The Courtesan

  The look on his face was beguiling, but Gabrielle shook her head.

  “Is it this threat of the witch-hunters that worries you?” Wolf insisted. “Some danger to Mademoiselle Miri?”

  “No,” Gabrielle said. “What makes you ask that?”

  A guilty look chased across Wolf’s features. “No particular reason. If your distress is not on account of your sister, then who does it involve? The captain?”

  The way Gabrielle started answered him far better than any words.

  “Anything that threatens the captain concerns Martin Le Loup,” Wolf said fiercely. “Tell me.”

  Gabrielle tried to draw her hand away, but Wolf tightened his grip. Gabrielle desperately felt a need to share her burden with someone, but she would have never thought of making Martin her confidant. He was little more than a boy in her eyes, and was terrified of anything to do with the supernatural or witchcraft. She could not see in the least what help he could offer. Yet there was something about Martin, a worldly wisdom that seemed to go far beyond his years, and he was the one person in the world who loved Remy as much as she did.

  “Tell me,” Wolf demanded again in a softer tone.

  Gabrielle swallowed hard and reluctantly did so. As he listened, Wolf backed away from her, his face blanching with horror. He crossed himself once, twice, three times, muttering, “By all the saints and the holy mother of God, protect us. I believed that I knew all there was to know of the evils of witchcraft, but even I never—never dreamed it possible . . .” He faltered.

  “Nor did I,” Gabrielle said. “Perhaps now you regret that I told you.”

  “N-no, mademoiselle. You were right to confide in me.” He prowled about the room, lapsing into an uncharacteristic silence. She had expected more exclamations of horror from him and furious invectives against her for her stupidity. She wished Wolf would turn on her and roundly curse her. She certainly deserved it.

  Gabrielle endured his silent pacing for as long as she could before bursting out, “Well, have you nothing more to say? No angry reproaches? No telling me what a damned fool I’ve been to place Remy in such danger?”

  Her sharp words roused Wolf from his grave reverie. “I am never so free with reproaches, mademoiselle. I make far too many mistakes of my own.”

  The lad’s generous response to her folly nearly reduced Gabrielle to tears. She managed a wan smile. “I only hope Remy can be that forgiving. Of course, I have no choice now but to tell him.”

  “No!” Wolf came to an abrupt halt, waving his hands in a warning gesture. “That is exactly what you must not do. The captain is not a subtle man. He would want to go straight to this witch and confront her. He will either end up dead or—”

  “Or in Cass’s bed,” Gabrielle said bleakly. “Another man would not mind so much being seduced and used in such a way, but—”

  “The captain is a man of pride and honor and—”

  “And he has suffered so much already. He needs no more—”

  “Nightmares.” They finished in unison, their eyes locking in silent understanding of the man who they both loved so well. For Gabrielle to let Cass suborn Remy’s reason and have her way with him would be as bad as what Danton had done to her.

  “But what am I going to do to save him?”

  “Why, the solution is obvious, milady. You must use your own magic to counter-curse this terrible witch.”

  “Counter-curse her?”

  “Oui. Conjure up some dark spell or—or brew up a poison that will send her off into horrible fits until her eyes roll back in her head and she foams at the mouth, screeching and clawing at herself in agony until she drops down dead.”

  “Martin!” Gabrielle cried, taken aback by his ferocity. Wolf tipped his chin to a pugnacious angle.

  “Why not? This evil sorceress threatens our captain. She deserves to die.”

  “Perhaps she does, but I don’t know how to brew poisons and—and even if I did—” Gabrielle floundered, seeking to explain to Wolf the tangle of her feelings toward Cassandra, the mingling of anger, horror, and pity. “Cass is a dangerous woman, but there is something truly pathetic about her as well. In some twisted way, I do think she regarded me as a friend, but she has known so little of love herself, she doesn’t even understand why the demand she made of me is wrong.”

  Wolf rolled his eyes in skeptical fashion, but he conceded, “Oh, very well. Don’t kill her then. Just brew up some draft that will send her off into a death-like sleep.”

  “I don’t know how to do that either.”

  Wolf eyed her reproachfully. “Ma foi! What sort of witch are you?”

