The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  And then of course, there was Renard.

  Ariane rested her head against the window frame. He was never far away, from her thoughts or from Belle Haven. He had elected to remain on the island, lodging at the inn, his men continuing to maintain guard over the causeway from the mainland.

  She caught glimpses of Renard himself from time to time, riding through town or at the edge of the woods. A powerful guardian on horseback, keeping her safe whether she wanted him to do so or not.

  She had no desire to be any further in the man’s debt and for her own peace of mind, she wished him back at his own château. But she was not about to seek him out to tell him so. She preferred to keep her distance lest he read her eyes and see the longing that had beset her of late, the inexplicable urge to use his ring again.

  She touched the front of her gown, all too aware of Renard’s ring attached to the chain beneath her bodice. Perhaps she should have gotten rid of the ring, as Gabrielle demanded she do, especially now that she knew how dangerously powerful the talisman could be. But she didn’t seem able to do that.

  Tugging at her neckline, she pulled forth the chain and dangled the ring before her eyes, marveling that such a simple metal band could be the source of such great temptation. Because she had been tempted, more than once, to slip the ring on her finger and send for Renard, even though she was threatened by nothing more than the prospect of another sleepless night in an empty bed. Tormented by that heated fantasy they had shared when their rings had touched, wondering what it would have been like if their lovemaking had been real.

  Ariane felt deeply ashamed of her weakness. And yet she knew that the desire for a man was a natural thing, a primal force as old as the earth itself. The hunger to reach out in the darkness and be sheltered in the strength of a lover’s arms, to be held and caressed, to revel in his passion and tenderness.

  These were things most women dreamed of, but as the Lady of Faire Isle, Ariane needed to be strong in herself, dependent upon no man. Besides, she reminded herself sadly, passion without love was an empty thing. That was exactly what had caused her poor sister Gabrielle to end up on her back in a barn, losing her most precious gift to a man completely unworthy of her.

  There could be no possibility of a real love flourishing between Ariane and Renard despite all his quaint old grandmother’s so-called visions of destiny. Whatever heart he might have possessed Renard had given long ago, to a buxom shepherd lass named Martine. As for her own heart, Ariane had dedicated it to the people of this island and her sisters, to keeping them happy, healthy, and safe.

  Ariane stole one last wistful glance at the ring, before she forced herself to put it away.

  At least one good thing had come from Renard maintaining his stubborn vigil on the island. She believed that his presence had likely deterred the return of Le Vis, buying time for Remy to heal.

  The captain would be well enough to leave Faire Isle soon and that would be a good thing for all their sakes. With the danger at bay, Ariane had moved him up from the dungeon to her father’s bedchamber and Gabrielle had been spending far too much time in the soldier’s company, reading to him, playing her lute, fetching him tidbits to tempt his appetite.

  Gabrielle had rarely ever had patience for entertaining an invalid. Perhaps she was feeling a trifle guilty over the havoc she had wrought by taking Remy’s sword. Ariane was certain her sister did not mean to be cruel, but the girl could be quite heedless at times. Gabrielle certainly did not possess the ability to read eyes or she would have seen what Ariane had realized long ago.

  That the solemn young captain was falling desperately in love with her.

  Gabrielle tugged at Remy’s hand, stealing a glance back toward Belle Haven. The gray stone house with its ivy-covered walls basked peacefully in the afternoon sun, not a soul stirring. But Ariane’s face could appear at one of the windows at any moment.

  “Hurry!” Gabrielle was tempted to break into a run, her bare feet flattening the grass as they crossed the last stretch of the open field leading to the line of trees. But Remy resisted. Digging in his boots, he forced her to come to a halt.

  Gabrielle pulled more insistently at his hand, but she might as well have been trying to move a pillar of stone. Remy shook his head, despite the slight smile that tugged at his lips.

  “Gabrielle, we should not be doing this,” he said. “You said we would take a brief turn about the garden, not come this far. Ari-ane gave me permission to get up, but she requested I remain in the house. Or at least go no farther than the garden.”

