“My magic is stronger than ever,” Ariane said, burrowing her face against his shoulder. “In fact, I feel as though I could go out and cure the ills of the entire world.”
Indeed, she could not remember a time when she had felt this content or at peace. Perhaps not since those golden days before her mother had been taken so ill.
As she nestled against Renard, she was aware of tension in him. She drew back, trying to peer into his eyes. Through all their lovemaking, he had never said that he loved her.
Yet she believed she could read the emotion in his eyes, a feeling for her that ran so deep, perhaps he himself was not fully aware of it. There was also the disturbing shadow of something else.
“What is it?” she asked. “What is wrong?” She smiled, trying to infuse a playful note into her voice. “I hope you are not the one feeling any regrets.”
“How could I be?” He pulled her close, brushing a kiss against the top of her head. “When I have done nothing but pursue you since the day we first met.”
“Because you were told I am your destiny?”
“Because you are the most remarkable woman I have ever known. Sometimes I even find you a little daunting.”
“Me?” Ariane laughed incredulously.
“Yes, you demand so much of a man with those quiet eyes of yours. Honor and strength, truth and courage.”
Ariane raised herself up on one elbow to peer lovingly down at him. “And is that so much to ask? You possess all those things.”
“I don’t think any man can be the kind of paragon you require. You are a woman of amazing strength and such powerful magic. You are like all the legends of this island—”
Ariane cut him off with a rueful shake of her head. “My mother may have been, but not me.” She toyed with the lacing of his shirt and mused. “They say that the Faire Isle was once the very center of the world, long ago when time first began. A perfect world where men and women lived in harmony—partners of equal strength working and loving side by side.”
“And is that what you have been looking for all these years? The return of that perfect world?”
“No, all I ever wanted was to be able to practice my healing arts and share my learning with the world in peace, without having to be afraid. To be respected, to be called a doctor, not a witch. A foolish ambition for a woman, I know.”
“No, it isn’t and I wish I could give you all that. But all I can offer you is my respect, Ariane. You have a remarkable gift for healing. If my mother had had someone like you by her side, perhaps she would have survived giving birth to me and I would have had a chance to know her.”
“But what about your wise old grandmother? Surely Lucy possessed skills that were the equal of mine.”
“Lucy was never that adept at healing. Her skills lay elsewhere. Perhaps if she had paid more heed to brewing medicine than conjuring visions—” For a moment Renard’s mouth tightened grimly. Then he shrugged, “Ah, very likely it would have made no difference. There was no way my poor mother could have survived the ordeal of giving birth to a great ox like me. No doubt the mere sight of me was enough to frighten her to death.”
Renard tried to jest, but Ariane caught a flash of something painful in his eyes, a guilt too long carried.
She stroked her fingers gently across his brow. “Renard, I have been present at the birth of many babies. Often one life does end as another begins. It is just the sad way of things. I do not think your mother would have wanted you to blame yourself for her death.”
“That is what Toussaint always said. He told me that Brianne, my mother, had difficulty even getting with child. When she realized she was dying, she begged Toussaint to tell me that one moment of holding me was worth a lifetime of empty arms.
“All nonsense of course,” Renard said gruffly. “Just another of Toussaint’s foolish yarns.”
“Your cousin is a plain-spoken man who does not exaggerate. I am sure your mother meant every word. The birth of a child is such a gift, a miracle to a woman—”
Ariane trailed off. Actually the prospect of a child was not something she had ever allowed herself to contemplate. Caring for her sisters, Belle Haven, the people of the island required all of her devotion and strength. She had even managed to convince herself that she did not mind so much, but she was suddenly consumed by a deep longing to cradle a child of her own, especially a little girl. With eyes the deep hue of the forest, just like Renard’s.
“That can easily be arranged,” Renard responded, as though she had spoken aloud. “It would be my greatest joy to see you bearing our child. And my greatest fear. When we are married, I will make sure you have as many daughters as you desire.”
“Renard!” Ariane cried, half laughing, half in protest.
