The Dark Queen

  Gabrielle stared across the sun-sparkled waters and shrugged Remy’s hands from her shoulders.

  “I think it is time we returned to the house,” she said numbly.

  Night settled over Belle Haven, stars piercing the cloudless sky, a half-moon shedding its solemn light over the ivy-covered manor. The rest of the household had long since retired when Remy stole out of the house and into the garden. He was unable to sleep, but it was no longer any ache from his wound keeping him awake. It was the bitter consciousness of the mistake he’d made this afternoon by revealing his heart to Gabrielle Cheney.

  He had no right to be declaring his love to any lady in his present grim circumstances. Even before he’d become a fugitive, it was not as though he had much of a future to offer a woman, especially one as dazzlingly beautiful as Gabrielle, who wove girlish dreams of glittering balls, masques, handsome suitors by the score. Remy had neither wealth nor a title to recommend him. Little charm or wit either, his only talent, his skill with a sword.

  Small wonder Gabrielle had shrunk from him. Oh, she’d continued to be kind to him after their return to the house, but she was quiet and withdrawn during the supper he’d shared with the family. And after the meal, when he had gone back to his room, he had found this awaiting him.

  Remy clapped his hand to the weapon strapped to his side and slowly unsheathed it. His sword. No action could have made her feelings plainer.

  Clearly he had so discomfited her with his clumsy avowals of devotion, she thought it would be better if he left Faire Isle. And she was right.

  Ignoring the twinges from his wound, Remy practiced several feints with his sword, parrying against an imaginary enemy. If he ever hoped to regain his strength, he needed to force his body back into the rigid discipline he had maintained all his life. His muscles ached from disuse, but it felt good to force them to stretch and respond at his command.

  On Faire Isle, he felt far removed from the real world. Perhaps even now his young king was setting out for the wedding in Paris, unaware of the lurking danger.

  Remy cursed himself. He had already failed his queen. He should have returned to protect her son, the only heir and hope of Navarre, if he had had to crawl on his hands and knees to get there. He was deeply ashamed of lingering here when it was his duty to be elsewhere, even more so when his weakness in remaining stemmed from more than his wound.

  He had fallen under the spell of the serenity of this quiet place. He had never quite known what a home could be before coming to Belle Haven. He’d spent most of his youth trailing after his soldier father, learning his trade, his only home a tent or garrison or being quartered as an unwanted stranger in some conquered foe’s dwelling.

  He’d never before experienced all the domesticity and warmth of sharing a roof with so . . . so many women. He had allowed himself to be beguiled by Ariane Cheney mothering and nursing him, by shy little Miri bringing her injured fox to show him, to reassure him that he should not worry, if the fox could get well, then Remy could too.

  Even as he smiled at the memory, Remy knew it was not thoughts of Ariane or Miri that made it so hard for him to think of leaving Faire Isle.

  It was her . . . Gabrielle. A beautiful enchantress so far out of his reach, she might as well have been some distant star.

  He should have mastered this infatuation he felt for her, and maybe he could have done so, if it had been merely her beauty that had dazzled him. But Gabrielle had let him see beyond that cool sophisticated façade she tried so hard to maintain, afforded him glimpses of her kindness, her gentleness, that playful streak so different from his own solemn nature.

  There were times that Gabrielle seemed quite young to him. And then at other times, she seemed far older and more worldly-wise than he. Was that the way of a sorceress or merely a woman, mysterious and unpredictable creatures that they were?

  She could be lively and laughing at times, sweetly teasing him. Or quiet and thoughtful, her eyes haunted by some inexplicable sadness that plucked at his heart. Or she could be so distant, it was as though she had entirely forgotten his existence, which is likely what she would do once he had gone.

  He needed to put her out of his mind and heart as well. But even as he made this resolve, he felt his pulse quicken at the sound of a footfall, the light rustle of the bushes. He sheathed his sword, eagerly awaiting the woman he spied coming down the garden path, carrying a lantern.

  But it was only Ariane. He swallowed his disappointment. No doubt she had checked in on him as she often did at night and become alarmed at finding him missing from his bed.

