The Courtesan (56 page)

“I know Remy will be furious when he finds out about Cass,” she had said. “But this is a question of his life. He must be consulted before we proceed with the plan and when everything is explained, surely he will see the prudence of—”

“The captain? Prudent?” Wolf had interrupted her with a snort. “Milady, are we talking about the same man who insisted upon jousting with Danton even when he well knew it was a plot to destroy him?”

“Remy did that for me. He was avenging my honor.”

“Oui and that is what always rules our captain, even to his own detriment. He would think it ignoble to ply a blind woman with drink, trap her with her own weakness, even if she is a witch. He will want to find some way to deal with her honorably and fairly, and you and I both know that is impossible. The captain is a hero, and that is how heroes behave. That is why we must tell him nothing. This is no task for a hero, but for someone who is a thief and a bit of a scoundrel.” The lad’s teeth had flashed in one of his wicked grins. “A mission only suited to a wolf.”

Gabrielle had been forced to agree with him, but she was honest enough to admit that it was not just fear of Remy’s heroics that kept her silent. It was a far more shameful sort of cowardice. She could well imagine Remy’s rage, his sense of betrayal if he ever found out, not only the truth about the medallion, but that she had allowed Wolf to venture into danger in Remy’s place. If anything happened to Wolf, no one would blame Gabrielle more harshly than she would blame herself. She had always been far too good at keeping secrets, but never had one pressed so heavily upon her heart.

She gave a guilty start when she realized Remy’s steadfast gaze was fixed on her, a quizzical look on his face, despite that slow, sweet smile that he offered her. She was unable to return his smile. Averting her face, she fluttered toward the fire to check his wet clothing draped over the chair, lifting his damp shirt and putting it back again.

The bed creaked as Remy levered himself into a sitting position. “My love, you have checked my clothes at least a dozen times. I don’t think rearranging them again will help them dry any faster.”

“It—it might,” she replied, smoothing out the shirtsleeve.

“Gabrielle.” Remy’s voice was low, but insistent enough that she could no longer avoid looking at him. The concern on his face combined with the simmering heat in his eyes was nearly her undoing. She actually felt her knees grow weak as he commanded huskily, “Come here.”

She had never realized before that it was possible to be ruled by the mere sound of a man’s voice. Remy’s curled through her, whiskey warm, enough to melt her very bones. She wanted to fly across the room to him, cast herself into his arms. Only her guilt caused her to approach him with reluctant steps. As soon as she was within range, his sinewy arm stretched out, his warm strong hand enveloping hers.

He drew her down beside him on the bed, easing her onto her back before she could protest. Not that she really wanted to. As he braced himself above her, heat seemed to radiate from the hard planes of his bared chest. He whispered his lips across hers in a kiss that was so tender, coaxing her lips apart. His tongue brushed against hers, tentative, teasing at first, then deepening to a kiss that threatened to steal her senses, drive every thought out of her head except for him.

But the medallion pressed between them, like the cold tip of a dagger suspended over Remy’s heart. She had to fight hard not to make a grab for the malignant charm. What if Cass had only been bluffing? What if she really couldn’t sense if Remy was wearing the amulet or not? What if the link between the two medallions was not as strong at such a distance? Gabrielle was afraid to take the risk, the memory of the painful way Cass had demonstrated the amulet’s power etched terribly in her mind.

Remy’s mouth moved hungrily over hers, but as much as she ached to be swept away by his embrace, she couldn’t. She felt too much like a Judas. Panting, she wrenched her lips from his, turning her head to one side. Remy remained braced above her. She could feel the weight of his gaze.

“What’s the matter, dear heart?” he asked softly.

Oh, God. Gabrielle had to bite down upon her lip to suppress a groan. It was a fortunate thing Nicolas Remy had never pursued a career as a witch-hunter. The man would have never had to resort to torture. His kiss, that tender tone, those steadfast brown eyes would be enough to make any woman confess to anything.

Continuing to lie to him was the hardest thing Gabrielle had ever done.

“N-nothing,” she faltered.

“Nothing?” He gave a wry chuckle. “You have never been what I would call a placid sort of woman, but this is a new degree of restlessness even for you. I’ve seen fillies about to be ridden into battle who were far less tense.”

“It—it is the storm. Storms always make me edgy.”

“Do they?” He drifted the back of his knuckles across her cheek. “I feared it might be my fault.”

“Yours?”

“I realize I have not been the most attentive lover these past few days. I have been so absorbed with my plan for the escape, no doubt I have been boring you to distraction.”

Gabrielle cast him an agonized glance. Remy was blaming himself for her tension, her restlessness? She cupped her hand against his cheek, felt the scrape of beard just beneath the surface of his skin. “Oh, Remy,” she choked. “How can you even think such a thing? Of course I am deeply interested in your plan to rescue Navarre.”

“Are you? Do you realize that earlier I told you I had engaged a party of elves to help me and you never batted an eyelash?”

Gabrielle felt a telltale flush mount into her cheeks. “Well, elves can—can be useful creatures when—when one can find them.”

Remy laughed, but he continued to study her, his dark eyes full of unasked questions and a shadow of hurt. Gabrielle could not bear it. She squirmed out from beneath him, springing from the bed. She returned to continue her vigil at the window. Oh, where was Wolf? Would this terrible night never end?

Remy slowly sat up, watching Gabrielle’s flight from him with a troubled heart. A flare of lightning illuminated her restive features, her slender fingers pressed to the windowpane. What was it she kept looking for out there in the storm? Obviously something she wasn’t finding with him.

Men were supposed to be notorious for making their conquests and being ready to move on. Was it possible for a woman to tire of a man after only one night? Gabrielle had had other lovers, at least two of them far wealthier, more noble than he. Was she already having regrets, second thoughts about abandoning the ambitions she’d once had? Was that why she had displayed so little interest in his plans to spirit Navarre out of Paris, something she had never wanted?

