The sight of her playing with the deadly amulet caused Wolf’s gut to tighten with apprehension. He longed to leap at her, wrench the cursed charm from her neck, but the risk to the captain would be far too great.
“Steady, Wolf. Patience,” he admonished himself. He moved slowly, taking his time about arranging the plates and bottles upon the table.
The witch clicked her nails against the medallion, her foot beating out a tattoo against the floor. “What the devil is taking you so long?”
“Nothing. I am nearly finished, milady.” The rasp of her fingernails against the metal amulet set his teeth on edge until it dawned on him. The witch was as nervous as he was and why wouldn’t she be? All her own mad ambitions were riding on the wind this night. Her tension might make her more ready to succumb to temptation.
And it also might make her more dangerous. Tigresses were far more likely to unsheathe their claws when they were nervous. He needed to handle Cassandra with great care, but first he had to get that damned dog out of the way. The mastiff had sunk onto his haunches, close by her skirts, but those wary canine eyes never shifted from Wolf. Wiping his sweat-slick palms on his apron, Wolf lifted the napkin from the one plate whose contents he had failed to mention to the witch.
A glistening cluster of purple grapes. Wolf eyed them dubiously. It looked like a rather pathetic offering to tempt such a great black brute. Wolf would have thought the hell-beast would far prefer an oozing slab of raw meat. Wolf only prayed that Gabrielle was right when she had advised him to come armed with fruit.
Wolf stripped off a handful of the grapes, and dropped them surreptitiously in a trail leading back toward the bed. To his astonishment, the mastiff perked up immediately. Tongue lolling, he snuffled his way to the nearest grape and pounced on it and then another, moving farther away from the witch.
Wolf feared the dog’s greedy gulping noises would alert his mistress, but Cassandra didn’t seem to notice. It was the sound of Wolf uncorking the brandy and sloshing some into the glass that caused her to stiffen.
“What is that? What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, milady. ’Tis only that it is a foul night—”
“Stop saying that,” she shrilled.
“And I couldn’t help noticing how ill at ease you are,” Wolf rushed on. “Such a shame for a beautiful woman like you to be kept waiting. No man in his right senses could bear to stay away from you for long. Your lover has likely been delayed by this terrible storm. In the meantime, can I not persuade you to try our fine brandy? Just a small sip to help you relax.”
“No! I already told you I don’t want any.” She wrapped her fingers around the amulet in a white-knuckled grip.
The dog had chased one of the grapes around the side of the bed. Wolf trembled as he lifted the glass of brandy, but he steadied himself as he approached Cassandra. The scent of her strange perfume was much stronger up close, almost overpowering. Heady, sickly sweet, curling up his nostrils, weaving cobwebs over his mind. He found himself staring stupidly at her breasts, her nipples outlined beneath the taut ruby-red silk.
Wolf shook his head to dispel the image. Clearing his throat, he said, “If you please, milady, one swallow would do you no harm and this is too good a brandy to refuse. So mellow on the tongue, so smooth, it slides down your throat like fiery gold.”
Wolf thrust the glass under her nose where she would be forced to smell it. Cass inhaled sharply, a look of naked longing chasing across her features.
“No! Take it away.” She lashed out with her hand and smacked against the glass, splashing brandy over her sleeve.
“You damned clumsy fool!” She held up her hand, brandy dripping from her lace and her fingertips. “Fetch me a napkin. Hurry!”
“Yes, milady,” Wolf mumbled. Retreating to the table, he felt like cursing himself. Now he’d done it, made her furious and the angry tone of her voice had brought her dog loping protectively back to her side.
Wolf rested his palms on the table, overcome by a wave of despair. All that boasting and bragging he’d done to Gabrielle about how cunning he was, convincing her she could trust him, place the captain’s life in his hands. His clever plan to render the witch drunk was never going to work. He’d have done far better to have brought a pistol and shot her dead, the risk of being caught and hung for it be damned. Except that no matter what he said to Gabrielle about Cassandra deserving to die, Wolf knew he could never have murdered any woman in cold blood, not even a witch. Besides, he would likely have had to kill the dog, too, and he doubted Miri would ever forgive him for that.