  Remy was aware that Ariane frequently labored far into the night after everyone else was long abed, tending to the many tasks of running her household or seeing to the ailments of the island folk. She was still wearing her work-worn gown, soft brown tendrils escaping from her chignon to straggle about her pale face.

  She held up the lantern as she approached. “Ah, Captain Remy, I hoped I would find you here. You should be in bed, monsieur.”

  “So should you, mistress,” he retorted. “Do you never sleep?”

  “Sometimes it feels that way,” Ariane murmured. “But I am glad you are still awake. I need to talk to you, but I fear you have been enough on your feet for one day. Please do sit down.”

  But Remy shook his head. “If I cannot exert myself to stand and pay respect to a lady, I can hardly be considered fit to ride a horse, can I? Unless the Lady of Faire Isle hopes to keep me her prisoner forever?”

  “No, I have no intention of doing that,” she replied with a sad smile. “You must go.”

  If only Gabrielle had sounded quite that regretful, Remy thought with a pang. Ariane’s gaze fixed on his and Remy was certain she had guessed the hopeless nature of his love for her sister. He believed those solemn eyes of Ariane missed little, but she was far too wise to comment on her perceptions, and for that Remy was extremely grateful.

  He took the lantern from her and forced her to sit, which she did reluctantly. The Lady of Faire Isle never appeared comfortable allowing anyone else to take care of her, but the poor woman looked more drained than he was.

  Ariane folded her hands in her lap with a tired sigh. “I have received word from Paris. We have placed a woman in the palace to spy upon Catherine. One of our own . . . another daughter of the earth.”

  Remy wondered if he himself would have had the iron nerve to play such a dangerous game with the Dark Queen. “The courage of you ladies astonishes me.”

  “I don’t know if it is courage or recklessness. But Louise has discovered this much. Your worst fears are true. Louise is convinced that Catherine has no intention of ever seeing your king wed to her daughter. She has something else far different in mind for Henry of Navarre. Very likely a funeral.”

  Remy’s mouth set in a grim line. “Then I must leave immediately.”

  “Yes, you must return to Navarre as soon as possible. Stop your king from going to Paris.”

  “That will not be easy. He is surrounded by high-ranking ministers far too eager for this so-called marriage and truce. The word of an army captain ranting about witchcraft will not count for much without proof, unless you have succeeded with the gloves?”

  One look at Ariane’s downcast face swiftly put an end to that hope. “I have studied and studied those gloves to no avail. And even if I can figure out what poison Catherine used, I am not sure how we would demonstrate my knowledge. Who will understand the kind of scientific proof I would offer?”

  Unfortunately, Remy quite agreed with her. He knew he would never be able to understand the Lady of Faire Isle’s mysterious “science” himself and he doubted his countrymen would be any wiser.

  Using the gloves to defeat Catherine had always been a forlorn hope and yet Remy could not help feeling bitterly disappointed.

  “The de Medici witch is going to get away with it, isn’t she? Murdering my queen.”

  “I fear so.”

  Remy paced away from Ariane, muttering a
low oath and striking his palm against the bark of a tree.

  “My mother always said that evil carries its own punishment,” Ariane went on hesitantly. “That eventually Catherine will be consumed by her own darkness.”

  “When? After a lifetime of wreaking havoc on innocent people, when she is resting comfortably in her grave? I was hoping for retribution a little sooner.”

  “So was I. I am so sorry, Remy. I wish I were the mighty sorceress that you believed me to be when you sought me out. Then I might have actually done you some good.”

  At the sight of Ariane’s bowed shoulders and weary, defeated expression, his own anger faded. He returned to rest one hand gently on her shoulder.

  “You have done me much good, lady. I would be dead if not for you.”

  She only shook her head sadly. “Any wise woman could have healed you. You came to me expecting so much more and all you did was endanger your life further. Wasting your time, journeying all the way to Faire Isle for—for nothing.”

  “No, not for nothing.” Remy gave her shoulder a bracing squeeze. “I have learned a great deal from you.”

