Xavier had pushed them so hard on the last leg of the trip, Jambe and Pietro had all but collapsed upon reaching their inn room.
Their exhausted slumber had afforded Xavier the opportunity he needed to slip away. They could swear at him later if they wished. He hoped he would still be around for them to curse, but he was resolved.
The insane risk he was about to take had to be his alone. As he gazed up at the Hôtel de la Reine, his breath caught in his throat. He saw a familiar form silhouetted in one of the windows, the queen in her unrelenting black garb. She seemed to be staring straight at him, her mind reaching out like the delicate legs of a spider, probing his disguise.
He ducked out of sight and then chided himself for being such a fool. He had never succumbed to the legend of the Dark Queen and her extraordinary powers of perception. But he was taking no chances. The element of surprise was all that he had in his favor. If he was seized by her guards before he gained access to her presence, it was all up with him.
Xavier waited until the queen vanished from the window before stepping back into view. He had finally been able to get rid of that damned splint. The bone had healed, but his arm was nowhere near its former strength.
Not that it mattered. If Catherine set her guards upon him, it was not likely he would be able to fight his way to freedom and escape. Everything depended upon his wits, his—what had his father called it? His unholy talent for deception.
Since knowing Jane, Xavier felt as though he had lost some of his taste for chicanery, his skills had grown a trifle rusty. His honest mermaid had been a far too wholesome influence on him.
He was going to have to dig deep into the darkest part of his soul to conjure forth his old ability to lie, charm, and deceive as he never had before.
His success, nay, his very life depended upon it. And perhaps Meg’s as well.
THE QUEEN LEANED HEAVILY ON HER CANE AS SHE MADE HER way to her salon. When Catherine swayed on her feet, some of her ladies gave an audible gasp, but they had enough sense to keep their distance. Glaring, Catherine dared anyone to try to rush to her aid. She steadied herself, concealing how disconcerted she was by her own weakness.
Seized with an inflammation of the lungs shortly after her conversation with that Pechard woman, it had been weeks since she had been able to get this far from her bed.
Rumors had circulated that Catherine was dying. She had heard that the citizens of Paris had prepared bonfires to be lit as soon as her death was confirmed. She took a deep satisfaction in depriving them of their celebration.
She longed to stand defiantly at her window and show them all that the Dark Queen was not finished yet. But in a city so tense, Catherine was in as much danger from an assassin’s pistol as she was from the weakness of her own aging body.
The last time she had glanced out she thought she had seen a rather sinister figure lurking in the street. Garbed in a long cloak, his features obscured beneath the brim of a large hat, he had seemed to stare straight up at her window.
She consoled herself that it had all been a trick of her rheumy eyes. When a cart passed by, the fellow had appeared to have vanished into thin air.
This is what it is to become old, she reflected bitterly, to live in fear of shadows.
Catherine made it as far as the chair by the hearth and all but collapsed into it. Her ladies hovered nearby, whispering amongst themselves. The young had an irritating tendency to do that around the old, the infirm, the dying. As though an advance in years suddenly rendered one deaf, blind, and inane. Catherine had resolved never to tolerate it herself.
Rapping her cane against the floor, she said, “Despite what you all may be hoping, I am not at death’s door. If you have anything to say, speak aloud or hold your tongues.”
Her attendants fell silent, exchanging uneasy looks. Mademoiselle de Bec approached and sank into a trembling curtsy.
“We were only trying to decide if we should trouble you. There is someone here demanding admittance if it please Your Grace.”
“It does not please Her Grace. Do I look in any condition to receive anyone? Unless it is my loving son come to make tender enquiry after his mother’s health?”
When de Bec could not meet her eyes, Catherine snorted. “No? I thought not.”
“It is not the king.” The girl nervously retreated a step. “It is Captain Xavier.”
“What!” Catherine was stunned for a moment, then she snarled, “You are either a liar or a fool. I received word but yesterday that Xavier must be dead. He was swept overboard in a storm just before his ship broke up.”
“No, it is indeed the captain, Your Grace, or else it is his ghost.”
“And a mighty hale and handsome one,” one of the other ladies dared venture with a giggle. One black look from Catherine and the girl’s smile was erased.
Xavier alive and returned to Paris? Well, if any man was bold enough to cheat death, it would be that arrogant rogue. But cheating her was another matter, and then daring to swagger back into her own palace!
Catherine was seized by such a spasm of fury, her pulse throbbed dangerously behind her temple. She took short breaths in order to calm herself.
Her first impulse was to send for her guard, demand to know how Xavier had slipped past them. Then she would have Xavier’s neck stretched from the nearest tree in her garden where she could have the satisfaction of watching.
But her curiosity won out. She would like to hear what excuses the man had to offer before she had his lying tongue cut out.
“Send him in,” she commanded as she struggled to her feet. How did he dare return to her without carrying out the orders she had paid him to do? Unless… he had.
For a moment Catherine entertained the wild hope that Xavier had fulfilled his mission; that he would come in, dragging Megaera in tow.
