The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

  “Oh, Master Wolfe, I can’t imagine what you must be thinking—.”

  “I think nothing except that your brother had too much to drink, something that can happen to any of us.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding, but I could see how disturbed you were by Ned’s strange pastime down in the cellar. I have long been troubled by his interest in—in sorcery.”

  “Trust me, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I have heard that many young noblemen dabble in alchemy, hoping to discover the secret for turning lead into gold. It is harmless nonsense.”

  “Nonsense that can result in accusations of sorcery. The queen’s own astrologer, Dr. John Dee, was obliged to flee abroad for taking his studies too far, trying to raise the spirits of angels to speak to him.”

  Jane fingered the gold chain of her crucifix. “My faith teaches me that it is all very wrong. God never meant us to pursue such forbidden knowledge.”

  She gave a wry half-smile. “Ned likes to tease me. He said if I had been the woman in the Garden of Eden, the apple would have remained untouched.”

  Wolfe smiled, daring to touch her cheek. “Then there would have been no fall from grace and that would make you an angel.”

  Jane shook her head, thinking how little Marcus Wolfe knew her. Nor did her own brother. “Ned should not say such blasphemous things. He really needs to make confession.”

  She spoke before she thought, a rare thing for her. She searched Wolfe’s face for some sign of disapproval of the Catholic rite, but his expression was merely grave as he asked, “It is hard for you, being denied the practice of your faith?”

  “It is hard for a good many Catholics. But I survive, quietly praying my rosary at night where there is none but God to see.”

  She sighed. “The men in my family have never been as sensible. You—you are no doubt aware of our unfortunate history. My grandfather lost his head fighting for the Catholic cause. My father was killed as well.

  “And Ned…” She fretted her lower lip. “He is not exactly the most pious of men. But he is young and ambitious, longing to make his mark on the world. That is why I was glad when he became a patron of your theater. It gave him an interest in something besides that horrible alchemy. I dread that one day he too may do something rash and end up in the Tower.”

  “That he will not! Not if I can help it.”

  Jane’s eyes widened at his impassioned words. Wolfe looked a little taken aback himself by his rash promise, but Jane could not help feeling grateful to him for it.

  Impulsively, she rested her hand upon his sleeve. “What a good friend you have been to both of us.”

  He gave a dry, mirthless laugh, his eyes going strangely dark. “I would be honored to call myself your friend, but I dare not presume. I fear I am nothing but a common rogue.”

  “No, you are very far from common, Marcus Wolfe,” she said softly. Her hand seemed to move of its own volition, caressing his arm.

  His eyes flew to hers in surprise. Their gazes met and locked for a long, intent moment. Then he leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips.

  Jane should not have welcomed the kiss, but the warmth of his mouth stirred in her an unexpected hunger, a longing to bury her fingers in his hair and taste him more fully, feel the hot thrust of his tongue.

  She shrank back, flushing. It seemed the fires of her youth had not been entirely reduced to cold ash. One spark remained and Jane did her best to douse it as she bid Wolfe a breathless good night and fled back up the stairs.

  MARTIN LOUNGED IN HIS BREECHES AND SHIRTSLEEVES, HIS feet propped on the desk in his study. He sipped at a flagon of wine, his thoughts so grim he wished he could follow young Ned’s example and drink himself insensible.

  It was not an indulgence Martin had allowed himself for a long time, not since the advent of Meg into his life. But his daughter was fast asleep, and if there was ever a night for imbibing too much, this was it.

  Consume enough wine and it just might wash the taste of guilt from his mouth, Martin thought, taking a huge swallow and grimacing. An English wine, too heavy, too sweet, and it hadn’t been properly strained.

  Not that it mattered. He doubted there was enough wine in all of London to ease his conscience or erase from his mind the memory of Jane Danvers’s trusting eyes.

  “What a good friend you have been to us.”

  Oh, yes, Martin reflected bitterly. About as good a friend as the Grand Inquisitor was to heretics. He pressed the cool pewter flagon against his heated brow.

