“I don’t like blackening any man’s character, but Monsieur le Franc is a villain, grasping and unscrupulous. Extorting money from your tenants, tossing villagers out of their homes on the slightest pretext, charging some poor farmer with theft merely to seize possession of his last cow.
“And you have no idea how poorly he manages your farms. Constantly sowing and plowing, never giving the land a chance to lie fallow.” Ariane suddenly bent down, scooping a handful of earth from forest floor.
She seized hold of Renard’s hand and sifted the earth into his palm, the cool weight of it resting against his riding glove, the loamy scent rising to his nostrils.
“You are blessed to have such good soil, my lord, but it must have a chance to heal, to rest. Your steward is wounding the earth with his greed and you must put a stop to it. Monsieur le Franc—” Ariane bit her lip, coloring deeply as though it suddenly occurred to her that she had just given Renard a handful of dirt. She made haste to brush off his glove.
“Your pardon, my lord. I sometimes get carried away. You must think me quite mad or impertinent.”
What Renard thought was that Ariane Cheney was unexpectedly lovely when she allowed herself to wax passionate.
“Do not distress yourself, mademoiselle. I welcome your opinions and advice and I promise you I will look into the matter.” He flashed her his most charming smile. “Since my return, I have been surrounded by too many people inclined to tug their forelocks and mew ‘yes, Monsieur le Comte’ and ‘no, Monsieur le Comte.’ In fact, I would deem it a great honor if you would consent to sup with me . . .”
What the devil was he saying? Renard knew he’d be far wiser to stay clear of this woman. Yet his disappointment bit astonishingly deep when she refused him.
“Oh! N-no, I thank you.” Ariane looked flustered by his suggestion. “I—I couldn’t.”
“But why not?” he heard himself persist. “It seems only proper that I should get to know my nearest neighbors.”
“I am not truly your neighbor, my lord. Since my mother died and with my father gone on his voyage, my sisters and I spend most of our time at our house on Faire Isle. I come to the mainland only occasionally to check on the estate. We have an excellent steward.”
“Unlike my foolish self, eh?”
Ariane looked horrified. “No, I never meant—”
“I was but teasing you, mademoiselle. However, you speak to me of injustice when you are guilty of a great one yourself.”
“Me?”
“But certainly. Hiding yourself away on your island. To me, that seems almost a crime. Especially when there are such lonely men in the world as myself who would welcome your fair company.”
Most women would have been flattered by such words. Ariane merely pulled a wry face at him, setting the pony into motion again. “I doubt you are all that lonely. I have heard that your castle is fairly bursting with ladies at the moment.”
“Ah, more gossip from the village, no doubt. I have forgotten how keen an interest country folk take in everyone else’s affairs.”
“Especially yours, Monsieur le Comte.”
“And what are they saying?”
“Only that you have assembled the fairest and wealthiest collection of women in all of Brittany at your château to choose a wife from them. They are calling it the judgment of Paris.”
“Are they indeed?” Renard drawled. “I must harbor a remarkably well-educated group of peasants on my land, to be so familiar with Greek myth.”
“I suppose I am the one who has been calling it that,” Ariane confessed sheepishly. “It just reminded me of how the prince Paris of Troy was called upon to choose the most beautiful goddess, awarding her the golden apple. Only the lady you select will end up with—with—”
“Me,” Renard filled in.
“Exactly.” Although Ariane gave him a fleeting smile, he caught the hint of a crease between her brows.
“And you don’t find me much of a prize?”
“I am sure most women would deem it a great honor to marry Monsieur le Comte. It is only—” Ariane broke off.
“Only what?”
Renard prodded, “Oh, come now. You have been forthright enough with me so far. Why stop now?”
Ariane fidgeted with the pony’s bridle. “Well, it does not seem to me a good way for you to be choosing a wife, although I realize that is how it is done by most noblemen.”
“And how would you have me go about it?”
Ariane raised her face earnestly to his. “Marriage is not something to be undertaken lightly. The lady you choose will be by your side the rest of your life, the mother of your children. You should spend some time truly getting to know her, her thoughts, her opinions, looking deeply into her heart.”
Or at least her eyes, Renard thought, staring fixedly at Ariane. He may have forgotten many of the other skills old Lucy had taught him, but he was still good at the reading of the eyes. It was a skill that he’d found most useful over the years, whether in dealing with his enemies or gaining what he wanted from members of the fair sex.
And Ariane’s eyes were so open and honest, he was able to take full measure of her intelligence, the strength and wisdom she’d inherited from generations of women before her. She was a nurturer, a caregiver, but most of all a healer.
In those few moments, he could feel her tranquil spirit brush soothingly against his own far more restless one. His grandmother had been right.
There was such a thing as a woman with quiet eyes.
He lowered his gaze, feeling oddly unsettled by the contact between them. Before he could say anything more, he heard a distant shout.
“My lord? Justice? Where are you? God’s teeth, answer me, lad!”
Renard recognized Toussaint, the old man’s usually gruff tone sharpened by fear. Renard rushed toward the sound, plunging into a clearing. He cupped his hands around his mouth to shout back.