The brief flare of hope died when Xavier entered the salon alone, not even accompanied by his large menacing native. Catherine’s ire only increased as she noted that he had taken no more pains when appearing before her than he ever had. His boots were muddied, his cloak travel-stained, a beard roughening his chin, his dark hair uncombed and unruly.
And yet he sauntered toward her with an aplomb many a bejeweled and satin-clad duke would have envied. The rogue swept her a gallant bow, looking completely assured of his welcome.
Catherine was torn between fury and admiration for his boldness, a conflict of emotion that could not be good for her heart. She pressed one hand to her bosom to contain its beating.
Xavier dropped to one knee before her. “Your Majesty, I have returned to you at last.”
“Then you are either the bravest man I ever knew or a complete fool. Unless you are unaware that there is a price on your head?”
“I am. So I came to turn myself in and claim it.”
Catherine was obliged to choke back a laugh in spite of herself and that only rendered her more furious. She would have liked to have brought her cane down upon his head, if she would not have fallen in the process. She nearly did anyway as she leaned forward to box his ears.
“Villain!” The epithet came out as more a cry of pain. Her rheumatic gnarled fingers ached in protest. She feared the blow had hurt her far worse than him.
Xavier did not even flinch. He gave her a look that was all innocence and reproached surprise.
“Majesty what have I done to deserve such abuse at your hands?”
“What done?” she spluttered. She flexed her throbbing hand, overcome with pain and anger to the point of incoherence. “Took money … cheated … betrayed.”
“Never! I did all that Your Grace required of me.”
“Liar.” She grated her teeth as she fought to calm herself. She had oft heard tales of Elizabeth Tudor’s temper, how the English queen spat at and struck subjects who displeased her.
Catherine had always deplored the woman’s want of regal conduct, compared to her own icy dignity. Catherine’s anger had ever been more likely to freeze than burn. And so
she would do with Xavier, freeze him straight to hell.
Regaining command of herself, she said in clipped accents, “You have been gone nearly a year and I know how you have employed your time. My son has an official complaint from the court of Spain regarding your piratical activities.”
“You would believe the Spanish, Your Grace? They cannot tell one Frenchman from another.”
“Somehow I doubt anyone who ever crossed your path would be inclined to forget you, monsieur.”
When the man smirked, Catherine added icily, “That was not a compliment, Captain.”
His smile widened although it took on a slightly sheepish cast. “I admit I did veer a bit off course.”
“All the way to the coast of La Florida? That is quite a bit of veering, monsieur.”
“I ventured there for your sake, Your Grace. I hoped to discover that Fountain of Youth I told you about.”
“Spare me any more of your fairy tales.”
“It was not so great a chimera as the one you had me pursue. On my return journey, I went to Faire Isle as you asked and found Megaera.”
“Then where is she?” Catherine asked impatiently.
“I deemed it would be a waste of time to return to Your Grace with such a worthless creature.”
“You deemed? Who asked you to judge? All I required was that you—”
“But as your emissary, I had the opportunity to observe the girl closely,” Xavier said, daring to interrupt her tirade. “She is but a thin, insignificant creature. Her true name is Margaret Wolfe and the reports you have had of her were all misleading. Meg’s mother may have been a great sorceress, but the girl’s reputation is all founded upon Cassandra Lascelles’s mad hopes for her daughter. Margaret Wolfe scarce has the wit to brew the simplest posset.”
“And yet I have heard that the Lady of Faire Isle means to designate Megaera as her successor.”
“Another false report. She did not choose Mademoiselle Wolfe.”
When Catherine scowled down at him in disbelief, he insisted, “I was there. I managed to spy upon the council atop the cliffs. The Lady chose her own niece, Seraphine Remy.”
“Remy?”
“She is the eldest daughter of Gabrielle and Nicolas Remy.”
Catherine compressed her lips, not wanting to believe a word of this. And yet…
“I remember Gabrielle well,” she murmured. “Of all the Cheney sisters, I thought she showed the most promise until she was foolish enough to fall in love. She was a great beauty, with a subtle mind. Intelligent, daring, and worldly-wise.”
“Her daughter is much the same. Set next to Seraphine Remy, Margaret Wolfe seems even more insignificant. A peasant in the shadow of a princess.”
“Humph!” Catherine tapped her cane against the floor, unable to believe she was even listening to such tales. But she was troubled by her own recollections of the one glimpse she had ever had of Megaera. The infamous Silver Rose had indeed been a scrawny frightened child. The mother, Cassandra, with her mass of dark hair and eerie empty eyes had seemed the dangerous one.
While she pondered this, Xavier stood, wincing a little as he straightened from his stiff posture kneeling at her feet.
“I did not give you leave to rise.”
“But I must if I am to present you with the gift that I have brought from halfway around the world.”
“What would that be?”
“Your Grace did not ask me about the success of my other venture.”
Catherine sniffed. “You mean your search for your mythical fountain.”
“A myth no longer. I found it.” Delving beneath his cloak, he produced a small vial of some clear liquid.
Catherine glowered at him. “Do you think to play me for a fool a second time, monsieur?”
“No more than I did last autumn. How would I dare? This is indeed a sampling of waters from the Fountain of Youth.”
“If you do not propose to deceive me, then I fear you deceive yourself.”
