“He saved our little sister,” Ariane said. “I am not altogether sure I care why he did it.”
“And that is exactly what is starting to worry me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have not been acting like your usual prudent self, Ariane. Inviting the comte to dinner, using his accursed magic ring—”
“Our sister’s life was at stake. I had no other choice. It was necessary to summon Renard.”
“And was it also necessary to let him kiss you right there in the square in front of Marie Claire, Madame Jehan, and—and everybody?”
A hot tide of color washed into Ariane’s cheeks. Somehow in the rejoicing over Miri’s rescue, she had hoped that her brief interlude with Renard had gone unnoticed.
“I was a little overcome at that moment, Gabrielle. Having one’s sisters nearly killed by witch-hunters does that to a woman.”
“To another woman, maybe, but not to you. I have never seen your calm and reason overset by any man, at least not until Renard came along. It’s that infernal magic ring of his. You need to get rid of it right now and him as well. Send him word not to come.”
“I can’t do that. It would be intolerably rude and perhaps tonight might afford me the opportunity to learn more about the man, find out exactly where this ring came from.”
Gabrielle arched her brows. “Or it could be the perfect opportunity for him to draw you deeper into his power.”
“I have no intention of falling into any man’s power. And now if you will excuse me, I have much to prepare before the comte arrives.”
Ariane was chagrined to realize that for once she was the one stalking away from one of their quarrels.
As she disappeared through the trap door, she completely missed the worried light that sprang to Gabrielle’s eyes.
“Not fall into any man’s power? Oh, my dear sister, I fear that you are nearly halfway there. But not if I can prevent it,” Gabrielle said grimly.
The wind lashed against the windowpanes, the rumble of the threatened storm drawing closer. The world beyond Belle Haven seemed ominous and dark, but inside, an array of candles shed a soft light over the oak table set in the small alcove off Evangeline Cheney’s bedchamber.
The table was modest, nowhere near as grand as the long mahogany one that rested upon the dais in the great hall below stairs. But that imposing banqueting table had never been used except on those rare occasions when the Cheneys had feted some of the chevalier’s high-ranking acquaintances from the French Court.
Family suppers had always taken place in the cozy atmosphere of Evangeline’s private chambers and it had been here that the Lady of Faire Isle had preferred to play hostess to her own respected guests, such as Marie Claire.
Ariane wondered if she was making a grave mistake in entertaining Renard here. Anxiously, she paused in front of the mirror to check her reflection one last time. The rose silk gown clung to her willowy frame, the square-shaped bodice filled in with a light modesty vest, decorated with beaded embroidery. The sleeves fell in tiered puffs down to fit snugly at her wrists.
The gown had once belonged to Evangeline Cheney and stirred a flood of poignant memories in Ariane, remembrance of Maman stealing away from the hall full of noble guests Papa had assembled, slipping upstairs to bid her girls good night, the rose silk whispering and shimmering about her.
Ariane had never touched the gown before, although it had been bequeathed to her. Gabrielle would have found the cut too old-fashioned and Miri was as yet too small. Ariane felt a little strange wearing it herself, as though, like the title of Lady of Faire Isle, the gown did not quite fit.
And yet she did not appear quite like her usual prim self tonight, with her dark hair arranged beneath a light veil held in place with a simple circlet of pearls. Her eyes looked softer, a glow of expectancy mounted high in her cheeks.
“Mistress Ariane!” The little housemaid, Bette, burst into the bedchamber. “He’s here. Monsieur le Comte is here.”
Ariane turned away from the mirror, her heart giving a nervous flutter. Before she could compose herself, Renard appeared. Bette presented him as breathlessly as though she was announcing the king of France himself. Ariane could fully understand why the girl was so awe-stricken.
Renard was very much Monsieur le Comte tonight, an imposing figure in his slashed doublet of green velvet, with dark trunk hose, a short cape falling arrogantly off one shoulder. His golden-brown hair had been recently trimmed, his square jaw freshly shaved. He looked magnificent and yet Ariane thought she preferred him in his rough leather jerkin and worn hunting boots. This Renard seemed more remote, inaccessible.