“Holla, Toussaint. Over here.”
A crashing sounded through the underbrush. Toussaint appeared a few moments later, breaking through the line of trees. Drawing rein on his dark gelding, his weathered face lightened with relief at the sight of Renard.
“Ah, there you are, lad. Haven’t you heard me shouting? We’ve been combing the woods looking for you ever since that demon horse of yours came limping riderless across the fields. Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” Renard strode toward him anxiously. “But what is wrong with my horse?”
“Nothing. He merely threw a shoe.” The doughty old man slid from the back of his mount. Toussaint’s fierce blue eyes raked over him and he clapped both hands on Renard’s arms as though to assure himself Renard was still in one piece.
“Blast your hide, I’ve been tearing about like a madman, picturing you lying helpless out here alone with your bones broke—”
“Nothing is broken, not unless it’s my pride, and I haven’t been alone. I—” Renard glanced behind him to where Ariane should have been. She hadn’t followed him into the clearing.
He rapidly retraced his steps, seeking the spot where he had left her. He thrashed about, shoving aside branches, peering through the thick line of trees.
It was as though she had faded into the trees or the forest had opened up and swallowed her. More likely, seeing that he was safe, she had used the opportunity to slip away.
Toussaint came up behind him, leading his horse. “What in thunder are you doing, lad?”
“Looking for her. There was this lady—”
“A lady? In the middle of the woods?” Toussaint asked incredulously.
“I didn’t find her in the woods. She was down by the stream.”
Toussaint gripped him by the elbow. “What you need is a good lie down and I daresay some cold cloths pressed to your head.”
“Damnation! I didn’t hit my head,” Renard said. “She was here, Toussaint. A most remarkable lady. Ariane Cheney. She was helping me find my way back.”
Toussaint had been tryin
g to propel him back toward the clearing, but the old man stiffened, his eyes flying to Renard’s face.
“Cheney, you say? This lady wouldn’t have anything to do with that other Cheney woman, would she? The one old Lucy used to talk about.”
“Yes, Ariane is Evangeline Cheney’s daughter.”
“Then she also is a—a—”
“A witch? I have little doubt of it, and one possessed of an astonishing inheritance.”
“From all I have heard tell, the Cheneys are rather poor these days.”
“I am not talking about base jewels or coin, Toussaint, but a legendary store of books, ancient knowledge.”
Toussaint looked uneasy. “I never saw where books did anything for a man except muddle up his brain. Especially books of that sort. Besides, if this lady had wanted to remain with you, she would have just stayed put.”
Before Renard could argue further, the rest of the hunting party descended upon them. Tightening his grip, Toussaint tugged more insistently and Renard had no choice but to give over any hope of searching for Ariane.
He doubted he would have been able to find her anyway if she didn’t want to be found. Toussaint was right in that respect. She had made it clear she had no wish to pursue the acquaintance and it should not have mattered to him either. But somehow it did.
One of the squires surrendered his horse to Renard and he mounted up, casting a reluctant look behind him. He was beset by an odd sense of loss the rest of the ride home, not even responding to Toussaint’s teasing about Lucifer getting the better of him again.
The empty feeling persisted, even back at the château when he was surrounded once more by his glittering assemblage of guests, lords too eager to flatter, ladies trying too hard to charm.
It afforded him a certain grim amusement to think how most of these women would have reacted if he had surprised any of them out in the woods. They’d have shrieked or fainted, not stood their ground and regarded him with calm, gray eyes.
His great hall rang with feminine chatter. Renard wondered irritably why he’d never noticed what shrill voices women had. That is, all save one. The first opportunity that presented itself, he stole away, climbing to the topmost tower of the château to stare restlessly out across his fields.
The sun blazed, setting over the distant shadowy outline of the forest. The trees appeared to melt together, closing up like the gates to a dark, mysterious land that was both enticing and forbidding. As Renard leaned against the rough stone parapet, the rest of old Lucy’s prophecy forced its way into his mind.
“You will come upon the woman with the quiet eyes. And she will be the one who will lead you safely back. Your destiny.”
Destiny? It was like old Lucy to use such a grandiloquent word. Her predictions for his future had always been high-sounding and irritatingly mysterious. Her visions also had a disconcerting habit of coming true, no matter how hard one fought against them, and as a young man he had certainly fought when Lucy had insisted he would one day become the Comte de Renard.
Renard sometimes felt like one of those gnarled oaks in the forest, blasted by two powerful opposing forces, Lucy on one side, his Deauville grandfather on the other. Bending and twisting his life until it was far removed from the simple, direct path he’d meant to follow, until he scarcely recognized himself anymore.
And now even from her grave, Lucy’s visions were reaching out to ensnare him. Ariane Cheney . . . his destiny? Renard didn’t bloody well think so and yet . . . He knew the folly of trying to thwart Lucy’s prophecies.
And why bother fighting anymore? He’d long ago lost Martine Dupres, the only woman who might have been the love of his life. He needed to marry someone. Why not Ariane Cheney, he thought with a cynical shrug of his shoulders. He was certainly attracted to the lady, her voice was blessedly unshrill, and she was far more intelligent than those chattering wenches down in his great hall.
