He sank back, dragging his hand over his damp face to rub out the last vestiges of the nightmare. It had been years since he had been troubled by this particular dream and it had never been quite this vivid before. He wondered if it might be a side effect of young Megaera’s witch’s brew.
He wondered even more uneasily if he had cried out. He had a sinking feeling it might have been the roar of his own voice that had roused him from the dream. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard someone stirring in the next room.
“Merde!” he muttered. He turned his head toward the door. So which one of his gaolers was about to descend upon him now and could he elude their embarrassing and curious concern by feigning sleep?
A figure appeared on the threshold, haloed by the light of the candle she carried. She looked like something out of a dream herself, the mermaid of his visions, her soft gold hair flowing about her shoulders. But a most sensible and modest mermaid, a dark woolen shawl knotted over her white nightgown.
“Jane!” He sat up, mortified by how eager he sounded.
She hastened to the bedside and held the candle up to look at him.
“What is the matter? I heard you call out. Are you in pain?”
He shielded his eyes from the candlelight. “No, I am fine.” Now.
Frowning as though she did not believe him, she set the taper down on the table. She placed her hand upon his brow. Her fingers felt so cool and soothing, he could not help breathing a contented sigh.
Jane’s brow knit in puzzlement. “You do not feel as though you are starting a fever and yet you are damp with sweat.”
“Likely because it is a little warm in here,” he lied. “Madame Bevans insisted upon closing the window.”
Jane went to open it and then returned to retrieve her candle. “There. Do you require anything else?”
“No, only—”
“If you do, I am sleeping on the pallet in the kitchen. You have but to summon me.”
She would have retreated as quickly as she had come if he had not managed to get hold of her arm to prevent her. Although she stiffened at his touch, she did not appear as if she were angry with him, only determined to keep her distance. The candle’s glow revealed a face that looked pale and tense, shadows beneath her eyes that he feared he had put there with his careless words.
“Jane, I—I am sorry about before,” he faltered. He had had to apologize to this woman so many times; he reflected he ought to be better at it.
“It is no great matter, monsieur. As I told you before, I am not some foolish maiden, to keep fretting over a stolen kiss.”
“Oh, I am not apologizing for that. I like kissing pretty women, have enjoyed it ever since I was breeched.”
He hoped to coax a smile from her. When he didn’t succeed, he continued, “But I do regret alarming you with all my talk of the Spanish armada. I never expected to cause you such distress.”
“Because I am Catholic?” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am also an Englishwoman and you cannot imagine how difficult that has made my life, torn between loyalty to my country and my faith.”
“No, I am afraid I cannot.”
“When I was forced into exile, I thought, well at least I would be able hear the mass without fear of being arrested, that I would find some measure of peace. But now you tell me that England is in danger from Spain and the Inquisition—” She faltered, her lashes sweeping down to veil the moisture in her eyes. “I cannot even pray this war to be averted, for my country’s safe deliverance, without feeling I am committing some sort of sin and needing to do penance.”
Xavier squirmed. He felt he was the last man in the world to advise anyone regarding matters of religion, but he could not bear seeing Jane look so tormented.
“For what an opinion is worth coming from someone who is a bit of a heathen, I don’t think God would object to any prayer for peace and safety. And I am sure you have never done anything in your life that would merit penance.”
Jane blinked back her tears. “That is because you do not know me very well, monsieur.”
“At least I know enough about this Spanish invasion to tell you I don’t think England is in any great peril.”
“No great peril? From an armada the size that you described and Spain the mightiest nation in the world?” Jane shook her head. “As alarmed as I was by what you told me, I value your honesty, far more than you attempting to soothe me with comforting lies.”
“Do you think that I would lie, milady?” Xavier grimaced. “Well, yes, I likely would. I do it all the time, but not in this instance. There are other factors which I would have explained to you if you had not rushed off before.
“Come sit by me and I will tell you.” He shifted, patting the empty space on the bed beside him.
