The Dark Queen

by Susan Carroll

“I suppose it was because I was always trailing after my mother into the stream to gather up moss for our healing potions. Papa was afraid I might slip and drown if I did not learn to swim properly.”

  It was a memory of her father she had all but forgotten. Her gaze traveled toward the brook and she was surprised to feel a tug on her heart.

  “Your father has been gone on his voyage a long time,” Renard said quietly. “You must miss him a great deal.”

  “Yes, I—” Ariane began, then checked herself, astonished by what she had nearly admitted. She had been far too angry with her father to ever allow herself to miss him before.

  She wandered to the edge of the bank, the stream meandering past in a lazy curve. The waters seemed to sparkle with the image of a handsome golden-haired man with a ready smile, whose eyes crinkled when he laughed, and he had tended to laugh a great deal.

  His strong hands supported a little girl with a mass of brown hair, her thin body beneath her linen shift already too lanky with legs and arms she did not quite know how to manage. As he eased her into a floating position, she held herself rigid, her eyes dark with fear.

  “Don’t be afraid, Ariane,” her father’s voice echoed in her ear. “You are like your maman, a most capable lady. You can learn to do this. Just relax and close your eyes. Trust me. I won’t let you sink.”

  And so she had done so. Closed her eyes and trusted him because he was her father, tall, bold, and quite magnificent, never afraid of anything. Except for watching her mother die.

  Ariane’s eyes blurred with unexpected tears. She became aware that Renard was standing close beside her. She felt the warm touch of his hand against her cheek.

  “I am sorry, ma chère. I did not mean to make you sad.”

  Embarrassed, Ariane swiped at her eyes. “I just realized that I do miss my father and I don’t expect to ever see him again.”

  “And yet I have known many men presumed lost, gone far longer than your father, only to return safely one day.”

  Ariane composed herself with a tiny sniff. Forcing a smile, she turned away from the stream. “Well, I should be getting back to the house. If—if you would like to return with me—”

  She left the thought unfinished, expecting somehow that Renard would eagerly accept her offer. She was therefore surprised when he declined with a thoughtful shake of his head.

  “No, for the time being, I think it best I remain just where I am. Your sister Gabrielle is already annoyed enough.”

  “Oh, you need not worry about Gabrielle. I will not permit her to plague you.”

  “I am more worried about her plaguing you, ma chère. You have more than enough to distress you, and I would do nothing to add to your tension.” He chucked her lightly under the chin and smiled. “Besides, all this talk of swimming makes me quite long for a dip myself.”

  He stepped away to the edge of the bank and began tugging his sweat-dampened shirt off over his head.

  And the man claimed he didn’t want to add to her tension, she thought in dismay, her eyes taking in the broad expanse of his shoulders tapering down to a hard flat stomach and narrow waist. His powerful chest glistened with perspiration and a dusting of fine golden hair.

  It wasn’t as though she had never seen a half-naked man before or even one completely nude. She had often had to set maidenly modesty aside when treating the sick or wounded and had done so in the most matter-of-fact manner.

  But there was nothing sickly about Renard. Smooth skin stretched over the taut muscle of a physique that radiated masculine vitality.

  Ariane found herself moistening her lips. Of course, there was not the least reason in the world that she needed to stand there, ogling him. But she could not seem to wrench her eyes away, even when Renard became aware of her stare.

  He dropped his hands to his waistband and for one horrified and fascinated moment, she thought he meant to shuck off his breeches as well. But he gave her a mischievous smile.

  “Don’t worry, ma chère. I may have all the modesty of the crudest peasant, but I will spare yours. Especially if you consent to join me.”

  “W-what?” she breathed.

  He held one hand out to her, the gesture part command, part invitation. “Join me. Come for a swim.”

  She hastily backed away. “Oh, no, I haven’t swum in that brook since I was a girl of Miri’s age.”

  “It is not a skill that you forget. It will all come back to you.”