  “Gave you permission? Since when did Ariane become your commanding officer? You don’t have to listen to what she says.” Gabrielle added with an impish smile, “I certainly never do.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Remy said. “Ariane is exceedingly wise. If Catherine’s soldiers or that infernal Le Vis should return and find me wandering out here, you will pay the cost as well. I have already put you and your sisters in enough danger.”

  “Ariane’s great oaf of a suitor drove Le Vis and his witch-hunters away. And if they do return, I’ll protect you.”

  That provoked a rare laugh from Remy. Gabrielle moved closer, peeking up at him through the thickness of her lashes.

  “Please, Remy. Come with me,” she coaxed. “You have not seen my special place and I want to show it to you.”

  “All right.” He sighed. “But just for a little while.”

  She led him toward the forest that ringed Belle Haven. Clad only in his white shirt, brown venetians, and high leather boots, he still looked every inch the soldier, marching with an upright bearing.

  Gabrielle could not help admiring the lean, masculine grace of his figure. Remy was not excessively tall, a brawny brute of a man like Ariane’s suitor, the Comte de Renard. The captain was far more lithe and compact and Gabrielle imagined he’d be very quick on his feet when he was at his full strength.

  As they trudged farther into the woods, Gabrielle thought she could feel renewed vitality returning to Remy’s hand. He tipped back his head, breathing deeply of the loamy ground and crisp scent of the trees, his eyes aglow with appreciation.

  Ancient trees strained skyward like a tribe of elderly sentinels keeping watch over the island. Moss and vines crept up the trunks of mighty oaks, elms, and sycamore. Here and there one could spot the white bark of a birch dancing in the breeze like some slender dryad.

  The forest floor was thick with underbrush and bracken so dense, it was difficult for anyone to walk there except for Miri. Gabrielle’s little sister seemed able to skitter through the most tangled thicket as adroitly as any rabbit or fox.

  Gabrielle took care to keep Remy to the path, not only for his sake but her own as well. She winced when her bare foot cracked down on a sharp twig, her soles not as toughened as they had been during the days of her youth. She’d always hated the bother of shoes and stockings, just one more thing to put on and delay her when an entire world waited, so many glorious sights and scenes to capture on her canvas while the light held good.

  As she led Remy round a curve in the path, Gabrielle glanced down and caught a flash of her bare toes, noticing how dirty they were.

  She reflected ruefully how hard she’d worked this past year to get rid of her calluses, applying lotion to make her feet as dainty, white, and smooth as the rest of her body. As hard as she had worked to tweeze her eyebrows, manicure her nails, apply rinses to bring out the golden sheen in her hair. Looking in the mirror, she’d practiced arranging that hair into more sophisticated styles, grooming herself for the elegant and alluring enchantress she meant to become, a woman of great wealth and power, a courtesan.

  Nicolas Remy’s intrusion into her life had curtailed these activities, though Gabrielle scarcely knew why. She felt perfectly comfortable wearing her oldest and most comfortable gown around Remy, her hair cascading untamed down her back, her shoes abandoned beneath her bed.

  The path widened into the clearing where a stream cut the forest in two.
The brook meandered slowly, breaking over rocks with a sparkling sound that had made Gabrielle, in more romantic days, think of some silvery-haired nymph singing paeans to her lover, the dark, wild spirit of the forest.

  This place had been enchanted to her once. During her childhood, she’d often come to this stream to play with her little sister, Miri. As she grew older, the clearing had become her retreat, a solitary refuge in which to dream, to bring her easel and paints.

  But when the magic had faded from her hands, it had faded from the forest as well. She seldom came here anymore, the place just one more melancholy reminder of all that she had lost. Yet with Remy taking such delight in the natural beauty that surrounded them, Gabrielle felt a stirring of her own pleasure return. She rushed ahead to the edge of the bank, dipping her toe in the stream, shivering as the icy water lapped against her foot. But it felt good on such a warm day.

