“No, Jane. I do not believe in visiting the sins of the father upon innocent children. All I ask is that you and your brother become my true and loyal subjects. Can you do that?”
Jane gazed at the queen she had been raised to believe the devil incarnate, out to destroy the true faith. But all she saw was a woman whose kindness made Jane long to fling herself at the queen’s skirts and burst into tears.
“I—I will try,” she faltered.
“Good, because you are the older sister. Your brother will look to you for guidance, but I believe you are up to the task.”
The queen crooked her fingers beneath Jane’s chin and tipped her head up. “I perceive a great deal of strength in you, child.”
Jane blushed, pleased by the queen’s compliment but confused as well. “My father always told me that strength is not a becoming trait in a woman. Women are meant to be soft and yielding.”
“Only on the outside. Steel sheathed in velvet, that is what a woman must be in order to survive.” The queen’s smile took on a grimmer cast, her expression weary as she added, “And by God, I know something about survival.”
The memory blurred beneath the sparkling waters of the sea. As Jane surfaced back to the present, she touched her fingers to her chin as though she could still feel Elizabeth’s gentle touch.
Jane hoped the queen remembered all she had learned of survival because Elizabeth would need all her strength, all her courage in the days ahead. Jane folded her hands together but hesitated, wondering if it was wrong to appeal to God to spare the life of a heretic queen.
Instead she dropped to her knees and sought intercession from a gentler, feminine source. Pleading with the blessed Virgin to have mercy upon her queen and her tiny island homeland, Jane prayed as she had never done before.
Chapter Eleven
XAVIER SHIFTED ON HIS PILLOW, WATCHING AFTERNOON shadows stretch across the floor. He believed he had known what hell was during those months he had spent chained in a Spanish galleon. But he might have preferred being back at the oars to the humiliation of his present captivity. His good arm useless, his body so weak, he was dependent upon a gaggle of females for his simplest need. He could not even take a piss without help.
But he drew the line when Madame Partierre entered the cottage with a jug of water. The old woman all but smacked her lips when she announced her intention of bathing him.
“The devil you are,” Xavier said. “Where is Jane? I want Jane.”
“Then you should not have distressed her, should you?”
“Where did she go? Is she all right?”
The infuriating old crone refused to answer him. But at least she desisted in her efforts to bathe him. Bearing away his slops, she left Xavier alone to fume and curse his own helplessness.
Madame Bevans, who had looked in upon him earlier, had provided him with a nightshirt belonging to her late husband. The garment was overlarge and would have provided him with ample cover if he rose from his bed and went to search for Jane himself. But he still was unable to take more than a few steps without reeling.
He drummed his fingers against the mattress as he remembered how distraught Jane had looked as she had rushed out. He wondered if he had made her cry. His familiarity with his mother’s hysterics had rendered Xavier immune to a woman’s tears.
But somehow he imagined Jane would weep more quietly and never where anyone could see. The thought bothered him more than he liked to admit.
He blew out a gusty sigh. His father had always deplored Xavier’s lack of finesse with women. Xavier recalled one time in particular when they had made port at a French Huguenot settlement on the coast of Florida. Xavier had wagered one of his shipmates that he could kiss at least twenty girls during his first ten minutes ashore.
He alighted, enthusiastically pouncing on every female he saw, sending one girl shrieking for her maman while another stout wench boxed his ears. But her wrath had been nothing compared to his father, who had hauled Xavier back aboard ship by the scruff of his neck.
“Mon Dieu, Louis! What devil gets into you to behave thus? This is not the action of a gentleman, accosting young ladies, making them the object of a vulgar wager. Women should always be treated with delicate courtesy. They do not like being teased and bedeviled after your ruffian fashion.”
“Don’t they?” Xavier had asked, observing two of the girls he had “accosted” below on the dock, giggling and waving to him. “Then why do they keep coming back for more?”
His father had scowled over a question he was unable to answer and as punishment had set Xavier to swabbing the deck.
