The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  “I would hardly call it paltry.” Cat burrowed deeper beneath the covers until only her head peeked out. “That trick has worked every time I’ve ever used it, men being the lascivious simpletons that they are. Back when I used to spar with Rory O’Meara, that fool actually fell for my ploy three times.”

  Martin flung back his head and laughed. “You’ll pardon my saying so, but I doubt this Rory was the one being fooled.”

  “You think he was only pretending in order to—to—.”

  “To get himself an eyeful? Why not? It’s a lovely breast, well worth a second look or even a third.”

  The miscreant was laughing at her, but his twinkling green eyes seemed to invite her to share his amusement, his voice full of frank admiration.

  Cat rarely allowed any man to fluster her, scorning any sort of flattery or flirtation. To her annoyance, she realized she was blushing.

  “Remind me to box your ears later when I am feeling better,” she said gruffly.

  He chuckled and drew up a chair to the bedside. Placing it backward, he straddled the seat in boyish fashion, resting his hands upon the oak slats of the back.

  “Let us declare a truce, Mistress O’Hanlon. I fear we have gotten off to a very ill start.”

  “For which I am sure you are sick with remorse, entirely blaming yourself.”

  His teeth flashed again in that devastating smile. “Not exactly. You might have spoken up and showed me this letter before matters got so far out of hand.” He produced Ariane’s creased note from inside his jerkin and tossed it down on the bedside table. “For a woman who likes to talk so much, it takes you a long time to come to the point.”

  “As though you were prepared to listen to anything I might have had to say.”

  “I tend to be a little edgy when I am followed and accosted by strange women. Since you are familiar with my daughter’s history, you should understand why.” His features took on a grim cast, and then softened as he added, “But I am sorry that you were hurt. Mistress Butterydoor is devoted to both Meg and me. She believed she was saving my life.”

  “Mistress Butterydoor?”

  “Agatha. The old woman with the cane. She whacked you into oblivion and gave you that lump on the head. Remember?”

  Cat remembered, but the blow of the cane was not what had sent her spiraling into oblivion. That was entirely owing to Megaera and her witch blade. Cat studied Martin through narrowed eyes. Did the man think to cozen her, protect his daughter from any possible repercussions of Cat’s anger? Or was it possible he had not seen what had really happened?

  His next words answered that question.

  “I realize you took quite a painful blow, but I fear the one most hurt was my daughter. Meg was very distressed by what happened at the theater. She has already endured so much, one would not have expected her to be so upset. But my angel has such a tender heart. You cannot possibly imagine.”

  Cat winced, rubbing the small puncture wound in her back. Yes, she could imagine and apparently far better than he. From his fond smile and the protective light in his eyes, it was obvious le Loup didn’t have the least notion what his daughter was capable of. Cat debated enlightening him, but decided to keep her own counsel. At least until she had had the chance to speak to Megaera herself.

  “And now Mistress O’Hanlon,” he began, but she interrupted him.

  “Will you please stop calling me that? It makes me feel like some old woman.” Her lip curled with distaste. “And an English one at that.”

  “All right then. Catriona…”

  “Cat. Just Cat will do.”

  “Very well. Cat.” He smiled. “I can’t imagine why Ariane dispatched you to track me down, but knowing the Lady of Faire Isle, I am sure she must have had an urgent reason. I hate to press you while you are still feeling so poorly—”

  “No, no,” she cut him off. “I am well enough and we have wasted far too much time already.”

  Clutching the covers to her, she made another effort to sit up and was annoyed when her head still reeled. She glanced longingly at the pewter cup he had set upon the table. “If you could just give me another drop of that—that—.”

  “Tisane.” He leapt up to fetch the cup. “Agatha brewed it for you. She has some modest skill in the stillroom.”

  “When she is not breaking heads,” Cat muttered. She removed the cloth from her head and gingerly felt the lump on her brow. She had quite a goose egg, but the swelling seemed to be going down.