  “No, I could not possibly.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “It is the very devil of a day and you look so hot and tired.”

  He caressed her face, skating the pad of his thumb over the hollows beneath her eyes. “You always look so tired, ma chère.”

  Ariane trembled, wondering how a touch that was so gentle could be so rife with temptation and . . . and seduction. She sighed, stepping away, firmly shaking her head.

  “No, milord. I can’t. I have a great deal to do and the day has already half gotten away from me.”

  “Then let the rest of it go as well,” he coaxed. “I am sure all your endless tasks will still be there tomorrow.”

  “But I am hoping there might be a message from Marie Claire. It has been awhile since we have had a report from Louise about the Dark Queen—”

  “If there is such a message, it can wait. Neither this island nor the world will come to disaster if the Lady of Faire Isle plays truant for a bit.”

  Renard regarded her through narrowed eyes, then nodded his head sagely. “Ah, I see what the problem really is.”

  “What?”

  “You exaggerated your ability to swim and now you are ashamed to admit it. Do not distress yourself, chérie. It was a most strange thing for your father to have attempted to teach a daughter. No one could have expected you to have learned as well as a boy.”

  “I will have you know that I mastered the skill quite well.”

  “Of course you did,” Renard said in a soothing tone that raised her hackles. “And in any case, I will be there. I won’t let you drown.”

  “You? You—you great oaf,” Ariane cried. “I could swim rings around you.”

  “Then prove it.”

  Renard was deliberately goading her, his eyes twinkling with all the wickedness of a boy daring her to mischief. The sort of mischief she had always resisted, even as a very tiny girl. She had ever been the solemn and serious one, aware of her responsibilities, first as the eldest daughter of the house and then as Lady of Faire Isle. Never once had she strayed from the virtuous path of duty to pursue the mildest sort of pleasure or adventure. Suddenly it struck her that there was something rather sad about that.

  Renard closed the distance between them, his large hands spanning her waist. “Of course, I could just simply toss you in.”

  “No!” Ariane tensed in alarm, but Renard’s hands immediately gentled.

  “I was only teasing you, chérie. I would never do a thing like that. I have no desire to force you into something you truly do not want.”

  His gaze locked with hers and Ariane realized he was referring to far more than swimming. Did Renard really mean that? He’d been so determined to have her for his wife at all costs. He released her with a regretful smile.

  “Ah, well, it seems a great pity to waste such a summer’s day. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  He stepped to the edge of the bank and leaped into the brook with a mighty splash. The water sprayed all the way back to Ariane, showering her like a light rain.

  One drop trickled down her face and she tasted it, pure and cool on her tongue. Her gown felt more sticky than ever and she tugged on the neckline as she watched Renard surface midstream.

  He came up out of the water, shaking back his wet hair like a giant mastiff. Then he launched himself on his back, stroking through the water with an easy abandon that Ariane found herself envying, perhaps because she had never known anything like it.

  She hesitated but a moment longer. Before she could pau
se to question the rashness of her actions, she sank down upon a stump and began to tug off her shoes. Stripping down to her shift, she poised on the bank of the stream, self-consciously wrapping her arms across her bosom.

  She dipped one toe in the water and recoiled immediately. Lord, she had forgotten how cold the brook could be, even in the heat of summer. She must be quite mad to have ever allowed Renard to goad her into this. She was suddenly very much aware of the hushed seclusion of the glade, of the man waiting for her in the stream below.

  Renard was a glistening Goliath, water streaming from his wet hair, trickles cascading down the hard muscles of his chest and arms, filling her head with all those fantasies of him she’d been having in her lonely bed, the urge to use his ring to call him to her side. It was no longer night and she wasn’t wearing the ring. But the temptation was still there.

  Renard smiled up at her. “Come, chérie. It is better not to think so much. Take the plunge and just get it over with.”

  His eyes were warm and open and he held out his arms to her, a reassuring smile on his lips.

