The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  Cat? Papa? Meg quickened with hope. But when she sought to thrust Sander’s hand away and cry out, he seized her about the waist. Crushing her to him, he muffled her more ruthlessly.

  Meg struggled, kicked, and tried to sink her teeth into his palm. Sander cursed when she stamped down on his foot.

  “Don’t be a fool, Meg,” he whispered harshly in her ear. “What if it’s Gautier? Do you really want to end up at the mercy of the Dark Queen?”

  Sander’s words caused her to freeze. She ceased her struggles with a tiny whimper.

  “Now be quiet.”

  When he was satisfied with her compliance, he released her. Thrusting Meg behind him, Sander drew out his dirk and stood poised, tense, waiting.

  Meg scarce dared breathe as the footsteps hesitated, then came closer, heading straight for the tiring-room. Her hand moved instinctively toward the hidden pocket in her gown, but it had been a long time since she had armed herself with her syringe. Not since the day Cat had become her fianna.

  A floorboard creaked beneath the weight of a heavy foot. Whoever approached was making little effort to conceal their presence.

  “Sander?” a man called softly.

  Sander expelled a long breath and sheathed his knife. Parting the tiring-room curtain, he replied. “Ned, over here.”

  Lord Oxbridge ducked behind the curtain, what little daylight remained outlining his sharp aristocratic profile. Sander might have been relieved to see him, but Meg regarded Ned Lambert warily.

  “Sander, where the devil have you been? I have been looking everywhere for you.” His lordship’s gaze flicked in Meg’s direction. “And what is she doing here?”

  “It is a long story. Suffice it to say there is another contender here in London striving for the prize. We can’t afford to wait any longer, Ned. We have to take the girl and leave England tonight. As soon as it gets dark we—”

  “None of us are going anywhere. Especially not her.” The look his lordship directed at Meg was so hard and angry, she shrank away from him.

  Sander appeared startled by Lord Oxbridge’s vehement words, but he recovered, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I know you hoped I would coax her into telling what became of the Book of Shadows, but we’ve no time to worry about that now. It doesn’t matter anyway. I believe the girl knows most of the spells. Megaera is the book.”

  “Damn the book,” Lord Oxbridge interrupted impatiently. “Do you think I care about any of that—that sorcery now? Don’t you know what has happened to my sister?”

  Sander blinked. “Oh, that. Yes, I had heard Lady Danvers was taken to the Tower. It proved most convenient actually. I was able to use the tidings to get rid of Master Wolfe so I could—”

  “Convenient?”

  Sander made haste to amend his tone. “I did not mean that precisely. It is most unfortunate about your sister, but she appears to have brought it all upon herself, smuggling in a priest to say mass in your home. You are fortunate it is not you in the Tower.”

  “Jane only did what I should have had the courage to do myself.” A red tide of color flooded Lord Oxbridge’s cheeks. “I should have been the one arrested. I was the one who furbished that secret room with all the occult symbols in my stupid quest for the philosopher’s stone.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “You haven’t heard the worst of the accusations against my sister? Jane is accused of plotting to use witchcraft against the queen. I have no notion how it is possible, but somehow they have come to believe that Jane is the Silver Rose.”

  Silent and forgotten, Meg followed the exchange between the two men with growing consternation. She thought of Lady Danvers with her sad, haunted eyes, but still so kind, gifting Meg with what was now her greatest treasure, that scrap of the coronation carpet. And now that same gentle lady was imprisoned in the Tower, accused of being the Silver Rose in Meg’s stead?

  Meg was horrified when Sander started to laugh. Lord Oxbridge looked as though he wanted to strangle Sander and Meg could not have blamed him as she had another daunting realization about her once-beloved friend.

  Sander Naismith was completely selfish, had no true empathy for anyone save himself.

  But faced with his lordship’s glare, Sander struggled to contain his mirth. “S-sorry. But you must see the absurdity of it yourself. The saintly Jane suspected of being an evil sorceress? You have often complained yourself of how tiresomely virtuous your sister is.”

