After the long journey to Paris, the tragic aftermath of St. Bartholomew’s Eve, Ariane had thought she would never want to leave Faire Isle again. The ivy-covered walls of the manor tucked in the hollow of the island, her herb garden, her orchard, the mystical forest that whispered of fairies and unicorns . . . these places were just as sweet and dear to her as they had ever been.
Yet something had changed in her. It was as though she had become more attuned to the call of the world beyond Faire Isle. She had long neglected her father’s lands on the mainland, shoving all the responsibilities onto the steward, perhaps out of anger at her father or a sense of hopelessness over dealing with his debts. But even if the property did end up passing to her father’s cousin, Ariane meant to do her best by the estate. She had purged any remaining bitterness toward her father, allowing only the good memories to dwell in her heart.
Ariane was also determined that what she had said to the Dark Queen should prove no idle threat. She meant to reach out to other daughters of the earth across France and even farther afield, to reestablish the council that had once watched over the affairs of wise women and prevented the misuse of the ancient ways.
But as important as these tasks were, there was another, far more compelling reason luring Ariane off her island. And that was the towering figure of the man she glimpsed in the glade ahead of her.
Ariane carefully parted the branches to peer into the clearing, taking great care to make as little noise as possible. But she realized that Renard was far too intent upon his labor to be aware of much else.
Stripped down to his shirt and breeches, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Renard drove the shovel deep into the forest floor. The muscles in his forearms were taut with strain as he shifted mounds of soil, digging the grave deep.
A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his rugged countenance, damp tendrils of golden-brown hair falling across his eyes. His mouth was compressed in a hard purposeful line as he sought to make his final peace with the memory of his grandmother.
Ariane knew how difficult this was for him. She’d come to better understand the turmoil of Renard’s emotions regarding the woman who raised him, love, anger, guilt, and grief.
Ariane longed to go to him, offer the comfort of her presence, but this was something Renard needed to do alone, a rite so private and solemn, even old Toussaint had not accompanied him. As she saw Renard pause in his labors to dash his arm across his eyes, it was all that Ariane could do not to rush to him.
But if recent events had taught her nothing else, it was that she could not shoulder the grief or absorb the wounds of those she loved, no matter how much she might wish to do so. Her heart aching with love for him, Ariane stole one last glance at Renard before letting the branch fall back in place and stealing silently away.
Renard used the back of the shovel to tamp the last of the soil back into place. The disturbed earth looked like a wound in the forest floor, but he knew that it would not be long before the moss, the wildflowers, the vines crept back to conceal all traces of Lucy’s grave.
No one would ever know that the bones of the dreaded Melusine were buried deep beneath this spot and his grandmother would have wanted it that way. Renard drove the tip of the shovel into the ground and rested his tired arms upon the handle. How much of his grandmother’s legend was true? How much evil had she truly wrought in her youth?
Those were things he’d never know and Renard had reconciled himself to that. He would never be able to think of Lucy as Melusine. He’d only remember her as the tiny old lady who’d scolded and fussed over her huge hulk of a grandson. Whose gnarled hands had brushed back his hair when he’d come in wearied from a day’s work. The wise woman who’d taught him to read eyes so well and just enough of the old dark ways to protect himself from his enemies. Who had spun her visions by the fireside, dreaming dreams for him she’d long ago surrendered for herself. Who despite all her mistakes, had loved him, not always rightly or wisely, but with all the fierce passion of her heart.
Renard was uncertain what awaited in the afterlife for a woman who been burned as a witch, but he liked to believe that God was more merciful than man, and that wherever Lucy was, she forgave Renard for the pain he had caused her. Just as he had forgiven her.
“Rest in peace, Grand-mère,” he murmured.
Shouldering his shovel, he headed back through the forest toward his castle, the leaves rustling a pleasant music to his ears. But beyond the sound of the woods, he caught the whisper of something else.
A voice calling his name, sweet, low, and urgent.
“Justice, I need you. Come to me.”
Renard stopped dead in his tracks, the shovel falling from his hand. He hitched in his breath, fighting to contain his alarm. He pressed his ring over the region of his heart, his reply sharpened by his fear.
“What is it, Ariane? Are you in danger? What is wrong?”
A brief pause and then the answer. “No danger . . . but I require your presence at once.”
Renard’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, but he replied, “I will saddle up and ride for Faire Isle immediately.”
“But I am not on Faire Isle.”
“Then where are you?”
“You must come and find me. Look for me at the place where destiny began.”
Renard scowled. The place where destiny began? What the devil—Then his brow cleared as comprehension dawned upon him. Not pausing to send further reply, he whirled about and plunged back through the trees.
His heartbeat quickened as he thrust branches out of his path, scarcely able to believe that Ariane could be so near at hand. He’d remembered what he’d told her the night of their return from Paris.
“This ring is yours, ma chère, even if you decide you can never marry me. I give it to you freely, unconditionally. But if you ever do want me . . . you know what to do.”
Those simple words had taken more of Renard’s courage than any battle he’d ever fought, any enemy he had ever faced. He had been so afraid that Ariane would be lost to him, swallowed up by the cares of Faire Isle.