“What? You did not just say you wanted a daughter?”
“I didn’t say anything at all.”
Renard pulled a rueful face when he realized what he had done. “I am sorry, ma chère. I have never been able to read anyone as I do you. It is those quiet eyes of yours. They are like windows to your soul. But I promise to stop peeking in.”
“It is all right.” Ariane sighed. “It is just that I have kept my own counsel for so long. You will have to allow me time to grow accustomed to sharing so much of myself with you.”
Despite his recent promise, Renard peered intently into her eyes. “Then you do intend to do so? Share your life with me? You will marry me, ma chère?”
Ariane only hesitated a moment longer before brushing her lips against his in a tender kiss.
“Yes, Justice. I will marry you.”
He pulled her down to him, his mouth moving gently, then more passionately over hers. She felt the desire begin to build between them again when suddenly she became aware of a distant voice calling through the trees.
Renard tensed at the same moment she did, thrusting her slightly away from him. The voice became more audible, along with the sound of boots trampling over twigs, drawing ever nearer to the camp in the clearing.
“My lord? Justice?”
“Toussaint.” Renard shoved to his feet, saying, “I will intercept my cousin, give you time to dress yourself. Toussaint must already suspect you are here or he would not be approaching with all the fanfare of a wild boar. But don’t worry. He is discreet.”
Ariane nodded, scrambling to dress herself. Her shift was still too damp, but she struggled into her gown, ignoring the way the wool scratched her skin. By the time she emerged from the tent, she found Renard engaged in earnest conversation with Toussaint, the old man busy tethering his horse beside Hercules.
Both men glanced round at Ariane’s approach and she could tell at once that something was very wrong. Any sense of embarrassment forgotten, she strode toward them, her heart giving an anxious thud.
“Renard, what is it? What’s happened?”
It was Toussaint who started to reply. “Ah, milady, your people have been looking for you everywhere—”
Renard cut him off, placing his hands on Ariane’s arms as though he would brace her for some dire tidings.
“Ariane, you need to get back to the house at once. It is Gabrielle. She has fallen very ill.”
“What? But I saw her only this morning before I left the house. She was completely well.”
“I know.” Renard exchanged an uneasy glance with Toussaint. “It scarcely seems possible but somehow Gabrielle has been poisoned.”
Chapter Twenty-one
As night fell, a heavy and stifling air enveloped Belle Haven, the magic of the afternoon Ariane had spent in Renard’s arms now only a memory. Her entire world felt reduced to the single candle that wavered by her sister’s bedside, a feeble glow to hold back the darkness that threatened to descend over all of them.
The terrible spasms that had wracked Gabrielle appeared to have lessened, but that observation gave Ariane little comfort. It was as though her sister’s body had simply grown too weak to continue fighting the poison that licked through her veins. G
abrielle was so pale, her once-glorious golden hair lank and damp with sweat, her skin clammy to the touch.
The girl shivered, scarcely possessing the strength to open her eyes. Ariane labored frantically over her, chafing Gabrielle’s wrists and arms, piling on more blankets in a vain effort to prevent any more warmth from fleeing her sister’s body.
Ariane tried to move with the efficiency she always displayed in a sickroom, but her hands trembled. She fought to conceal that fact and her sense of mounting despair, although there was no longer anyone there to see.
Miri had been so distraught, she had become close to hysterical. The sight of Gabrielle so ill had taken the poor child back to the night their mother had died. Ariane had been grateful when Renard had taken her little sister out of the room.
Only Necromancer remained, curled upon the foot of the bed. The cat regarded Ariane with sad eyes as though trying to tell her something or offer her some comfort. Or perhaps like everyone else at Belle Haven, he was simply waiting for a miracle Ariane was unable to perform.
She had already attempted purging Gabrielle and trying to sweat the poison out. She had even been desperate enough to attempt that ridiculous remedy that doctors on the mainland were so quick to use—bleeding. But nothing had helped.