So what the devil was he going to do? He’d better fetch her the napkin before she had her dog rip him apart for ruining her gown. Snatching up the cloth, Wolf spun around only to halt in his tracks. Cass trembled from head to toe, but not, he realized from fury. Sucking in her breath sharply, she held her brandy-stained fingers up to her face and sniffed.
The witch brought her fingers closer to her mouth. She hesitated for a moment, then her tongue flickered against the back of her hand, tasting, sucking, and savoring the droplets of brandy. A deep sigh shuddered through her. Wolf held his breath, waiting, sensing the battle the sorceress waged within herself, as titanic as the clash of elements raging outside.
Mumbling his apologies for spilling the drink, Wolf crept close enough to press the napkin into her hand. Cass moistened her lips.
“It—it is all right,” she rasped. “As you said, it is a foul night. Perhaps you should pour me another drink. Just one . . .”
Gabrielle paced before her bedchamber windows, her dressing gown rustling around her ankles. For most of the evening, she had flitted about the room like a moth trapped in a glass jar, frantically seeking some way out. She squinted in the direction of the stables behind the house, hoping to see the flicker of a lantern, marking Wolf’s triumphant return. Despite the intermittent flashes of lightning that lit up the ground below, it was near impossible to see anything, the panes of glass darkened by night and the relentless deluge of rain.
The tempest seemed like an ill omen, a portent of disaster. Gabrielle tried to shake off such superstitious notions, but the storm outside was as nothing to the turmoil raging in her soul. How could she have ever let Wolf go alone to deal with Cassandra? Why had she ever agreed to his plan? She must have been mad.
But as Wolf had pointed out, she had had no other choice. Any attempt on Gabrielle’s part to interfere would be enough to visit dire consequences upon Remy. Besides, if Wolf should fail, perhaps Gabrielle could still manage to wrench the medallion off of Remy in time. But she did not even want to think about that.
Wolf would not fail. He was cunning and resourceful. He had saved Remy’s life under far worse circumstances on St. Bartholomew’s Eve. Compared to that, Wolf’s task tonight was a far simpler one. Distract the maid, bribe the dog, get Cass drunk, steal the amulet. What could possibly go wrong? Far too many things.
Gabrielle jumped at a loud clap of thunder. Pressing a hand to her racing heart, she stole a glance toward Remy to see if he had noticed. He sprawled on the bed, lying on his side, propped up by one elbow as he studied a map. Caught earlier by the first onslaught of rain, his soaked clothes were drying by the fire. Clad only in his drawers, Remy was absorbed in plotting the escape route for his king, as oblivous to the storm as he was to the danger that threatened him tonight. Danger in the form of the innocuous-looking amulet suspended around his neck.
He toyed absently with the chain as he pored over the map. Firelight played over the rippling muscle that sculpted his shoulders and arms, the powerful expanse of his scarred chest. Strands of damp hair straggled across his brow and he swept them back in an impatient gesture. Whenever Remy fully concentrated on anything, the dark brown of his eyes seemed to grow richer in intensity, his long lashes casting shadows on his rugged cheeks.
Staring at him, Gabrielle longed to hold him fast in her arms, to recapture the glorious abandoned lovemaking
she had experienced when Remy had first roused her daunted sensuality. But of late when she gave herself to Remy, she was unable to relax, lose herself completely to his loving, that hateful medallion coming between them along with the shadow of her lies. How many times had she ached to make full confession of what she’d done, tell him the truth? No more intrigues, she had promised Remy and she had already broken her vow. It seemed only right to warn him of the danger. She and Wolf had debated the question over and over again.