Renard’s hooded eyes concealed the fact that he too was a bit overwhelmed. He had seen Ariane in many guises before, the affectionate sister, the simple knight’s daughter, the healer in her plain apron gathering herbs. The tall stately woman standing before him suddenly reminded him that he was standing in the presence of the Lady of Faire Isle.
Ariane glided forward, dipping into a solemn curtsy. “Monsieur le Comte. Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you, milady. I am well pleased to be here,” Renard said, bowing over her hand.
Their eyes met and the absurdity of such formality after all they had been through today seemed to strike both of them at once. Renard gave a soft laugh and Ariane’s lips quivered in a wry smile.
She still looked a trifle nervous as she hastened to explain, “We no longer use the great hall downstairs. We haven’t ever since . . .” A shadow crossed Ariane’s face.
Ever since Papa abandoned us. Renard read the thought. Her lashes swept down. “We have so few guests these days we tend to dine more informally. I—I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? He was astonished that she would trust him enough to admit him into this inner sanctum. And humbled as well because he knew how little he deserved such trust.
Ruthlessly quashing his inconvenient pang of conscience, he replied, “I am deeply honored, milady.”
His eyes roved with interest over the chamber that had obviously been the private reserve of the ladies of Belle Haven for generations. A decidedly feminine room, from the soft-hued bed hangings to the rose-patterned carpet. Renard’s gaze came to rest on the wooden cupboard mounted into the wall and he wondered if it was there that Ariane kept them.
All those wondrous books old Lucy had told him about with a wistful glint in her eyes. Feeling ashamed of his speculation, Renard wrenched his gaze back to Ariane.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured.
“It is because of the gown, I expect. It belonged to my mother, although I am not sure the gown fits me any better than her title does.”
“They both suit you very well, ma chère.” Renard carried her hand to his lips. Ariane’s fingers trembled in his.
They were interrupted by a loud “harrumph” coming from the golden-haired beauty poised in the doorway, attired in a fashionable gown studded with tiny seed pearls, a small white ruff accenting her slender neck. Even her black eye did little to dim the haughty perfection of Gabrielle’s features.
Ariane snatched her hand guiltily away from Renard. “Oh, er—Gabrielle. Monsieur le Comte, you—you remember my other sister, Gabrielle?”
“Yes, indeed,” Renard said with a polite bow. Although he hadn’t taken much note of Ariane’s middle sister on his other visits, he doubted that he would soon forget the hostility that radiated from those cool blue eyes.
She looked him up and down with all the disdain of a princess suffering a large and ugly troll to invade her kingdom. Renard had dealt with the scorn of women far more highborn and sophisticated than Gabrielle Cheney. As he held her eyes, he saw that there was still much of the child about Gabrielle and a hurt one at that.
He attempted to offer her a charming smile. “Mademoiselle, I am pleased you have joined us. I have a gift for you.”
“Oh?” Gabrielle conveyed an impression of icy indifference.
“Not a gift
precisely, but something I believe you might have misplaced today.” Renard unbuckled his sheath, and drew forth a sword. It was a plain serviceable blade with a battered hilt that looked as though it had seen its share of action, a soldier’s weapon.
“This definitely does not belong to any of the witch-hunters. I was told that you were seen wielding it?” Renard said with a questioning glance at Gabrielle.
The girl’s haughty composure vanished, a flush mounting in her cheeks as she reclaimed the sword from Renard. “Er, ah, yes.”
“It belonged to your Papa?”
Gabrielle exchanged an uncertain glance with Ariane, who had likewise tensed.
“Yes,” Ariane said swiftly. “It—it was my father’s.”
Ah, Renard thought, studying both women, who were taking great pains to avoid his penetrating stare. So the sword obviously was not Papa’s. Interesting. Then whose was it?
“You should never have taken the sword, Gabrielle. Later, you must make sure it is returned to—to where you found it.”
