The Courtesan (20 page)

Bending closer, he whispered in her ear, “Come to my chamber tonight, Gabrielle, and let me prove to you the full measure of my passion and devotion.”

Gabrielle drew back from him, experiencing that cold sick dread that always overtook her when she contemplated going to bed with a man. She would overcome the hollow sensation. She always did, but she wished she might postpone the conquest a little longer. Somehow she did not feel quite ready to yield to Navarre.

But Henry was clearly growing impatient and Gabrielle did not know how much longer she could continue to hold the king at arm’s length. She was spared the necessity of immediate reply as the dance separated them again.

Distracted by her thoughts, she scarce noticed her new partner, unconsciously bracing herself to be mauled by D’Alisard again. To her astonishment, she felt her waist seized by a strong arm. She was lifted off her feet and whirled with such force it left her giddy. Her partner plunked her back down again, the impact jarring her off balance.

As she recovered her footing, Gabrielle complained, “By my faith, m’sieur, you scarce know your own strength. The idea is to lift your partner, not toss her like a spear.”

“Pardon, milady,” he mumbled.

“You should—” The rest of Gabrielle’s words faded as she took her first good look at her dancing partner, a tall man with a short cape slung off one shoulder, the dark color of his entire garb rippling blue and black like a storm at sea. Definitely not D’Alisard or any of the other courtiers Gabrielle could readily identify.

She tipped back her head, studying the stranger’s features, the lean uncompromising line of his jaw and taut set of his mouth left exposed by his leather mask. He stared back just as intensely, his deep brown eyes piercing her through the slits of his mask, his expression a strange mingling of sorrow and anger.

Remy.

Gabrielle froze, forgetting to move. The other dancers swirling around her became a blur of color like paints on a palette left out in the rain. The music faded, to be replaced by a loud drumming in her ears. For the second time in her life, Gabrielle feared she might be about to faint from shock. But the progression of the dance separated them and her partner disappeared into the circle of dancers.

Somehow she recovered her wits enough to resume her place at Navarre’s side. As the king’s strong hand steadied her through the next few steps, Henry frowned down at her with concern.

“Are you all right, milady?”

“F-fine, Sire, “ Gabrielle lied with a wan attempt at a smile.

“You look pale enough to have seen a ghost.”

Navarre’s words sent a jolt through Gabrielle, but she did her best to conceal it. Not a ghost, she thought, resisting the strong urge to peer fearfully over her shoulder. Only a phantom of her imagination. Yes, that was it, she sought to convince herself.

The man she had just danced with could not possibly be Nicolas Remy. It was just that she had spent so many of these past days torn between the hope and dread of seeing him again, she was starting to fancy that she did.

As she danced with Navarre, Gabrielle twisted and turned, craning her neck for another look at the man in midnight blue. She caught glimpses of him, but the patterns of the dance frustrated her, preventing her from entirely laying her doubts to rest.

Surely Remy was taller than the leather-masked stranger. Or was he shorter? The stranger’s soft-brimmed cap all but covered his hair. Gabrielle’s stomach knotted when she fancied she caught a hint of dark gold.

But no, that was only a trick of the candlelight. The stranger likely had brunette hair and he was clean-shaven. Remy never went without a beard. Not that Gabrielle was such a half-wit as to suppose Remy unacquainted with the use of a razor. But shaving was one thing, she argued. Remy had appeared on the brink of poverty only a few weeks ago. Where on earth would a fugitive soldier have gotten the funds to outfit himself in such costly attire? How would he have ever managed to gain admittance to the court? And surely not even the great Scourge would be reckless enough to venture here, unprotected in the midst of so many enemies.

Tormented by her doubts, Gabrielle scarce responded to the words the king murmured in her ear, continuing to urge her to join him in his apartments at midnight. Gabrielle returned some vague promise as she waited with mounting dread and impatience for the dance to bring her back into the stranger’s presence again.

When she at last did come face-to-face with the man in midnight blue, Gabrielle managed to greet him more calmly this time, although her heart was pounding harder than the tambouras. She placed her palm against his and they slowly circled each other, completely out of tempo with the music.

It was as though they danced to a rhythm only they could hear, Gabrielle thought. His skin was warm against hers, his palm rough and callused. Not like the silken hand of a courtier at all, but more like a soldier’s . . . more like Remy’s hand.

