The Dark Queen

  “Yes, but Monsieur le Comte was not interested in my desire to rut with some peasant wench, as he so delicately put it.” Renard scowled. “He brought forth a horse and ordered me to mount up without even time to bid Martine farewell.

  “When I told him to go to—er, that is, declined his offer to come live with him, my grandfather had me taken by force. That is how I broke my nose for the second time, or was it the third? I put up the devil of a fight, but I was dragged off to my grandfather’s chateau and our tussle of wills began. He, attempting to make what he called a proper Deauville of me, me doing my damned best to spit in his eye and escape. I would run, but he would hunt me down and have me beaten.”

  “Oh, how could he!” Ariane cried. She had known the old comte could be a hard man, but to treat his own grandson thus . . .

  Renard merely patted her hand and smiled. “Do not let my tale distress you. My hide is as thick as my head. The whippings only made me the more stubborn in my resolve, until one day I managed to get clean away, all the way back to my mountain. I was a ragged, filthy beggar by the time I collapsed at Lucy’s door. Even you with your steady calm and courage, you would have recoiled.”

  Ariane blushed, pleased with his compliment.

  “Lucy took me in, fed me, bathed my sore feet and then . . . then she told me that she would help me no further. I would have to go back to my grandfather. In fact, she had already sent for him. I—I was surprised.”

  Renard’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. “I had trusted Lucy. I had been so sure she would help me escape from him, help me to fight.”

  “Your grandmother was only one old woman,” Ariane reasoned. “What could she have possibly done to thwart the will of a powerful nobleman like your grandfather?”

  “Lucy would not have helped me even if she could have,” Renard said bitterly. “She insisted it was my destiny to become the Comte de Renard. It was another of Lucy’s skills, or so she claimed, the ability to obtain glimpses of the future by staring into the fire. Do you believe in such visions?”

  “My mother did not put much store by them. She said most times such visions were merely the product of imagination or so vague, they could be interpreted any way the seer wished. And yet, Miri often has disturbing dreams that cannot be explained, nightmares that seem to herald dire future events.”

  “Lucy had complete faith in her visions, although there were times I suspected that her predictions had more to do with things she wanted to have happen, and she did her best to ensure that they came true. After all, she was the one who helped my mother win the love of a comte’s son. I was a fool not to have realized it sooner, but it was my grandmother’s dearest ambition to see me become this great and powerful lord.”

  “Can you truly blame her for that?” Ariane asked. “You have surely seen for yourself how hard the life of a peasant can be. It is scarcely surprising that your grandmother would have wished something better for you.”

  “But they were her wishes, not mine, and I never forgave her for it.”

  He still hadn’t. Ariane could see the ages-old resentment banked in his eyes as he continued, “Especially when I found out that she had arranged for my Martine to be married to another man in my absence.”

  His Martine. But for the interference of his grandfather, Renard would be long ago wed and raising his herd of children somewhere up in the wilds of the mountains. His path and Ariane’s would never have crossed that day in the forest. It was somehow strangely hard to think of that.

  “Were you very broken-hearted?” she asked.

  Renard hunched his shoulders. “Hearts mend quickly enough when you are young. Far better to discover the folly of love when you are but sixteen and have time to live the rest of your life with greater wisdom.

  “But losing Martine did rather take the fight out of me. When my grandfather arrived to reclaim me, I turned my back on my mountain and Lucy forever. I tried to fit into his world.

  “However, I couldn’t ride properly, couldn’t wield a sword, couldn’t wear my doublet and cape with the proper panache. It is difficult to swagger along in one’s boots when you have feet the size of blacksmith anvils.”

  His wry description coaxed a smile from Ariane.

  “You should have been there the first time I was obliged to attend a masked ball and tournament. But no, it is far better that you were not, because I made a poor spectacle of myself. I held my sword like a butcher trying to hack up a side of beef. I was easily disarmed. I pretended to yield, then when I had my opponent off guard, I rushed him, pinned his sword arm, and laid him out with a single blow. Then I stood, flinging up my arms in triumph.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Unfortunately, instead of the applause I expected, I was greeted by jeers. My grandfather was livid, calling me a disgrace to the Deauville name.