Her sisters needed her, her servants needed her, every blasted soul on that island needed her. He’d never been a patient man, but he had tried once before to force marriage upon her. He would not make that mistake again. Ariane must come to him freely this time and when she was ready. But his resolve had been strained to the snapping point.
Lengthening his stride, Renard broke into a run, heedless of the briars and twigs that scratched him, caught at his clothing. By the time he reached the embankment above the brook, he was winded. He had to lean his hand against the smooth bark of a birch tree while he caught his breath.
As he glanced eagerly down at the stream, he half-expected to find Ariane just as he had that memorable day, skirt hitched up, exposing her shapely white legs as she waded, gathering her jars of moss. But she was seated demurely on the bank, her knees curled up to her chest, her toes poking out from beneath the plain hem of her homespun skirt.
A barefoot sorceress with glossy waves of chestnut hair cascading down her back. Her face was tipped dreamily skyward, the sunlight casting a glow over her fair profile in a way that made Renard’s heart still with a strange mingling of awe and despair.
He’d always admired Ariane’s gentle strength and courage, the calm that was so much a part of her. But she had changed somehow since Paris, as though she’d grown in stature, radiating some inner light of her own. Acquired an even greater strength and wisdom, a steel forged by the fires of tragedy and sorrow.
She seemed like . . . like so many Ladies of Faire Isle who had gone before her must have been. Serene, self-contained, dependent upon no man. How had he ever imagined for a moment that this remarkable woman might belong to him?
Subdued, Renard trudged the rest of the way down the embankment. When his shadow fell over her, Ariane roused from her dreamings. She glanced around and then scrambled to her feet and smoothed out her skirts.
Suddenly, she looked
as shy and uncertain as he felt. Renard shuffled his boots. It was damned ridiculous, he thought, after all they had been through together. They were behaving as awkwardly as a peasant lad and a village maid meeting for the first time at a dance upon the green.
“Ah, there you are, my lord. You came rather quickly this time. You must not have gotten lost.”
“No, I didn’t. You see, I was once rescued by this wise woman with quiet eyes,” he tried to match her teasing tone, but found his heart was much too full for that. He added softly, “Now I don’t believe I will ever be lost again.”
Her smile grew more tender, but she said nothing. Just gazed up at him so steadily Renard had to suppress the urge to smooth down his shirt sleeves, fingercomb his hair.
“Er—I believe you sent for me, milady.”
“I did indeed.”
“Well . . . was there something you required?”
“Yes.” She pointed to an object half hidden by the tall grass, no more than a yard away. “I dropped my handkerchief. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”
Renard’s gaze flicked from her to the handkerchief and back again. Looking considerably bemused, he bent down to retrieve the square of linen. As he did so, it was all that Ariane could do to retain her composure. Her heart was beating so hard, she found it difficult to breathe. It was even more difficult when Renard lowered himself to one knee beside her and gravely presented the handkerchief.
“Th-thank you.” Her fingers trembled slightly as she accepted the linen from him and tucked it into her belt. “That is the third time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have used your ring three times. Now I must marry you.”
“Ah, no, ma chère. I told you that I released you from that foolish agreement.”
“But I never released you. You said that when I used the ring three times, we would be wed. Do you now mean to go back on your word?”
Renard stared at her, clearly torn between hope and disbelief. Such a powerful giant of a man and there was still a poignant trace of that raw peasant lad about him, kneeling before her, his heart in his hands.
“Do you not still want to marry me?” she asked.
“How can you ask—you know I—” He faltered. “But you seem so different since Paris. Somehow stronger, braver, more sure of yourself. Very much the Lady of Faire Isle. I was not sure you were ever going to need me again.”
“I believe I am stronger.” She caressed the hair back from his brow. “Brave enough to no longer be afraid to need you, to want you, to trust you with all my heart.”
“Ariane, you cannot imagine what it means to me to hear you say that.”
“Yes, I can, Justice,” she whispered. “I can read it in your eyes.”
Renard rose slowly to his feet, taking hold of her hands, drawing her up after him. He stole his arm about her waist and bent to brush his lips against hers. His kiss tender, reverent. As he gathered her closer, his mouth became more insistent, demanding, filling her with his heat.
Ariane devoured his lips just as eagerly, returning passionate kiss for passionate kiss. Renard finally drew back to peer down at her, his harsh features softened by a look of wonder, desire, adoration. He startled her by flinging back his head and roaring out a joyous laugh that rang to the top of the trees.
Lifting her up, he spun her around and around until she was dizzy and laughing. When he set her down, she staggered and clung to him to keep from falling.
Renard’s strong arms shored her up as he apologized ruefully, “Forgive me. I could not contain myself. I fear I am as much of a great, rough ogre as your sister thinks I am. Have I offended your dignity, my Lady of Faire Isle?”
“Yes, you have.” Ariane tried to look stern, but she sighed, snuggling closer. “I only wish you will carry me off to your castle and offend me a great deal more.”