“Not so, Your Grace. I was badly injured in the engagement with the Spanish ship, my right arm all but crushed. I would have died or lost my good arm except for this magic elixir.”
Catherine arched her brows skeptically, but she took the vial from him. Uncorking it, she sniffed at the contents. “It seems nothing but mere water.”
“Yes, mere water, the essence of life itself. Take one sip and you’ll see.”
“Bah!”
She would have dashed the vial to the ground had he not seized her hand to prevent her.
“Your Grace, I beg you. You trusted me once before with your health and life. You must admit that my other potion did you much good. This one is ten times more powerful.”
She scowled at where his fingers encircled her wrist, the man having the temerity to touch her unbidden. She, Catherine, daughter of the powerful de Medicis, Dowager Queen of France. And yet his hand felt warm and strong against the fragile skin of her wrist. Her pulse gave a most foolish flutter.
“Release me.”
He did so reluctantly. Catherine stared at the vial in her hand. Xavier had no need to remind her of the restorative brew he had once shared with her. She had thought wistfully more than once of that potion when her joints had throbbed and her bones ached this past long dreary winter.
Drained by her recent illness, she suddenly felt exhausted and completely dispirited. If what the man told her about Megaera was true, then she really had run out of options.
What more did she have to lose? Bringing the vial to her lips, she ventured a small sip.
Running the drops of moisture over her tongue, she swallowed and then upbraided Xavier. “It is nothing but water, you rogue. I vow I will have your head for this chicanery—”
She broke off with a gasp. A mere sip of the liquid sent a fire coursing through her veins. For a moment, she feared the man had been reckless enough to poison her before her entire court of ladies.
But the warmth was more like a purging flame, burning away all weakness, all pain. She felt stronger than she had in weeks, perhaps even in months.
She regarded with wonder the vial she grasped in her trembling hands and would have drained the entire contents in one gulp if Xavier had not stopped her.
“Nay, have a care, Your Grace. No one’s constitution is able to bear consuming too much of this healing water at once. You must use it but sparingly.”
Catherine regarded the vial longingly, but she was persuaded to replace the cork.
“This one small vial is all that is left of what I was able to draw from the spring before I was driven off by the Spanish. But if I had a small fleet of ships and enough men, I would be able to bring you back barrels of the stuff.”
Catherine said nothing. Fingering the vial, she regarded him thoughtfully. No doubt this was a most powerful elixir. But did she truly believe Xavier’s tale of how he had come by it?
The potion had done much to clear her head and her vision. Perhaps a little more would even restore the greatest ability she had ever possessed as a daughter of the earth. The gift to read a man’s eyes, to strip his soul bare of every secret he possessed, all with the mere power of her gaze.
Settling back into her chair, she smiled and beckoned Xavier closer.
“Come. Tell me more,” she purred.
Chapter Twenty-two
THE SUNLIGHT POURED ACROSS JANE’S BED, PRODDING HER awake whether she wished it or not. Her eyes fluttered open and she felt disoriented. She had been dreaming she was back on Faire Isle, the dream so vivid she could have almost wept when she awakened to discover that she was in Paris. Even after a week in her cousin’s rented house, the gilt-trimmed walls of her bedchamber still felt strange to Jane after the peaceful simplicity of the room she had known at Belle Haven.
She sat up, her night shift sticking to her sweat-soaked skin. It promised to be another hot day. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling resentful of the merciless sunlight streaming through her window.
It had aro
used her from a good dream for once, not any of the nightmares that had plagued her ever since leaving the island. She dreamed she had pulled back the blanket, proudly displaying the face of her newborn son. All the ladies had crowded around her bed, Ariane, Seraphine, and Meg all cooing over the babe. Xavier had hovered protectively over Jane and the infant, smiling tenderly.
“If you don’t want the boy to grow up to become a pirate, we had better name him—”
But that was where she had awakened. Now she would never know what Xavier had been about to suggest. Jane winked back tears at the unbearable sense of loss that swept through her.
She thought she would have preferred one of her nightmares to such an entrancing dream. It only served as a cruel reminder that there was no Xavier … and no babe either.
Her flow had finally come during the journey to Paris. She knew she ought to have been glad, but despite the hardships she would have faced as an unwed mother, she realized how desperately she had wanted that child. Now it was as though her last link to Xavier was gone.
Their time together had taken on the quality of a dream. A knock on her bedchamber door brought her back to her present bleak reality.
The little housemaid Violette poked her head in the door to call, “Madame Danvers? Are you awake? Your cousin is asking for you.”
Already? Jane stifled a groan.
Violette looked apologetic. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lady, but Madame Benton, she says she has such a dreadful headache, she is like to die—”
“I understand,” Jane interrupted wearily. “Tell her I will be right there.”
Violette bobbed a curtsy and disappeared, leaving Jane to stagger out of bed. Jane washed and dressed as quickly as she could. She hastened down to the kitchen to break her fast and prepare a cooling compress for Abigail’s brow.
Only one week beneath her cousin’s roof, and Jane felt drained. She did not know what was more wearying, ministering to her cousin’s incessant demands or trying to deal with the creditors besieging the house.
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