“I know Remy will be furious when he finds out about Cass,” she had said. “But this is a question of his life. He must be consulted before we proceed with the plan and when everything is explained, surely he will see the prudence of—”
“The captain? Prudent?” Wolf had interrupted her with a snort. “Milady, are we talking about the same man who insisted upon jousting with Danton even when he well knew it was a plot to destroy him?”
“Remy did that for me. He was avenging my honor.”
“Oui and that is what always rules our captain, even to his own detriment. He would think it ignoble to ply a blind woman with drink, trap her with her own weakness, even if she is a witch. He will want to find some way to deal with her honorably and fairly, and you and I both know that is impossible. The captain is a hero, and that is how heroes behave. That is why we must tell him nothing. This is no task for a hero, but for someone who is a thief and a bit of a scoundrel.” The lad’s teeth had flashed in one of his wicked grins. “A mission only suited to a wolf.”
Gabrielle had been forced to agree with him, but she was honest enough to admit that it was not just fear of Remy’s heroics that kept her silent. It was a far more shameful sort of cowardice. She could well imagine Remy’s rage, his sense of betrayal if he ever found out, not only the truth about the medallion, but that she had allowed Wolf to venture into danger in Remy’s place. If anything happened to Wolf, no one would blame Gabrielle more harshly than she would blame herself. She had always been far too good at keeping secrets, but never had one pressed so heavily upon her heart.
She gave a guilty start when she realized Remy’s steadfast gaze was fixed on her, a quizzical look on his face, despite that slow, sweet smile that he offered her. She was unable to return his smile. Averting her face, she fluttered toward the fire to check his wet clothing draped over the chair, lifting his damp shirt and putting it back again.
The bed creaked as Remy levered himself into a sitting position. “My love, you have checked my clothes at least a dozen times. I don’t think rearranging them again will help them dry any faster.”
“It—it might,” she replied, smoothing out the shirtsleeve.
“Gabrielle.” Remy’s voice was low, but insistent enough that she could no longer avoid looking at him. The concern on his face combined with the simmering heat in his eyes was nearly her undoing. She actually felt her knees grow weak as he commanded huskily, “Come here.”
She had never realized before that it was possible to be ruled by the mere sound of a man’s voice. Remy’s curled through her, whiskey warm, enough to melt her very bones. She wanted to fly across the room to him, cast herself into his arms. Only her guilt caused her to approach him with reluctant steps. As soon as she was within range, his sinewy arm stretched out, his warm strong hand enveloping hers.
He drew her down beside him on the bed, easing her onto her back before she could protest. Not that she really wanted to. As he braced himself above her, heat seemed to radiate from the hard planes of his bared chest. He whispered his lips across hers in a kiss that was so tender, coaxing her lips apart. His tongue brushed against hers, tentative, teasing at first, then deepening to a kiss that threatened to steal her senses, drive every thought out of her head except for him.
But the medallion pressed between them, like the cold tip of a dagger suspended over Remy’s heart. She had to fight hard not to make a grab for the malignant charm. What if Cass had only been bluffing? What if she really couldn’t sense if Remy was wearing the amulet or not? What if the link between the two medallions was not as strong at such a distance? Gabrielle was afraid to take the risk, the memory of the painful way Cass had demonstrated the amulet’s power etched terribly in her mind.
Remy’s mouth moved hungrily over hers, but as much as she ached to be swept away by his embrace, she couldn’t. She felt too much like a Judas. Panting, she wrenched her lips from his, turning her head to one side. Remy remained braced above her. She could feel the weight of his gaze.
“What’s the matter, dear heart?” he asked softly.
Oh, God. Gabrielle had to bite down upon her lip to suppress a groan. It was a fortunate thing Nicolas Remy had never pursued a career as a witch-hunter. The man would have never had to resort to torture. His kiss, that tender tone, those steadfast brown eyes would be enough to make any woman confess to anything.
Continuing to lie to him was the hardest thing Gabrielle had ever done.
“N-nothing,” she faltered.