Renard was only too ready to comply, but Ariane pulled back, saying hesitantly, “Justice, there is one thing you must understand. I will be happy and so proud to be your wife, your countess, but I will also still be the Lady of Faire Isle. I was bred for it, trained to be a healer, to look after the people of the island and—and—”
Renard silenced her with another swift kiss. “Do you think I don’t know that, ma chère? If you trust me with your heart, you must trust me in this as well. I would never ask you to be less than you are.”
Ariane’s eyes misted with love and gratitude. “Thank you, my lord. It takes a rare man to be unafraid to offer his wife such independence. A man as strong and wise as you. I believe your grandmother was right when she said you were destined to be my husband.”
Renard’s heavy-lidded green eyes glinted down at her. “Humph! You didn’t think so when you first met me.”
“That is because you were so mysterious and maddeningly evasive. You wouldn’t even tell me why you wanted to marry me. Always insisting you would tell me on our wedding night. If I had given in and married you when you first demanded, I wonder what you would have said to me.”
Renard’s lips twisted ruefully. “Oh, I have always been far too glib for my own good. I would have probably handed you a lot of nonsense about it being fate and what a suitable match it was. Me with my wealth and title, you with your legacy of powerful books.”
Ariane smiled. “And now, my lord? What reason would you give?”
“Only one very simple one. I love you, ma chère. Will that do?”
“Oh, yes, Justice.” Ariane tenderly laid her hand alongside his cheek. “That is quite the best reason I have ever heard.”
Renard pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, his eyes warm and open, inviting her into his heart. To remain there forever.
Praise for Susan Carroll
Midnight Bride
“Fascinating . . . Once again, Carroll, who sets the standard for paranormal romance with her beautifully crafted tales of the gifted St. Legers and the women who love them, enchants readers by subtly enhancing her alluring love story with lush historical details.”
—Booklist
“[A] compelling, mesmerizing tale . . . This [novel] is beautifully crafted, laced with occasional humor, and rife with Gothic atmosphere.”
—Library Journal
“Bewitching nineteenth-century historical romance . . . Carroll’s swift-moving tale won’t disappoint.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The power of Ms. Carroll’s writing is truly amazing, and Midnight Bride teems with emotional intensity. . . . There is also magic and wonder and such an intense pace that when you turn the last page, you will want to start reading all over again. This is a special book; a rare, eloquent tribute to the love of man for mankind. Brava Ms. Carroll.”
—Romantic Times
The Bride Finder
“An intriguing tale that proves the wounds of the heart can be healed by the magic of true love.”
—NORA ROBERTS
“An absolutely beautiful love story, a spellbinding combination of magic, passion, and destiny.”
—KRISTIN HANNAH
“A beautiful, tender, funny, unique story that captures the essence of romance . . . one of those magical books that touches all the right buttons, bringing you joy and a deep sigh of pure pleasure.”
—Romantic Times
(Gold Medal review)
“Paranormal reaches a new high through the unique talents of Susan Carroll. Her dark sensual hero inflames the reader’s passion as much as the heroine’s. Time ceased to matter as I turned the pages.”
—Rendezvous
“Spellbinding from its first page to the last . . . Sensational sorceress, Susan Carroll scores a big time success with this magical story.”
—Affaire de Coeur
The Night Drifter
“Carroll writes sparkling dialogue and exquisite prose.”
—TERESA MEDEIROS,
author of Yours Until Dawn
“Carroll has topped herself and proves her genius by creating a romantic sit
uation without equal.”
—Rendezvous
“Carroll has a gift more powerful than the St. Legers’: the ability to bring a sense of joy and true peace to her readers. Her magical romances give life to remarkable characters and superb stories, but also to the idea that hope and faith prevail.”
—Romantic Times
“Susan Carroll definitely has star quality.”
—IRIS JOHANSEN,
author of Blind Alley
Read on for a sneak peek at
Gabrielle’s story, the next exciting novel
in the Cheney sisters trilogy
The
Courtesan
Coming in August 2005
from Ballantine Books
Gabrielle Cheney peered through the slits of her mask, picking her way carefully along the path, overgrown with weeds. The courtyard of the Maison d’ Esprit was as silent as a cemetery and twice as eerie. The moon cast a pale light over moss-blackened fountains and broken statuary. Some headless saint presided over the withered remains of a rose garden. The flowers were long gone, but the thorns were not, one branch catching at the hem of Gabrielle’s cloak.
As she bent to free herself, she was beset by the troubling sensation that had afflicted her all evening. The feeling that she was being followed. Straightening, she curled her fingers over the hilt of the sword hidden beneath her cloak and whirled around. The iron gate and stone wall were nothing more than vague outlines in the fog-bound night. But as she stared, another figure took shape, that of a tall proud warrior.
Her hand fell away from the sword and she uttered a soft choked cry. Not of fear, but more of despair because she had seen the silhouette of this man far too many times in her dreams. She took a step forward only to check the motion, knowing it would do her no good. There would be no smile to greet her, no strong arms to welcome her because he didn’t exist, this phantom man. All she would find was empty space and silence.
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