  He was going to have to report what had happened at Strand House tonight to Walsingham. If he didn’t, someone else would. Ned had made such a spectacle of himself, ranting about the queen. God knows what the other departing guests might have heard. At least Martin might be able to soften the account, convince the secretary it was nothing more than the ravings of a young man drunk with wine and disappointment.

  As for Ned’s secret room, Martin saw no reason to speak of that at all. It was but idle foolishness, nothing to do with any conspiracies against the queen, but Walsingham might seize upon it as a pretext to arrest Ned. The secretary was so convinced Lord Oxbridge might be a threat to the queen. If Walsingham could not convict Ned for treason, sorcery might do just as well.

  How grieved Jane would be, her worst fears coming true, the last remaining member of her family dragged off to the Tower.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Martin winced, wondering whatever had induced him to make such a rash promise. He feared Catriona O’Hanlon had been right when she had accused him of being the kind of romantic fool who delighted in rushing to the aid of a damsel in distress.

  Jane Danvers was so sweet, so gentle. Seeing her serene face pale and distraught with worry had stirred all of Martin’s most chivalrous impulses. He would have promised anything to ease that troubled look from her soft gray eyes.

  How refreshing it was to meet a woman content to simply be a woman, no interest in acquiring any powerful, forbidden knowledge, sensible enough to perceive the dangers in it.

  She truly would make the perfect wife and mother. Martin had not been certain that he stood much of a chance with her until now. She had surprised him when she had dared caress his arm, that warm come-hither look springing to her eyes.

  When he had kissed her, unlike Cat, she hadn’t threatened to break his head. Jane had blushed adorably, going all soft and breathless with ladylike modesty.

  She truly was an angel—.

  Martin’s thoughts were disrupted by a faint sound coming from the outer hall. The candle flame wavered as though disturbed by a draft. Someone was cautiously inching open the study door. Martin tensed, preparing to swing his legs off the desk and spring into action when he saw who it was.

  Cat peered in at him, her tousled red hair spilling about her shoulders as though she had just been roused from her sleep. It scarce surprised Martin to see that she was armed with her sword.

  He relaxed back into his chair. “Come in, Mistress O’Hanlon. If you are looking for another chance to run me through, have at it. I entirely lack the ambition to defend myself.”

  There was a pause and then Cat entered, looking a little sheepish. “I heard someone moving about down here and I wasn’t certain who it was.”

  “So you rushed down, sword drawn, without the damnedest notion of what awaited you? Did it never occur to you that it might be wiser to bar yourself in my daughter’s room and allow me to be the first line of defense?”

  She scowled, her stubborn chin tilting up. “It is not my habit to cower behind locked doors. Besides, I didn’t know that you had returned.”

  “Now that you are awake, you may as well come in and join me in a cup of wine. The flagon is over there on the little tripod table. Help yourself.”

  Cat hesitated before closing the door behind her. Martin didn’t know what had possessed him to extend the invitation, but he heartily regretted it as Cat moved into the candlelight.

  She was
clad in nothing but her chemise, the fabric so worn as to be almost transparent with the candle’s glow behind her. Martin could clearly see the outline of her breasts, enough to tell that the other one was just as full and ripe as the first, which he had seen during their duel. The threadbare linen hinted at other charms as well, the curve of her hips, the intriguing dark delta between her legs. And the entire effect of her appearing near naked was made strangely more erotic by the fact of her being armed with that damned sword.

  Martin felt himself go instantly hard and shifted position to conceal the fact. Lowering his legs from the desk, he sat upright, complaining, “Mon Dieu, woman! That old shift of yours is a disgrace. Your pride be damned. You are going to have to let me at least furnish you with a decent night rail.”

  “It would be a waste of money. I prefer to sleep naked,” she replied with blithe unconcern as she propped her sword near the hearth. “Of course, I realize I can’t do that here. It would be a little awkward if I did have to do battle with an intruder.”