As the afternoon waned, Xavier realized Jane was not coming back and he regretted his treatment of her. Not the kiss. He had enjoyed bringing the heat to her cheeks and it had intrigued him to feel a hint of response in those prim but deliciously soft lips. But he was sorry to have occasioned her such alarm with his report about the Spanish armada.
Callous in matters of religion and feeling no loyalty to any nation himself, it had never occurred to Xavier that Jane would be distressed by the notion of England being invaded. Most people would rejoice at the downfall of the queen who had banished them.
He sensed a generosity of spirit in Jane that Xavier would never have thought possible. He didn’t understand it, but he wished Jane would return so he could at least apologize, attempt to make amends.
As time dragged by, his eyelids grew heavier and he was on the verge of drifting back to sleep when he heard a light footfall in the next room.
“Jane?” he called eagerly, but as he twisted his head, he was disappointed and annoyed to see two small figures poised in the doorway.
A pair of little girls with angelic golden hair and great blue eyes regarded him earnestly, the shorter and younger of the two sucking her thumb and clutching a ragged poppet.
Xavier propped himself up on one elbow. “This is not a menagerie and I am not a bear to be gawked at. Be off with you.”
His bark would have been enough to send any of his crew scuttling topside, but the two sprites appeared undaunted.
“If you are not a bear, why do you growl?” the older one challenged, venturing closer.
“I did not say I wasn’t a bear, only one that didn’t like being stared at. I am in fact a beast and I regularly devour little girls for breakfast.”
The smaller one shrank closer to her sister. The older girl crinkled her pert nose and sniffed. “You would never eat us because you are our uncle.”
“The devil—I mean the blazes I am. Who filled your head with nonsense such as that?”
“My older sister Seraphine. I am Lucia Remy,” the girl jabbed a thumb at her chest, then pointed to the little one. “And this is Ninon.”
Xavier frowned. So whoever these sprites were, they were not Ariane’s daughters. He supposed that it should have occurred to him that his half sisters must be married by now, even have offspring. But he was uncomfortable enough with the notion of being a brother. The prospect of being claimed as an uncle was downright alarming.
“I don’t know what this Seraphine told you,” he said. “But she is mistaken.”
“Seraphine is never wrong,” Lucia informed him loftily. “Actually she said you are a half uncle.” Lucia cocked her head to one side, studying him with a mighty frown. “So which half of you is missing?”
“My wits, they have gone a-begging.”
His reply surprised a giggle out of Lucia, the sound so infectious, Xavier could not help smiling. He shifted his attention to the younger one, her blue eyes wide above the barrier of her fist.
“What about you, Mistress Ninon? Do you have nothing to say for yourself? Do you even speak?”
“Of course Ninon speaks. When she has something to say.”
“What a wise child. Petite Ninon, you do realize that thumb will eventually come off if you keep sucking it that hard.”
Ninon plopped her thumb out of her mouth long enough to regard him haughtily. “Imbecile.”
br /> Lucia beamed with sisterly pride. “That is Ninon’s new word. She learned it from Madame Partierre.”
“It is a very useful word and you pronounce it beautifully, mademoiselle.”
Ninon’s bow-shaped mouth curved into a wide grin that charmed Xavier in spite of himself. He had almost begun to think that being an uncle might not be so alarming when they were interrupted by someone calling.
“Lucia! Ninon!”
An older girl appeared in the doorway. The aforementioned sister, Seraphine? Xavier wondered. But the girl’s dark appearance provided too stark a contrast to these two golden fairy children. Her next words dispelled any notion that she was related to them.
“You should not be in here,” she told the girls. “Your sister has been very worried, looking everywhere for you. Seraphine is going to be quite cross at you for running off.”
“We didn’t run anywhere,” Lucia said. “We are making the acquaintance of our half an uncle.”
The older girl ignored Xavier, her gaze not so much as flickering in his direction. Planting her hands on her hips, she frowned at the little ones.
