a stony profile, refusing to be beguiled by the warmth in his eyes, the coaxing note in his voice.

  “Forgive me. I have little to offer in my defense except even you must admit it is a jolt for a fellow to come across his betrothed kissing another man in broad daylight.”

  “I am not your betrothed,” she snapped. “And—and if I did kiss him, it was your fault.”

  “My fault?” Renard echoed, looking thunderstruck.

  She tipped up her chin defiantly as she blurted out, “It is because of that kiss you gave me last night. I—I never expected. I have so little experience in these matters. I was only wondering . . .”

  She trailed off, feeling more foolish than ever when Renard’s eyes widened incredulously.

  “You kissed Monsieur Taillebois to compare him to me?”

  Ariane nodded, then cringed, bracing herself for Renard’s laughter. But although a glint of amusement appeared in his eyes, all he did was smile at her tenderly.

  “Ma pauvre chère, kisses are like sweetmeats. If one suits your palate, there is no need to sample all the rest.”

  Before she could prevent him, he plucked the basket from her hands and set it down in the grass at their feet. When he gathered her into his arms, she made no effort to resist, her heart tripping over itself. She was dismayed to realize that a part of her was more than willing to experience the dark magic of Renard’s lips again.

  She had to fight hard to remind herself of her vow, not to allow Renard to distract her before she obtained some answers regarding her troubling questions about the man. She turned her head at the last minute so that his mouth grazed her cheek.

  Renard’s lips whispered against her skin. “Ah, don’t be angry, Ariane,” he coaxed. “I am sorry if I displeased you by warning off Taillebois. But watching that jackal touch you made my skin crawl.”

  “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “Do you intend to frighten off all my other suitors from now on?”

  “Yes, if they be cowards or curs like Taillebois. No man could be worthy of you, my lady, who would give up so easily.” The customary drawl was gone from Renard’s voice, his words vibrating with a passionate sincerity.

  He was like a battered knight, fully ready to fight for her, to defend her honor at any cost. The image was more appealing than Ariane cared to acknowledge. She tried to draw away from Renard, but his arms only tightened.

  “Let me go, my lord,” she said quietly. “I am hardly worth the effort of your championship. I will never have the kind of suitors who will merit the use of your steel.”

  “You would have if you did not hide yourself away on this island.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ariane said dryly. “I daresay I would have scores of dashing men fighting over me.”

  “Not scores perhaps. You are like a quiet stream with hidden depths. But once a man discovers your beauty, he must find you unforgettable.”

  Renard’s lips caressed her chin, then continued trailing kisses down the column of her throat. Ariane shivered, discovering that he did not need to claim her mouth to arouse her.

  “Oh! P-please don’t,” she begged.

  “Don’t what?” Renard asked huskily. “Kiss you? Pay you compliments?”

  “S-sound as if you meant them.” Ariane managed to peel herself shakily out of his arms. “That—that is too much like Andre Taillebois. He is by far the worst of my suitors.”

  Renard managed to smile. “What? Even worse than me?”

  “Oh, by far. Because he pretends to be in love with me. At least you are honest enough not to do that.”

  “No, I would never pretend that. But I do like and admire you, Ariane, more than any woman I have ever known. Is that not enough?”

  At one time, Ariane might have thought so. She had convinced herself that she was not romantic, that if she ever did wed, she would be well satisfied with liking and respect. But Renard’s words left an empty ache inside her.

  Studying his face closely, she continued, “Monsieur Taillebois is both a greedy and foolish man. He did not propose to me merely in hope of being recompensed for his loan to my father, but the man actually harbors some stupid notion that I might know the alchemist’s formula for turning lead into gold.

  “What an imbecile! If I could do that, I would have paid off Papa’s debts long ago. There could not possibly be any more reprehensible reason for wanting to marry a woman than believing she is a witch in possession of some secret knowledge.”

  Renard made no reply, but Ariane thought a strangely uneasy expression crossed his face. Ariane’s stomach knotted with apprehension.

  “That could not possibly be your reason, milor
d?”

  “No, I have no interest in gold,” Renard replied smoothly.

  “And I don’t suppose you are feeling ready to share with me what your particular reason might be for continuing to pursue me?”