  “Great dolt that I was, I didn’t even understand what I had done wrong, all their niceties about rules of engagement, the courtesies of battle. How can there be any courtesy in battle? When I fight, I fight to conquer. When I play, I play to win. The result, I suppose, of too many afternoons engaged in rough hurly-burly, learning to protect my poor nose from Timon the Trickster.”

  Renard smiled at Ariane, but she did not respond. She could see beyond his jesting to all the pain, the humiliation that awkward boy had suffered.

  Feeling somewhat discomfited by her sympathy, he lowered his eyes. “I fear you may have succeeded in making me a little drunk after all. I cannot remember the last time I have droned on this way, boring a pretty lady.”

  “I am not bored,” she murmured. “Please go on.”

  It was an invitation he would have refused from anyone else. It was those quiet eyes of Ariane’s. Every wise woman he had ever known had had compelling eyes like that. But old Lucy’s had been more shrewd, demanding. Ariane’s eyes were gentle, calm, asking nothing . . . asking everything. Only that one be no less than honest with her.

  Renard shifted guiltily in his chair and took another swallow of wine. “There is little more to tell, ma chère. When my grandfather despaired of teaching me anything himself, he packed me off to Paris, hoping I would acquire some polish there. If nothing else, it would keep the pair of us from murdering each other, which we might have done, had we continued under the same roof.”

  “Then, tell me about Paris.”

  “Have you never been there yourself?”

  “Only once or twice when I was quite young. My father kept a house there. He was fond of city life and following the court. But my mother did not care for it, especially not for her children.”

  “I should fancy not. The French court can be a treacherous place, full of intrigue. Especially these days.”

  “Y-yes.” Ariane steadfastly regarded the napkin on her lap, but not before Renard caught a flash of her eyes, reading just the merest glimpse, the barest insight into what—or perhaps it was more apt to say who—had been troubling the peace of Faire Isle.

  Oh, ma chère. What have you been doing to incur the enmity of the Dark Queen?

  Renard doubted she would answer him even if he voiced the question aloud. She was already blocking her thoughts. All he could do was remain alert, watchful until she lowered her guard again.

  Pleating her napkin, she turned the conversation back to him. “So what did you do in Paris? You were not at court?”

  “No, I was sent to attend the university. My grandfather’s tutors had finally managed to drill the rudiments of reading and writing into my thick skull, the one accomplishment for which I am grateful to the old man.”

  “The university?” Ariane said wistfully. “I should have loved to be able to attend. There was a time long ago when some noble women were permitted to study medicine there.”

  “Chérie, there is nothing those fools could have taught you. The chief occupation of the students seemed to be rioting, drinking, and whor—er, gaming. I came to excel at all these skills.

  “I suppose I would have continued on in this empt
y fashion except that one day Toussaint arrived in Paris. He is my grandmother’s cousin, but he always felt more like my brother, uncle, or father. I was exceedingly glad to see him until I realized why he had come.”

  This was one part of Renard’s past he would definitely have been content to forget, to leave well alone. Ariane rested her fingers lightly on his sleeve, and Renard continued reluctantly, “Toussaint brought me word that witch-hunters were combing our mountains, looking for Lucy.”

  Renard felt the sudden tension in Ariane’s fingers and he covered her hand with his own. “Toussaint wanted me to come back with him. I am ashamed to confess that I nearly refused. I was still angry with her. But in the end, I rode out with him.

  “You talk of premonitions. I was seized with a sense of urgency that pushed me to ride faster, harder until my horse was nigh on the brink of collapse. And still it did not matter—”

  “You came too late,” Ariane said.

  Renard nodded grimly. “I found little left of our cottage or my grandmother. Only a pile of rubble and broken beams, scorched earth.”

