The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

  He resisted the lure of the open book, scooping Ariane up into his arms. She stirred a little, then nestled her head against his shoulder with a sleepy sigh that provoked a tender smile from Renard.

  He carried her upstairs to her room, then tried to lower her gently to her bed as though she were the most fragile of treasures, easily broken by a clumsy touch.

  As Ariane’s head plunked against the pillow, her eyes fluttered open. “Renard?” she murmured sleepily.

  “Er, ah, yes.” Renard tried to think of some plausible excuse for his presence, but he was given no further opportunity.

  To his astonishment, Ariane wound her arms around his neck. Pulling him down to her, she fastened her mouth to his. Renard’s eyes flew wide. For a woman who had known nothing about kissing when he had first met her, Ariane’s education had taken a mighty leap.

  Her lips parted with a soft sigh, her tongue flickering against his mouth, luring him into a heated mating. He resisted for but a moment, then with a low groan, hungrily returned her kiss, all but in danger of forgetting he was dealing with a woman still lost in the throes of a potion-induced haze.

  Ariane had no idea what she was doing, would likely forget he had even been in her room come morning . . . as long as he did not allow matters to progress any further. But her lips devoured his with such sweet seduction, sending fire straight to his loins.

  It took all the will he possessed to wrench away. Disentangling from her arms, he retreated into the shadows. Ariane groped for him, then with a whimper of disappointment, she subsided, cuddling up to her pillow.

  Renard expelled a deep breath as she settled back into a deep slumber, but with a soft languorous smile that continued to wreak havoc with his aroused senses. He wondered if he should attempt to undress her, but he feared that would put his forbearance to far too great a test.

  Perhaps there was hope after all that the Lady of Faire Isle might make some sort of hero out of him, but he was never going to be a saint. Gingerly he pulled the covers over Ariane, then beat a hasty retreat.

  “Sleep well, my lov—” he began. Startled, Renard caught himself just in time and quickly amended. “My lady.”

  With a last longing glance, he tiptoed from the room.

  Lights blazed behind the windows of the Louvre, the sounds of music and revelry drifting out over the Seine far into the night. The king of Navarre had but lately arrived in Paris and it was only natural there should be some sort of welcome preceding the wedding that would take place soon.

  But tension filled the halls of the palace as much as gaiety and laughter. The members of Navarre’s Huguenot entourage received the insincere smiles of the Parisian courtiers with scowls of deep suspicion. The Princess Margot regarded her prospective bridegroom with ill-concealed dislike, while Henry of Navarre’s eyes already roved toward some of the lovely ladies-in-waiting. King Charles was in one of his highly nervous states that often precluded a bout of madness and the Queen Mother mounted a diligent guard over her son’s uncertain temper.

  One of the few people who had actually enjoyed the fete had been obliged to retire early. But Louise Lavalle doubted she would ever get a chance like this again with the rest of the court so preoccupied and Catherine as well.

  Shielding her candle from the draft, Louise stole undetected toward the queen’s private closet. Louise was feeling more than usually pleased with herself. She was fully aware of having been one of the loveliest and most seductive women present at tonight’s celebration. Even the king of Navarre had noticed her.

  But far better than that, after days of playing out this chess of the mind with Catherine, Louise was conscious of winning. She had sacrificed a few pawns of false information, convincing Catherine that Captain Remy and the gloves were fled to England. She had overheard the Dark Queen only that afternoon dispatching a small band of her private guard to cross the Channel, to continue the search for the captain. Louise had been obliged to stuff her handkerchief in her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  Hours later, she was still smiling to herself because she had achieved an even greater coup. Finally she had managed to break past Catherine’s guard and read the eyes of the Dark Queen. With one final furtive look over her shoulder, she slipped inside Catherine’s private closet. Her lip curled slightly at the sight of the altar.

  Trust Catherine to hide her witchcraft behind a semblance of piety and prayer. She began to run her hands over the altar cloth, feeling behind the crucifix for some sort of lever that must trip the hidden door. As the moments ticked by, she was aware that she was taking too long.

