“You have had an exhausting day, milady.” He touched her cheek lightly. “Take a little supper and get some rest. And I should return to my tent.”
“Well, yes, but—” Ariane gazed up at him wistfully. Of course she should retire and so should he, but she felt loath to part with him. Her gaze strayed toward her bed and she blushed. She felt guilty for even thinking of her desires at a time like this.
Still she clung to Renard’s hand. “I wish you would stay to at least take a cup of wine with me and talk. I have not even had a chance to properly thank you for what you did for Gabrielle.”
“There is no need.” He deposited a swift kiss on her fingertips. The gesture was a little brusque, as though Renard was anxious to be gone.
Ariane pressed his hand gratefully and then released him. “So once more you came to our rescue. After this I am sure even Gabrielle must call you our gallant ogre.”
“She won’t be calling me anything more tonight. That medicine I gave her will keep her in a deep sleep until morning, which is exactly what she needs in order to fully heal after such a shock to her system.” Although he smiled, Ariane detected a constraint in his manner that made her a trifle unsettled.
“You appeared to understand Gabrielle’s condition very well. Where did you learn so much about this kind of poison?” Ariane thought her question natural enough, but she noticed a slight stiffening of Renard’s shoulders.
“I don’t really recall.”
“Don’t recall?” Ariane echoed in astonishment. “You are an expert on poisons and you don’t remember where you learned?”
“It was just something I picked up on my travels.”
“In Italy?”
“I was able to help your sister. Does it really matter where I learned?”
It might not have if Renard had not been acting so strangely. He was behaving like—like—the way he had when she’d first met him, hooding his eyes, guarding his thoughts. But no, surely she was just imagining things. If anyone was at fault here, it was she, cross-examining him when the man was clearly drained.
Ariane rose to her feet and rested her hand on his arm. “I am sorry, Justice. I was just curious, that is all. I could do nothing to save Gabrielle while you were able to do it so easily.”
“That is because you have always avoided the study of black magic.”
“And you did not?” she asked uneasily. “But from whom could you have possibly learned such things?”
Renard strode away from her to stare out the window into the dark, moonless night. Ariane sensed some great struggle taking place within him and it increased her own anxiety tenfold. At last he turned back to face her.
“From Lucy.”
“Lucy? Your kindly old grandmother? You said she was a wise woman, a peasant from the mountains, and not particularly skilled in healing.”
“She wasn’t. Lucy was a little remiss in distilling medicines, but mon Dieu, the old lady certainly knew her poisons,” Renard said with a bitter smile. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she knew more of the old ways of dark magic than Queen Catherine herself.”
Ariane struggled to comprehend what he was telling her. She moistened her lips and faltered, “There was only one daughter of the earth who ever knew as much black magic as Catherine and that—that was—”
Renard raised his lashes, allowing Ariane full access to his eyes and what she read there staggered her, made her feel as though she had just pitched headfirst down a cold dark well.
“Melusine? You are telling me your grandmother was Melusine?”
When Renard nodded reluctantly, Ariane blinked, too shocked to credit his words. “You are Melusine’s grandson? No, that—that’s impossible. The woman was so evil, even I would not have hesitated to call her a witch.”
“Would you? I usually just called her grand-mère.”
Ariane waited for him to laugh, preparing to scold him for making such a dreadful jest. Although he smiled, it was the most grim expression she had ever seen, the light never reaching his eyes.
Ariane sank weakly back down onto her chair. It was sev-eral moments before she could even find her voice. “My God, Renard. If you had any idea of the stories I have heard about Melusine—”
“I can imagine.”
“And will you tell me that they are not true?” she asked desperately.
“I wish I could.” Renard shrugged stiffly. “Most of them probably are true, but I am not sure. Even I could never separate my grandmother from her legend. By the time I was born, Lucy had put aside much of the folly of her youth.”
“Folly?” Ariane choked. “Melusine blazed a path of havoc and destruction throughout most of Brittany.”
His lips thinned. “I am aware of that, but try to understand. You have experienced some of the difficulty and danger of being a wise woman yourself, and you are well born, the daughter of an honored knight.
“Imagine a girl as strong and intelligent as yourself born amidst poverty and ignorance. Lucy’s own mother was a simple village midwife. When she was ten, Lucy saw her mother brought up on charges by the lord of the manor because one of the babes she delivered had the misfortune to be born deformed. She would likely have been burned at the stake, but she died from being tortured into a confession of witchcraft first.”
Renard stalked over to the table and poured himself a cup of wine. Perhaps he needed fortifying with the potent vintage to be able to talk about his grandmother. Or perhaps he was merely buying a little time, to decide how much he needed to tell her. The suspicion cut Ariane deeply, the more so because she had believed they were finally past all that, Renard’s evasiveness, his half-truths.
He took a long draught from his cup before he continued, “After seeing what happened to her mother, Lucy never troubled about learning any more of the healing arts. She devoted herself to dark magic. And let me tell you, if she hadn’t, Lucy would have been dead a long time ago, when the witch-hunting tribunals were at their worst throughout France, hundreds of innocent women tortured and slaughtered.
