The Courtesan

  Remy’s attention was focused so grimly on Gabrielle and the king, it took him a moment to realize two other women had alighted from the coach as well. One was Bette. The other was a young woman in a simple green gown who drew many admiring glances, the girl’s beauty like the silvery moon in contrast to Gabrielle’s sun.

  She was a great deal taller, her once boyishly flat figure rounded with a woman’s curves. But her straight fall of pale blond hair and unusual otherworldly eyes were just as Remy remembered them.

  “Miri?” Remy called in disbelief.

  Miri spun round at the sound of her name. Gabrielle had been on the verge of presenting her younger sister to the king, but Miri’s face lit up as she spied Remy. Ignoring Navarre’s outstretched hand, Miri gave a glad cry. She rushed toward Remy and flung herself into his arms with a force that made him stagger back a pace. Moved by the unrestrained joy of Miri’s greeting, Remy hugged her as fiercely in return as if she had been his own little sister.

  Far from being affronted by Miri’s snub, Navarre let out a booming laugh. “Well, it appears our bold Scourge has made himself a conquest.”

  Miri Cheney had been painfully shy as a child and she still retained traces of that bashfulness as the king of Navarre engaged her in conversation near the tent. But Navarre had a gift for charming women and putting them at their ease. He soon had Miri smiling up at him. Remy hovered at a discreet distance, keeping a wary eye on his king. He was relieved to see that Navarre’s manner toward Miri bordered on the avuncular.

  Despite his initial joy at seeing Miri again, Remy fervently wished the girl back home on Faire Isle. She was an added complication in his life that already seemed overfull of them, just one more thing to worry about. Remy heard the soft rustle of a silken skirt and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabrielle approaching him. Her ladyship deigning to take notice of him at last, Remy reflected bitterly.

  “Good morrow, Captain Remy.”

  The coolness of Gabrielle’s greeting made an almost painful contrast to the warmth of Miri’s welcome. Gabrielle’s distant manner stung him into rounding on her.

  “Damnation, Gabrielle. What the hell were you thinking of to let Miri join you here in Paris? The French court is no place for an innocent child.”

  Gabrielle arched her neck in haughty fashion, but a hint of color stained her cheeks at his rebuke. “I didn’t let Miri do anything and as you may have noticed, she is no longer a child. She has grown into a rather willful young woman. But you needn’t worry. I expect that Ariane will come roaring into Paris very soon to snatch Miri away from my evil influence. Were you afraid that I meant to keep Miri with me, encourage her to become a courtesan? Teach her the tricks of my trade?”

  “No,” Remy snapped. “You know damned well I never thought any such thing. I know right well how protective you’ve always been of your younger sister.”

  Gabrielle tried to maintain her icy manner and failed. Her shoulders suddenly slumped. “Remy, please, let’s not quarrel today. I have already had enough of that with Miri.”

  Beneath the lovely façade she presented, Remy detected signs of strain, traces of shadows beneath her eyes as though she had not been sleeping well. He longed to reach for her hand, but he had promised to never touch her again. A pledge he heartily regretted. He kept his hand fisted at his side. “What have you and Miri been arguing about?”

  “Oh, everything. About her accompanying me to the tourney today. About her remaining in Paris. I even threatened to have her trussed up and carted back to Faire Isle. She just says that she will escape and come straight back. She is so determined to look out for me. Can you imagine that? My little sister.” Gabrielle lifted her gaze hopefully to Remy. “Can you talk to her? Make her see reason?”

  “I can try,” Remy said dubiously. “But none of you Cheney girls have ever been what a man would term biddable women.”

  His remark provoked a reluctant laugh from her. “I don’t suppose that we are.”

  “Lord, I’ll be glad when I have the lot of us safely away from this cursed city.”

  “Yes,” Gabrielle murmured, but there was little enthusiasm in her voice. She was still not keen on his plan to free Navarre and spirit them all out of France, but since he had persuaded the king, Gabrielle had little choice but to acquiesce.