  Martin handed her the cup and would have helped her to drink, but she waved him off. What she really longed for was a swig of her usquebaugh, but she had left her flask along with her other meager belongings back at the inn she had frequented last night. The tisane did not pack quite the same fire, but she downed the mug and felt the better for it.

  Propping herself up higher against the pillows, the coverlet tucked demurely about her shoulders, Cat started her tale with the revival of the Silver Rose coven and ended with the events on the cliff side that night.

  She sought to keep her narrative simple, resisting her natural bent to embellish, to punctuate her words with many gestures.

  Martin listened with his chin propped on his hands along the back of the chair, that remarkably intense face of his still for once, revealing little of his thoughts. When she had concluded her tale, he remained quiet and grave. The silence stretched out so long, Cat grew impatient.

  “Ariane believes you and your daughter should come to Faire Isle. I am sure you must see the necessity of leaving England at once.”

  Martin stirred at last like a man awakening from an unpleasant dream. “No, I am afraid I don’t see the necessity of that at all. It strikes me as being a hasty and foolhardy action.”

  “By the goddess Brigid! Have you heeded not a word that I said?”

  “Yes, I heard you quite clearly.” Martin raised his head, straightening in his chair. “Witches, bonfires, midnight Sabbaths, the Dark Queen’s soldiers. It all sounds to me like exactly what I left France to escape. All the more reason that Meg and I should stay right where we are.”

  “Where you are! Do you imagine you will be safe—” Cat started, only to have him cut her off.

  “Clarify something for me. You were obliged to break off your surveillance at the cliff and flee, were you not?”

  “Yes,” Cat muttered. She was still chafed by the memory of her retreat without landing as much as a blow. “My orders from Ariane were not to fight. I had to get back and warn her, but I am no coward—”

  “I never said that you were. My point is this. You have no idea what actually transpired after you left. For all you know it is possible that this Captain Gautier slaughtered the entire coven.”

  “Or more likely he dragged one of those witches back to the Dark Queen, and now she knows the truth about your daughter.”

  “You have some proof of that? Before you left France, you saw some sign of Catherine searching for my little girl?”

  “Well, no. But there was scarce time—”

  “Then I see no reason to panic. It is possible that the Dark Queen learned nothing at all and that the coven was destroyed.”

  “And it is possible you are a complete idiot!” Cat flared. “Are you willing to gamble your daughter’s life on possibilities? If Catherine has discovered that Meg was the Silver Rose, I guarantee you she will leave no stone un-turned to find her, if for no other reason than she still wants the Book of Shadows.”

  “Then Her Grace will be wasting her efforts because I don’t know what became of that cursed book and neither does Meg.” Martin shoved to his feet, pushing the chair away from him. “If the queen is truly after my daughter, I feel much safer with the English Channel between us.”

  “But on Faire Isle, Meg would have Ariane and her husband and a legion of vigilant wise women to protect her.”

  “She has her father for that. I have a done a fair job of protecting Meg thus far.”

  “No one is saying that you haven�
�t,” Cat began, only to break off in frustration as Martin strode away from her, unheeding. Damn the man! Could he never listen long enough to allow her to complete a sentence?

  He stalked over to a window opposite the bed, drawing back the heavy brocade curtains to reveal diamond panes of glass. Cat blinked in some surprise as she caught a glimpse of night-darkened sky where she had thought to see the purple of twilight. She must have been out far longer than she’d supposed.

  “Tell me,” Martin said, nodding toward the window. “What can you see out there?”

  Cat craned her neck only to stop when her head throbbed and the covers threatened to slip.

  “Damned little,” she grumbled. “Not without making my head explode or affording you a view of my bare arse. Even if I could drag myself out of bed, I don’t imagine I’d see much beyond rooftops.”

  “The rooftops of a vast city.”

  “Dirty, noisy, crowded. Too full of bloody Englishmen.”

  “You are right.” Martin smiled, but as he stared out the window, a dream-ridden expression stole over his face. “But it is also a city teeming with energy, enterprise, and opportunity. A place where any man can make his fortune, bury his past, and lose himself in the future.”

