The Courtesan (55 page)

Pierre eased Finette’s dirty gown off her shoulder and elicited squeaks of pleasure as he rubbed her meager tit. The wench was all over Pierre, nearly scrambling up him like a scrawny cat in her excitement. Lost in her own bliss, the girl didn’t see Pierre cringe in disgust or the disgruntled look he cast Wolf over her shoulder. No doubt Pierre would be demanding double for his services, but it would be worth every penny.

Slipping past unnoticed by Finette, Wolf made his way to the end of the corridor, another flare of lightning illuminating the last door. Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he rapped lightly on the wooden panel. His summons was greeted by a menacing bark, then a sultry voice demanded, “Who is it?”

Wolf darted a quick look back down the corridor, fearing the sounds would alert the maid, but Pierre had tossed the girl playfully over his shoulder and carted the giggling wench downstairs for a drink. Wolf turned the knob. Carefully balancing the tray with one hand, he eased into the room, softly closing the door behind him.

His action produced a fearsome growl from the dog. At least, he hoped it was the dog. Wolf froze with his back to the door, the bottle and glass on the tray rattling in his trembling hands. The room was all fire and shadow, the chamber illuminated by no more than the logs blazing on the hearth. He caught the silhouette of the hell-beast crouched but yards away, looking ready to go for his throat. He saw no sign of the witch, but her voice came from the deepest shadows pooling near the four-poster bed.

“Who is there?” she cried. “What do you want?”

“I—I—am no one, milady. Only er—ah Guillaume, your humble servant, bringing you the finest refreshments the Cheval Noir has to offer.”

“I ordered nothing.”

“Ah, no, but your maid thought—”

“Damned idiot girl,” the witch muttered, then called out sharply, “Finette!”

“She has gone downstairs to look out for the arrival of your gentleman.”

This information elicited a furious hiss. “Stupid wench. I told her to wait outside and keep her eyes open. Tell her that I command she return at once and take whatever you’ve brought away.”

This fierce command was seconded by another savage bark from the great black dog. Wolf felt as though the entire success of his mission hung by a thread. He summoned up his most wheedling tone, “But I have cheese and bread, mistress, and a brandy so exquisite, you will think you are drinking the nectar of the gods. On such a foul night, surely you—”

“Be gone.”
The woman’s bark was worse than her dog’s. The mastiff crept a step closer. Wolf could see the baleful gleam of its eyes, the glint of canine incisors, but he stubbornly stood his ground.

“Think of your gentleman, mistress. It truly is a foul night out there. He will surely welcome a drop of something. It is a shabby thing not to offer a lover one drink.”

The silence that answered Wolf was so cold, he feared he’d gone too far. She finally said impatiently, “Very well. Set the blasted tray down, then be off with you.”

Wolf took a tentative step forward only to find his way barred by the growling mastiff. “Um—your dog, milady? He is a magnificent beast to be sure, but I am so tough and sinewy, if he chomps into me, I would not want him to hurt his teeth.”

A snort of something close to a laugh escaped the witch. “Cerberus. Come here!”

After one final warning woof, the dog backed off, trotting toward his mistress. Wolf blew out a deep breath, then carried the tray over to a small table positioned near the windows. The storm continued unabated, the wind howling and the rain pelting at the glass like the fingernails of a banshee seeking to claw her way inside. Despite the raging tempest, Wolf longed to crack open a window. A whiff of some strange cloying perfume tickled his nostrils, making him feel a trifle light-headed. He felt beads of sweat gather on his brow and mopped his forehead with the back of his hand.

The sooner he completed his mission and got the devil out of here, the better off he would be. As he unloaded the tray, the witch emerged from the shadows, her hand on her dog’s collar. The beast guided her over to the fire. Her movements were graceful, only a certain caution in her steps betraying the fact that she was blind.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wolf took his first good measure of Cassandra Lascelles. She was younger and lovelier than he had expected. Was there no such thing as a witch that looked like an old hag anymore? Her carnelian silk dress displayed her willowy figure to advantage, the low-cut décolletage exposing a collarbone so delicate very little effort would have been required to snap it. But any illusions of her fragility vanished when she shook back her heavy mane of ebony hair, revealing a face that was strong and terrible in its seductive beauty. Her slender fingers fretted the chain fastened about her neck, twisting the medallion to and fro so that it gleamed in the firelight.