  “I thought bare-breasted was your preferred method of attack.”

  “It does not do to start out that way. One loses the element of surprise.” As she poured herself a cup of wine, she provided him with a tantalizing rear view, the thin chemise clinging to shapely buttocks. Martin gritted his teeth, grateful when Cat settled herself upon a stool away from the candlelight.

  She took a sip of her wine and pulled a sour face. “This is swill.”

  “I know.” Martin stared morosely into his own cup. “But I can’t always afford the imported wines.”

  Cat ventured one more sip, shuddered, and set her cup aside. She leaned back against the wall, yawning and stretching her legs out before her, flexing her bare toes.

  She did have astonishingly dainty feet. Martin marveled that she had ever been able to wear his boots. She had trim ankles too, to say nothing of her supple white calves. Martin squirmed in his chair, focusing his gaze on his cup.

  “So I gather from your hangdog look, the evening was not a success,” Cat said. “Did your Lady Danvers not smile upon you?”

  Martin swirled the dregs in his flagon. “Her ladyship was in not much humor for smiling at anyone. The queen sent her regrets and the entertainment fell rather flat without Her Majesty present.”

  “Meg will be disappointed. She was counting upon hearing all the particulars.”

  “So has my daughter forgiven me for playing the role of harsh papa?”

  “Meg would forgive you anything.”

  A certain edge in Cat’s voice drew Martin’s gaze sharply back to her face.

  “You sound as though I have done something dreadful I need forgiveness for.”

  “Not intentionally.” Cat caught her lower lip between her teeth. “If I tell you something about Meg, will you promise not to eat me?”

  Martin winced. An unfortunate choice of words on her part considering his aroused state.

  “I’ll do my best not to sprout fangs.”

  Cat rose to her feet to begin pacing. Martin had already noticed that it was difficult for the woman to hold a conversation while sitting still. But as she paraded before him, he unfortunately noticed other things as well.

  “For the love of God, Cat,” he said. “Tell me anything you wish. But I beg you to do it sitting down and away from the candlelight.”

  She paused to regard him with a puzzled air. But as her gaze flicked from the candles back to herself, she suddenly seemed to realize all she was revealing.

  “Oh.” She gave a wry laugh. Without seeming particularly embarrassed, she returned to the stool.

  She folded her hands together, drew in a deep breath, and announced in a rush, “I had a long talk with Meg this evening about this scheme of yours to turn her into a proper little English miss. She’s so unhappy, it’s nearly killing her.”

  Martin frowned at Cat, her words about Meg dousing any lust more effectively than a dunk in the Thames.

  “You had no right discussing anything with my daughter.”

  “The child needs to talk to someone since you won’t allow her to do so with you. What you have been asking of her is completely unreasonable. To forget she is a daughter of the earth, forget everything she ever learned about the ancient magic—” Cat paused and continued defiantly. “And most of all to forget her own mother.”

  “What good can possibly come to her from remembering?” he asked.

  “Memories are not always good. But even the worst of our past is part of who we are. You have to allow Meg to grieve, to deal with her wounds.”

  “Wounds are better left healed, not ripped open.”

  “But the scars remain, Martin. Cassandra’s legacy—.”

  “There is no legacy. Her mother left her nothing.”

  “Don’t be so blind, man,” Cat said impatiently. “Everything Cassandra ever taught her, every word she ever spoke about Meg’s destiny as the Silver Rose, is lodged in the girl’s head.”

  “Meg is wise enough to know that everything Cassandra said was complete rot.”

  “Knowing it in her head and in her heart are two different things. Meg is a clever girl, almost terrifyingly so. She is the only one who was ever able to translate the Book of Shadows.”

  “Because Cassandra forced her and it no longer matters, because the cursed book is gone.”

  Why did Cat have to keep harping about this? In his agitation, Martin shoved to his feet, as though by pacing he could somehow escape Cat’s unwanted opinions.

