The Courtesan (47 page)

He kissed her palm and thrust her hand away from his mouth. “I will be in far less danger if I can concentrate on my mission without your safety to worry about.”

Gabrielle drew away from him, rolling her eyes. “Oh, lord, that is such a
man’s
argument. You’ll never be able to rescue Navarre without my help. Remember? He only agreed to leave Paris because he thought that he would get to have me.”

“Well, he is not having you, so that’s an end to the matter,” Remy snapped.

Gabrielle drifted away as though she had not even heard him. She steepled her fingers beneath her chin, musing, “It was selfish of me to try to keep Navarre with me in Paris. I can see that now. Perhaps he still will be ruler of France one day, but for now he would be better off restored to his own kingdom. Unfortunately, he may not see what is in his best interest, especially if he becomes angry with you and me for betraying him.”

“Betraying
him
?” Remy choked.

“We will have to pretend that I still wish to be his mistress.”

“No! Absolutely not.”

“It will only be for a little while. Once we have him safely out of France and across the border, then we can tell him—”

“Damn it, Gabrielle. Are you listening to me?” Remy seized her by the elbow and swung her around to face him. “I said
no.
I have had a bellyful of all this dissembling and deceit. I don’t want you going anywhere near Navarre again.”

“Why? What are you so afraid of? That I will end up in his bed?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“I have managed to stay out of it this long. Have you no faith at all in my love for you? Do you not trust me?”

“It is Navarre I don’t trust.” Remy shuffled his feet and admitted gruffly. “And myself. My own ability to hold on to your heart.”

“Oh, Remy.” Gabrielle melted toward him. “My heart, such as it is, is yours and always will be. I hate having to employ this deception as much as you do, perhaps even more. But Catherine already made one effort to destroy you. She clearly suspects your plans to free the king from her grasp. The arrival of these witch-hunters may prove a distraction to her for a while. I don’t think she expected their arrival any more than we did. But you are running out of time. You cannot afford to have a rift with Navarre over me. If you truly want to rescue your king, this is the only way.”

Remy understood her reasoning, but he did not like it. But he could no more stand firm against her arguments than he could the kiss she pressed to his mouth.

“Very well,” he conceded with a bitter sigh. “But once we have Navarre out of Paris, you must promise me one thing. That this will be the end of all deception and intrigue. Everything will be straightforward and honest, especially between us.”

“If you promise me something in return. Say that you will never frighten me again as you did today. I died a thousand deaths when I watched you risk your life on the tourney field.”

“I am a soldier, Gabrielle. I can hardly promise you never to fight again. Especially when I have a king to rescue and there is this new threat of witch-hunters.”

“At least swear you will not hazard your life in some foolish cause as you did when you fought Danton.”

Remy tensed at the mention of the man’s name. “I did not regard that as foolish. In fact, I still wish I had destroyed the bastard.”

She cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “But don’t you see, Remy? You
did
destroy him. His death would not have freed me from his power. What we did here tonight, the tender way you made love to me, is what conquered him.”

If that was true, Remy was mightily glad, but it only slightly mollified his wrath against Danton. “This is not the sort of conquest I am accustomed to. So in other words you are telling me that this afternoon I wielded the wrong kind of sword.”

“Nicolas Remy!”

Her outraged gasp made him laugh in spite of himself. When she gave his shoulder a poke of mock reproof, he retaliated by tickling her. Gabrielle responded in kind. Danton was completely forgotten as Remy collapsed back onto the bed, hauling Gabrielle down with him. They tussled in the sheets, engaging in a playful bout of wrestling until both of them were breathless with laughter. Remy braced himself above Gabrielle to avoid crushing her under his weight, his heart feeling lighter than it had for a long time. Her golden hair fanned against the sheets, Gabrielle’s face was still flushed with laughter, but her eyes shone with a rare softness.

“It’s so good to hear you laugh, Remy. You carry far too much of the weight of the world on your shoulders. When you laugh, it makes you look years younger.”

“Have I grown to be such a graybeard then?”

She sifted her fingers through the hair at his temples and made an impish face at him. “I believe I do spy a few strands of silver, monsieur.”

Remy grinned and retorted, “If I do have any gray hairs, you put them there, milady. You are a fine one to talk to me of being reckless, taking risks. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the day you stole my sword to fight the witch-hunters. When you are my wife, I warn you. I won’t tolerate—”

He was cut off by an exclamation from Gabrielle. “Oh, lord! I nearly forgot.”

Pushing against his chest, she squirmed out from beneath him, kicking the covers away in an effort to get out of bed. Remy wrapped his arm about her waist to restrain her. “Whatever you forgot, can it not wait until the morning?”

“No, I have something I want to give you.”

He started to assure her there was only one thing he desired, but when she continued to pull free, he reluctantly let her go. Gabrielle shook back her cascade of hair and stepped to the foot of the bed. She bent down and tugged open the heavy lid of the chest positioned there. Rummaging through the contents, she impatiently tossed aside linens, petticoats, and other garments.

Remy sat up, his curiosity aroused. “What the blazes are you looking for?”

“You’ll see.” She emerged from the trunk, lifting out a long object wrapped in velvet. Coming around the side of the bed, she tugged away the fabric to reveal a sword. Remy’s breath caught in his throat, but not so much at the weapon as Gabrielle herself. The light of the candle picked out the gold in her hair, cast a warm sheen over her creamy skin, rendered her eyes jewel-bright.