The sight of her playing with the deadly amulet caused Wolf’s gut to tighten with apprehension. He longed to leap at her, wrench the cursed charm from her neck, but the risk to the captain would be far too great.

“Steady, Wolf. Patience,”
he admonished himself. He moved slowly, taking his time about arranging the plates and bottles upon the table.

The witch clicked her nails against the medallion, her foot beating out a tattoo against the floor. “What the devil is taking you so long?”

“Nothing. I am nearly finished, milady.” The rasp of her fingernails against the metal amulet set his teeth on edge until it dawned on him. The witch was as nervous as he was and why wouldn’t she be? All her own mad ambitions were riding on the wind this night. Her tension might make her more ready to succumb to temptation.

And it also might make her more dangerous. Tigresses were far more likely to unsheathe their claws when they were nervous. He needed to handle Cassandra with great care, but first he had to get that damned dog out of the way. The mastiff had sunk onto his haunches, close by her skirts, but those wary canine eyes never shifted from Wolf. Wiping his sweat-slick palms on his apron, Wolf lifted the napkin from the one plate whose contents he had failed to mention to the witch.

A glistening cluster of purple grapes. Wolf eyed them dubiously. It looked like a rather pathetic offering to tempt such a great black brute. Wolf would have thought the hell-beast would far prefer an oozing slab of raw meat. Wolf only prayed that Gabrielle was right when she had advised him to come armed with fruit.

Wolf stripped off a handful of the grapes, and dropped them surreptitiously in a trail leading back toward the bed. To his astonishment, the mastiff perked up immediately. Tongue lolling, he snuffled his way to the nearest grape and pounced on it and then another, moving farther away from the witch.

Wolf feared the dog’s greedy gulping noises would alert his mistress, but Cassandra didn’t seem to notice. It was the sound of Wolf uncorking the brandy and sloshing some into the glass that caused her to stiffen.

“What is that? What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, milady. ’Tis only that it is a foul night—”

“Stop saying that,” she shrilled.

“And I couldn’t help noticing how ill at ease you are,” Wolf rushed on. “Such a shame for a beautiful woman like you to be kept waiting. No man in his right senses could bear to stay away from you for long. Your lover has likely been delayed by this terrible storm. In the meantime, can I not persuade you to try our fine brandy? Just a small sip to help you relax.”

“No! I already told you I don’t want any.” She wrapped her fingers around the amulet in a white-knuckled grip.

The dog had chased one of the grapes around the side of the bed. Wolf trembled as he lifted the glass of brandy, but he steadied himself as he approached Cassandra. The scent of her strange perfume was much stronger up close, almost overpowering. Heady, sickly sweet, curling up his nostrils, weaving cobwebs over his mind. He found himself staring stupidly at her breasts, her nipples outlined beneath the taut ruby-red silk.

Wolf shook his head to dispel the image. Clearing his throat, he said, “If you please, milady, one swallow would do you no harm and this is too good a brandy to refuse. So mellow on the tongue, so smooth, it slides down your throat like fiery gold.”

Wolf thrust the glass under her nose where she would be forced to smell it. Cass inhaled sharply, a look of naked longing chasing across her features.

“No! Take it away.” She lashed out with her hand and smacked against the glass, splashing brandy over her sleeve.

“You damned clumsy fool!” She held up her hand, brandy dripping from her lace and her fingertips. “Fetch me a napkin. Hurry!”

“Yes, milady,” Wolf mumbled. Retreating to the table, he felt like cursing himself. Now he’d done it, made her furious and the angry tone of her voice had brought her dog loping protectively back to her side.