  “A very inept one it would seem,” Gabrielle replied forlornly.

  Wolf vented a frustrated sigh, but he crossed over to her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Ah, never mind, mademoiselle. You are one of the cleverest women in all the French court, and I have all the cunning of the wolf. Between the two of us, we will find some way to defeat this evil woman even without witchcraft.”

  Gabrielle covered Wolf’s hand with her own, too comforted by his support to do more than nod. He gave her shoulder a light squeeze, then drew away saying briskly, “Now reflect, milady. What all do you know of this creature? Even a terrible sorceress must have some weakness. To begin with, she is blind. That gives us some advantage.”

  “Very little. Cass’s other senses are uncannily acute, and she has that beastly dog and wretched maidservant to be eyes for her. She did have one great weakness, but—”

  “Yes, what is it?” Wolf prompted eagerly when Gabrielle hesitated.

  “Cass had a terrible fondness for strong drink, so much so that her wits often became dangerously befuddled.” Gabrielle frowned as she recalled the story that Finette had sniggered and related to her. “According to her maid, when Cass becomes too inebriated, she can’t even tell one man from another.”

  “That is it then. We must get her so drunk, she falls into a stupor. Then we can steal the amulet—”

  “You are not listening. I said had. Cass has recently sworn off all strong spirits.”

  “Bah!” Wolf gave a contemptuous sniff. “I have known many men and women with this fondness for the bottle. It is not a demon so easily conquered. Just wave a glass of whiskey beneath this witch’s nose and we will see how quickly she succumbs.”

  “Perhaps she would, but if I were to turn up on Cass’s doorstep now, seeking to ply her with strong drink, I think she would be a trifle suspicious,” Gabrielle said wryly.

  “That is why we must lure her out of her lair to—to some inn or other and I must—” Wolf paused, swallowing thickly. “I must be the one to trick the witch and steal the medallion away from her.”

  “No! I am grateful for your offer, Martin, but there is no way I will allow you to take such a risk.”

  “You have no choice. You said it yourself. She will be wary of you. Me, she does not even know.”

  Gabrielle vigorously shook her head, but he continued doggedly, “You will send the sorceress word that the captain agrees to the tryst, but does not wish to come to the cursed Maison d’Esprit. Tell her he has engaged a room at the Cheval Noir on the rue de Morte. I know people at that inn and it will be easy for me to—”

  “Absolutely not,” Gabrielle snapped. “You have no idea how dangerous it might be, for you as well as Remy. I cannot predict what Cass might do to the person who seeks to thwart her mad ambitions, but I promise you, it won’t be pleasant.”

  “I don’t care. Let her conjure up her darkest curse. I am no coward.”

  “Nor am I. I am the one responsible for this disaster. I will not permit a mere boy—”

  “I am not a boy,” Wolf growled.

  “You are not a wise woman either.”

  “Apparently, neither are you,” he snorted, giving his wild dark mane a toss. “Who is the one who was clever enough to smuggle the captain into the Louvre? Who is the one who saved his life on St. Bartholomew’s Eve? And of the two of us, which one is the mo
st skilled thief? Hah! Tell me that.”

  They squared off, close to shouting at each other. Gabrielle was the first to seek to recover her temper, locking her arms across her chest and flouncing to the opposite end of the room. Martin’s jab about her lack of abilities as a wise woman had cut deep, the more so because Gabrielle realized he was right. But she was already ashamed enough of what her own deceit and folly had wrought. She was not about to step meekly aside and let Martin deal with Cass for her. After long moments of terse silence, Wolf slunk back to her side. His usual bluster was markedly absent as he tentatively touched her sleeve.

  “I am sorry if I offended you, mademoiselle. How can I make you understand? Before I met the captain, I was no one. Nothing. A rogue, a cutpurse, the lowest scum of the streets. But for him, I would likely have had my neck stretched long before now.”

  “Martin, I fully understand your devotion to Remy—”

  “Not just to Remy, but to you and—and Miri.” A tide of color surged into the lad’s cheeks and he hung his head. “No doubt you will think me a cheeky upstart, a bastard who has no name but what I have given myself.” Wolf shuffled his feet. “But—but you all have become like my family, the family I never had.”