Gabrielle felt a tremor course through her and she was afraid to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to do so. His eyes did not appear as hard and angry as before, but he still stared at her with an intensity that caused her pulse to race, those dark velvet depths so like Remy’s.

A mask did something to a person’s eyes, rendered their expression more mysterious and dangerous. Was this man Nicolas Remy or wasn’t he? She would know in a heartbeat if only she could force him to speak. As she moved warily around him in the steps of the dance, Gabrielle murmured, “Monsieur is an excellent dancer.”

He acknowledged her compliment with no more than a stiff nod of his head. Moistening her lips, Gabrielle tried again.

“Monsieur seems very familiar to me. Do I know you?”

His only reply was a slight shrug of his shoulders, filling Gabrielle with a mounting sense of frustration. They would be parted soon by the steps of the dance and she could not endure the suspense any longer.

Throwing caution to the wind, she leaned in closer and pleaded, “For mercy’s sake, monsieur, who are you? Oh, please, Remy, never tell me it is you.”

“Very well. I won’t,” he said in her ear, the voice unmistakably Remy’s.

“Oh, God.” Gabrielle stumbled, her hand tightening convulsively on his. She stole a wild glance around her, terrified that someone might have overheard or realized what she had. That the Scourge had returned and was here in their midst.

“Have a care, Gabrielle,” Remy murmured. “You almost stepped on my foot.”

“Step on your foot,” Gabrielle hissed back. “I’d like to—to step on your great thick head. Are you completely insane to come here?”

“Undoubtedly,” was his cool reply.

Gabrielle glared up at him, uncertain what she longed to do most. Give him a swift clout to the ears or drag him to the safety of the nearest exit. But before she could think what to say or do next, the music stopped. Not as though the dance had reached its natural conclusion, but abruptly, the lilt of the violins replaced with the sudden hum of voices.

Clutching Remy’s hand, Gabrielle was too caught up in her own tangle of emotions to notice at first what was happening. But realizing that everyone else in the salon was sinking into curtsies or bowing, she turned around and her blood ran cold.

With her usual impeccable timing, the Dark Queen had finally arrived.

Chapter Nine

G
abrielle’s heart constricted with dread as Catherine de Medici made her entrance into the salon. The queen mother stole upon the masqueraders like a falling shadow, her black gown in sharp contrast to the brilliant array of silks and sparkling jewels. She had adopted the hue of mourning upon the death of her husband years ago and never seen fit to abandon it. She looked deceptively matronly in her somber garb, her silvery hair confined beneath a peaked cap, a modest white ruff encircling her plump throat. Her only adornment was the jeweled cross that dangled over her ample bosom.

She had not bothered to don a mask for the evening’s festivities, but she didn’t need one. Her face was a smooth, white mask in itself, seldom giving away any of the Dark Queen’s emotions, her dark de Medici eyes far more likely to pierce the secrets of another than reveal her own.

Gabrielle had always succeeded in blocking her thoughts from Catherine. After she had believed Remy dead, Gabrielle’s hatred for the Dark Queen had burned inside her like molten steel, but over time, before she had ever ventured to court, Gabrielle had learned to temper her anger into something colder, more patient, more calculating, as impenetrable as armor.

Unfortunately Remy possessed no such armor. Like everyone else in the salon, his attention had riveted on Catherine, his jaw clenched to such a hard angle, Gabrielle was astonished that the bone did not snap, his loathing so palpable even a child could have discerned it. One look into his eyes and Catherine with her uncanny perception could not fail to guess his identity.

The courtiers fell back respectfully to clear a path for the Dark Queen toward the dais where her son awaited her, a sullen expression on the king’s face. Gabrielle seized Remy by the arm and dragged him behind one of the salon’s tall pillars.

“Remy, you have to get out of here.
Now,
” she urged him in a low voice.

Remy whipped his arm away from her. “I am sure you would like nothing better than for me to cut and run so you can continue seducing my king. Regrettably I cannot oblige you, milady. I am not going anywhere until I have accomplished what I came for.”

“And what is that? To get yourself killed?”

“You know perfectly well why I am here. To speak to Navarre.”