  She stooped, cupping her hand to take a drink, the water so cool and soothing as it slid down her throat. “Captain Remy, you must come here and have a drink. I vow you will never taste anything so . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she glanced back at him and realized he was moving much more stiffly and slowly than before. He had one hand pressed over the region of his wound, but he dropped his arm immediately back to his side when he saw her looking.

  “What is the matter? Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Y-yes, I’m fine.” Remy appeared as exhausted as the ancient Greek who had collapsed after running the marathon, sweat dampening the dark gold strands of hair clinging to his brow.

  “You don’t look fine.” Gabrielle hastened back to him, alarmed when Remy swayed a little on his feet. “What is it? You haven’t torn open your wound.”

  “No, it’s nothing. I—” He swore softly under his breath, something that Remy rarely did in the presence of a woman.

  He continued in a voice laced with self-disgust. “I suddenly feel as weak as someone’s ancient grandmother.”

  Gabrielle bit down on her lip, berating herself that she had not noticed sooner that something was wrong. But Remy had made no complaint. Indeed, he’d hardly spoken a word during their entire walk, allowing her to drift off with her own thoughts, something that did not surprise her.

  She regarded him with exasperation, wanting to box his ears for being so stoic, so stupid. But he wasn’t the stupid one, she reflected guiltily. She was.

  “This is my fault,” Gabrielle said, offering him the support of her arm. “I should never have brought you out so far.”

  “Far!” Remy grunted out a pained laugh. “Gabrielle, I am a soldier, used to marching. Normally I could tramp the entire width of this island without pausing for breath.”

  “Here, lean on me,” she urged. “I’ll help you get back to the house.”

  But Remy pulled away from her. “No, Gabrielle,” he panted. “It is all right. I just need to sit, rest for a moment.”

  She frowned, starting to insist when Remy gazed at her, despite how drained he was, a wistful expression springing to his eyes. “It is so good being out here. I was going a little mad cooped up in the house. I feel like I can breathe again.”

  Then why did he look as though he might stop doing so at any moment? But she guided him over to the bank. Bracing against the trunk of an aging sycamore whose gnarled roots twisted down toward the brook, Remy slowly lowered himself to the ground, the process clearly an arduous one.

  His teeth were clenched in a way that did not ease until he was seated. Then he leaned back against the tree with a grateful sigh. “Ah. That’s better.”

  Gabrielle regarded him helplessly, cursing herself for not thinking to bring a flask of the medicine along. Ariane certainly would have remembered. Scrambling to the edge of the stream, Gabrielle groped in the pocket tied about her waist and dragged out a handkerchief. Wetting the linen cloth, she wrung it out, then hastened back to Remy.

  Kneeling close beside him, she sponged his forehead and cheeks, growing a little alarmed when his eyes fluttered closed. But then she realized he was only savoring the feel of the cool cloth against his skin.

  To her relief, color seeped back into his face. She brushed the damp strands of hair back from his eyes. When Gabrielle had first seen Remy half-dead, hidden away in the dungeon room beneath Belle Haven, she had thought the captain’s hair a kind of dull, lanky brown. But that had been before they had bathed and cleaned him up.

  Hints of sunlight dappled through the trees, playing across Remy’s face, and Gabrielle realized his hair was actually a mixture of blond and more shades of brown than she could possibly have imagined. She was unable to resist sifting her fingers through it, marveling at the surprisingly silky texture, at the way the strands shifted color in the light, now a rich walnut, the next burnished gold.

  If she had ever been going to paint Remy’s portrait, she wondered if she would have ever found enough hues in her palette to capture the remarkable blend of sun and shadow that was in Remy’s hair.

  His beard was decidedly lighter, a rough sugaring of hair that coarsened his jaw. The fringe of his mustache made a marvelous contrast to his mouth, emphasizing the sensitive curve of his lips. But Gabrielle had always preferred clean-shaven men. Remy’s face appeared carved on such strong lean lines, it seemed a pity to—

  The captain’s eyes fluttered open, regarding her with a look of such surprise that Gabrielle froze, suddenly aware of what she was doing. Tipping Remy’s face to one side as though she was preparing him for a sitting, stroking his beard, exploring the angle of his jaw. Pressing herself so close, her breath mingled with his, one of her breasts flattened against the hard muscle of his shoulder.