  An awkward silence fell between them. Remy became aware of the curious stares trained in their direction, the whispers behind hands. He pulled himself up to his most erect, staring rigidly ahead. But Gabrielle behaved with all the noblesse oblige of a princess, nodding, murmuring greetings to the other ladies, and wishing the various armed combatants good fortune in the upcoming tourney.

  One knight in particular paused to bow to her as he passed by. He appeared to be no more than a lad with his blond waves of hair and smattering of freckles, but he was as solemn as if he were off to slay a dragon or set out on a quest.

  His face softened at the sight of Gabrielle and he raised one gauntlet in a shy salute. But it was the sweet way Gabrielle smiled and waved back that pricked Remy.

  “Yet another of your admirers?” he asked tersely.

  Gabrielle didn’t answer at first. As she slowly lowered her hand, she finally said, “That—that was Stephen Villiers, the Marquis de Lanfort.”

  De Lanfort. The name sent a jolt of recognition through Remy like a kick in the gut. He twisted his head, craning his neck for another look at the young man as he vanished into the crowd. “That was de Lanfort, your former lover? The one you had me pose as at the ball? That puppy? Damnation, does he even shave, Gabrielle?”

  “Stephen is older than he looks. He cannot help that his face looks so young and sweet. The other courtiers, especially his own brothers, tease him cruelly for it. Consequently, he has always been shy and awkward, especially with the ladies. He badly needed some experienced woman to notice him, to give him a little confidence.”

  “So you took this young man for your lover merely to be kind to him?” Remy asked incredulously.

  “No! But after Georges . . . my duke decided to quit Paris and return to his country estate, I—I was rather lonely. And Stephen was so gentle and attentive.”

  Remy frowned. “You implied that you cared nothing for any of your lovers. You told me that you had to pretend you weren’t even with them.”

  “Only in bed. The rest of the time—” Gabrielle met his gaze levelly. “I know you think me the most calculating of harlots, but I have never given myself to any man that I did not esteem. I have been fond of every one of my lovers after my own fashion.”

  “But you didn’t love any of them? You were never in love?” Remy asked, hating himself for the fierce desperation behind his demand.

  “No,” Gabrielle replied quietly.

  “Not even the first time?”

  “The first time? I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You gave me to understand that you had taken a lover before you’d ever met me. Did you believe you loved him?”

  “I—I, no, of course not.” Gabrielle forced a laugh. “He was so insignificant, I don’t even remember his name.”

  She looked quickly away, but not before Remy saw that haunted look creep into her eyes. She remembered all too well. So who the devil was he, the bastard who had first claimed her innocence? Remy was convinced that he had hurt Gabrielle. How cruelly, Remy could only guess. Enough to shatter her faith in love and herself. Enough to blunt her desire and daunt her heart so that by the time Remy had ridden into her life, he’d never stood a chance with her.

  Remy found himself hating an enemy whose face he’d never seen. Burning to kill a man whose name he didn’t know. As he clenched his fist, the frills attached to his sleeve fell forward over his wrist. He’d been battling the damned lace all morning. With a low curse, Remy shoved it back again.

  “Don’t do that,” Gabrielle scolded.

  “Cursed stuff,” Remy muttered. “Makes me look like a blasted peacock.”

  “There is a reason wh
y peacocks flaunt their feathers. To attract a peahen. There is something rather seductive about the contrast between lace and the bold contours of a man’s hands. Especially hands as strong as yours.”

  She took hold of his arm, smoothing out the trim, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand. The touch, light as it was, sent a powerful current through his veins. Remy longed to seize her hand and bury his lips against the silken warmth of her palm. It took all his will to resist.

  “Do you find it seductive?” he murmured.

  Gabrielle lifted her head reluctantly and their eyes met. Remy felt the tug of desire as though they were bound together by a cord, knotting tighter and tighter. What was more, Remy was convinced that Gabrielle felt it too.

  There was only one difference between them. She didn’t want to feel it. She even seemed frightened by it. She snatched her hand back from him as though the frills of his shirt had suddenly caught fire.

  “Gabrielle, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said softly. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you again. I meant it.”