“Lucy made up her mind she would never be caught so tamely. She rallied other women to fight back, their men as well determined to protect their wives and daughters. Simple peasant farmers who had already endured too much injustice in their lives. Overtaxed, overworked, often on the brink of starvation.”
“I know,” Ariane said in a small voice. “My Great-aunt Eugenie often talked of those days. It was a noble cause at first that swiftly degenerated into a rampaging horde bent on plunder and destruction. And Melusine . . . your grandmother used her dark skills to poison wells, to inflict diseases on livestock, to blight crops, to taint fields so badly that nothing ever grew there again.”
“Lucy was fighting a losing battle against powerful forces, including the king and the church,” Renard defended. “What else could she do but use what weapons she had?”
“I don’t know, but in the end your grandmother’s rebellion did more harm than good. It is a great sin for any daughter of the earth to ever seek to poison the land. It—it is like attacking your own mother.
“And my own mother always taught me that wise women were meant to be a force of light in what is often a dark world. To use our knowledge of the old ways for healing, never to bring harm.”
“Well, pardon me if my grandmother was not the saint your mother was. Maybe if their situations had been reversed and Evangeline Cheney had been born in a peasant’s hut—”
Renard checked himself. “Ariane, I am not condoning the things Lucy did. Only trying to make you understand she wasn’t entirely a monster. And God help her, she eventually did pay a terrible price for her sins. But that’s all ancient history. Far better you just forget about it.”
There was a note of finality in his voice, as though he considered the subject closed. Bending down, he spanned his hands around Ariane’s waist, drawing her up from the chair and into his arms.
Ariane stiffened. Her initial shock gave way to searing hurt, a feeling of betrayal.
When he tried to kiss her, she ducked her head so that the warmth of his lips merely grazed her temple.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” she asked. “You never told me—not even this afternoon.”
“What would you have had me do, Ariane? When I had you in my arms, whisper tenderly in your ear? Oh, by the way, my grandmother was a wicked old witch.”
When Ariane looked up reproachfully, he hastened to add, “All right. Of course I should have said something. But I hate discussing Lucy. I could have willingly gone the rest of my life without ever telling you any of this.”
Or at least until their wedding night, Ariane thought, a cold weight settling in the pit of her stomach. When he finally had her safe and secure, unable to escape him. But no, it couldn’t be. Not after all they had shared this afternoon. Renard had never said so, but he loved her . . . didn’t he? His reason for courting her couldn’t possibly have anything to do with his terrible old grandmother.
Renard crushed her closer to him, his mouth descending upon hers in a kiss that was fueled as much by desperation as it was heat and desire. Ariane felt her heart thunder in response, but she could not allow him to beguile her into asking no more questions.
She struggled to break away. Renard’s face clouded with such longing and frustration, she feared he might restrain her. He reluctantly let her go, his fingers sliding down her arms.
“Ah, chérie, don’t look at me as though I had suddenly become a stranger to you.”
Ariane could not help herself. All the doubts she had ever had about Renard came rushing back. She inched farther away until all he retained possession of were her fingers.
“Please, Ariane. Whoever Lucy was, the kind of magic she practiced . . . it has nothing to do with you and me.”
“Doesn’t it?” she asked. “You once told me your grandmother conjured visions in the fire. That she claimed that one day you would find me—that I was your destiny.”
“One of Lucy’s better predictions.” He pressed a kiss to her fingertips.
Ariane tugged free, putting more distance between them. “You also said your grandmother’s predictions tended to be self-serving, things that she wanted to happen. But why would she particularly want me to be your bride?”
“How the devil should I know what went on in Lucy’s head?”
But he did know. Ariane was sure of it.
“Do you realize that Melusine once even threatened the people of this island?”
“Did she?” Renard frowned.
“Yes. She had heard that the Lady of Faire Isle possessed a secret store of ancient texts that might contain secrets powerful enough to help her defeat her enemies. When my Great-aunt Eugenie refused to allow the knowledge of Faire Isle to be used for any destructive purposes, Melusine threatened to attack Belle Haven, take the books by force.”
Renard looked uncomfortable. “I am sure that was only Lucy blustering. She respected the Lady of Faire Isle too much to do any such thing. Especially when those books wouldn’t have done her any good. Lucy couldn’t even read present-day French, let alone decipher some ancient language.”
Ariane raised her troubled gaze to his face. “And what about you, my lord? I know that you have traveled widely, studied much. Did you ever learn any ancient languages?”
His expression immediately grew more guarded, more wary. “I might have. What of it?”
Ariane drew a deep breath. “I know you must have been in my private workshop. That is the only place you could have brewed the antidote for my sister.”
Renard’s jaw jutted to a belligerent angle. “Gabrielle was dying. I didn’t exactly have time to seek your permission.”
“I realize that. But the room is well hidden. How did you even know it existed?”
Renard gave a mirthless laugh. “That workshop of yours is not exactly the best-kept secret around here.”
No, it wouldn’t be. Not for a man who could read eyes as skillfully as Renard. What else, what darker arts had Melusine taught her grandson?