  The surprise in Remy’s eyes flared to a look of such desire, it stirred answering warmth in Gabrielle. She’d fancied herself numb to all such heat and she wrenched back in a panic, wondering what the devil had gotten into her.

  Remy’s eyes slid away from hers, looking self-conscious. It was that more than anything that helped Gabrielle recover herself.

  “Are you feeling any better, Captain?” she asked in what she hoped was a cool, collected voice.

  “Y-yes, thank you, mademoiselle,” Remy replied in an equally formal tone. “You clearly have a healing touch.”

  Gabrielle shrugged. “That’s Ariane. Not me.”

  When she saw Remy open his mouth to gallantly argue the matter, she rushed on, “If you are feeling recovered, no doubt it is owing more to . . . to these woods. My little sister insists there is a very old magic here.”

  “Yes, Miri told me that.” Although Remy winced a little, he managed to sit up straighter. Gabrielle scooted back to the bank, draping her handkerchief over a rock to dry in the sun. She curled up, arranging the folds of her gown demurely over her feet. Hugging her knees to her chest, she stared out over the brook.

  Behind her, she sensed Remy moving away from his resting place beneath the tree. He inched along the bank until he was seated beside her. Gabrielle involuntarily tensed until she saw that he took great care to keep a decent space between them. She relaxed in spite of herself, stretching out her legs, crooking her toes so that the reeds at the edge of the stream barely tickled her feet.

  Gabrielle half-closed her eyes, marveling a little. She was usually so restless, never able to sit still except for those long-ago days when she had been so completely lost in working at some painting or sculpture. But it was impossible not to feel at ease in Remy’s presence. There was something so strong and steady about him, like one of those sturdy oaks that guarded the forest, promising shelter from the most blistering sun or heaviest rainfall.

  She saw no sign of that soul weariness in Remy’s eyes that Miri spoke of. He looked remarkably at peace as he idly plucked a wildflower and tossed it in the stream. As they both watched the white petals carried away in the lazy current, Remy murmured, “It is so beautiful here, so peaceful. I feel as though I would be content to remain on this island forever.”

  “Would you? Most of the
time I long to escape from here.”

  Remy twisted to regard her with grave surprise. “Would you, Gabrielle? But where would you go?”

  Once the answer to that would have been so easy. To Italy, to improve her art by studying some of the masterpieces she had heard were being created there. It was said that a man from Florence, one Michelangelo, had covered the Sistine Chapel with paintings beautiful enough to make the angels weep with envy of his genius.

  It hardly mattered anyway. Her hunger to become a great artist had always been an impossible ambition, even for a wise woman from Faire Isle. It was merely a dream that had drifted away from Gabrielle like that fragile flower disappearing downstream.

  “Oh, I would like to head off to Paris, to make my fortune,” she said, answering Remy’s question at last with an airy laugh.

  She was immediately sorry she had mentioned Paris when she saw Remy’s eyes darken grimly. That was where Remy had been when he had been forced to flee the Dark Queen. Gabrielle had no idea exactly what Remy had done to draw Catherine’s wrath down upon him. She suspected it might have something to do with the death of Remy’s own queen, Jeanne of Navarre.

  Whatever had occurred in Paris, Remy refused to tell her, no matter how Gabrielle coaxed. She was better off out of it, he insisted, a response that irritated Gabrielle.

  But since she had no wish to disturb the harmony of their afternoon together, Gabrielle amended her answer to one more vague. “I suppose I simply want to see more of the world than Faire Isle.”

  “The world outside this island is often not a very pleasant place,” Remy said gravely.

  “Mine will be,” Gabrielle insisted, shaking her sun-warmed hair back from her face. “Full of beautiful palaces, feasts and masques, grand ballrooms with dancing until dawn.”

  “And many ardent suitors, no doubt.” Remy gave her a sad smile. “Likely you will not even miss—”