“You should not have come without permission. Now get along with you.”
“But Meg-air-ah—” Ninon wailed.
“Shh!” Lucia gave her little sister a poke in the ribs. “She doesn’t like to be called that.”
As the dark-haired girl marched his two protesting nieces toward the door, Xavier’s brow furrowed.
Megaera? The infamous young sorceress that Queen Catherine had engaged Xavier to find and abduct? The legendary Silver Rose? This thin insignificant chit of a girl? Surely not.
Ignoring his stiffness and aches, Xavier struggled upward in bed, straining for a better glimpse of her as she hustled the two little girls from the room. He expected her to vanish with them.
He was surprised when she returned alone, slowly approaching the bed. Her budding figure hinted at a girl in her early teens, but she looked small for her age, her slender neck appearing too swan like to support such a mass of dark brown hair. The late afternoon sun painted shadows on a pale face whose features were unremarkable except for her eyes. Xavier had never seen eyes so old and sad in a countenance so young.
“Megaera?” he murmured uncertainly.
“My name is Meg. But you may call me Mistress Wolfe.”
Her tone was as hostile as her gaze. Xavier might have found it amusing if something about the girl hadn’t rendered him uneasy.
“Well, Mistress Wolfe. And what have I done to displease you?”
“Nothing. I do not even know you.”
“Then why do you look as though you would like to drive a stake through my heart?”
She forced a rigid smile to her lips. “You are entirely mistaken, monsieur. I bear you no ill will. In fact, I have brought you a gift.”
She produced a small vial filled with some clear liquid. Xavier eyed it warily.
“What the devil is that?”
“A healing elixir that I prepared. I have been studying with the Lady of Faire Isle and have learned much from her.”
Why did he have this unsettled feeling that whatever was in that vial, it was nothing that Ariane had taught this girl to prepare? He frowned, remembering what Queen Catherine had said about Megaera.
“I have already seen evidence of her power. She knows how to grow deadly roses, how to fashion a knife with a blade so needle-thin, it can deliver poison direct into a man’s veins.”
When Meg extended the vial toward him, Xavier made no move to take it.
“No thank you, my dear. I believe I have had my fill of draughts these past few days.”
“You would rather continue to lie here helpless?”
“I appear to have little choice, unless you claim that vial of yours contains some magic potion.”
“It is not magic. It won’t heal your broken bone any faster, but the draught does have invigorating properties. It will restore your strength.”
She uncorked the vial and held it out, demanding, “Here. Drink it.”
“I think not.”
“It’s not poison if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said as though she had read his thoughts. “I’ll prove it to you.”
She tipped up the vial and took a swallow herself. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she offered the bottle to him, her expression challenging.
Xavier took the vial and sniffed it. The substance had no odor. As he held the bottle, considering, he could well imagine what Pietro would have said to him, the same thing the towering black man had remarked the day Xavier had first ventured to sample the shaman’s potion.
“Your reckless curiosity will be the death of you one day, my friend.”
Xavier hesitated a moment more, then took a cautious sip of Meg’s elixir. It tasted like nothing more than water. He frowned, wondering if this strange girl was mocking him, having a jest at his expense.
But the next instant an explosion of warmth shot through his veins, unlike anything he had ever experienced even from the most potent of whiskeys.
His senses reeled for a moment, then cleared until he felt more like himself than he had since being cast up on this cursed island.
He moved eagerly to take another swallow, when Meg prevented him. She took the vial and corked it. “You must only take a sip every few hours or the potion can be too strong. It might cause your heart to burst.”
“Thank you for the warning. You might have mentioned that a trifle sooner.”
“I was watching to see how much you drank. I would not have let you die.”
“I am touched, mademoiselle.” Xavier leaned back against the pillows. “But as you said before, you do not know me. Why all this concern for my welfare?”