“What do you think I was after? Your precious books?”
But beneath Renard’s display of indignation Ariane detected a flicker of guilt that made her sick at heart. Especially as another realization struck her with painful clarity.
“Today was not the first time you were in my workshop,” she said. “The other night I dreamed that you came and carried me up to bed. But it wasn’t a dream, was it?”
He shrugged, “No. I came down there looking for you, found you asleep, and took you upstairs.”
“And that was all that you did?”
“Yes!” he snapped. He stalked over to the table, started to uncork the bottle only to slam it back down. “Very well, I admit I was tempted to go prowling through your books. Ever since I was a small boy, I had been hearing Lucy’s stories about the Lady of Faire Isle, her treasure trove of hidden knowledge. And suddenly there it all was, spread out before me. Ancient books lost behind cobwebs, neglected parchments looking ready to crumble to dust. I doubt you are even aware of all the powerful secrets you have collected down there.”
“No, and I don’t want to be. I have been far too tempted by the lure of dark magic myself sometimes.” Ariane flinched, remembering the forbidden arts she had used to conjure her mother’s spirit. “There are some of the old ways better forgotten.”
“Sometimes dark magic can have its uses,” Renard insisted. “If Lucy hadn’t taught me all she knew of poisons, your sister would be dead by now.”
“Your antidote would never have been needed if I had been at home, looking after Gabrielle as I should have been. Instead I was—was—”
Renard’s countenance darkened. “Was what, Ariane? Wasting your afternoon making love to me when you had far more important duties awaiting you?”
Ariane would not have put it quite so acidly, but in essence Renard was correct. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I wondered how long it would take before you got around to castigating yourself for that,” he said bitterly. He bore down upon her, seizing her roughly by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Ariane Cheney and you listen well. You are not to blame for what happened to Gabrielle. It was not your fault.”
Although she winced at his bruising grip, she said stubbornly, “I should have been here. I behaved like—like—”
“Like a woman for once with human needs and desires and not like a saint. Not like some god-cursed marble statue erected in the middle of the town square.”
Renard’s harsh words stung like the lash of a whip. Ariane’s cheeks heated, but she arched her neck proudly. “I am the Lady of Faire Isle. I have never been able to make you understand what that means. I have a duty to my sisters and to everyone on this island. To serve and protect.”
“And especially from the grandson of Melusine, eh?”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to. Your eyes speak quite clearly.” He released her so abruptly, she stumbled back a pace.
Rubbing her bruised shoulders, she said, “I am fully aware of how you have come to our rescue time and again. And I am grateful to you for that, my lord.”
Renard let fly such a furious oath, Ariane shrank farther away from him.
“I don’t want your damned gratitude,” he growled.
“Then exactly what do you want from me?” Ariane cried. “You read my eyes so well, it feels like you pierce my very heart. But I am not sure if I have ever come close to touching yours. So once again we come back to the question you have never answered. Why do you want to marry me, Renard?”
He shot her a fulminating glance. “If you don’t know the answer to that by now, you are never going to.”
“So now, you will pretend you have fallen in love with me?”
“No. I told you once before. I would never pretend anything like that.”
His answer shattered what little hope she had left. But Ariane refused to let him see that. “I am glad you are at least that honest, because it would do yo
u no good. I am not a romantic young fool.”
“That is exactly what you are, ma chère,” he replied sardonically. “You want a man who will be perfect with no weaknesses, no flaws. A man who never makes mistakes.”
“No, all I ever wanted was a man who would be honest and open with me. A man I could trust.”
“And apparently you have decided I am not that man.” Renard’s fierce green eyes probed hers, but Ariane turned away from him, no longer having the energy to continue this quarrel.
She pressed her hands to her temples, which had begun to throb painfully. “I think it would be better if you left now.”
She heard the heavy tread of his boot as he stepped toward her and she tensed. Renard stopped abruptly. He refrained from touching her, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Perhaps you are right,” he conceded. “We will both behave more sensibly in the morning. I will return to my camp and—”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “I—I want you to go home, my lord. Return to your château.”
She risked a glance up at him and saw the ominous drawing together of his brows, the hard set of a jaw. She braced herself for a fierce argument.
But the fight suddenly seemed to melt out of Renard as well. “Very well,” he said in brusque accents. “If that is what you want. I will leave Toussaint and my men behind to maintain guard. And if you need me, you know how to reach me. You still have my ring.”
Ariane gave an involuntary shudder. She shook her head vigorously. “Do you think I will ever bring myself to touch that ring again? Now that I know it was Melusine who forged it.”
At the door, Renard paused to glance back at her. There was more sorrowful resignation on his face than anger. “There was never anything evil in that ring, chérie. Only in the way I tried to used it.”
Then he sketched her a stiff bow and was gone.
The candles flickered, the wax melting over the silver holders as the tapers guttered low in their sockets. Heedless of darkness about to press in on him, Renard sprawled in his chair, the banquet table in the great hall spread out before him in its solitary splendor.
The Dark Queen Page 40