  Ariane’s fingers tightened on his arm, a myriad of emotions chasing through her eyes, horror, sorrow, and comprehension.

  “So that is why you went after Le Vis with such hatred. Was he the one who—who—”

  “No,” Renard replied tersely. “I never set eyes on the villain until today. Witch-hunters are all alike to me. As for those who burned my grandmother, I dealt with them long ago. The only fires they will ever kindle again are in hell.”

  A hard cold light crept into Renard’s eyes and Ariane shivered, drawing her hand away.

  Renard cast her a taut smile. “The thought of my retribution disturbs you, doesn’t it? You, with your all-too-kind and forgiving heart. You even saved Le Vis after all the vile things he tried to do, wasted your most precious magic upon him, the Breath of Life. Why did you do it, Ariane?”

  “My mother always taught me to beware the darkness of vengeance. To heal, not to kill. To try to save life, not allow it to slip away. That is why I saved Le Vis and—and also partly because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “I did not want you succumbing to darkness either. After all you had already done for us, you could have been in far greater peril if you had been accused of murdering Le Vis.”

  “Then you would be rid of both of us.”

  “I don’t want to be—” Ariane checked herself.

  Renard reached out to touch her cheek, but Ariane drew nervously away. She twisted the ring on her finger and wondered if Gabrielle was right, if this strange talisman was somehow pulling her deeper into Renard’s power.

  “So tell me what happened next,” she said. “After the death of your grandmother.”

  Reluctantly accepting her rebuff, Renard leaned back in his chair. “After my actions against the witch-hunters, it was deemed wise that I should leave the country for a time. My grandfather was quite glad to have me go. Our enmity had worsened after Lucy’s death.

  “I could never prove it, but I strongly suspected the old comte had had a hand in setting the witch-hunters after Lucy. He believed that she had cursed him, that that was why all his other sons and grandchildren had died, leaving only me to inherit.

  “My grandfather and I parted with mutual loathing. In fact, we each vowed to kill the other if our paths ever crossed again. Happily they did not. I set out on my travels with Toussaint. My grandfather took to ravishing young women in a desperate effort to get himself another heir.

  “I did not set foot back in Brittany again until I received word of his death. I think I only came then partly out of spite to have bested the old man at last, and partly at Toussaint’s urging. He seems to have this strange notion I might make a tolerable comte.”

  “He is right,” Ariane said. “More than tolerable if you put your mind to it. You have seen so much of the world, my lord, and not just the world of wealth and power. You know the ways and cares of humbler, simple folk. You have such rare abilities to offer the people of your estate, such gifts of compassion, understanding and—and—”

  “I might make an excellent comte . . . with the right wife,” he added, seizing possession of her hand. “Now that I have told you so much about myself, surely I deserve some sort of reward.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Ariane asked warily.

  “Marry me. Tonight.”

  Ariane laughed. “That is quite a reward for a few confidences, my lord. Especially since there is one thing you still have not told me.”

  “Oh?” Renard’s eyes narrowed. “And what is that?”

  “Why you are so determined to wed me.”

  “Ah, that.” Was it her imagination or did Renard seem a trifle relieved that that was all she wanted to know?

  “After all, you do not pretend to be in love with me. Any more than I am with you,” Ariane added quickly.

  “No, we are both too wise for that. And yet there does seem to be some undefinable force drawing us together. I believe you feel it too, ma chère. Some inexplicable fate.”

  Fate? Ariane frowned, an unwelcome thought piercing her. “Oh, Renard, please. Never tell me that—that I formed part of one of old Lucy’s predictions for your future.”

  Renard smiled and quoted, “Someday, Justice, you will be lost. More lost than you have ever been. You will come upon the woman with the quiet eyes and she will be the one who will lead you safely back. Your destiny.”

  “Oh Lord,” Ariane groaned. “What nonsense.”