Poised with the hilt in her hands, the blade pointing downward, she was like a creature of legend, the sorceress who had risen from the mystical depths of the lake to present King Arthur with his sword. Except this was no Excalibur she brought him, the hilt as plain and unadorned as the length of naked steel. It was his old sword, the one he’d believed lost to him on St. Bartholomew’s Eve, the object of his desperate search in so many of his nightmares since then.

Gabrielle rested the heavy blade across her arm, presenting the hilt to him. He hesitated to reach for it, fearing the sword would be too full of dark memories of the last time he’d wielded it, the night of the massacre. But as his fingers closed over the worn hilt of the weapon, so familiar to him, down to every nick on the finger guard, he was seized by a far different memory, of the day he’d first acquired the sword.

He could not have been much more than ten years old. Although Remy had been tall for his age, his father had loomed over him. He had difficulty bringing up a clear recollection of Jean Remy’s rugged features and gray-flecked beard. But he well recalled his father’s hands, large, callused, and leathery, his knuckles a little gnarled from the number of times they had been broken.

“Think you are strong enough to handle a weapon like this, lad?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Remy had replied, although he could feel the strain in his shoulder muscles as he’d hefted the blade.

“Take care of it. Treat this sword with respect, learn to use it well, and it will serve you. With the grace of God, may it always keep your enemies at a safe distance.” Jean Remy’s mouth had quirked in one of his rare smiles as he’d ruffled Remy’s hair.

His father had been a gruff man of few words, not the sort to bestow random words of praise and affection. But the day his father had given him that sword, Remy had felt the full force of Jean Remy’s love and pride in his only son.

“My old sword. You’ve kept it all this time?” Remy marveled. He shifted on the bed, holding the sword nearer to the candle so that he could inspect the weapon better. Gabrielle had obviously cared for it, keeping the blade finely honed and polished.

“What did you think I would do with your sword?” she demanded as she settled herself beside him on the bed. “Toss it into the Seine?”

“Considering the way I treated you when I returned to Paris, all the harsh things I said, I would hardly have blamed you.”

“I said and did a good many things myself that I regret.” She placed her hand over his atop the hilt. “For a long time, this sword was all I had left of you, Remy. No doubt you will laugh when I tell you this, but I felt as though your strength and courage had infused this weapon with a kind of magic. If I was ever lonely or frightened, wearing your sword made me feel safe and protected.”

Remy did not have the least inclination to laugh. Lowering the weapon to the floor beside the bed, he returned to gather Gabrielle up in his arms.

“I wish I did have that kind of magic, to keep you safe,” he said huskily. “But St. Bartholomew’s Eve taught me the futility of promising to protect someone forever.”

“No one can ever make such a pledge. It will be more than enough if you just promise to love me.”

“That I do swear. Now and until I die.” Remy sealed his vow with a kiss.

Gabrielle’s lips parted beneath his, tenderness giving rise to something more urgent with need. Remy tugged at the buttons of her dressing gown, laying it open. His hands delved beneath the parted fabric, exploring the enticing curves, the smooth warm skin laid bare to him. As he kissed her hungrily, he relished the sound of her sighs, her soft moans of pleasure. Gabrielle fumbled with the flap of his breeches, and they yanked and pulled, wrestled with garments until they were once more naked in each other’s arms.

Remy tried to be as gentle and patient as he’d been before, but Gabrielle would not allow it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of her, kissing and caressing. Remy rejoiced to see her grow bolder, as eager for him as he was for her. She opened herself to him, inviting him in, with a sultry smile and eyes hazy with desire, as passionate and undaunted a woman as nature had always meant her to be. Losing himself in her loving, Remy let her take him to a place where nothing else mattered. Not the pain of the past, nor the perils of the morrow.

The candle at the bedside burned out, leaving them in darkness except for the flare of light at the window where another distant burst of fireworks lit up the night sky.

The final skyrocket hissed skyward and erupted in a shower of sparks that elicited applause and gasps from the courtiers seated at the banquet tables beneath the trees. Many of the participants of the tourney were more than mellow from the wine served at the feast. Bursts of raucous laughter mingled with the sounds of delight evoked by the fireworks display.

Swallowed up by the darkness in her own apartments, Catherine hovered near the windows grimly observing the distant scene. The flare of the torches, the occasional shout or sound of rough voices, stirred in her an unpleasant memory. Of a night when she’d been scarce more than twelve years old, an orphaned heiress, the young Duchess of Florence, a city in rebellion against its de Medici rulers. The mob had surrounded the convent where she’d been sheltered, thundering at the gates.

“Give us the girl. Surrender the young witch. We want no more de Medicis lording over us. We’ll hang her from the city walls.”

“No! Give her to the soldiers to sport with first, then we’ll execute her.”

Even after so many years, Catherine shuddered at the memory of the obscene threats, the outpouring of hatred that had been directed at her. By some miracle, she had survived unscathed and the rebellion had eventually been put down. But that night had taught her that not even one’s high birth or noble name, or a convent’s holy walls could be counted upon for protection. One had to rely upon one’s own dark magic and wits.

But her wits felt unaccountably dulled this evening. Her mind still reeled from the realization that her son, the one she had always regarded with most affection, had turned on her, mounted what was tantamount to rebellion. Henry had actually had the impudence to smile at her after the initial uproar over the witch-hunters’ arrival.

“Was this not an excellent surprise, Maman? Are you not proud of me for taking such an initiative? Le Balafre and his men will certainly make any witch, no matter how powerful she might be, think twice before meddling with my kingdom.”

Catherine had been far too angry and alarmed to give him the sort of sharp answer he deserved. Instead she made a stiff curtsy and retreated to the palace. Dismissing her ladies, cowering in the darkness of her own apartments like some frightened rabbit gone to ground, she thought with a surge of self-contempt.