  “I know you did and you always keep your promises.” Why did that make her sound so sad?

  “I wish you would promise me one thing more,” she said.

  “And what would that be?”

  “That you will not let yourself be persuaded to take part in this tournament today. These jousts are only supposed to be mock affairs, but an event such as this would be an easy place for—for accidents to happen.”

  “You think the Dark Queen might be planning one for me?”

  Gabrielle shrugged. “Who ever can tell what is on Catherine’s mind?”

  Or Gabrielle’s either. She looked so uneasy Remy couldn’t help wondering if more had passed between her and Catherine at their midnight meeting than Gabrielle had ever told him. Catherine was skilled at intrigue, but so was Gabrielle. Remy hated having to remind himself of that. He wanted to trust Gabrielle. He wanted everything to be straightforward and honest between them.

  “Just promise me you will stay out of the tournament,” Gabrielle insisted.

  “But I might enjoy the chance to accidentally break a few heads myself.”

  “Remy!” Gabrielle glared at him, but mingled with the reproach, he saw the worry that darkened her eyes. She was afraid for him. It was a far cry from the depth of emotion Remy wished he could inspire in her, but at least it was something.

  “Don’t fret yourself, my dear. I have no intention of giving anyone an excuse to put a sword between my ribs today. You know how I feel about games and that is all this tourney is. All flash and nonsense.”

  “Dangerous nonsense,” Gabrielle murmured, nervously flexing her fingers. “Remy, there—there is something I have been meaning to give you.”

  To his surprise, she tugged at his sleeve, drawing him to a relatively secluded spot behind one of the tents. With a furtive glance to be sure no one was looking, she dove into the small velvet purse she had attached to the golden girdle about her waist. She drew forth a metal object and pressed it into the palm of his hand.

  Remy’s brow furrowed as he examined the medallion suspended from a tarnished silver chain. It was smooth, five-sided, and etched with queer symbols. “What is this?”

  She tugged the drawstrings of her purse closed, looking a trifle sheepish. “It’s a protective amulet to help keep you safe. I am not sure exactly how it works or even if it does. It’s supposed to enable you to feel the presence of malice, warn you if someone is planning to hurt you.”

  “I hardly need an amulet for that. The sight of a big, pointed sword in the other fellow’s hand is usually warning enough.”

  But Gabrielle didn’t smile. She looked so astonishingly earnest, Remy abandoned his teasing tone. He turned the amulet over in his hands, studying it more closely. Despite all the strange things he’d witnessed on Faire Isle that summer, Remy knew that there were some elements of so-called magic that were only chicanery, superstitious folly like much of his young friend Wolf’s beliefs.

  This medallion with its odd symbols was very different from the crude and aromatic charms Martin fashioned for himself. As Remy fingered the strange piece of metal, it rendered him inexplicably uneasy. Out of all the Cheney sisters, Gabrielle was the one who had the least belief in magic. At least not until she’d come to Paris. He hoped she hadn’t been paying any more visits to that eerie abandoned house with its disturbing history. Or calling upon that recluse who claimed she could conjure the dead.

  Remy held up the medallion. “Gabrielle, exactly where did you get this?”

  Was it his imagination or did she hesitate a beat before answering? “Ariane. It was something she gave me a long time ago. Here. Let me help you put it on.”

  Gabrielle reached up to drape the chain over his head. She was so close, he could feel her breath on his cheek, the warmth of her fingers against his skin as she tucked the medallion out of sight beneath his shirt. It settled like a cold weight over his heart, but he scarcely noticed. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, her eyes blinking up at him like two bright jewels. She astonished him by straining closer until her lips touched his in a kiss that was sweet, warm, aching with promise and over all too soon. His mouth still clung to hers even as she drew away.

  “I—I am sorry,” she faltered. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Why not?” Remy demanded, struggling to repress both his desire and his frustration. “We are betrothed to be married. Surely that calls for some modicum of affection between us.”

  “No, we would be ridiculed for it. Marriages are arranged for wealth, title, or political alliance. Only fools wed for love, Nicolas Remy.”