Stop it, Remy told himself in disgust. These doubts of his were pathetic. She had said she had never loved any man but him. She had proved it the night they had made love. Daunted as she had been by Danton’s brutal treatment, Gabrielle had opened herself to him, trusted him. Nor could Remy complain about the number of times she had made love to him since then. No woman could be more generous, more free with the delights of her body than Gabrielle. Then why was he plagued with the feeling that she was holding something back from him?

Was he being unreasonable to want not to just be in possession of her flesh, but every corner of her heart, her mind, and her soul as well? Would he always be tormented by the thought that there was some part of Gabrielle he’d never be able to touch? Rising from the bed, he strode toward her. When he wrapped his arms around her, she resisted but only for the fraction of a second.

She melted back against him and he nuzzled his lips at her temple, the silk-spun threads of her golden hair whispering along his jaw. The lush warmth of her body was soft and inviting beneath the silk of her dressing gown. And yet she still felt so far away from him, it nearly drove him mad.

He shouldn’t keep harping at her like a prosecutor badgering a reluctant witness, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He breathed a kiss against her ear.

“Gabrielle, are you positive nothing is troubling you?”

“No, it’s just that—that—”

“Just what?” he prompted.

“I—I am worried about Martin. He hasn’t come back yet, and for him to be out there alone with—with such a terrible storm.”

“Wolf?” Remy’s eyes widened in surprise. Of all the things that might be troubling Gabrielle, he wouldn’t have expected that. “He’s a canny lad and he knows this city better than either one of us. I am sure he is holed up at some inn, drinking wine with some of his old comrades and flirting with some pretty girl. I was rather relieved when he asked if he could go out this evening. The boy’s been closer on my heels than a shadow of late. I can hardly go to the privy without him trailing after me.”

Gabrielle ducked her head, her face disappearing behind her curtain of hair. “We have both been afraid for you, Remy. You have more enemies than you even know.”

“Doubtless I do. But I assure you I have been watching my back.”

He turned her to face him, brushing back her hair. “Is that truly what has been troubling you? You have been fretting about my safety?”

She gave an unhappy nod.

He pinched her chin playfully, commanding in a mock stern voice. “Well, stop it. I can look out for myself. Besides, I have your amulet to protect me. As you so ferociously made me promise the other day, I haven’t removed it again. Not even to bathe.”

He lifted the medallion, dangling it teasingly before her eyes, hoping to coax a smile from her. She paled instead. “Yes, you always keep
your
promises.”

Implying what? That she didn’t?

He cradled her face between his hands. “Gabrielle, I realize we are still surrounded by intrigue and danger. From the Dark Queen, from witch-hunters, from every Catholic noble who has ever hated me. And yet, call me a fool, but I can’t help feeling that as long as you and I remain true to each other, we will be all right.

“Are you
sure
there is nothing that you want to tell me?” He searched her face anxiously. Did he only imagine the stricken look in her eyes, the way her lips parted as though weighted down by some secret, hovering just on the tip of her tongue?

Remy held his breath, waiting.

“No. Nothing.” She buried her face in his shoulder. Even as he strained her close, Remy was heartsick with the idea that she was lying. But he thrust the fear aside.

She had given him her word. That ought to be good enough. If he loved the woman, he had to trust her as she did him. Cradling the nape of her neck, he tipped her face up to his and their lips met in a fierce kiss. He untied her dressing gown, seeking all her warm curves while her hands roved feverishly over him, the heat building between them, his body hardening with need. If there was a quality of desperation to Gabrielle’s kisses, to her touch, Remy chose to ignore it.

She clung to him, her breath a ragged plea as she whispered in his ear, “Oh, Remy, please. Make love to me. Make love to me as though there is no tomorrow.”

Cassandra Lascelles had discarded her shoes and sprawled on the bed, her gown riding up to expose shapely white ankles and calves. Wolf struggled to keep his eyes averted as he refilled Cass’s glass. If he’d ever entertained any doubts about her being a sorceress, he’d be a firm believer by now. No normal woman could consume the amount of brandy that she had and remain conscious. She was nearly through her second bottle and although her speech was getting slurred, she showed no signs of passing out.

Of the two of them, he was the one the worse for wear. Deep patches of sweat stained his armpits from sheer tension and the stifling heat of the bedchamber. His hair straggled across his perspiring face, his mouth set in a harassed expression.

The fury of the storm had abated, settling into a dreary patter of rain. Tipping the bottle, Wolf shook out the last drops of brandy into the glass. The witch’s dog curled up in front of the fire, watching him, the mastiff’s eyes filled with a mournful reproach almost as if it knew what Wolf was doing to his mistress.

“Not my fault, friend,” Wolf muttered. “Your lady left me no choice.”

“Who’re you talkin’ to?” Cass called out. “Izzat the Scourge? Izzy here at last?”

“No, milady. I was only conversing with—with Cerberus.”

A fit of mad giggling erupted from the region of the bed. “S-silly ass. M’dog can’t talk.”

Wolf carried the brandy over to the bed. Cass struggled into a sitting position, leaning on her elbows and dangling her toes over the side of the mattress. It was clear that the maneuver had cost her some effort. Wolf studied her through narrowed eyes, wondering if he dared fling her back on the mattress and hold a pillow over her face. Just long enough for her to pass out and—

No, at the first sign of her distress, that damn dog of hers would tear his head off. Wolf gritted his teeth in frustration, then said brightly, “Your brandy, milady.”

Instead of scrambling eagerly to get it as she had done the first eight or nine glasses full, she just sat there, her long black hair spilling over her sullen features.