Gabrielle was slipping away before her very eyes and never had Ariane felt so helpless. She had no magic to fight this evil. Perhaps she should have gone back to the workshop and made one final frantic effort to decipher the mystery of the gloves in hopes of finding an antidote. But Gabrielle had sobbed and pleaded with Ariane not to leave her and Ariane had yielded.
Besides, what good would it have done? Ariane reflected bitterly. If she had not managed to unlock the secret of Catherine’s cursed dark magic by now, she could hardly hope to prevail in the next few desperate hours.
Exactly how long did her sister have? Ariane sought to remember what Remy had said about Jeanne of Navarre.
“By the time we returned to the palace, my queen was seized by the most agonizing spasms, as though she’d swallowed an entire cup of hemlock. By the next morning, she was dead.”
The next morning . . . Ariane looked at her sister and her heart was filled with fear. No, it was unthinkable that by this time tomorrow Gabrielle could be— “No, Gabby,” Ariane whispered fiercely. “I can’t lose you this way. I won’t.”
Snatching up a linen cloth, she dipped it in the basin of water and gently bathed her sister’s fevered brow.
“Please . . . keep on fighting, Gabrielle. You can defeat this dark magic. I know you can. You are so strong.”
Truly Gabrielle was much stronger and younger than the queen of Navarre had been, Ariane reassured herself. And perhaps after all this time, the poison in the gloves was no longer as potent.
Ariane’s gaze strayed to the gloves discarded on the table, still looking so infuriatingly beautiful and harmless. The bitter thought entered her mind that it had finally been proved beyond all doubt. The gloves were poisoned. Pray God that proof did not send Gabrielle to her grave.
“Airy?”
The rasp of Gabrielle’s voice drew Ariane’s attention back to her sister. She stirred beneath Ariane’s ministrations. Her eyes already seemed far too glazed and aged with her suffering. Her voice was so faint that Ariane had to bend close to hear her.
“Am—am I dying?” she whispered.
“No! You are going to be fine,” Ariane insisted. Even weak as she was, Gabrielle was not easily deceived.
“It is the gloves, isn’t it? They are poisoned.” Gabrielle gave a weak laugh. “I suppose that is what I get for poking among your secrets.”
“Oh, no, this is all my doing,” Ariane cried. “I should have warned you, showed the gloves to you and Miri both.”
“Poor Airy. You have tried so hard to take care of us since Maman died. And all I have done is fight you, given you so much worry and trouble. I—I am so sor—”
Gabrielle’s voice faded, her eyes drifting closed. Ariane swallowed thickly. Gabrielle’s words of apology were the most painful reproof she had ever received. She sagged down by the bedside, clutching her sister’s hand, tears cascading down her cheeks.
“Oh, Gabrielle, I am the one who should be sorry,” she wept. Sorry for so many things, for not protecting her sister from Danton that long-ago June, for bringing such danger upon them all by challenging the Dark Queen, and, perhaps worst of all, for not being here today when Gabrielle had needed her.
She thought of her sister writhing in agony, dying, and the entire time she had been off in the woods, playing games in the water with Renard, making love to him. It was more than Ariane could bear. She buried her face in the coverlet, giving way to her guilt and grief, her shoulders shaking with muffled sobs.
When Renard returned to the bedchamber and found Ariane weeping over her sister, his heart tightened with the fear that he was too late. But as he rushed over to the bedside, he saw the rise and fall of Gabrielle’s chest, heard the rasp of her labored breathing.
“Ariane?” He placed his hands on her shoulders, drawing her away from her sister. “Ma chère, please don’t despair. You must compose yourself and help me. We have to get Gabrielle to drink this.”
Renard held up the small vial of wine-colored liquid that he had spent the last few hours in Ariane’s workshop hastening to distill. Ariane drew in a shuddering breath, struggling to regain command of her voice.
“What—what is that?”
“The antidote.”
She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, blinking hard to stem the flow of further tears. “Oh, dear God, Renard, I have studied those gloves and there is no remedy—”
Renard squeezed her shoulder. “I am familiar with how this kind of dark magic works. Chérie, you must trust me.”