  Cat regarded him with barely suppressed exasperation. “Is that what you believe you have done? Lost yourself? I admit it took me awhile to track you, and I have some skill at hunting. But so does the Dark Queen. If I could find you, so could she, especially with you strutting about on a public stage.”

  “That was a mistake, I grant you. But when our lead actor fell ill, I could not resist the temptation to—” He checked himself, a tide of color washing into his face. Letting the drapery fall, he turned away from the window. “I won’t be so careless again.”

  “So you will what? Quit the company? How will you provide for your daughter if—”

  “That is not how I provide for her now.” Martin swept his arm in a gesture that encompassed the room. “Do you think I afford all this on an actor’s wages? When we first arrived in England I might have been nothing more than a vagabond player, but my fortunes have risen greatly since then. I am actually an investor in the Crown Theatre, and I have powerful friends.”

  “Those actors?” Cat asked scornfully. “A grand help they would be with their fake cauldrons and blunted swords.”

  “My own blade is sharp enough, as you nearly discovered. And I have acquaintance beyond Master Roxburgh and the company. I have acquired a patron, a man of vast resources and influence.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” Martin snapped. He compressed his lips in a taut line, and then addressed her in a more moderate tone.

  “Look, Mistress O’Hanlon…Cat. Don’t think I am not grateful to you for coming to warn me. I realize that you did so at no little inconvenience to yourself. I shall see that you are generously rewarded.”

  “Rewarded! Why, you ignorant lout.” Cat sat bolt upright, ignoring the ache in her head and the fact that she was close to giving Martin another eyeful. “I came because Ariane asked me to, and I serve the Lady of Faire Isle out of love and devotion, not for any reward or—or—.”

  “Forgive me.” Martin flung up his hands in a defensive gesture to stem her flow of fierce words. “I have no wish to offend you or Ariane. I appreciate her offer of sanctuary, but even if Faire Isle was not so close off the coast of France, it would be the last place I would be inclined to take my daughter. As I told you before, I mean to bury the past.”

  “Whose past? The child’s or yours?” Cat retorted.

  When Martin arched one brow in haughty inquiring fashion, Cat knew she might do better to hold her tongue, but that had always been a wisdom she lacked.

  “I know all about your relationship with Miribelle Cheney.”

  “Indeed?” Martin inquired politely, but his eyes flashed a strong warning.

  Cat ignored it, rushing on. “Ariane told me how much you loved her sister. And that your heart was broken when she married Simon Aristide. I understand how awkward and painful the thought of seeing Miri again must be, but you needn’t worry. She hardly ever comes to Faire Isle these days.”

  Martin frowned. “Why is that? Faire Isle was Miri’s home. She loved it there beyond any place on earth.”

  “Yes, but her husband, the erstwhile witch-hunter, is not exactly welcome there.”

  Martin approached the bed. Curling his fingers about the newel post, he peered anxiously down at Cat. “So—so Miri is not happy then?”

  “I didn’t say that. Miri might have loved Faire Isle, but she loves her husband more. She is completely besotted with the man, more so than ever since the birth of their daughter and—” Cat checked herself at last, glancing ruefully up at Martin. “I am sorry. This is likely the last thing you wanted to hear.”

  “No, it is exactly what I wanted to hear. I am glad that she is well and—and happy.”

  He truly meant that, Cat was astonished to realize. Lord knows she had not been so generous when Rory O’Meara had broken faith with her all those years ago, roundly cursing the man’s name every time it was mentioned.

  But Martin’s voice had softened as he spoke of Miri, his eyes full of such tenderness and regret, it roused a strange ache of envy within Cat’s bosom. She wondered if Rory ever still spoke of her with such fondness. No, she thought bleakly, very likely the O’Meara never spoke of her at all, never even spared her a thought. She was not like Miri, fey and gentle, full of feminine graces, the sort of woman a man would never forget.

  Martin’s gaze turned inward as though caught up in some poignant recollection of the past. Then he gave himself a brisk shake.

  “Miri and I parted as good friends. My reluctance to go to Faire Isle has more to do with Meg. When I rescued my daughter from that coven, I vowed to expel all witchcraft and magic from her life.”