  “Yes, I have, to my shame,” Lord Oxbridge said. “Jane has looked after me since we were children. She has sacrificed much for my sake, and I have heedlessly taken all that she had to give.”

  “And I am sure she would willingly give her life to keep you safe.”

  “No doubt she would, but that is one sacrifice too many to accept, even for a worthless wretch like me.” Lord Oxbridge squared his shoulders. “I have only one hope to save Jane and that is to claim that I was the one meeting with Father Ballard. I will admit that any attempt to deal in the dark arts was mine.”

  He turned to Meg and she was surprised to see a trace of gentleness, even nobility in his lean, dissipated features. For the first time, she perceived a faint resemblance to his sister.

  “I am sorry, Margaret,” he said. “But I am also going to have to take you before the queen’s council. You have to confess that you are really the Silver Rose.”

  Meg’s heart thudded. She could see the justice of that, but her mouth went dry with fear at the prospect. Before she could frame any sort of reply, Sander thrust himself between her and Lord Oxbridge.

  “Have you completely lost your wits?”

  “No, I believe I am thinking clearly for the first time in my life.”

  “Fine. Go play the hero if you’ve the stomach for it.” Sander sneered. “But I am damned if I’ll stand aside while you throw away everything I’ve worked and risked my neck for all these months. All the power and knowledge that girl represents.”

  “Get out of my way, Sander.” When Sander refused, Ned gave him a violent shove. Sander staggered back, falling over a wardrobe trunk.

  Struggling to regain his feet, he shouted, “You are not taking Meg anywhere.”

  “I quite agree,” a silken voice hissed. The curtain behind Lord Oxbridge stirred and it was as though one of the shadows had sprung to life.

  It seemed to envelop Lord Oxbridge. Meg caught the flash of a knife and then his lordship’s throat blossomed bright red. He did not even have a chance to cry out, merely looked stunned as he crashed to his knees, collapsing onto his side.

  Meg blinked, unable to fathom what had just happened. It was all over so swiftly. She stared down at the crimson droplets that had spattered her sleeve, caught the sticky sweet scent. Blood.

  She struggled to accept that she had just watched a man being killed. Her mother and the members of her coven had performed many acts of violence, but Meg had never borne witness to any of them. She had been haunted by them anyway, always believing she could clearly envision the horrible deeds.

  But the reality of murder was so much worse than anything she could have ever imagined that her breath escaped in a ragged sob and she started to shake.

  The shadowy figure assumed the solid shape of a man. Still clutching his knife, he regarded the fallen Lord Oxbridge dispassionately.

  “Your pardon, monsieur,” he said. “But you should not have intruded. You have no part in this little farce and it is I who shall direct the final act.”

  The man’s French accent penetrated through the haze of Meg’s shock. This had to be Gautier, the Dark Queen’s agent that Sander had warned her about. But Meg still felt too numb to move. She stared down into his lordship’s sightless eyes and trembled.

  Sander was as immobilized with shock as she. By the time he was galvanized into action, it was too late. As he drew his dirk to defend himself, two other men stormed into the room. Seizing Sander, they pinned his arms behind his back.

  Gautier
ambled toward him and laid the edge of his bloodied knife against Sander’s throat. Meg whimpered, certain she was about to see Sander murdered as well.

  Sander struggled frantically, his eyes rolled back in terror. “P-please, m’sieur.”

  Gautier clucked his tongue. “You disappointed me, Monsieur Naismith. A clever player such as you. I thought you understood your part, but you have deviated from the script. I should slit your worthless throat as well, but I still may have need of you.”

  Sander moaned with relief as Gautier removed the blade from his throat. The Frenchman wiped the knife clean on the front of Sander’s shirt. He sheathed it before turning to Meg with a most civil nod.

  “Ah, la petite Mademoiselle la Rose. We meet at last.”

  Meg could only gape up at him. Peering into his eyes, she swiftly saw all she needed to know. This man’s heart was encased in ice; the blood that ran through his veins was cold. Exactly like Maman.

  If she had been afraid before, her pulse now thundered with pure terror, although she strove not to show it.