  But the woman was as persistent as a gadfly. Leaping up herself, she trailed after him.

  “Meg has an astonishing memory, Martin. I fear she recalls a great deal that she learned from that infernal book. It would be hard for the wisest of women to resist the power of the Book of Shadows, let alone a young girl.”

  Cat darted in front of him, her blue eyes fierce and earnest. “Your daughter is so confused. She needs guidance, someone to teach her the true ways of the daughters of the earth. She needs Ariane. If you would only have the good sense to take her to Faire Isle—”

  “Not that again! You accuse me of being blind, but I think you are somewhat hard of hearing. I have already told you no, blast it, and I don’t want the subject mentioned again.”

  He strode over to the window to escape her lest she see the truth. That beneath his anger, his stubborn resolve, ran a current of fear. So much of what she said about Meg struck him in a raw, secret place in his heart.

  He could scarce admit to himself that there had been times he had studied Meg anxiously, dreading that he might see in Meg some trace of Cassandra, some hint of the witch’s dark influence.

  But it wasn’t there, he told himself fiercely. Meg was all that was good and innocent. And given enough time she would forget about her mother. She would.

  Martin stiffened when he heard Cat’s footfall behind him.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I tend to be too blunt sometimes. My gran used to say it was a fault in all the O’Hanlons. We make far better warriors than diplomats.”

  She touched his sleeve tentatively. “I know how much you love Meg and she adores you. But she worries about you, too. She told me you’ve lost the music in your voice.”

  “I expect she means my accent. Although she is more adept at the English tongue, for some inexplicable reason, my daughter likes me to speak French.”

  “Perhaps because you are French. All this pretending to be English, scheming to become some—some fat country squire in your snug manor house is no better for you than it is for Meg. What of the Martin le Loup who used to find life such a grand adventure? Will you be losing him entirely?”

  “No great loss, I assure you,” Martin said with a sad smile. “He was never anything much.”

  “Your daughter would not agree.”

  “She’s only a child. There is much she doesn’t understand.” Martin angled an indignant glance at Cat. “Besides, who said I would end up fat?”

  “Fat,” Cat repeated with wi
cked relish. “And gout ridden.”

  He tried to glower at her, but ended up giving a reluctant laugh. He became serious again. “There is some wisdom in what you say. Meg does need a woman’s guidance. Not that of a daughter of the earth, but of a mother. A proper one who would teach her the gentler arts, music, needlework, and—and managing a household.”

  “Someone like your saintly Lady Danvers?” Cat asked, her nose wrinkling with scorn.

  “Yes, if she could be persuaded to have me.”

  And if he could keep her wretched brother off the scaffold and Jane from being implicated in any of Ned’s folly, Martin thought grimly.

  Cat folded her arms, her mouth puckered into a frown. Then she shrugged. “I wish you success in your courting. I only hope this Lady Danvers has a drop of strength somewhere in the midst of all the sweetness flowing through her veins. She’ll be needing it, I’m thinking, to keep you and that clever girl of yours in order.

  “Heaven knows, I certainly can’t stay here forever looking out for the pair of you. I already hoped to be on my way back to Faire Isle because of Ariane. She—”

  Cat broke off, her expression clouding over.

  “What about Ariane?” Martin demanded.

  “She’s with child. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “That’s wonderful,” Martin began eagerly, but as he recollected what he knew of Ariane’s history, he asked more doubtfully, “Isn’t it? Is she faring well?”

  “She says so. But you know Ariane. The woman could be dying and she’d put on a brave face just so…” Cat’s lip trembled, and she bit down hard to still it.

  Martin grasped her hand in a comforting gesture. “I am sure Ariane will be well. No one knows more of healing than the Lady of Faire Isle. She has always been so good at looking after everyone.”

  “Everyone but herself. Her confinement will be sometime early this winter. I—I would like to be there.”

  “I see no reason why you should not be, especially if Ariane’s warning comes to nothing. If all remains quiet here—”