  “You can hardly equate the women of Faire Isle and Ariane with those evil witches of the Silver Rose.”

  “I have nothing but the greatest respect for Ariane Deauville—”

  “And so you had better,” Cat said fiercely.

  “But I don’t see where studying this ancient knowledge ever did anything for Ariane except get her charged with witchcraft. I envision a far better, safer future for Meg. I intend to see her become a great lady one day, happy, prosperous, and well married.”

  Cat regarded him incredulously. “And you think what? That the past will all go away just because you will it so? From what I have been told, your daughter possesses certain gifts and abilities that she inherited from Cassandra Lascelles.”

  “That woman’s name is not to be mentioned beneath my roof,” Martin snarled. “Meg inherited nothing from her mother. Nothing. As far as I am concerned that part of her life is over and done with. Now where are the rest of your belongings?”

  “My belongings?” Cat faltered, jolted by the abrupt change of subject. “I didn’t have much, just a small saddlebag. I left it at the inn where I stayed last night. The Fighting Cock in Southwark, near the riverbank. But regarding your daughter—.”

  “I know the place. I will send one of my servants to fetch your pack.” He strode toward the door.

  “But Monsieur le Loup—I mean Master Wolfe.” Clutching the covers and ignoring her aches, Cat tried to struggle to the edge of the bed. “Martin!”

  He paused at the door, turning to look back at her. Something had shut down in his eyes, his expression so cold and forbidding, for once Cat was stilled to silence.

  “Understand this, Mistress O’Hanlon. As a friend of Ariane, you are welcome to remain here until you are recovered. But there will be no further discussion of my daughter. When you are well, you will return to Faire Isle and convey to the Lady my compliments and thanks for her concern. But Meg is staying right where she is.”

  Sketching a civil bow, he swept from the room, leaving Cat staring openmouthed at a closed door. Then she flopped back down upon the mattress with a groan, frus
trated and fuming.

  She had been warned that Martin le Loup might be a trifle stubborn, but even Ariane had not prepared Cat for a man as blockheaded as this. She needed to get up, find her clothes, go after Martin, and pound some sense into his thick head. Even if she had to use old Agatha’s cane to do it.

  If only her own head wasn’t still throbbing as though a hundred bodhrans were drumming away in her skull. She rubbed her temple. The futility of arguing with Martin le Loup had only aggravated her headache. She would just rest her eyes for a moment and recover some of her strength before she tackled the obstinate fool again.

  Cat was on the verge of drifting off when she heard the door creak. Opening her eyes, she saw the bedside candle flicker from a draft. Tensing, she realized someone had inched open the bedchamber door just far enough to peek inside.

  Le Loup returning in a more reasonable frame of mind? Cat doubted it. He would have no reason for being so stealthy. She started to call out, demand to know who was there when she caught a glimpse of a ghostly figure clad in white, a pale face that was all enormous green eyes.

  Shoving herself up onto her elbows, Cat said tartly, “Why don’t you come in, Megaera, and take a closer look?”

  The child froze like a coney caught in an eagle’s sight. Cat half expected the girl to bolt. But after a moment’s hesitation, Megaera stepped inside the room and closed the door.

  She approached the bed with a dignified carriage a princess might have envied, her slender frame garbed in a night rail of the finest white lawn, her dark brown hair spilling about her shoulders. Her face was framed by a lace-trimmed nightcap that might have looked well on a plumper, prettier girl but only served to accent the sharpness of Megaera’s features. Her dark brows stood out in marked contrast to her pale skin.

  A child of light and shadow, Cat thought with an inexplicable shiver. She struggled upward and swung her legs over the side of the bed, draping the sheet over her shoulder like a chieftain donning his plaid.

  Ridiculous, she thought, to be so wary of a wee slip of a girl, but she had already had a sharp taste of what this particular girl could do.

  Megaera halted about a foot away, devouring Cat with her eyes. Cat stared back just as fiercely, squaring off with her small nemesis.