  As he stalked toward her, Meg found her voice at last. “You stay away from me. If you harm me, my papa will come and—”

  “I trust your papa will come. Shall we dispatch a note inviting him and request that he also bring the Book of Shadows? Don’t trouble denying you have it. I overheard your conversation with these two gentlemen.”

  “Even if I do have the book, my papa knows nothing of it. He—he wouldn’t know where I have it hidden.”

  “Then I suggest we tell him or—” Gautier’s teeth flashed in a feral smile. “Do you know what I do to witches, child?”

  “B-burn them?” Meg faltered.

  “That requires entirely too much effort, gathering wood, hauling it, building a fire. There is a much simpler way.”

  Gautier snapped his fingers and one of his men fetched him a length of stout rope. Meg stared at it in horror. But still she could not seem to move, even when Gautier fitted the end of the noose about her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CAT LIMPED UP THE STAIRS, UNSTEADY ON HER FEET. THE hours since she had been carried back to the Angel were a blur, a nightmare from which there was no waking. Her head throbbed from the blow she had taken, a thick linen bandage wrapped round her brow, protecting the place where Master Turner had stitched up the gash in her temple.

  Each step that she took jarred all the way through to her skull. Only a supreme effort of will kept her on her feet. Her stomach roiled but perhaps that was due as much to the emotions that had consumed her ever since Meg’s abduction—fear, despair, and self-blame.

  She kept rehearsing the event over and over in her mind, berating herself, trying to think what she might have done differently. If only she had not been so distracted helping Jem or if she had obliged Meg to remain in the kitchen. If only she had sent Naismith on his way or if she had been more wary or a little quicker.

  If only…if only. All such thoughts did was make her head ache worse. Cat did her best to cease the futile exercise.

  Her head reeled as she reached the top of the stairs. Gripping the railing, she paused a moment until the house stopped spinning and she was able to gather her strength. In the hall below, the entire household waited, their faces anxious and distressed. Both Maude and the kitchen boy were in tears, old Agatha’s eyes red-rimmed.

  They all stared up at Cat with such desperate hope, it astonished her. It was as though somehow they expected she would be able to set everything right. When in the blazes had she begun to inspire such confidence in these people, even the crotchety Mistress Butterydoor? It weighed heavily upon Cat, for she felt it was a confidence she little deserved.

  Stumbling away from the steps, she approached the door to Meg’s bedchamber where Martin had shut himself away, forbidding anyone to come near him. Ever since his return from the Tower, he had seemed distraught to the verge of madness and Cat had been terrified of what he might do.

  Rescuing Meg would require a cool and collected head. Martin could be impulsive and reckless even at the best of times.

  But as Cat peered into the chamber, she found Martin on the edge of the bed, the ransom note he had received clutched in his hand. Shoulders slumped, he looked completely drained of the brash manner with which he usually took on the world.

  His gaze roved bleakly about the room scattered with Meg’s books, her writing desk, her lute, the wardrobe overflowing with all of her costly gowns. Cat could only imagine how it all must mock him, the trappings of the safe refuge he believed he had created for his daughter. It taunted Cat as well.

  “Martin?” Cat stole into the chamber and closed the door.

  At the sound of her voice, Martin roused himself to scowl up at her. “Cat, what are you doing up here? Go back down to my bed.”

  “I am fine.” Her assertion was belied as she swayed on her feet. Martin leapt up to brace her.

  “Fine? Damn it, woman, you are ready to keel over. You will be of no use to Meg if you fall and crack your head open again.”

  “I was already of no use to Meg.” Cat thrust his hands away, and then eased down onto the edge of the bed.

  Something gentled in the harsh lines of Martin’s face. He stroked his knuckles alongside her cheek.

  “You did all that you could, my valiant Cat. Fighting those villains alone. You were not the one who failed Meg. I did. You tried to warn me there might be something amiss with Alexander Naismith. I didn’t listen.”

  “All the more reason I should have been vigilant when I knew that varlet was about the house.”