  “Ah, but Lucy’s other predictions came true, did they not? I am now the Comte de Renard.”

  “Yes, but you said she helped to arrange that and besides, even if the prediction is true, I already rescued you from being lost in the woods. My part in your destiny is fulfilled.”

  “Not quite,” Renard murmured, carrying her hand to his lips with a simmering look that caused her to shiver.

  He was back to wooing her again, his hooded eyes too intent upon her face. Ariane had been more comfortable with him when he was simply seated at her table, being open, forthright, sharing confidences. At least then, she had not felt so warm and flustered.

  Withdrawing her hand from his, she attempted to recover her composure. “There is only one place I should lead you and that is to your horse. It is growing late.”

  “Will you cast me out into the storm, chérie?”

  “The rain has nearly stopped.” Ariane rose to her feet. As she did so, her napkin cascaded from her lap. She moved to retrieve it, unfortunately at the same time as Renard. Their heads collided with a resounding thunk that sent her staggering back.

  “Ow.” She straightened, rubbing her throbbing brow, blinking away pinpoints of light. She saw Renard was doing likewise.

  “You know, ma chère,” he complained. “It is all right even for strong and wise women to occasionally allow a man to perform a trifling service for them such as fetching a napkin.”

  “I—I am sorry.”

  “Are you all right? I did warn you. I have an excessively hard head.” He brushed her hands aside to examine her temple for himself. “My proud, independent Ariane. Was it so very hard for you to use the ring and send for me today?”

  “The hardest thing I have ever done,” she admitted. “And not just because I doubted the magic of the ring or my wariness over our agreement. But because I am the Lady of Faire Isle. It is my responsibility to protect this island. Yet when the witch-hunters came, I could do nothing. You were the one risking your life to save them.”

  “I broke a few heads with my sword, but you put yourself constantly at risk to help these people. Your eyes carry the burdens of your sisters, these islanders, and any stranger who chances across your path, asking your help. And you try to do it all alone. I wish you would trust me enough to allow me to help you.”

  Ariane wished that she could too when he looked at her that way, his eyes so warm and open, his hand so sure and steady as he cupped her neck, coaxing her closer. She made
no effort to resist as his mouth settled over hers, soft and lingering.

  Faint echoes of Gabrielle’s recent warning chased through Ariane’s mind, but another less sensible part of herself whispered, It’s only a kiss.

  His arm stole about her waist before she even realized what he was doing, gathering her closer. She raised one hand in a feeble effort to ward him off. But as he continued to kiss her, he placed his hand against hers, palm to palm, their matching rings striking against each other.

  Something most strange happened. It was as though the ring grew warm upon her finger, sending a glowing current through her. Sensations of heat rushed through her, shattering her reason, her sense of control like fine spun glass.

  Their hands entwined, rings locked together, Ariane kissed him back feverishly. She did not even seek to stop him when he fumbled with the fastening of her gown. She tugged urgently at his doublet, their lips never breaking contact, kiss after eager kiss.

  The chamber around her whirled, blurred, and disappeared in a fiery haze. She was naked in his arms and never had anything felt so right. The heat and strength of his sinewy body pouring into her like some golden light, the tender globes of her breasts pressed to the coarse golden mat of Renard’s bare chest. She flung back her head as his lips caressed her throat, his huge hands warming her wherever he touched.

  She had been so cold and alone for so long. She scarcely realized how much until this moment when her fingers entwined with his, their rings nearly striking off sparks until the metal seemed to fuse and burn. Become one ring, one hand.

  Ariane clung to Renard, almost weeping with the urgent need to be closer to him still, to be bound to him in the most intimate way possible between woman and man. One heart, one body. He felt raw with a primitive heat, strong and powerful, promising her far more than passion, promising her shelter from all the storms, all the Dark Queens, all the witch-hunters of this world.

  And that was perhaps the most dangerous seduction of them all. This promise to protect and care for her forever. All she had to do to obtain such security was to . . . surrender.