True, she had certain peculiarities in her family background, but so did he. And while her fortune might not be substantial, she possessed a dower that he found intriguing. As the wind whistled past the parapets, once more Lucy’s voice seemed to whisper seductively in his ear.
“Knowledge beyond your wildest imaginings. And always remember, Justice, such magic is the only true power.”
And perhaps that was the only thing that mattered in the end, Renard reflected bitterly. Power, the ability to make sure one’s life remained one’s own, to never again dance to the tune of anyone else’s piping.
Drawing away from the parapet, Renard wended his way down the tower stairs. By the time he sat down to sup that evening, he had made up his mind to be rid of his steward and his guests as well, all those simpering women. The judgment of Paris was over. He had made his choice of wife.
“My lord?”
The voice penetrated the hum of noise in the tavern and Renard’s thoughts as well. Someone hovered over his solitary table, blocking his view of the room. Toussaint towered over him, his tall frame stiffer than many a man half his age. His white hair was windblown, his jerkin and cloak dusty from the road, his face lined with weariness and looking less than pleased with Renard.
Renard poured himself another glass of wine. “Toussaint, what the devil are you doing here?”
The pleasant inquiry only caused the old man’s scowl to deepen. “What I always seem to end up doing, searching for you. Although it was not hard for me to guess where you had gone, once I realized the fog was cleared off this cursed island. I had hoped that after that disaster of a wedding, you’d have sense enough to leave Mistress Cheney alone. I should have known better.”
“You should indeed.” Using the toe of his boot, Renard kicked a chair toward Toussaint. “So now you have found me. You may as well sit down and have a drink.”
The old man’s thick white brows drew fiercely together. “Is that a command, my lord?”
“I suppose you may consider it as such, for it does little good for me to request anything of you. I have asked you several times to stop ‘my lording’ me every time you turn around.”
“It is the proper way for me to address you, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Yes, but you only seem to remember to do it when you are annoyed with me.”
Toussaint glowered at him for a moment before lapsing into the chair. Renard signaled for another glass. Pouring the wine himself, he shoved the cup across the table to Toussaint.
Despite the white hair thinning on top, Toussaint was still a redoubtable figure of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He’d lived to an age few men ever hoped to see. Some speculated that he was past seventy, although Toussaint himself was not even sure.
Most of the time, Renard forgot that this distant cousin of his had to be old enough to be his grandfather. But as the candlelight from the wall sconces played over Toussaint’s face, he could not help noticing the deep pockets of weariness gathered beneath the old man’s eyes.
“I am sorry if I worried you,” he said. “You didn’t need to come haring after me. You should know I can look out for myself.”
Toussaint gave a loud harrumph as though there were much doubt on the subject. “Damn it, lad, you can’t just up and take off unattended. You are the Comte de Renard, a man with a great deal of responsibilities and a certain position to uphold. You’re not even supposed to go to the privy without a herald to announce you.”
“You are confusing me with my grandfather,” Renard drawled.
“No, you are the one who has been doing that.”
Toussaint knew well that Renard hated any comparisons with the late comte. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
“It gives me no pleasure to say it, but you’ve been behaving more and more like that old devil lately, consulting your own will with no regard to anyone else. Trying to bully Mistress Cheney into marrying you—”
Renard frowned into his wine cup.
“You may be surprised to hear that I have reached an understanding with the lady.”
Toussaint was surprised. “She has agreed to wed you?”
“She will . . . eventually.” Renard took a large swallow of wine before confessing. “I unpacked the rings from the old chest and gave my mother’s to Ariane.”
He hadn’t expected Toussaint to be pleased and he wasn’t. When he noticed the ring glinting on Renard’s hand, the old man actually paled and crossed himself.
“I thought you had tossed those cursed things into the sea a long time ago.”
“Why would I? When they are all I have left of either of my parents or Lucy?”
“Those damned rings never brought anything but trouble to your family!” Toussaint’s voice rose, causing a few heads to swivel in their direction. Lowering his tone, he leaned across the table.
“I am fair astonished you were even able to get Mistress Cheney to accept one of them. From all I have heard tell of the lady, she has the good sense to confine her skills to healing and stays well away from the sort of evil magic bound in those rings.”
“The rings are not evil and as I told you before, Ariane and I reached an understanding. A pact.”
“What sort of pact?”
“I have agreed to leave her in peace until she uses her ring three times. After then she is mine.”
“And what makes you think she will ever use it?”
Renard’s mouth tightened in a grim smile. “I think I know my Ariane rather well. She might never employ magic on her own behalf, but the first time someone else is in trouble and she can’t handle it herself, she will be tempted to use the ring.”
Toussaint regarded him for a long frustrated moment, then heaved a deep sigh. “Well, I suppose what is done is done. But I have to warn you. I have heard a disturbing report that the witch-hunters are on the move again. They have been practicing their hellish trade just south of here. This is not a good time, lad, to be playing with magic rings.”
Witch-hunters. Renard froze at the sound of the word, but not with fear. He iced over with an anger so hard and cold, it was as though a blade of steel had been driven through his heart.
“If they should come into Brittany—”