“Because I want you well enough to leave Faire Isle, the sooner the better. You see, I know why you are here, monsieur, and what you are after.”
Xavier started in surprise but recovered himself, concealing his alarm behind a bland smile.
“How could you possibly know that, mademoiselle? When I am not even sure myself what the devil I am doing here.”
She stared at him. If he had thought the Lady of Faire Isle’s gaze powerful, it was nothing as compared to this girl’s. Meg’s eyes pierced him like a sword, poking and prodding through the thicket of his mind, attempting to drive all of his fugitive thoughts out of hiding.
Although he repelled the assault, he ran his fingers over his brow, half expecting to find blood trickling from a gaping hole in his forehead.
Meg lowered her lashes, muttering, “Perhaps I cannot tell precisely what you are about, but I foresaw your coming.”
“What? In your dreams?” Xavier asked derisively.
“No, in my scrying glass. I had a vision of a large fierce black cat stalking through the jungle.”
A black cat like the jaguar Xavier transformed into whenever he sank into one of his trances? Once more he struggled to conceal how disconcerted he was by this girl’s perception.
He managed to shrug. “What has some black cat got to do with me?”
“I don’t know.” She glared at him. “I am just certain that there is some connection and—and you had best leave Lady Danvers alone. If you hurt her—”
“Hold, mademoiselle,” Xavier snapped, flinging up one hand to silence her. “What has Jane got to do with anything and why do you fear I would hurt her?”
“Because you are a predator, just like that jungle cat. I think you could be careless and cruel and Jane is my most particular friend. So if you harm her, I vow I will—will lay a curse on you and shrivel up your man parts.”
She added fiercely, “I could really do that.”
“By God, I believe you,” Xavier murmured, resisting the urge to protectively cup his balls.
“Good. Just so long as we understand one another.” Meg dropped the vial on the bed beside him and flounced out of the room.
Xavier slowly released his breath. Any lingering doubts he had had abou
t Meg Wolfe being Megaera were dispelled.
Perhaps Catherine de Medici was not completely mad in her obsession to find this girl. Megaera was, to say the least, unusual and more than a little disconcerting. Small wonder Catherine was willing to pay a queen’s ransom to gain possession of the young sorceress.
Or if not quite a queen’s ransom, at least a tidy sum, enough to restore the fortunes of a destitute seaman who was no longer sure he had a ship to call his own.
Xavier grimaced, disgusted with himself, ashamed of the direction in which his thoughts had strayed. He shoved the small vial beneath his pillow, struggling to thrust the tempting possibility out of his head.
Xavier closed his eyes, his last thought as he drifted off to sleep, the sooner he managed to get himself off this benighted island, the better. For everyone.
THE MIDNIGHT SKY WAS LIT BY FIRE, THE FLAMES SCORCHING A path through the tiny French settlement. Xavier could feel the heat blistering his skin, sweat trickling into his eyes. He staggered toward the dock where the settlers were scrambling for the safety of the Miribelle, the only escape possible from the oncoming Spanish raiders.
The night was thick with smoke and confusion. Xavier’s heart beat harder, reverberating with the terrified cries of those who pushed past him. Only his father appeared calm as he shepherded frantic settlers into the longboats, the chevalier, a heroic beacon amidst all this madness.
Clutching his leg where he had been grazed by a pistol shot, Xavier limped forward. When he saw his father load the last of the boats, he called out, “Monsieur. Wait!”
But his voice, raw with smoke, came out in a hoarse croak. Xavier watched, stunned, as the last boat was launched, the oars pulling for the safety of the Miribelle. The chevalier never even looked back.
Xavier’s breath escaped him in a mighty sob as he was surrounded by Spanish soldiers. Roughly forced to his knees, his hands were bound behind his back.
“Papa!”
Xavier jerked, nearly coming up off the bed in his frantic efforts to claw his way out of the dream. He opened his eyes wide to discover his cottage prison darkened by night; a pale moon hung outside his window where the sun had once been.