  “And just what would that be?”

  “Well, for one thing how to tell the difference between a witch and a wise woman. That all daughters of the earth are not as evil as the Dark Queen.”

  His words coaxed a reluctant smile from Ariane. She rallied, rising to her feet.

  “Fretting over my failure with the gloves will do neither of us any good,” she said. “I need to turn my attention to more practical matters. Such as securing you a good mount for your journey. Unfortunately, most of the ponies here on the island are of the sturdy, plodding variety. The only one possessing horses of any swiftness is—is the Comte de Renard.”

  Ariane sighed. “And I would as soon keep my distance from him.”

  Remy regarded her curiously. “Are all you ladies of Faire Isle so determined to drive away your admirers? You seem to be a singularly independent and solitary breed of female.”

  “Many of us are,” Ariane conceded with a wry smile. “Perhaps that is why they call us wise women.”

  But Ariane did not feel especially wise as she stood by her bedchamber window. All she felt was small and alone with the night pressing down on her. Yielding at last to the temptation, she slipped Renard’s ring back on her finger and called to him.

  “Renard, come to me. I need you.”

  She was answered by a powerful wind tearing past her casement. And then within moments, Renard was there, silhouetted in her bedchamber doorway, a man of such rugged flesh and sinew, he seemed fashioned from the very bones of the earth.

  His green eyes glinted with triumph beneath his hooded lids as he murmured, “Ma chère . . .” and held out his arms to her.

  Ariane rushed toward him and he caught her hard against the welcoming warmth of his strong body. Whispering heated kisses across her face, he swept her off her feet, carrying her over to the bed.

  Renard pressed her down into the mattress, his large frame looming over her, his mouth claiming her in a fiery mating of lips, tongues, and breath. Ariane moaned softly, burying her fingers in the thickness of his golden-brown hair. Her heart hammered in rhythm with his as he slowly began to ease her nightgown down her shoulder.

  But to her consternation, Gabrielle suddenly burst into the bedchamber.

  “No!” She launched herself fiercely at Renard.

  “Gabrielle, what—what are you doing?” Ariane tried to protest but her sister gave her a savage shake.

  “What are you doing? Do you want to lose your magic the way I did?”

  “Let me go.” Ariane struggled to push Gabrielle away, but her sister only shook her harder.

  “Ariane? Ariane! Wake up.”

  Ariane groaned and surrendered her dream, her eyes fluttering open. Shoving her sister’s hand away, she struggled to a sitting position, saying grumpily, “Good Lord, Gabrielle. Can you not even let me enjoy my dreams in peace?”

  But as Ariane came more fully awake, she realized it was not Gabrielle bending over her, but Miri. Her little sister looked like a phantom in her nightgown, pale and trembling so badly, the candle she held was in danger of setting the bedcurtains afire.

  Ariane took the candlestick from her gently and set it down on her night table. She feared that Miri was having one of her sleepwalking episodes, but her sister had never been known before to pause to light a candle when she was in such a trance.

  And although her eyes were wide, dilated with fear, the girl looked very much awake.

  “What is it, dearest? Have you had another of your nightmares?”

  Miri stared at Ariane, forcing one word past her white lips. “N-necromancer—”

  Ariane started as the cat itself leapt upon the bed, a sleek shadow with ghost-white paws and gleaming amber eyes. Necromancer emitted a growl from low in his throat, the sound so strange and eerie, it caused the nape of Ariane’s neck to prickle.

  Ariane shrank back, wrapping one arm protectively around her sister. “Good heavens, Miri! What on earth is the matter with him?”

  Necromancer slunk forward, his eyes glinting as fiercely as a jungle cat. He pawed urgently at Ariane’s hand, nearly scratching her in the process.

  “He is trying to tell you that he was out hunting tonight. In the woods.” Miri shuddered. “And he—he’s seen them.”

  “Seen who, dearest?”

  “Oh, Ariane! The witch-hunters have come back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ariane tore through the house, lighting candles and rousing her servants. She all but had to drag Gabrielle from her pillow.