Some silent communication passed between the two sisters, but before Renard could probe further, Miri Cheney slipped into the room. The child was doing her best to hide behind her fall of long, shimmering, white-blond hair.
When Renard greeted her, she mumbled something and ducked to the shelter of Ariane’s skirts. If Ariane was the Lady, and Gabrielle the princess of the family, Miri was definitely the fairy child, a little wild, a little fey, and rather fragile.
Ariane draped her arm protectively around her little sister’s shoulders and said, “You must excuse, Miri, my lord. She is rather shy of strangers.”
Almost painfully so and Renard doubted that her recent ordeal had helped much. When she peeked at him, he saw that she was still very pale, shadows haunting her eyes.
He gentled his voice as he said, “Mademoiselle, I have something for you as well.”
Striding to the door, Renard summoned the maid to fetch the wicker basket he had brought. He hunkered down in front of Miri, setting it at her feet. “There was something found at the church. Something that was left after everyone else had departed. A friend of yours, perhaps?”
Renard popped back the lid to reveal a scrawny black cat with white paws, who hissed, looking less than delighted with its confinement. As the creature leapt out of the basket, Gabrielle shrank back with a cry of alarm.
The cat looked slightly feral, obviously not domesticated to any home or barn. Renard wondered if he had made a mistake by bringing it here, but the transformation in Miri was miraculous.
“Ohhh!” Her eyes brightened, her cheeks flooded with color.
The cat had taken refuge beneath a chair, but Miri knelt down before it, murmuring something in coaxing tones. The cat crept slowly forward, allowing her to gather it up.
As she rose to her feet, the cat seemed to melt, going boneless in her arms, rubbing its head beneath her chin with a rumbling purr. Miri crooned in its ear. “I am so glad you are safe. Everything will be better for you now. You shall live in our barn, and you won’t have to trouble the poor mice. I shall feed you a saucer of cream and a bit of fish every day. And you shall make the acquaintance of my other friends, like Hercules.”
Her shyness all but forgotten, she paused to cast a timid glance up at Renard. “You did ride him here, monsieur?”
“But of course, mademoiselle. It seems difficult to keep him away from Belle Haven. And you.”
“I should like to see him later. To thank him for coming to rescue me today.”
“Yes,” Renard replied with admirable gravity. “Wasn’t it splendid of him?”
His wry humor was not entirely lost on Miri. She blushed and ducked her head. “It was splendid of you too, monsieur.”
Gabrielle’s snort was so audible, it shifted Renard’s attention in her direction. The girl’s nose crinkled with complete contempt but he scarcely took heed of that, arrested by the expression on Ariane’s face.
She stared at Renard, her quiet gray eyes almost luminescent with gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he said gruffly. “Alas, I have brought nothing for you, ma chère.”
“You have already given me the greatest gift possible,” she said with a significant glance at Miri. “My sister’s life.”
Renard gave a shrug as though to remind her that his rescue had been motivated purely by self-interest. But Ariane reached out to press his hand. Although surprised by the gesture, Renard smiled at her and for a moment it was as though they were the only two people present.
But Gabrielle was there to quickly remind them they were not alone. She thrust herself in between Renard and Ariane.
“Is it not time we dined? I’m about to perish from lack of food, and I have heard that it is dangerous to allow an og—I mean, a man, to go unfed.”
Ariane shot her sister a reproving frown, but fortunately Renard only appeared amused by Gabrielle’s rudeness.
As they all settled around the small table, Ariane’s initial feelings of awkwardness returned. It had been a long time since they had entertained a man at Belle Haven, not since those long-ago summers when her restless father had set aside his court manners and they had all dined together as a simple family here in her mother’s chambers.
Those days had been among the last times that Ariane could remember when they had been truly happy. . . . She tucked her napkin on her lap, forcing the poignant memory from her mind. When she looked up, she became aware that Renard was studying her across the table, his rough features softened with sympathy. Once again, Ariane was beset with the suspicion that the man could read eyes.