When she hesitated, he added, “I promise I will behave like a gentleman.”
At least as far as I am able, he was tempted to add as Jane set down the candle and perched on the edge of the bed. But he kept the teasing remark to himself, sensing how little it would take to provoke Jane into flight.
He didn’t even attempt to take her hand as he said, “My father tried to teach me many things and I will admit that not much of it took. But there is one lesson I heeded. The chevalier always said that it is not mighty weapons or even superiority of numbers alone that can determine the outcome of battle, but rather the courage and skill of the commanders.
“King Philip has placed his fleet in the hands of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. According to reports, the duke actually got down upon his knees and begged not to be appointed admiral of the armada.”
“Is he not a brave man then, this Spanish duke?”
“Oh, quite brave. The duke is a most able commander, but on land. He knows little of naval warfare. In fact, I have heard that His Grace cannot set foot on board ship without becoming miserably seasick.”
“Truly?” Jane tilted her head to one side, clearly wanting to believe him, but uncertain.
“Upon my honor, that is what I have heard. And this is the man who will be facing such formidable captains as John Hawkins and Francis Drake? Pah, the duke doesn’t stand a chance. I sailed with Drake for nearly a year and I never met a more able seaman or a fiercer fighter.”
“You sailed with Sir Francis Drake?” Jane breathed.
“Yes, and now you have that awed look on your face ladies always get at the mention of Sir Francis. It is very annoying.”
“What is he like?”
“Shorter than me and not half so handsome.”
This provoked a smile from her at last. “How did you come to sail with Sir Francis? I thought you were the captain of your own ship.”
“Not five years ago, when I first encountered Drake. I—” Xavier hesitated. This was not a part of his past he liked to discuss or dwell upon, but with Jane waiting so expectantly, he had no choice but to continue.
“I was an unwilling guest of the Spanish navy, chained to a bench, manning the oars of the galley that Drake attacked. When the Spanish surrendered, Drake released all the prisoners and even offered some of us employment. I owe him my freedom and my life.”
“And you hate being beholden to anyone.”
He gave a dry laugh. “You begin to know me well, lady. Yes, I loathe it.”
She fell silent for a moment, then asked, “Was it during your imprisonment that you acquired the scars on your back?”
“Aha, so you have been studying my physique.”
Jane blushed. “It was impossible not to notice, to surmise that at some point you must have been—been—”
“Whipped like a dog.” Xavier shrugged, seeking to make light of it. “I always regarded myself as an entertaining traveling companion, but the Spanish did not seem to appreciate my wit.”
“Were you a prisoner for long?”
Three years, eight months, twenty-two days. An ordeal that he had only survived because of the daily diet of anger he had consumed. Hatred for his Spanish captors, bitterness toward his
father.
Jane was already regarding him with more sympathy than he found comfortable. Not that he was above taking advantage of it, using her softening toward him as an excuse to capture her hand.
“I scarce remember those days,” Xavier lied. “My captivity was all a blur until I was rescued by Drake.”
“I remember how Sir Francis was feted when he returned from his voyage around the world. Not that I ever attended any of the suppers or attempted to make his acquaintance.” Jane looked a little wistful. “I was warned he is a staunch defender of the new religion and unlikely to welcome the congratulations of a Papist.”
“Nonsense. Drake would have been charmed by you. He was ever chivalrous toward the ladies, although he might have made an effort to save your soul. He certainly barraged me enough with his views. The man had his entire crew praying morning and night. Although Drake could certainly break off the psalm singing quickly enough when a plum Spanish vessel hove into sight. Sir Francis is, to his very core, a privateer.”
“Is that what you are as well?”
“No, I make no such pretensions. I serve no country, no cause but my own. I am a pirate, Jane, plain and simple.”
And a liar as well. Despite all of his assurances to Jane, Xavier would not have wagered a sou on England’s odds against the might of Spain. They would have a better chance if France would come to England’s aid. Xavier frowned, recalling the portion of the Spanish letter he had decoded.