“You won’t have much to say if you’re dead.”

“Is that a threat?” His eyes glinted at her through his mask, cold and hard with mistrust . . . the Scourge’s eyes. Gabrielle could tell what he was thinking, that all she wanted to do was keep him away from Navarre.

Stepping closer, she snapped, “No, consider it a warning. I am trying to save your life.”

Remy’s lips thinned, making it clear he did not believe her. Gabrielle’s gaze cut anxiously toward the Dark Queen, each step bringing her closer to the spot where Gabrielle argued with Remy.

In pure desperation, Gabrielle whipped off her mask, hoping that somehow the sight of her face might convince him of her sincerity.

“Please, Remy—” Gabrielle began, then lowered her voice for fear of being overheard. “You have got to disappear before Catherine notices you. She reads eyes as well as most people crack open a book. It is an old sorceress’s trick and she is diabolically good at it. Have you forgotten what she is?”

“I have forgotten nothing about that cursed witch. But tonight may be the only chance I have to communicate with my king. The Dark Queen believes me dead and I am masked the same as the rest of these fops. Odds are she won’t notice me unless
you
decide to betray me.”

Remy leveled a hard challenging look at her. Could Remy truly believe she would be capable of such a thing? Had his opinion of her really sunk that low? Apparently it had. A mingling of hurt and anger brought a flush to Gabrielle’s cheeks.

“Me? Why—you—you pigheaded fool. You betray yourself with every word, every gesture—”

“Mistress Cheney.”

Gabrielle broke off as she heard herself being summoned in accents that were all too icily familiar. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as she realized the courtiers surrounding her and Remy had thinned away. It was far too late for him to fade into the background or slip out the salon doors.

The Dark Queen stood but yards away, subjecting them both to her piercing stare. Gabrielle froze, momentarily seized by a sensation of panic. But she fought to quell it. Casting one final warning glare up at Remy, Gabrielle surged forward to intercept Catherine before she could draw any closer.

Gabrielle sank into a deep curtsy, spreading her skirts wide as though that would somehow serve to shield the man who towered behind her. Her heart was hammering so hard, she feared that the queen must hear it. Desperately Gabrielle sought to calm herself. When it came to scenting fear, Catherine possessed all the instincts of a jackal.

She touched Gabrielle’s shoulder lightly. “Please rise, mademoiselle.”

Gabrielle straightened, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. But she realized that that would only serve to rouse Catherine’s suspicions. Gabrielle lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the Dark Queen’s stare with her customary boldness.

Catherine caught hold of Gabrielle’s chin, her dark gaze probing Gabrielle’s mercilessly. Gabrielle stared back, scarce breathing, willing her mind into a smooth, impenetrable shield.

At long last, Catherine released her with a wintry smile. “Why, my dear Gabrielle, it is nowhere near time for the unmasking and yet you have removed yours.”

“It was chafing me.” Gabrielle smiled back just as falsely. “Your Grace must have suffered from the same complaint. You are not wearing yours either.”

“As I am sure you are well aware, child, I consider myself too old for the lighthearted folly of such masquerading.”

“What a pity. Since I am certain Your Majesty would be very skilled at it.”

“No more skilled than you, my dear,” Catherine shot back.

Gabrielle often fiercely enjoyed her battles of wits with the Dark Queen, but never before had she had so much to conceal. Gabrielle longed to steal a glance back toward Remy, see how he was faring, but she did not dare. Fighting to conceal her nervousness, Gabrielle unfurled her fan and waved it languidly before her face.

“So tell me, child. Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” Catherine purred.

“Oh, immensely, Your Grace.”

“Truly? I thought you seemed a trifle distressed. You look so pale.”

“It—it is only the heat.” Gabrielle fanned herself more vigorously. “It is devilishly warm here in the salon.”

“Oh, yes,
devilishly.
You should take great care.” Catherine’s eyes narrowed slyly. “All that vigorous dancing you were doing earlier. It cannot be good for you.”

Gabrielle started in spite of herself. So Catherine had been spying on Gabrielle all evening and she was at great pains to let Gabrielle know it, no doubt hoping to rattle her. Catherine was doing a remarkably good job of it too, Gabrielle thought grimly. She wanted to make some sort of clever reply, but her mouth had gone dry.