  But the realization only heightened her sense of excitement, of danger, causing her pulse to race faster. All this intrigue was better than seeking out a new lover. Well, almost, Louise amended, recalling the spark in Henry of Navarre’s eyes.

  It was rumored that Navarre was a lusty young man and Louise thought she might not mind a toss between the sheets with him. She had never bedded a king. But first she supposed she had best see about preserving his life.

  When she at last shifted the candlestick that triggered the spring, Louise grinned in triumph. She stepped back as the altar swung out, revealing the dark, mysterious room beyond.

  “Oh, Catherine, I do believe this is check,” Louise chortled. “The queen is in grave danger and you have no more pawns left to save you.”

  Snatching up a candle, she squeezed into the narrow chamber, her heart pumping hard with suppressed excitement. The light flickered over shelves crammed with ancient texts, dusty vials, and bottles.

  Her latest project was still set up on a small wooden table and Louise moved in for a closer look. A mortar and pestle lay discarded near a small brazier filled with cold ash. Nearby was a rack filled with vials containing some cloud-colored liquid, which Louise could not begin to identify. Some sort of vile poison, she made no doubt.

  Catherine had also left out a scroll of some old parchment, obviously the detailed recipe for whatever hellish brew she was concocting. Louise was not good at translating some of the more ancient languages and was relieved to see that the parchment was transcribed in French.

  Holding the scroll closer to the candlelight, she perused it eagerly. But the more she read, the more her stomach clutched with dread.

  She dropped the parchment as though she had been handling a snake. She had been ready enough to believe that Catherine was plotting the death of Henry of Navarre. But that she might be contemplating a crime worse than that . . .

  “A—a miasma. She is conjuring up a miasma,” Louise whispered hoarsely. “I must get word to Faire Isle.”

  Louise whirled about to flee the room, only to nearly collide with the dark figure who had been watching her from the doorway. She staggered back with a frightened cry, but Catherine appeared completely unperturbed.

  She was even smiling a little as she said, “Checkmate, my dear Louise.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The day promised to be a hot one, the July sun blazing overhead, the air warm and stifling by mid-morning. As Ariane trudged from the house in search of Renard, her gown already felt damp and clinging, but she was determined to speak to the comte before he rode out again to resume the search for Le Vis.

  When she had awakened, her mother’s gentle reproof echoed clearly through her mind.

  “This man saved you all and yet you oblige him to sleep in a tent? My dear child, this is not the hospitality of the lady of Belle Haven.”

  As usual, her mother was right. Ariane headed toward the woods that fringed Belle Haven and felt some relief from the heat as the cool canopy of leaves closed over her head. She breathed in the crisp scents of the forest.

  Renard had not done as he’d threatened and set up his tent at her very gates. He had elected instead to camp near the brook that cut across the Belle Haven estate. As Ariane approached the site, she hastened her steps, fearing that she might be too late.

  But someone was definitely still at the camp. She could hear the dull thud of an
ax splintering wood. As she parted branches and peered into the clearing, she saw Hercules tethered in the shade not far from a tent of impressive proportions, the canvas fashioned of bright blue and cream stripes. It looked like something a knight might have erected near a tournament field, a place to relax between bouts at the lists.

  But there was more of the brawny woodsman than knight about the man wielding his ax nearby. Sunlight picked out the gold in Renard’s light brown hair and glistened off the sweat-slick skin of his forearms. Clad only in his trunk hose and loose-fitting linen shirt, his sleeves were shoved up to the elbows. His bare feet braced a little apart, he swung the ax in a seemingly effortless rhythm, splitting the thick log into firewood.

  Despite the fact that his hair was already damp with sweat, his mouth was taut with a certain satisfaction in his work. Renard seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in such simple tasks, perhaps because the pursuit of Le Vis was proving futile and Renard did not have enough to fill his time.

