The Courtesan (64 page)

“He wants it
now,
” Gabrielle finished for him in a mimicking tone that caused the man to scowl at her. But her taunt was only a bluff, a way to conceal how her heart had begun to race. She couldn’t imagine any good reason for a prisoner being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night by a witch-hunter. Perhaps Simon Aristide was finally about to drop his polite mask.

So what was it to be? An effort to torture a confession from her or intentions of a more alarming nature? No, if Aristide was capable of feeling anything as human as desire, Gabrielle would not be the one to inspire it. She’d seen the way the bastard looked at her younger sister and it made her want to scratch out his remaining good eye.

Gabrielle bartered for time as she struggled into her shoes and made a desperate attempt to finger comb the snarls from her hair. Her elegant manner had long been her armor and she felt that hers had grown sadly tarnished. She grimaced to think what she must look like in her crumpled gown, her eyes raw from lack of sleep.

But she forced herself to stand tall, her head held high as Braxton prodded her from the room. He lit her way down two flights of stairs to the taproom. The inn looked eerie and empty, only a few branches of candles holding the night at bay. Aristide waited in the darkness near the windows. The man had an annoying habit of doing that, keeping himself well out of the light while his victim felt mercilessly exposed. His black garb blended with the shadows, his towering height, shaved head, and eye patch giving him a sinister edge, a figure of nightmare.

What Miri could possibly see of good in this man was completely beyond Gabrielle’s comprehension. But then Miri was the one who had held longest to her belief in fairies and unicorns. Braxton gave Gabrielle a shove into the center of the room. With a bow to Aristide, the guard left Gabrielle alone with his master.

“Good evening, Mistress Cheney.” The witch-hunter’s voice was still all silken politeness. It was starting to grate on her nerves. “May I get you something?”

“Like what?” she snapped. “Hot brands, thumb screws, boiling oil?”

“I was thinking more on the lines of a flagon of wine.” As Aristide stepped into the light, his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. The glimmer of humor softened his grim visage and rendered him surprisingly more attractive. It only irritated Gabrielle. If the man was a witch-hunter, he ought to behave like one and be completely detestable.

“No, thank you. I prefer that you just tell me what you want.”

She ignored the chair Aristide offered her, smothering a feigned yawn beneath her hand. “It is the middle of the night, in case you hadn’t noticed. Or is disrupting my sleep your preferred method of torture?”

“Oh, were you sleeping?” His dark eye pierced her as though he knew all too well the kind of nights she had been spending, tormented by her fears, her uncertainties, her desperate ache for Remy.

Gabrielle averted her face. Damn Aristide. She was the wise woman. If anyone was supposed to be able to read eyes, it was she. But the witch-hunter’s ravaged face was inscrutable as he stalked closer, hands locked behind his back.

“I regret the inconveniences of your captivity, mademoiselle. But your ordeal will soon be at an end.”

Gabrielle tried hard not to give him the satisfaction of showing her alarm. “But you said I had a fortnight until my trial. I have at least another week remaining to prepare my defense.”

“Your trial may not be necessary. If I do pardon you, I hope you will go on your way a sadder, wiser woman and avoid the company of witches like Cassandra Lascelles.”

Gabrielle glowered at him. “So you have known all along Cass was the one responsible for the medallions.”

“Not all along, no,” was his cool reply. “But I admit when she sprang forward so handily to offer information against you, her name struck a chord with me. I still have the journals of my former master, Vachel Le Vis. I went back through them and discovered I was right. I had heard of Mademoiselle Lascelles before.

“I was not much more than a boy at the time, new to my master’s service, when he took up the case of a girl suspected of practicing the worst kinds of sorcery, necromancy, and curses. Because she was young and blind as well, my master was moved to spare her. Especially when Cassandra bargained for her life by offering up her mother and sisters instead, exposing their hiding place within the Maison d’Esprit.”

“Dear God!” Gabrielle had resolved to display no emotion before the witch-hunter, but she felt herself blanch with horror. This was a far different version from what Cass had told of the destruction of her family. Her grief and torment over the death of her mother and sisters had always seemed quite genuine and perhaps it was, the torment of guilt. Gabrielle would like to believe Cass possessed at least that much conscience.