  “No, I am the one who should have been here instead of rushing off to Lady Danvers’s aid. Little good that I did there. Little damned good that I am to anyone—”

  “Peace, Martin.” Cat stayed him, squeezing his hand. “We’ll have time enough for sorting out blame when we have Meg home safe. We can take turns kicking each other in the arse then. Agatha told me you received a ransom note?”

  “Yes, one of those cowards tied it to a rock and chucked it through the window.” Martin handed Cat the crumpled note.

  Pressing one hand to her brow, Cat squinted at the parchment. Despite the pain splitting her head, it took little effort to read it. The note was written in French, glaring its message in bold, flowing script.

  Greetings, Monsieur le Loup,

  Your enchanting young daughter graces me with her presence. Have no fear. The child is safe with me and will remain so as long as you oblige me in a certain matter. Please be so kind as to bring me the Book of Shadows.

  Your daughter informs me that you might be astonished to learn you have it in your possession. I fear Megaera has been rather a naughty girl. She instructs you to look for the grimoire behind the unicorn.

  I am willing to take this dangerous book off your hands in exchange for your daughter’s life. I will meet with you at your theater at midnight. Come not a stroke later or I regret that your child will meet with a most unhappy accident.

  Your obedient servant,

  A.G.

  For a threatening note, it was couched in the most courteous of tones, after Gautier’s silken fashion. Cat could well imagine how the captain must have smirked while he wrote it.

  “Gautier. The bastard.” She crushed the note in her fist.

  “So this was written by the same man who attacked you on the street?” Martin asked.

  “Yes, Captain Ambroise Gautier. He works for the Dark Queen.”

  “And how did Sander become enmeshed with him?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps I can induce the boy to tell me before I throttle him,” Cat replied. “But the important thing right now is to recover Meg.”

  “And how are we to do that? This Gautier demands the impossible. The Book of Shadows. What the devil is it going to take to convince these fools that we don’t have that accursed book?” Martin paced, flinging up his hands in frustration and anger. “If I did, I vow I’d hand it over to the devil himself, just to buy Meg and me some
peace.”

  Cat hesitated before venturing, “Meg says the book is to be found behind the unicorn.”

  “Gautier likely has her so frightened she would say anything. If that villain has hurt so much as one hair of my babe’s head, I’ll cut off his bollocks and feed them to him.”

  “And I will help you roast them. But for now, you had better check behind the tapestry. I—I have always suspected Meg has a hiding place somewhere.”

  “So what if she does? For some girlish trinkets perhaps. But my daughter does not have that cursed book of black magic. If she had ever stumbled across it, she would have told me and we would have gotten rid of it. Meg wouldn’t want to keep the damn thing any more than I would.”

  Martin’s denial was so fierce, it held an edge of desperation. Cat’s heart ached for him, knowing what a blow he was about to receive, wishing she could spare him.

  “Go look, Martin,” she said quietly.

  He stared at her so hard, she could not meet his eyes. Striding over to the tapestry, he wrenched it aside, exposing the plain boards of the wall.

  “There is nothing here—,” he began, only to check himself. Snatching up one of the candles, he examined the wainscoting.

  As he pried away a loose board, Cat heard his breath hitch. How sharply did she regret that she had never prepared him for this moment, never said a word about Meg’s continued fascination with the ancient knowledge. Cat knew Martin would not have wanted to hear it, but she should have forced him to listen. Anything would have been better than him discovering the truth this way.

  He reached into the opening behind the board and drew forth a small canvas sack. He upended it, dumping the contents beside Cat. All of Meg’s secrets spilled across the bed, her spyglass, a scrying ball, packets of dried herbs she used in brewing her potions. The final thing to emerge was a carefully wrapped object. Martin stripped away the linen to expose the witch blade.

  He touched the hilt, his voice rife with disbelief. “No. I—I got rid of this infernal thing. I threw it into the pond.”

  “Not deep enough. Meg fetched it later. She used to carry the weapon with her everywhere. Not filled with poison,” Cat added hastily. “Only a sleeping draught. She used it on me that first day when you and I dueled at the theater. That was what felled me. Not the blow from Agatha’s cane, but Meg’s potion. She only stopped carrying the weapon after—”