  “Oh, Martin.” Gabrielle enveloped him in hug, which Wolf returned fiercely before easing her away from him.

  “That is why you must let me be the one to deal with this witch. I beg you, mademoiselle.” His dark eyes were so wistful, Gabrielle felt herself yielding despite her better judgment.

  “But, er, are you not a trifle afraid of witches?” she asked.

  He puffed out his chest, declaring, “You forget who I am, mi-lady. Martin the Wolf fears no one. I would fight a dozen such, nay a hundred, nay a thousand—”

  “All right. All right. I believe you,” Gabrielle interrupted with a wry laugh before Wolf could work his way up to a million.

  She still attempted to dissuade him, but Wolf countered every argument until he wore her down, simply because she could think of no other plan besides his that had any chance of success. It was with great reluctance that she left him to compose the message that would lure Cass into the trap. Gabrielle only prayed fervently that it was a witch who would be caught in it, not a Wolf.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rain lashed the sign of the Cheval Noir, the sign creak-ing in the wind. Lightning flared over the painted symbol of the black horse rearing up, like a demon beast prepared to carry its rider off to hell. Most of the patrons who frequented the Cheval Noir looked as though they had already been there. The inn was the haunt of a rough crowd, naval deserters, smugglers, thieves, cutpurses, prostitutes.

  And tonight one witch, Wolf thought grimly as he wended his way through the taproom. The inn was more packed than usual owing to the storm, the air reeking with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp clothing, and stale spirits. The din of coarse voices and drunken laughter rivaled the lash of wind and rain beating against the dirty windows.

  Stripped to his shirtsleeves and an apron knotted round his waist, Wolf blended with the other inn servants. But he steadfastly ignored the meaty fists beating on tables demanding more wine. Balancing a tray, Wolf marched determinedly toward the stairs leading to the chambers above, trying to ignore the unsteady beat of his heart. As his foot touched the first riser, a loud clap of thunder seemed to shake the inn to its foundations. Wolf started so badly, he nearly dropped the tray. One of the bottles of the inn’s most potent brandy teetered, threatening to tip and shatter upon the stairs. Wolf caught it just in time.

  Steadying the tray, he swore softly, knowing it was more than the fury of the storm that had his nerves stretched taut. It was the prospect of facing the woman waiting above stairs. Despite the bravado he’d maintained for Gabrielle, Wolf could no longer deny it, at least to himself. He was terrified of Cassandra Lascelles. Gabrielle hadn’t needed to warn him of the dangers of crossing a witch, the vengeance Cass might take.

  Wolf’s own vivid imagination supplied the details, supplemented by every horrific story he’d ever heard in his childhood. Of curses capable of shriveling up one’s man parts, rotting away one’s flesh, or reducing one to complete madness. The only thing that kept Wolf steady to his course was the images of the people he had come to care about so deeply. His brave captain, Gabrielle, who had brought peace to Remy’s troubled heart, but most of all Miri, with her shimmering moon-gold hair and unforgettable eyes.

  By preying upon the captain, this cursed witch threatened the happiness of all of them and Miri already seemed sad enough. Wolf had no idea what had passed between her and that damned Aristide, but Miri had returned looking heartbroken, her golden aura dimmed. Martin hoped that once he got her far away from Paris, the devotion of her humble Wolf might be enough to make her forget that bastard of a witch-hunter.

  But before that could happen, there was a witch to be dealt with. Wolf flung back his shoulders and tightened his grip on the tray as he marched upward. He would willingly lay down his life for Captain Remy and his lady. Ah, but for Miri, his beautiful lady of the moon, Wolf was prepared to hazard his very soul.

  As Wolf reached the upper landing, his attention was caught by two figures, a man and woman linked in an embrace so heated, they were in danger of toppling over the balustrade. Despite his own tension, Wolf’s lips twitched as he realized that Pierre Tournelles was already hard at work. A comrade from the days when they had been two raggedy street urchins stealing bread from furious bakers, Pierre had grown into a tall, strapping young man.