“So you see,” Aristide concluded. “You are not the first of her confederates Mademoiselle Lascelles has ever betrayed.”

“I was not her confederate. But for a time, I did believe I was her friend.”

“You should choose your friends more carefully.”

“So should my sister,” she shot back.

A muscle twitched in Aristide’s cheek and his eye clouded with something that might have been regret. The emotion was quickly shuttered away as he continued, “Mademoiselle Lascelles and that serving wench of hers appear to have vanished. But I will track them down eventually and the Lascelles witch will answer for her crimes.”

So Cass had fled the Maison d’Esprit. Gabrielle heard the tidings with mixed emotions. It was alarming to think of Cass on the loose with no idea of where she might turn up next. On the other hand, her disappearance did give Gabrielle one advantage.

She cast Aristide a triumphant smile. “If Cass and her maid have vanished, you no longer have a witness against me.”

“I don’t need one. I still have the evidence of the medallions.” He gestured toward where the chest rested upon one of the tables.

Gabrielle’s smile dimmed.

“But as I said before,” he went on. “I am hoping no trial will be necessary.”

“I know what you are hoping,” Gabrielle said scornfully. “Miri told me all about the trade you have offered Renard. Did you know that every Midsummer’s Eve, my little sister attended a ceremony at the stone circle on the far side of Faire Isle?”

“Yes.” A brooding look stole over Aristide’s face. “That is where I first met her.”

“Miri actually believed that the dolmens were frozen giants who might return to life on that one magical night. Well, there is about as much a chance of that happening as the Comte de Renard ever—”

Gabrielle stumbled to a halt as she realized that the inn door had swung open, letting in a breath of crisp night air and the massive figure of a man.

“Yes? Renard will ever what?” her brother-in-law demanded affably.

Gabrielle’s jaw dropped. She knew she must look like a witless idiot with her mouth hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it any more than she could stop staring at the huge man who filled the doorframe. It was as though she had conjured up Renard with the mere mention of his name. But the comte had always had a disconcerting way of doing that, springing up out of nowhere.

Small wonder that Simon Aristide suspected the man of being a demon. Although the witch-hunter had clearly been expecting Renard tonight, Simon paled at the sight of him. Aristide’s fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for a cross to fend Renard off. Appearing as unperturbed by the sensation he had aroused as he was by the two stout witch-hunters who flanked him, Renard ambled into the room, the floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He leisurely stripped off his riding gloves, his hooded green eyes sweeping the taproom with that laconic expression that masked a sharp and cunning intelligence.

“Monsieur Le Balafre, the comte has arrived,” one of Renard’s escorts announced.

“I can see that,” Simon snapped. He dismissed the men, only Braxton remaining to post guard at the door. The comte ignored Aristide, turning to Gabrielle instead.

Gabrielle tipped up her chin, bracing herself for her brother-in-law’s anger and contempt. The comte had little tolerance for anyone who caused his beloved wife grief and she had never been anything but trouble to Ariane. She was completely disarmed when he took her hand and carried it to his lips.

“My dear sister-in-law. I am as ever charmed to see you.” Despite his teasing tone, Gabrielle found something astonishing beneath his hooded lids. Warmth, gentleness, and concern as his eyes searched her face. “I find you well, I trust?”

A lump rose to her throat. Ariane’s ogre appeared so comfortingly large and solid, Gabrielle had to master a strong urge to sag against his chest and burst into tears.

“T-tolerably well,” she managed to reply with a tremulous smile.

Renard gave her cheek a reassuring pat before turning to Aristide. The comte possessed an overwhelming presence. Even someone as formidable as the witch-hunter Le Balafre seemed to dwindle before him. Simon suddenly looked much younger and more vulnerable as Renard’s scornful gaze swept over him.

“Ah, and this would be our young Master Aristide. You’ve grown so much I would have scarce recognized you.”

Simon flushed, his hand flying to his scar. “Yes, I suppose I have changed.”

“I am sorry about the damage to your pretty face, lad,” Renard said in a softer tone. “It was never my wish to fight you that day. I had no desire to be your enemy.”