  She gave him an odd wistful kind of smile. Before Remy could reply, she turned away. As he followed her from behind the tent, her words echoed in Remy’s head.

  “Only fools wed for love.”

  Then he had to be just about the biggest fool in all of Christendom.

  Navarre took the silk scarf Gabrielle had given him and carried the lightly perfumed fabric to his lips. “I shall wear this upon my sleeve and joust in your honor, milady. I am deeply honored that you would bestow your favor upon me and not some other bold champion.”

  The irony of the king’s tone was not lost upon Gabrielle. She summoned a stiff smile to her lips. “Why would Your Grace believe I would favor anyone else?”

  Navarre arched his brows quizzically. “You have been maddeningly elusive of late, Gabrielle. I wonder if I have done something to offend you.”

  “Of course not, Sire.” A telltale blush stole into Gabrielle’s face. She was fighting hard to keep her gaze from constantly moving in Remy’s direction, but it was a losing battle. She stole a glance toward where Remy stood fierce guard over her younger sister. If any man present was tempted to make Miri the object of any dubious gallantries, Remy’s dark glare made him think better of it. He had no armor, but he looked more of the knight than any of these other strutting fools.

  She was all too aware of the stir that Remy’s presence at the tourney was causing among the courtiers. The ladies raked him over with appreciative glances while most of the men scowled. Some simply stared. Remy fingered the chain Gabrielle had draped about his neck, toying with the medallion hidden beneath his doublet. She wondered if the amulet was working, if he sensed treachery.

  If he was, he didn’t have much farther to look than in her direction, Gabrielle thought miserably. She had lied to him about the medallion, but if she had told him the truth, she doubted that Remy would have accepted the charm.

  He would have deplored her friendship with Cassandra Lascelles, in full accord with Ariane’s view that anyone who practiced dark magic was to be avoided. Perhaps Cass’s ability to conjure the dead was unnerving. But how could any woman be accounted evil who grieved so for her lost sisters, who so loved her dog she’d been willing to risk her life to rush to his rescue?

  Cass was merely another sad instance of a woman who had been brutalized by the tragedies in her life, who strug
gled to conquer her weaknesses and survive the best she knew how. And that was something Gabrielle understood all too well.

  The lie she had told Remy about the amulet was actually the least of her sins. She was practicing upon him a far greater deceit. Remy assumed that because she had consented to marry him, she was resigned to the plan.

  But later after the tourney when Navarre was mellowed with wine, Gabrielle meant to work her charms on him, dissuade him from returning to his country. His destiny lay here in France and hers as well. No matter how much Gabrielle might despair over the fate she had once been eager to embrace, there was no avoiding it.

  She could not save herself. But she could save Remy. She would get Navarre to force Remy to leave Paris, to return to the tiny border kingdom in the vastness of the mountains where he would be far out of reach of Catherine and any other enemies at court. How Remy would despise her when he discovered the full extent of her betrayal, but perhaps his hatred would help put an end to her own desperate yearnings for what could never be. His absence would enable her to encase her heart back in ice, return to that blessed numbness that had permitted her to endure for so long.

  “Gabrielle?”

  She turned back to Navarre to discover he had taken her hand in his. His dark eyes regarded her tenderly. “You look so sad, ma mie. Tell me what is troubling you.”

  A lump formed in Gabrielle’s throat and she was unable to speak. She could scarce have answered his question in any event. How could she tell Navarre that fate had played a cruel jest upon her? That she was destined to be his mistress while her heart belonged to the very man the king had unwittingly selected to pose as her husband.

  Fortunately Navarre’s attention was diverted by the flourish of a herald’s trumpet. The king of France approached, his entourage following him like the tail of a comet. Unlike Navarre, it was obvious that Henry Valois had no intention of taking part in the joust. He strutted in a doublet of rich purple velvet trimmed in ermine, preceded by one of his obnoxious little dogs on a lead. The whippet barked and growled at everyone in sight, a fact that clearly afforded the king much amusement.