  Pierre eased Finette’s dirty gown off her shoulder and elicited squeaks of pleasure as he rubbed her meager tit. The wench was all over Pierre, nearly scrambling up him like a scrawny cat in her excitement. Lost in her own bliss, the girl didn’t see Pierre cringe in disgust or the disgruntled look he cast Wolf over her shoulder. No doubt Pierre would be demanding double for his services, but it would be worth every penny.

  Slipping past unnoticed by Finette, Wolf made his way to the end of the corridor, another flare of lightning illuminating the last door. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he rapped lightly on the wooden panel. His summons was greeted by a menacing bark, then a sultry voice demanded, “Who is it?”

  Wolf darted a quick look back down the corridor, fearing the sounds would alert the maid, but Pierre had tossed the girl playfully over his shoulder and carted the giggling wench downstairs for a drink. Wolf turned the knob. Carefully balancing the tray with one hand, he eased into the room, softly closing the door behind him.

  His action produced a fearsome growl from the dog. At least, he hoped it was the dog. Wolf froze with his back to the door, the bottle and glass on the tray rattling in his trembling hands. The room was all fire and shadow, the chamber illuminated by no more than the logs blazing on the hearth. He caught the silhouette of the hell-beast crouched but yards away, looking ready to go for his throat. He saw no sign of the witch, but her voice came from the deepest shadows pooling near the four-poster bed.

  “Who is there?” she cried. “What do you want?”

  “I—I—am no one, milady. Only er—ah Guillaume, your humble servant, bringing you the finest refreshments the Cheval Noir has to offer.”

  “I ordered nothing.”

  “Ah, no, but your maid thought—”

  “Damned idiot girl,” the witch muttered, then called out sharply, “Finette!”

  “She has gone downstairs to look out for the arrival of your gentleman.”

  This information elicited a furious hiss. “Stupid wench. I told her to wait outside and keep her eyes open. Tell her that I command she return at once and take whatever you’ve brought away.”

  This fierce command was seconded by another savage bark from the great black dog. Wolf felt as though the entire success of his mission hung by a thread. He summoned up his most wheedling tone, “But I have cheese and bread, mistress, and a brandy so exquisite, you will think you are drinking the nectar of the gods. On such a foul night, surely you—” r />
  “Be gone.” The woman’s bark was worse than her dog’s. The mastiff crept a step closer. Wolf could see the baleful gleam of its eyes, the glint of canine incisors, but he stubbornly stood his ground.

  “Think of your gentleman, mistress. It truly is a foul night out there. He will surely welcome a drop of something. It is a shabby thing not to offer a lover one drink.”

  The silence that answered Wolf was so cold, he feared he’d gone too far. She finally said impatiently, “Very well. Set the blasted tray down, then be off with you.”

  Wolf took a tentative step forward only to find his way barred by the growling mastiff. “Um—your dog, milady? He is a magnificent beast to be sure, but I am so tough and sinewy, if he chomps into me, I would not want him to hurt his teeth.”

  A snort of something close to a laugh escaped the witch. “Cerberus. Come here!”

  After one final warning woof, the dog backed off, trotting toward his mistress. Wolf blew out a deep breath, then carried the tray over to a small table positioned near the windows. The storm continued unabated, the wind howling and the rain pelting at the glass like the fingernails of a banshee seeking to claw her way inside. Despite the raging tempest, Wolf longed to crack open a window. A whiff of some strange cloying perfume tickled his nostrils, making him feel a trifle light-headed. He felt beads of sweat gather on his brow and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  The sooner he completed his mission and got the devil out of here, the better off he would be. As he unloaded the tray, the witch emerged from the shadows, her hand on her dog’s collar. The beast guided her over to the fire. Her movements were graceful, only a certain caution in her steps betraying the fact that she was blind.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Wolf took his first good measure of Cassandra Lascelles. She was younger and lovelier than he had expected. Was there no such thing as a witch that looked like an old hag anymore? Her carnelian silk dress displayed her willowy figure to advantage, the low-cut décolletage exposing a collarbone so delicate very little effort would have been required to snap it. But any illusions of her fragility vanished when she shook back her heavy mane of ebony hair, revealing a face that was strong and terrible in its seductive beauty. Her slender fingers fretted the chain fastened about her neck, twisting the medallion to and fro so that it gleamed in the firelight.