Spain’s hope … lies with the duke of Guise. The duke has pledged himself to create a diversion that will prevent the French king from sending military aid to England even should he wish to do so.
A diversion … Xavier still didn’t have the least notion what that meant. But whatever de Guise and the Spanish were plotting, Xavier doubted it would take much to distract the erratic French king. The English, God help them, would have to be able to stand alone against the power of the Spanish empire.
But Xavier kept such disquieting reflections to himself. The anxiety had been erased from Jane’s face, her natural serenity restored. The tense set of her shoulders relaxed, her shawl slipping down.
She was innocently unaware of how her nightgown clung to her bosom, revealing the curve of her breasts. Full and lush, just the way Xavier liked them. Megaera’s little potion must have done a great deal to restore his potency because Xavier could feel himself getting hard.
He rubbed his finger in slow, languid circles on Jane’s wrist and Xavier was surprised to feel the quiver of her response, her pulse quickening.
His gaze locked with hers and he saw her color rise, her lips part involuntarily. A heightened awareness seemed to rise between them.
He might not possess his half sister’s witchlike mind reading skills, but Xavier had an uncanny knack for detecting when a woman was ripe for seduction. Beneath her prim exterior, this lonely widow hungered for a man’s embrace. It would not take much, a caress or two, a few heated kisses to ignite the fire Jane fought so hard to suppress.
All he had to do was tighten his grasp on her wrist, draw her closer, coax her into his arms. Instead, Xavier surprised himself. Depositing a light kiss on her fingertips, he bade the lady good night.
THE CANDLE BURNED LOW, SHEDDING A SMALL POOL OF LIGHT where Meg sat on a stool near the hearth, leaving the rest of the cottage in darkness.
That could only be an improvement as far as Meg was concerned. The cottage that she shared with the other girls had long been abandoned by its original occupants. Any tidying, any effort to render the place more comfortable was all owing to Carole, who was far better at housewifery than Seraphine or Meg.
The cottage consisted of one large room with a sleeping loft reached by a ladder. Carole had long since retired up there and was no doubt fast asleep on her pallet, her small son Jean Baptiste snuggled close to her side.
Lucia and Ninon had ceased whispering and were asleep as well. The poor little things had likely drifted off while clutching each other, frightened by the bedtime tales Seraphine had told them.
“True witches, the Fontaine sisters were,” Seraphine had cackled, scrunching up her features into a gruesome expression, crooking her long elegant fingers into claws. Lucia and Ninon had hung on her every word, wide-eyed and breathless as Seraphine continued.
“When the witch-hunters invaded Faire Isle, the Fontaine girls fled for their lives. They knew if they were caught, they would be roasted alive. Rather than endure such a fate, they chose to link hands and jump from the cliffs. Crack! Splat went their bodies on the rocks, blood and brains scattered everywhere.”
“Seraphine,” Meg had tried to protest as Lucia and Ninon had squealed, shrinking away from their sister. But Seraphine had ignored her, casting her voice to an even more sinister pitch.
“To this very day, the Fontaine sisters haunt these shores, pouncing upon wayward little girls who don’t obey their older sister and go to bed when they are told. Fortunately one is always safe up in the loft, because ever since their terrible death, the Fontaine specters are afraid of heights.”
Lucia and Ninon had all but clambered over each other in their haste to scale the ladder, leaving Seraphine and Meg alone in peace.
It had become their habit to sit up talking far later than they should. Meg perched on the stool while Seraphine combed out Meg’s hair, an activity that Seraphine seemed to enjoy although Meg could not understand why.
She could see no beauty in her dark heavy fall of hair compared to Seraphine’s silken blond locks. But Meg submitted patiently to her friend’s ministrations, making no complaint even when Seraphine struggled with a particularly stubborn knot.
“I don’t hear any more rustling from above,” Seraphine said. “It sounds as if the urchins are finally asleep.”