Wolf rested his palms on the table, overcome by a wave of despair. All that boasting and bragging he’d done to Gabrielle about how cunning he was, convincing her she could trust him, place the captain’s life in his hands. His clever plan to render the witch drunk was never going to work. He’d have done far better to have brought a pistol and shot her dead, the risk of being caught and hung for it be damned. Except that no matter what he said to Gabrielle about Cassandra deserving to die, Wolf knew he could never have murdered any woman in cold blood, not even a witch. Besides, he would likely have had to kill the dog, too, and he doubted Miri would ever forgive him for that.

So what the devil was he going to do? He’d better fetch her the napkin before she had her dog rip him apart for ruining her gown. Snatching up the cloth, Wolf spun around only to halt in his tracks. Cass trembled from head to toe, but not, he realized from fury. Sucking in her breath sharply, she held her brandy-stained fingers up to her face and sniffed.

The witch brought her fingers closer to her mouth. She hesitated for a moment, then her tongue flickered against the back of her hand, tasting, sucking, and savoring the droplets of brandy. A deep sigh shuddered through her. Wolf held his breath, waiting, sensing the battle the sorceress waged within herself, as titanic as the clash of elements raging outside.

Mumbling his apologies for spilling the drink, Wolf crept close enough to press the napkin into her hand. Cass moistened her lips.

“It—it is all right,” she rasped. “As you said, it is a foul night. Perhaps you should pour me another drink. Just one . . .”

Gabrielle paced before her bedchamber windows, her dressing gown rustling around her ankles. For most of the evening, she had flitted about the room like a moth trapped in a glass jar, frantically seeking some way out. She squinted in the direction of the stables behind the house, hoping to see the flicker of a lantern, marking Wolf’s triumphant return. Despite the intermittent flashes of lightning that lit up the ground below, it was near impossible to see anything, the panes of glass darkened by night and the relentless deluge of rain.

The tempest seemed like an ill omen, a portent of disaster. Gabrielle tried to shake off such superstitious notions, but the storm outside was as nothing to the turmoil raging in her soul. How could she have ever let Wolf go alone to deal with Cassandra? Why had she ever agreed to his plan? She must have been mad.

But as Wolf had pointed out, she had had no other choice. Any attempt on Gabrielle’s part to interfere would be enough to visit dire consequences upon Remy. Besides, if Wolf should fail, perhaps Gabrielle could still manage to wrench the medallion off of Remy in time. But she did not even want to think about that.

Wolf would not fail. He was cunning and resourceful. He had saved Remy’s life under far worse circumstances on St. Bartholomew’s Eve. Compared to that, Wolf’s task tonight was a far simpler one. Distract the maid, bribe the dog, get Cass drunk, steal the amulet. What could possibly go wrong? Far too many things.

Gabrielle jumped at a loud clap of thunder. Pressing a hand to her racing heart, she stole a glance toward Remy to see if he had noticed. He sprawled on the bed, lying on his side, propped up by one elbow as he studied a map. Caught earlier by the first onslaught of rain, his soaked clothes were drying by the fire. Clad only in his drawers, Remy was absorbed in plotting the escape route for his king, as oblivous to the storm as he was to the danger that threatened him tonight. Danger in the form of the innocuous-looking amulet suspended around his neck.

He toyed absently with the chain as he pored over the map. Firelight played over the rippling muscle that sculpted his shoulders and arms, the powerful expanse of his scarred chest. Strands of damp hair straggled across his brow and he swept them back in an impatient gesture. Whenever Remy fully concentrated on anything, the dark brown of his eyes seemed to grow richer in intensity, his long lashes casting shadows on his rugged cheeks.

Staring at him, Gabrielle longed to hold him fast in her arms, to recapture the glorious abandoned lovemaking she had experienced when Remy had first roused her daunted sensuality. But of late when she gave herself to Remy, she was unable to relax, lose herself completely to his loving, that hateful medallion coming between them along with the shadow of her lies. How many times had she ached to make full confession of what she’d done, tell him the truth? No more intrigues, she had promised Remy and she had already broken her vow. It seemed only right to warn him of the danger. She and Wolf had debated the question over and over again.