  Ariane’s horrified servants had reported to her only that morning that these past few days while she had been occupied delivering a baby and treating an outbreak of ague among a local family, Renard had been busy. Harvesting her apple crop, mending shutters broken in the raid, even helping to muck out the stables.

  “I—I tried to stop him, mistress,” Fourche had quavered. “’Tis no fit work for a gentleman, especially a comte.”

  Gabrielle had remarked that the longer Renard remained on Faire Isle, the more primitive and peasant-like he became. But Ariane thought it was as though in some odd way, Renard was becoming more and more himself.

  Ariane felt as though she caught a glimpse of the lad Renard had once been when he had roamed free in his mountains, openhearted, uncomplicated, full of a zest and enthusiasm for life.

  Renard was so absorbed in his wood-chopping he did not even notice when Ariane entered the clearing. Hercules was the first to become aware of her presence. The great beast stiffened, arching its neck and pricking up its ears. The stallion emitted a shrill whinny, sounding as though Hercules called out a warning to Renard.

  Renard paused in mid-swing, gripping the ax. He tensed, nostrils flaring, scenting the wind like a wild stallion himself. But he relaxed, his face lighting up when he saw Ariane. Lowering his ax, he embedded it in the log and strode over to quiet the restive horse.

  Patting Hercules’s neck, Renard said, “Easy, boy. Where are your eyes? It is no witch-hunter stealing upon us, but our lady.”

  To Ariane’s surprise, Hercules whickered, nuzzling his nose against Renard. Renard pretended to lean confidingly toward the horse. “What is that you say? You were only alarmed because you heard tales these woods are haunted. And now you realize there are fairies that wander here.”

  As Ariane came across the clearing, she was both amused and astonished by the camaraderie between Renard and his skittish horse. Hercules was actually nipping playfully at Renard’s ear.

  “You and Monsieur Hercules seemed to have reached an understanding,” she remarked. “Has my little sister been teaching you how to speak horse?”

  “She has been trying.” Renard said with a slight smile. “Perhaps it is more that I have begun to remember some of the old ways I learned as a boy before I became so impatient with the world.”

  A trickle of sweat cascaded down his brow and he mopped it away with his arm, casting Ariane an apologetic look. “Your pardon, milady, for the er—informality of my appearance. Hercules and I were not expecting company. Allow me to try and render myself a trifle more presentable.”

  Ariane started to assure him that that was not necessary, but Renard was already striding toward the bank of the stream. She trailed after him, asking, “You are quite alone here today? Where are all of your men?”

  “I sent Toussaint and the others over to the mainland, to see if Le Vis might have been spotted crossing over, but I am beginning to fear it is a hopeless pursuit.” Renard hesitated, then said. “I have not had the chance to tell you, but yesterday we found the remains of a dinghy washed up in one of the isolated coves. It looks as though Le Vis and the boy attempted to make their escape only to capsize.

  “Very likely they were drowned or crushed against the rocks, although as yet we have found no bodies.”

  Ariane could not pretend to grieve for Le Vis, but the boy . . . An image flashed through her mind of Simon’s confused and tormented face the day Miri had been condemned to suffer the ordeal by water.

  “This will be very hard to tell Miri. She seems to have developed a certain liking for young Simon.”

  “A witch-hunter who tried to burn her house down?”

  When Ariane started to come to Simon’s defense, Renard cut her off with a weary gesture. “Peace, milady. It is far too hot for us to renew our dispute over that young villain. If his death will grieve Miri, I am sorry for it. But there is no need to distress the child until we are sure.”

  Renard knelt down on the edge of the grassy embankment, leaning forward to splash the silvery water over his face. When he cupped his hand to take a drink, Ariane’s attention was drawn to the full curve of his mouth.