“You were born to be my enemy.” The hate radiating from Aristide was so strong, it sent a chill through Gabrielle. He inhaled sharply as though fighting to contain the virulent emotion. “I believe you came here to barter for mademoiselle’s freedom, not thrash over old times. Did you bring the article I require?”

After a hesitation, Renard nodded, reaching for a pouch slung round his shoulder. Gabrielle watched, almost breathless with suspense as Renard undid the straps that held the pouch closed. He slowly extracted a plain volume bound in black leather. Of no great size or thickness, the book appeared no more threatening than a folio of poems.

Gabrielle’s heart sank. Aristide was no fool. Did Renard really think he could trick the witch-hunter with a text as harmless looking as that? As the comte handed over the volume, Simon’s sneer showed his skepticism.

“This is the infamous
Book of Shadows
?”

“I hope so. I paid dearly to acquire it.”

“Not yet you haven’t,” Simon muttered. Snatching the book from Renard, he carried it close to the lit branch of candles and cracked the cover open.

Gabrielle strained on tiptoes, craning her neck. From what she could make out from her vantage, the pages looked aged and brittle enough to crumple to dust. Yet as Simon thumbed through them, the leaves crackled with a surprising resilience.

They were covered with strange bold markings, the ancient writing of a language all but forgotten, the symbols somehow dark and threatening. Gabrielle would never have thought it possible that a mere book could convey such an aura of mystery, power . . . evil.

There was little doubt in her mind that it was indeed the
Book of Shadows.
But whatever had possessed Renard to acquire the cursed thing, worse still to keep it? If the comte had ever intended to destroy it, he surely would have done so by now.

Gabrielle cast an uneasy glance at her brother-in-law. Much as Ariane loved her husband, she had ever feared that part of Renard that took too keen an interest in the dark arts, a fascination he had inherited from his wicked old grandmother, Melusine. With Aristide absorbed in the book, Gabrielle sidled closer to Renard and muttered, “You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?”

Renard bent down to reply in her ear. “Thank you. I have always been excessively fond of you, too, dear sister.”

“Ariane is going to kill you,” Gabrielle whispered fiercely. “You know how she feels about black magic. What possessed you to be messing about with that book?”

“Love”
was his unexpected sad reply. “Your sister is so desperate to have a child, she’s willing to die for it. But I can’t lose her. It would be easier to part with my soul. I thought I might find an answer in that book, a way to let her have her babe, but keep her safe forever. I would risk employing even the darkest magic for that.”

Gabrielle understood his desperation all too well. Hadn’t it been the same feelings of love, fear, the need to protect that had driven her to place that dangerous medallion around Remy’s neck? If Renard was an idiot, then so was she. She slipped her hand into his huge callused fingers and gave him a comforting squeeze. Renard returned the pressure with a rueful smile.

The minutes crawled by as Aristide inspected the book. Would the man have the wit to see that it was genuine? He appeared to be trying to take it apart, running his fingers over the cover, poking his thumbnail along the ridge of the spine. To Gabrielle’s amazement, part of the leather peeled back, revealing a hidden pocket. Aristide turned the book over and shook it vigorously, as though expecting something to fall out.

When nothing did, he glared at Renard. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” the comte asked blandly.

“You know damned well what. The list that should be hidden beneath the cover. The names of every known witch and sorcerer on both sides of the English Channel.”

Gabrielle emitted an outraged gasp. “That is what you are after? You bastard. You told Miri you only wanted the
Book of Shadows,
to destroy it when what you really want is—is—”

“The destruction of evil itself and every man or woman who practices it.” Simon stalked toward Renard. “Where is that list, monsieur?”

“Dear me. I suppose I must have lost it. Careless of me.”

Simon’s face darkened with such fury and frustration, Gabrielle stepped protectively in front of her brother-in-law. But Simon pivoted on his heel. He strode over to the chest that contained the medallions and the Dark Queen’s ring. Wrenching open the lid, he flung the
Book of Shadows
inside.

He stared down at it for a long moment. When he turned back to face them, Aristide’s eye was steely and cold. “I regret to inform you our agreement is terminated, Monsieur le Comte. Mademoiselle Gabrielle will remain to stand her trial and you also are under arrest.”