  “I can’t believe you are rousting me from my bed in the middle of the night on the word of a cat,” she complained.

  Ariane could hardly believe she was doing it herself, but she had seen too much of Miri’s uncanny ability to communicate with animals to doubt they were all in danger.

  Flinging a shawl over Gabrielle’s shoulders, Ariane propelled her grumbling sister from her bedchamber and down the stairs, Necromancer bolting ahead while Miri trailed behind. The rest of the household was already gathered in the great hall, fear and confusion evident in the faces set beneath nightcaps that had gone askew.

  The young page Leon had returned from fetching old Fourche from the stables, the boy’s face ashen beneath his mop of carrot-colored hair. “Milady, you were right. There is someone out there. M-master Fourche and I saw them.”

  “Witch-hunters. An army of them, mistress,” Fourche quavered. “Creeping out of the woods like a pack of wolves. Sh-shall I fetch my pitchfork and—”

  “No. We must remain calm,” Ariane said, although she felt her own heart start to race. Leon and Fourche’s report only added to the sense of mounting panic, the old cook Agnes moaning and clutching her heart while the little housemaid Bette started to cry. Gabrielle wrapped her arm around Miri’s trembling shoulders as Necromancer emitted a sharp hiss that sliced through Ariane’s taut nerves.

  The only one who appeared calm was Remy as he descended into the hall. He alone had taken the time to dress and arm himself with the swiftness of a man no doubt accustomed to being roused to face danger at a moment’s notice.

  “Mistress Cheney. What is amiss?” he asked sharply.

  “The witch-hunters, Captain. They have returned.”

  Remy strode toward the front window with Ariane hard after him. Together they stared past the diamond-paned window into a night that seemed at first still and undisturbed. Then Ariane caught the first flicker of light, the bobbing of a lantern illuminating movement in the stableyard, dark-robed figures melting like shadows from the woodland beyond. Not hundreds of witch-hunters, but certainly far too many.

  Ariane slammed the shutters closed. She exchanged a grim look with Remy and could tell that like herself, the captain fully appreciated the gravity of their situation. Belle Haven had not been designed as a fortress. The barred doors and windows would not hold off any attack for long and they h
ad no weapons.

  The wise women of Belle Haven had always refused to have their walls adorned with swords, daggers, and other symbols of male aggression, so foreign and disruptive to the peace and harmony of the island. They had never had need of such armaments before, but now Ariane thought she would have welcomed the sight of a few stout battle-axes displayed among the tapestries.

  But such weapons would be of little use, she reflected. Who would wield them, an old man, a boy, a handful of untrained women, and a soldier, barely healed from his last wound?

  Remy’s strong hand closed over Ariane’s. “Mistress Cheney, you must let me go out and surrender—”

  “No!”

  “But we both know it is me that the Dark Queen has sent Le Vis after. And those accursed gloves.”

  “And you think Le Vis will leave the rest of us in peace? The man is a witch-hunter and I doubt he sneaks here under cover of darkness to negotiate or hold any more tribunals. Once he has you and the gloves, he will simply murder us all.”

  “Then you must flee through the woods to safety while I do my best to hold off Le Vis and his men.”

  Ariane shook her head. “It is far too late for that. There is only one thing to be done. We must summon help.”

  “Help from where, mademoiselle? Do you mean this Comte de Renard?”

  “Yes. I fear I may have already delayed too long. I should have sent for him as soon as the cat warned me—”

  “What?” Remy cast her a look as though he’d begun to doubt her sanity.

  The poor man only appeared further mystified as Ariane tugged on the chain, pulling Renard’s ring from beneath her gown.

  At that moment, Gabrielle joined them. As soon as she saw what Ariane was about to do, she shrieked.

  Gabrielle made a frantic lunge at Ariane. But Ariane dodged away from her sister, yanking the metal band from the chain. She jammed Renard’s ring back upon her finger while Gabrielle swore and Remy looked as though they had both run mad.

  Ariane pressed the ring over the region of her heart. Suppressing her fear, she fought to concentrate, send her thoughts winging to Renard through the night.