  She touched her hand to her own lips, assailed by the recollection of a kiss, heated and passionate. Ariane frowned. She had no idea how or when she had stumbled upstairs to her room last night. But she had this memory of being swept up in Renard’s arms, tenderly carried to her bed and sharing the most delicious kiss, feeling quite bereft when Renard had faded into the shadows. The recollection was suddenly so vivid that she was almost tempted to ask Renard—

  Renard straightened from the bank, slicking back the damp ends of his hair. As he did so, Ariane caught the glint of his ring on his finger. She buried her hands in the folds of her skirt, guiltily covering the empty spot on her own finger.

  Mindful of her mother’s council, she had removed the ring and locked it safely away in the chest at the foot of her bed. She dreaded the moment when Renard noticed the ring’s absence and realized she had broken their pact. Perhaps he would demand his forfeit at once, taking all decision out of her hands.

  But if he had observed the ring missing from her finger, he made no remark upon it. Perhaps he thought she had simply fastened the band back on the chain around her neck.

  Far from looking vexed, he regarded her with a particularly gentle smile as he demanded, “And so to what do I owe the honor of this visit from the Lady of Faire Isle?”

  “An attack of conscience, I fear.”

  Renard’s heavy brows arched in surprise and she folded her hands primly before her. She had rehearsed her speech on the way here. It had been both dignified and gracious, but she seemed to have forgotten every word of it.

  She heard herself stammering instead, “I—I have been thinking. You have been most good to us . . . risking your life, fighting witch-hunters and—and cleaning the stables—”

  “That wasn’t particularly dangerous, chérie. Unlike Hercules, Miri’s pony does not tend to bite, although her rabbits did glare at me.”

  She rushed on, “What I am trying to say is that you have been very generous and I . . . I have not. You remained here to protect us and much to my shame, I allowed you to be banished to the woods.”

  “That is no fault of yours. You forget that I was the one who insisted on staying. You did not want me here.”

  “Nonetheless, after all you have done for my family, the least that I can do is take you to bed—” Ariane blushed and hastily amended, “I mean offer you a bed . . . in—in my father’s old room . . . in—in the house.”

  She trailed off weakly, annoyed when Renard grinned.

  “Damn it, Renard. You understand perfectly well what I am trying to say. You saved our lives and it is not right that you should be left to sleep curled in a wretched blanket on the cold, hard ground.”

  Renard threw back his head and laughed. “Come with me,” he said.

  She stiffened in some apprehension when she realized that Renard was tugging her toward hi
s tent. But when he opened the flap and motioned her to look, she took a timid peek inside.

  Her eyes widened. An exquisite Turkish carpet formed the floor of the tent and a wooden cot set off to one side was draped with pillows and furs. There was even a small linen-covered table bearing a decanter of wine and bowl of fruit.

  “This is all Toussaint’s notion, you understand, not mine. Like your good Fourche, my kinsman has certain notions about upholding the dignity of a comte. Sometimes I think he confuses me with the king.

  “Myself, I would be better pleased with a mere blanket. I often slept that way as a lad, out in the open, drifting off as I counted the stars.”

  “You would not see many stars here. Not with all the trees.”

  “Ah, but the trees can be as pleasant a roof as the sky. The wind sighing through the leaves, every so often parting the branches enough to allow the lady moon to smile down on me. Your woods are a very beautiful place, ma chère. There is a quiet and gentle spirit that roves here beside the stream.”

  “I know. Gabrielle and Miri often used to come here to play when they were younger.”

  Renard smiled at her quizzically. “Only Gabrielle and Miri? Never Ariane?”

  “I was too busy even then trying to learn all I could of my mother’s craft. But yes, I did come here sometimes with my father those rare times he could be coaxed away from Paris.”

  Ariane explained, “My father took pains to teach his daughters things most men would find extremely odd. Perhaps it was because he had no sons. He was actually the one who taught Miri to ride so well and he acquainted Gabrielle with the use of a sword.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, he gave me an accomplishment that was even more scandalous and unladylike. He taught me to swim.”

  “Scandalous indeed,” Renard said lightly.