  Renard’s shuttered expression became more pronounced. “When we are wed. That will be soon enough to bare my soul.”

  Before she could press him further, Renard countered by saying, “You are so keen to know my reasons for marrying, chérie. I might just as well ask why you are so determined to remain unwed.”

  “I am not.” Ariane bent down to retrieve her basket. “But I do have to be more cautious than most women. I am the Lady of Faire Isle. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “It is a title of courtesy, bestowed upon the wives and daughters of the most prominent family on this island. As the eldest daughter of the Chevalier Cheney—”

  “My father has nothing to do with it,” Ariane interrupted. “Our laws here are different than elsewhere in France. Our land has been passed down through the women in the family for generations. I am respected, not because my father was a famous knight and soldier, but because of who my mother was.”

  “Let me show you something.” She impulsively tugged at his hand.

  Looking mystified, Renard followed her toward the center of town. Ariane led him into the open market area; once a pasture, it was now ringed in by shops and the imposing stone building that housed the merchants’ guild and the public scales.

  On fair days, the grassy area was thronged with visitors to the island, stalls set up by merchants who traveled from everywhere. But this afternoon, the square’s only occupant was the towering stone statue of a lady in flowing robes, her arms outstretched in a gentle, welcoming gesture.

  Towns in Brittany frequently had such memorials, but mostly honoring long-dead kings or warriors. The Faire Isle was the only place Ariane had ever known to pay such tribute to a woman.

  The pedestal was as usual piled high with floral offerings. Many of the petals had fallen, partly obscuring the inscription. Setting down her basket, Ariane bent down to brush the dried blossoms aside until the words were fully revealed.

  Evangeline, it read simply. Our Lady of Faire Isle.

  Ariane remembered how outraged the local archbishop had been when the island people had erected the statue. Such a memorial had made Evangeline Cheney seem as though she was a holy martyr, the indignant prelate had groused, and only the church could confer such a distinction. But his protests had gone ignored.

  She glanced up to find Renard close to her side, staring up at the memorial.

  “Your maman?” he asked.

  Ariane nodded proudly.

  Renard studied the statue for a long moment, then his gaze shifted to Ariane.

  “And this is a good likeness of her?”

  “I—I believe so. As much as anything carved of stone could be like the vibrant woman that my mother was. In a way, this memorial does not just represent her, but the long line of strong and noble women who came before her.”

  Ariane turned earnestly to Renard. “Like the rest of Brittany, we pay taxes to the king of France. And it is his provost who administers petty justice and conducts the business of the harbor. But there has always been a Lady of Faire Isle, a wise woman who devotes herself to the protection of the people of this island. Most often she remains unwed, passing her title on to a niece or a cousin. My mother inherited Belle Haven from my Great-aunt Eugenie.”

  “But your mother married.”

  “My mother was the exception.”

  “And this is why you are so determined to remain unwed? Because of some ancient tradition?”

  “Partly. A husband is not always a blessing to a woman, Renard.” Ariane glanced up at the statue, her heart constricting with the thought of all her mother had endured.

  She started when Renard’s hand suddenly closed on hers, his callused palm warm and rough against her skin.

  “What happened with your parents is an all-too-familiar tragedy, but it would never be that way with us, milady,” he said. “I am no longer a callow youth. My wild days are behind me. I know it is the custom for many men to take a mistress, but I would not wed you if I was not prepared to be true to one lady.”

  Ariane stiffened. He had just read her thoughts and this time there was no mistaking the matter. She stared up at him, her eyes wide with accusation. Renard apparently realized his mistake, for he released her hand, looking both vexed and uncomfortable.

  “You just did it again.”

  “Did what?” Renard did his best to appear innocent.

  “You read my mind.”

  “I—I guessed your thoughts.”

  “It was more than that! How else would you know about my father and—” Ariane flushed with shame. “His—his mistress?”

  “I lived in Paris for a while. Regrettably I learned there about the Chevalier and the woman that he kept—”

  “No, Renard, you didn’t. You just learned of it from me. You read my eyes.”

  “I have no notion what you are talking about, ma chère.”

  “Where did you learn such a skill?” Ariane demanded fiercely. “Who taught you the old magic?”