She kept her gaze focused mainly on her plate as the first course was served, wondering if this supper had been a mistake. The meal was a tense affair. Miri was quiet, absorbed in feeding tidbits to the cat. Gabrielle sullenly pushed her food about her plate as though waiting for this ordeal to be over. Although he ate with a hearty appetite, even Renard was strangely silent.
Recollecting that part of her hope this evening was to draw Renard out a little more, Ariane pressed him for tales of his travels and he opened up enough to discuss a journey he and his friend Toussaint had once taken to London.
“Oh, London,” Ariane cried. “I remember going there myself as a little girl. My mother was half-English and we went to visit her grandmother. She and my Great-aunt Eugenie used to get into some fearsome arguments over whether the site of the legendary Avalon was in Glastonbury or here in Brittany. Great-aunt Eugenie maintained that no magic could possibly endure in a cold damp land such as England.”
Renard smiled, sipping his wine. “The English would not agree. Their poets have even taken to calling their ruler the Faerie Queen.”
“I have heard that Elizabeth is an astonishing woman, ruling her country as well as any king.”
“They also say her mother, Anne Boleyn, was a witch,” Renard replied.
Gabrielle stiffened, glaring at him. “Oh, and I suppose you are like most men, monsieur. Believing that the only way a woman could govern as well as a man is if she is using witchcraft.”
“You mistake me, mademoiselle. I was only repeating idle gossip. I have the greatest respect for the intelligence, strength, and courage of women. Like the Lady of Faire Isle.”
As Renard said this, he raised his glass in salute to Ariane, his eyes caressing her in a way that brought heat flooding to her cheeks. Gabrielle scowled, upsetting her wine, deliberately, Ariane was certain. Renard scooted his chair back just in time to avoid being doused.
Summoning Bette to clear away the mess, Ariane used the opportunity to administer a warning kick to Gabrielle under the table. Unfortunately, she got Miri instead.
“Ow!” Her little sister gazed at Ariane with a look of bewildered reproach. To Ariane, the tension at the table only grew worse after that. Renard could scarcely open his mouth to make any remark without Gabrielle taking offense or hotly contradicting him. Ariane feared if the comte had commented
on the rain that was now lashing the house, Gabrielle would have stubbornly declared it to be the fairest night they had had all summer.
As the final course was being served, Miri drooped in her chair and begged to be excused. Ariane immediately seized upon the opportunity to be rid of Gabrielle as well.
“Of course, you must head off to bed, dearest,” Ariane said to Miri. “And I am sure Gabrielle will be happy to help you into your nightdress and braid your hair.”
Gabrielle showed no signs of budging. “Agnes can do that.”
“I am sure after all she has been through today, Miri would by far prefer to have one of her sisters tend her than a servant,” Ariane insisted.
“Oh, yes, please, Gabby.” Miri fixed Gabrielle with a tremulous smile and large eyes.
Gabrielle could hardly refuse. She struggled to her feet with an obvious ill grace, flinging down her napkin. Renard rose respectfully to bid both girls good night, but Gabrielle ignored him, shepherding Miri out of the room. She paused on the threshold to cast a pointed look at Ariane.
“Ariane, could I have a word with you in private?” she said through clenched teeth.
Excusing herself to Renard, Ariane followed Gabrielle out into the hall. Miri had already disappeared into their bedchamber.
Gabrielle faced Ariane with arms locked furiously in front of her. “Are you out of your mind? Do you truly want me to leave you alone with that—that ogre in your bedchamber?”
“Stop calling him that,” Ariane shot back in a low voice that would not carry to Renard. “I won’t be alone. The servants are all nearby and I am sure the comte can be trusted to—”
“Since when? You don’t know any more about that man than you ever did.”
“Nor do I have much chance of knowing him better with you trying to dump your dinner over him and insulting him. Maman would have been so ashamed. Such discourteous behavior to a guest and one to whom we have much cause to be grateful.”
The Dark Queen Page 24