“Nothing?” He gave a wry chuckle. “You have never been what I would call a placid sort of woman, but this is a new degree of restlessness even for you. I’ve seen fillies about to be ridden into battle who were far less tense.”
“It—it is the storm. Storms always make me edgy.”
“Do they?” He drifted the back of his knuckles across her cheek. “I feared it might be my fault.”
“Yours?”
“I realize I have not been the most attentive lover these past few days. I have been so absorbed with my plan for the escape, no doubt I have been boring you to distraction.”
Gabrielle cast him an agonized glance. Remy was blaming himself for her tension, her restlessness? She cupped her hand against his cheek, felt the scrape of beard just beneath the surface of his skin. “Oh, Remy,” she choked. “How can you even think such a thing? Of course I am deeply interested in your plan to rescue Navarre.”
“Are you? Do you realize that earlier I told you I had engaged a party of elves to help me and you never batted an eyelash?”
Gabrielle felt a telltale flush mount into her cheeks. “Well, elves can—can be useful creatures when—when one can find them.”
Remy laughed, but he continued to study her, his dark eyes full of unasked questions and a shadow of hurt. Gabrielle could not bear it. She squirmed out from beneath him, springing from the bed. She returned to continue her vigil at the window. Oh, where was Wolf? Would this terrible night never end?
Remy slowly sat up, watching Gabrielle’s flight from him with a troubled heart. A flare of lightning illuminated her restive features, her slender fingers pressed to the windowpane. What was it she kept looking for out there in the storm? Obviously something she wasn’t finding with him.
Men were supposed to be notorious for making their conquests and being ready to move on. Was it possible for a woman to tire of a man after only one night? Gabrielle had had other lovers, at least two of them far wealthier, more noble than he. Was she already having regrets, second thoughts about abandoning the ambitions she’d once had? Was that why she had displayed so little interest in his plans to spirit Navarre out of Paris, something she had never wanted?
Stop it, Remy told himself in disgust. These doubts of his were pathetic. She had said she had never loved any man but him. She had proved it the night they had made love. Daunted as she had been by Danton’s brutal treatment, Gabrielle had opened herself to him, trusted him. Nor could Remy complain about the number of times she had made love to him since then. No woman could be more generous, more free with the delights of her body than Gabrielle. Then why was he plagued with the feeling that she was holding something back from him?
Was he being unreasonable to want not to just be in possession of her flesh, but every corner of her heart, her mind, and her soul as well? Would he always be tormented by the thought that there was some part of Gabrielle he’d never be able to touch? Rising from the bed, he strode toward her. When he wrapped his arms around her, she resisted but only for th
e fraction of a second.
She melted back against him and he nuzzled his lips at her temple, the silk-spun threads of her golden hair whispering along his jaw. The lush warmth of her body was soft and inviting beneath the silk of her dressing gown. And yet she still felt so far away from him, it nearly drove him mad.
He shouldn’t keep harping at her like a prosecutor badgering a reluctant witness, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He breathed a kiss against her ear.
“Gabrielle, are you positive nothing is troubling you?”
“No, it’s just that—that—”
“Just what?” he prompted.
“I—I am worried about Martin. He hasn’t come back yet, and for him to be out there alone with—with such a terrible storm.”
“Wolf?” Remy’s eyes widened in surprise. Of all the things that might be troubling Gabrielle, he wouldn’t have expected that. “He’s a canny lad and he knows this city better than either one of us. I am sure he is holed up at some inn, drinking wine with some of his old comrades and flirting with some pretty girl. I was rather relieved when he asked if he could go out this evening. The boy’s been closer on my heels than a shadow of late. I can hardly go to the privy without him trailing after me.”
Gabrielle ducked her head, her face disappearing behind her curtain of hair. “We have both been afraid for you, Remy. You have more enemies than you even know.”
“Doubtless I do. But I assure you I have been watching my back.”
He turned her to face him, brushing back her hair. “Is that truly what has been troubling you? You have been fretting about my safety?”
She gave an unhappy nod.