“And having nightmares no doubt. You should not have told them all those horrid stories, Seraphine. You frightened them out of their wits.”
“Not my little sisters.” Seraphine chuckled. “It would take more than a paltry ghost tale to scare them. I daresay the little ghouls could tell you a story or two that would curl your hair.”
Meg doubted that. She had witnessed enough real horrors wrought by her mother for any fable to have the power to alarm her.
“Besides, if I did frighten Lucia and Ninon, it serves them right. They certainly gave me enough of a scare, disappearing that way.” Seraphine gave the knot a final tug and then, to Meg’s relief, the comb glided smoothly through her hair.
“Not that I blame my sisters for wanting a peek at Captain Xavier. He is a very handsome rogue.”
“Seraphine!” Meg twisted around to direct a shocked look up at her friend. “For shame. The man is your uncle.”
“Half uncle.” Seraphine shrugged. “The fact that he is related to me does not make me blind to his manly attributes.”
She forced Meg’s head back around so that she could continue combing. As Seraphine attacked another tangle, Meg winced, then muttered, “I will just be glad when he takes his manly attributes elsewhere. I am sorry, Seraphine. Even if he is your uncle, I cannot like him.”
“Pooh! You are just annoyed with him because you could not get into his head and wander through his mind as you do so easily with everyone else.” Seraphine bent down to whisper teasingly in her ear. “Or maybe you are simply jealous.”
“Jealous? Of what, pray tell?”
“Of the way Captain Xavier has claimed all the attention of your prim Lady Danvers.”
“Nonsense,” Meg snapped. But she squirmed, fearing there might be a grain of truth in Seraphine’s playful accusation. She was a little resentful of Jane spending so much time at Xavier’s bedside, especially as the day of the choosing loomed closer. Meg had great need of Jane’s calming presence herself.
But to Seraphine, she said, “I am merely concerned for Jane’s welfare. There is something about Captain Xavier that I do not trust.”
“I do not believe you trust any man besides your father.”
“If you had h
ad my experience, you would feel the same.”
Seraphine laughed. “Your experience! La! Just listen to the child. Only thirteen and already an expert on the perfidies of men.”
“I do not claim to be an expert,” Meg said in a small voice. “But I do know what it feels like to be betrayed and have your heart broken.”
She feared that her remark would elicit further mockery from Seraphine. But the older girl set aside her comb and hunkered down in front of Meg. The teasing light vanished from Seraphine’s eyes to be replaced by one of her rare gentle expressions.
“You are not still pining over Sander Naismith, that boy you told me about? I am glad he got burned up in that fire in London. Otherwise I should have been obliged to kill him for you.” Seraphine cupped Meg’s cheek. “Sweetheart, he is not worth a single more of your thoughts.”
“I know that,” Meg tried to smile. “And I have tried to forget him, ’Phine.” Her lips trembled and she swallowed hard. “But I thought he was my friend. I loved and trusted him so much. When I was with him, Sander made me feel so extraordinary, like one day I could grow up to be truly beautiful.”
“Which you did.”
When Meg shook her head, Seraphine leapt up to fetch her sole contribution to the domesticity of the cottage, a small, gilt-trimmed looking glass.
Seraphine thrust it into Meg’s hands. “There. Look at that girl. I defy you to tell me she is not lovely.”
Meg thought she could have defied Seraphine on that score very easily. But to oblige her friend, Meg studied her own reflection. Her hair pooled about her shoulders, soft and gleaming in the candlelight, but Meg gave Seraphine the credit for that. All that determined brushing.
Meg’s papa had once told Meg that her hair was the color of cinnamon, but it suddenly struck Meg that her hair had grown darker this past year, her face leaner, her complexion paler. She looked more and more like … like her mother.
Meg shuddered and handed the mirror back to Seraphine. “It would scarce matter if I was beautiful or not. I fear men will only ever want one thing from me.”