  Renard flashed her a tentative smile. “Chérie, look at me. I am a simple fellow. It was a miracle that my tutors could get the mere rudiments of reading and writing through my thick head.

  “There is no magic involved in my guessing your thoughts. You have a transparent face and—and I have learned to become a good observer during the course of my travels.”

  “What travels? Where?”

  “Everywhere. Here and there.”

  “Damnation, Renard!”

  Her swearing clearly took him aback, but Ariane had had all of the uncertainty and evasion that she could endure. She tugged the chain from beneath her gown. Practically wrenching it off her head, she slapped the ring, chain and all, back into Renard’s palm.

  “Here. Take your ring back right now.”

  Renard’s heavy brows drew together in a warning frown. “You are breaking our agreement, chérie?”

  “I most certainly am. You can scowl at me all you wish, but I refuse to have anything more to do with a man who is so secretive about his past that he will not answer the most simple question or part with any hint of the truth.”

  Their eyes met. Locked in a collision of will, this time Ariane refused to back down. It was Renard who shifted his eyes first, his lips tightening in exasperation.

  “Very well,” he said. “What is it you wish to know about me so badly?”

  “Any small fact would be a good beginning. For instance, exactly where have you been all these years?”

  “Traveling. To Paris, Italy, Greece, the Holy Lands. Anywhere but here.”

  “Why? What caused the estrangement between you and your grandfather? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I told you. My crime was in my birth.” Renard dragged his hand down his face, the gesture rife with weariness. Then as though the words were wrung from him, he said, “My mother . . . was a shepherdess. My father fell in love with her and married her anyway. But in the eyes of my grandfather and his friends, I was considered base-born, a peasant. Very likely that is how you will now see me as well.”

  “No,” Ariane said slowly. “I believe that nobility lies in character rather than the blood.”

  Renard gave a harsh laugh. “I am not sure I possess much of either. At any rate, now you know the great mystery behind Justice Deauville. Not nearly so romantic as if I’d turned out to be a pirate or some cutthroat bandit, but I trust you are satisfied?”

  Was she? Ariane believed he was telling her the truth, but Renard was leaving something unsaid. She searched his face and for one startling instant, she was actually able to read his eyes. The man before her dwindled into a boy who despite his strength and overpowering size had no defense against the cruel wit of his grandfather, the slights and scorn of other nobles.

  Renard was quick t
o hood his eyes and Ariane was almost glad of it. What she’d glimpsed had been too private, too painful. She felt somewhat ashamed for prying.

  “I am sorry, my lord. When a man pursues a woman with such determination as you have done, it is only natural she should want to know, but I—I never meant to cause you any pain.”

  “If you wish to ease my suffering, you only have to resume our agreement. Take back my ring.”

  But when he held the ring out to her, she backed away.

  “No, milord. And it is not because of what you told me about your mother,” Ariane added hastily. “But this peculiar bargain of ours is very one-sided. I keep my promise to wear the ring, but you have not honored your pledge to leave me in peace.”

  “I only lingered in hopes of seeing you one last time. But I plan to leave the island this very day.”

  “Truly?” Ariane eyed him doubtfully.

  “I swear it. I will not return again until you send for me. Indeed I have little choice. I have received word of some trouble I acquired back on my estate, due in part to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes, I took your advice about dismissing my steward. It appears Monsieur le Franc has taken his revenge by stealing one of my horses and burning down a few of my laborers’s cottages as he prepared to leave. The man has been captured and now it becomes necessary for me to live up to my name and administer a little justice.”

  “Oh, I am glad.”

  “Glad that Monsieur le Franc will be punished? Or glad that I am going?”

  Ariane hardly knew how to answer that, especially as Renard drew closer. Before she could protest, he settled the chain back around her neck. His fingers lingered against her skin, slowly sliding to cup the nape of her neck, draw her forward.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs as she realized he meant to kiss her.

  “No, milord,” she said firmly so that he would know she really meant it this time.

  “But ma chère, if you do not intend to use my ring, this will be the last time you will ever see me. Can you not find it in you to grant me just one brotherly kiss?”

  His eyes held hers fast, his gaze warm and coaxing.