  “Find the man who is your equal in strength, Ariane.” Her mother’s voice echoed. “Let your heart decide.”

  Hesitating only a moment, Ariane drew in a deep breath and jumped down into Renard’s strong arms.

  Gabrielle sat in the shade of the oak tree that overlooked the garden, too absorbed in her work to pay much heed to the heat of the day. She balanced the makeshift desk on her knee to steady the sheet of parchment as she sketched, wielding the stick of charcoal with deft strokes.

  Beneath her hands, a face slowly began to emerge, strong, lean, the jaw shadowed with a beard, close-cropped hair framing a high forehead. A straight nose, a solemn mouth. All good.

  But it was the eyes that were the problem. Try as hard as she might, she could not seem to capture their expression, dark with sorrow, ancient with care, too gentle for the face of a warrior.

  Gabrielle erased, shadowed, erased again, but it did no good. The eyes remained flat. They had no soul and without that the rest of the sketch was wooden and lifeless, mere marks on a piece of paper.

  Her own eyes burning with tears of angry frustration, Gabrielle scribbled violently over her efforts, then rent the parchment to bits. She cast them to the ground, flinging the charcoal down as well. The little desk followed, landing with a loud thud in Ariane’s herb gardens.

  Gabrielle buried her face in her hands, completely disgusted with herself for even trying to sketch again. Her magic was no longer in her fingers. It was in her face and she had best remember that. Why waste her time even trying to recapture her old abilities and with, of all subjects, Captain Nicolas Remy?

  Perhaps because she could not get the man out of her head, with his wistful smile and the sad longing she could not seem to capture in his eyes. Maybe if she had been able to confine his memory to a piece of paper, she could finally dismiss him from her mind and all her guilt and regret as well.

  It was not as though she had asked Remy to fall in love with her. He would get over it fast enough . . . if he lived long enough.

  He’d been gone nearly a week. One would have thought he could have managed to send some word to assure them all he was safe. Not that she intended to lose any sleep over it, or at least not any more than she had.

  She wouldn’t be worrying over Remy at all except for the fact that she was so—so bored and hot and miserable. No doubt she had sunburned her nose and would end up with freckles and a nasty headache as well.

  She needed Ariane. Gabrielle flounced into the house in search of her older sister and was irritated when she could not find her. Bette ventured the opinion that the mistress was perhaps off in the woods gathering plants for her potions.

  Wasn’t that just like Ariane to be out picking weeds when her own family needed her? Gabrielle sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, realizing she was being cross and unreasonable.

  She was grateful her sister was not off somewhere in the company of Renard. Ariane had finally gotten rid of the damned ring. Not tossed to the bottom of the channel as Gabrielle would have liked, but at least locked away in her chest where Ariane would not be so tempted to use it.

  But Gabrielle feared it was already too late. There was a softness in Ariane’s eyes now whenever she spoke of the comte. Very likely her sister was going to end up marrying the man. If she did, the ogre had best treat Ariane with all the honor and respect she deserved. Or else he would have her to answer to, Gabrielle thought fiercely.

  As for herself, Gabrielle was more determined than ever to pursue a different course. These recent attacks of the witch-hunters had left her convinced that one of the Cheney women had better end up extremely powerful. So powerful a miscreant like Le Vis would never dare lift a finger against any of them.

  Ariane had always been destined to become a wife and mother. Miri . . . Miri would likely end up becoming one of those strange old women who lived contentedly in a cottage with a dozen cats and other sundry creatures. The fate of their family rested in Gabrielle’s hands. She needed to begin laying her plans in earnest, but first she needed to rid herself of this dreadful headache. She headed down for the dungeons to seek out the powders to brew herself a tisane.

  But she had never been good at the healing arts and to her frustration, she discovered that Ariane had been rearranging things. Organizing, Ariane called it. Her sister never seemed to understand that the best way to find things was to dump them down in the nearest spot and then just remember where you left them.