Ariane was torn between doubt and hope. At last, she accepted the vial from him with trembling fingers. Renard moved round the bed to raise Gabrielle up in his arms. She stiffened, giving a low whimper at his touch.
Her lashes flickered and she peered up at him with feverish eyes. “M-monsieur le ogre.”
“Mademoiselle.” He tightened his hold, fearing she would struggle to get away from him.
“I—I am glad you—you have come before I die. I want to—to tell you I am sorry for insulting you—”
“Hush, ma petite,” Renard soothed her. “You will live to insult me for a great many more years. Now please, you must try to drink this.”
He nodded to Ariane to hurry. With one final uncertain look at him, she uncorked the vial and held it to Gabrielle’s lips. Between the two of them, they got the girl to swallow most of it down. Then Renard lowered her back to the pillows.
He wrapped his arm reassuringly around Ariane’s shoulders. “She will be all right, chérie. I promise you.”
Ariane leaned wearily against him, her eyes never leaving her sister’s face. The antidote did its work swiftly. Gabrielle’s breathing grew easier by the moment, the girl’s rigid frame relaxing into a deep healing sleep. A hint of color stole into her cheeks.
Ariane peered up at Renard with wide, wondering eyes. She bent over Gabrielle, feeling her sister’s brow, then her wrist.
“My God,” she said, as though she hardly dared to believe it. “She is warm. Her pulse is steady. It is a miracle.”
Ariane turned back to him, her eyes misting with fresh tears, but of joy this time. “Oh, J-justice. Th-thank—”
She hurled herself into his arms with a sob of gladness. Renard held her close, burying his lips in her hair. She was relieved and so grateful to him now, but at some point soon, when Ariane was calmer, she would wonder exactly how he had known about the antidote, why he was so well versed in such dark magic. She would begin to ask questions and Renard hoped she would not despise him for his answers.
It was nearly midnight by the time Ariane felt it was safe to rise from her chair at Gabrielle’s bedside. The house was still around her, the servants long since retired. Renard had gone to rea
ssure her anxious household that Gabrielle would recover, thus allowing Ariane to remain at her sister’s bedside.
She could not begin to measure her gratitude to the man. In fact, she did not know what she would do without Renard. She was coming to depend upon him so much, it was almost frightening.
Ariane had not been able to keep Miri away any longer and the child had curled up beside Gabrielle on the bed, the two of them now fast asleep. Their arms draped protectively around each other, they looked so young and fragile.
“I will never fail either one of you again,” Ariane vowed silently. Drawing the curtains closed, she turned away from the bed.
She returned to her own chamber, where she found candles lit and a late supper of bread, cheese, and wine laid out for her on the table. But a far more welcome sight was the powerful shape of the man silhouetted against her window.
“Justice?” she called softly.
Renard stepped out of the shadows. He scrutinized her face, but said nothing, merely held his arms open wide, as though he understood what she needed more than she did herself.
Ariane stumbled across the room and fell into his embrace. Renard’s arms closed around her, warm, strong, and welcoming. With a choked cry, she buried her face against his shoulder. All the fear and tension of these past hours finally overwhelmed her, her limbs shaking so badly, only the strength of Renard’s arms held her upright. He swept her off her feet and carried her over to the table, easing her down onto a chair.
Renard poured her a glass of wine, but her hands trembled too hard for her to raise it to her lips. He held the cup for her, urging her to drink. It was one of the potent vintages brewed by the sisters of St. Anne. As Ariane swallowed, she felt the wine’s warmth rush through her, reviving her a little.
“Th-thank you.” She smiled shyly at Renard. “I am so glad you are still here. I was afraid you might have already gone back to your camp.”
“I only waited to make certain that all was well with you before I left.”
All was very well with her now, Ariane thought as he leaned forward to brush his mouth against hers. Or at least it should have been. His kiss was warm, tender, but over far too quickly. To her surprise, he straightened immediately to his feet.
The Dark Queen Page 39