  Her headache growing worse, Gabrielle ended up perspiring and dusty as well as she poked around. She finally reached the topmost shelf, thick with cobwebs.

  Moving the footstool, she climbed up and grimaced, poking around through the dust-covered bottles. She found nothing that looked like it could be of use . . . except perhaps a small wooden box. Gabrielle remembered that Ariane had claimed the box held something she had used to cure Remy, but if that was the case why had Ariane been so secretive about it?

  There was still some mystery that eluded Gabrielle about the captain. It piqued her the way both Ariane and Remy had treated her like a child needing protection. Gabrielle carried the box down to the table, feeling almost like Pandora. An unfortunate thought. That myth had turned out rather badly. Dismissing the notion, she opened the box and found a small pouch inside. Gabrielle tugged on the drawstrings and shook out the contents with a shiver of expectation.

  She was disappointed. The pouch contained nothing but a pair of women’s white gloves. Disappointed, she was going to stuff the gloves back into the box when she felt the fineness of the silk cloth. Smoothing them out, she realized that they were of an exquisite workmanship, scented with a delicate perfume.

  They had become a little soiled, one fingertip frayed as though someone had scraped at it. But it was nothing that could not be mended. Why should such a treasure be left here, going to waste in some dark corner of the dungeon?

  She should not just confiscate them without Ariane’s permission, but it would do no harm to try them on. Her headache forgotten, Gabrielle eased the silk gloves on her hands, with a tiny sigh of satisfaction. They were a perfect fit . . .

  Morning slipped away into afternoon as Ariane raced Renard across the stream. She cut through the water with swift strokes, all that her father had taught her coming back to her, arms and legs falling into a smooth rhythm. Renard had long arms and a mighty reach, but she had speed and agility on her side.

  As she streaked ahead of him, she suddenly remembered why she had once so loved to swim. This wonderful feeling of being so light and weightless, completely relaxed and free of care, sensations that she experienced so rarely. Taller than her dainty sisters, she had never felt quite as graceful as Gabrielle or Miri. But here in the water, she was lithe and sure of herself. Giving the task her full concentration, she shot across the stream like an arrow released from a bow, easily beating Renard to the other side.

  She could stand here, the
water hitting her waist-high. She panted, her heart hammering hard, her muscles burning. It was a good kind of ache, far different from her usual sense of exhaustion. Renard fetched up beside her seconds later.

  “What took you so long?” Ariane teased.

  Renard laughed. “I didn’t realize I was chasing some manner of sea-witch.

  “But I do appear to have captured you at last,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye.

  “It can be dangerous to catch a witch. I might decide to turn you into a beast.”

  “According to your sister, that is what I already am.” Renard grinned and braced his arms on either side of Ariane, cornering her against the bank.

  They had been doing this ever since she had hit the water, splashing, ducking, chasing each other. Like a pair of unruly children, except that she had never played with such carefree abandon even as a child. And the hard masculine body that had her corralled against the bank was not that of a boy. There was little more than mere water between her and Renard, her cotton shift, wet and clinging, clearly outlining the curve of her breasts, Renard’s breeches riding low on his lean hips.

  He reached out to pluck a stray leaf from her hair, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of tenderness and pride in her. “Never again shall I presume to challenge your abilities. You are full of surprises, my lady of Faire Isle.”

  Something about the caressing way he called her my lady curled itself around Ariane’s heart. She sought to steady her breath, but was finding it difficult to do so.

  “This reminds me of the day we first met,” he said. “You were wading, gathering up your jars full of slime. Do you remember?”

  “How could I forget?” she retorted. “You were so hopelessly lost and on your own land too.”

  “And you found me and led me home just as Lucy always said you would.” Renard’s expression grew pensive. “It is a strange thing, chérie. But that is how I feel when I am with you . . . as though after so many years of wandering, I am home. I haven’t felt that way since the days that I lived in my cottage in the mountains.”