The Courtesan (67 page)

As for right now, he needed to lull the dragons that guarded him back to sleep, dispel the suspicions that Remy’s return had aroused. Hard as it was, he must continue to play the indolent young fool, concerned only with the gratification of his senses. Fortunately, that role was not entirely without its compensations.

Hearing a discreet cough, Navarre glanced up from his book to find himself being observed by a buxom brunette with laughing eyes and a pert smile. He recognized her as one of Catherine’s ladies, the Dark Queen’s latest offering to keep him seduced and tame. But oh, well. What the devil, Navarre thought with a cynical shrug. His breeches might be easily undone, but his counsel he had learned to keep to himself.

The young woman fluttered her fan and with a provocative look disappeared into the shrubbery. Navarre grinned, closed up his book, and followed.

Chapter Twenty-six

T
he modest farmhouse was tucked away in a valley sev-eral leagues from Paris. Not as far away as Gabrielle would have wished, but Remy had been unable to go any farther. The last mile, only Renard’s strong arm had prevented Remy from slipping from the saddle. Gabrielle was grateful for the temporary haven provided by the farm with its stone cottage, snug dairy barn, and chicken coops.

The place was the property of the Widow Perrot, noted for her fine apple jellies, sweet cream, and mellow cheese. She was also known to brew up the occasional potion to ease the pain of childbirth or monthly courses and concoct ointments that could cure anything from warts to rheumatism. Few outsiders would have guessed from her dimpled chin and plump matronly figure that she was one of the wise women who had recently attended the council on Faire Isle and that her name had likely been included on that list that had eluded Simon Aristide.

It was the widow who looked after Gabrielle and Miri while Ariane tended to Remy. Clucking over them both in motherly fashion, she dabbed her ointment on the cuts they had sustained from the flying glass. She even applied a poultice to Gabrielle’s ankle, wrapping it tightly.

“Something that I use on the pony when he pulls a fetlock,” the widow said with a wink. “Ornery old cuss. If it works on him, it should work for you, m’girl.”

Gabrielle mumbled her thanks, but she had little thought to spare for her own aches or exhaustion. All her mind, all her energies were focused on Remy. He’d finally sunk into unconsciousness when Ariane had worked upon his wound. After she’d finished he’d been tucked up in the widow’s own bed. He slept most of that day, then spent an uneasy night, stirring restlessly.

Gabrielle hovered by his side, soothing his brow with a cool cloth, fearful he might fall prey to fever or his old nightmares. Even though Ariane had urged Gabrielle to get some rest, said that she would look after the captain, Gabrielle had refused.

She perched on a wooden chair near the bed, offering him sips of water whenever he briefly roused. The herbal brew that Ariane had administered to dull his pain left him groggy. Gabrielle doubted that he even realized she was there with him and the thought brought an ache to her heart. Despite her best efforts, she dozed off, only to be awakened by the cheerful twittering of sparrows in the apple tree outside the window. She sat up and stretched painfully, rubbing the lower area of her spine. Her neck muscles protested as she twisted to peer at the man on the bed.

Morning light flooded the small chamber, playing softly over Remy’s face, his jaw coarsened by the stubble of beard. He appeared alarmingly still, his breath barely audible. Gabrielle pressed her hand to his brow, finding his skin cool to the touch. No fever. Surely that was a good sign and yet he looked so pale and drawn, like a mighty warrior who’d taken one blow too many and could not summon the strength to rise.

She couldn’t help but contrast his present state with the way he’d been but a week ago, so strong, bursting with vitality and enthusiasm as he’d laid his final plans to rescue his king. She longed to thread her fingers through his tousled dark gold hair, tenderly caress his face, but she feared to disturb whatever healing slumber he had found.

Gabrielle drew back, careful not to brush against his bandaged arm resting atop the coverlet. His powerful shoulders and upper chest were likewise exposed, the scars that creased his flesh appearing even crueler in the gentle morning light. So many wounds, so much pain for one man, and now he’d had to endure one more.

But this time it was her fault. Such a stupid, senseless injury for Remy to have suffered. If not for her recklessness, her deceptions, none of the terrible events of last night need ever have happened. The creak of the door behind Gabrielle cut short her guilt-stricken thoughts. She turned from Remy as Ariane stole quietly into the room. Her older sister’s eyes were smudged with exhaustion, her soft brown hair tumbled about her shoulders, but she was still very much the same calm Ariane.

“How is he?” she whispered as she tiptoed over to the bed.

“I don’t know,” Gabrielle confessed with a wan effort to smile. “My Scourge looks rather—rather weak and helpless lying there like that.”

She stepped out of the way as her sister bent to examine Remy. Ariane’s hands seemed so much more capable and confident than hers as she tested his brow for fever and checked his pulse. Feeling utterly useless, Gabrielle retreated to the window while Ariane carefully undid the bandage to inspect his wound. Remy barely stirred.

Gabrielle rested her head wearily against the window frame, taking in the soft breeze, the earthy smells emanating from the barnyard below. She spied Necromancer stalking some hapless field mouse. If Miri had noticed, she would have put a stop to it. But her little sister was busy currying the mane of a stout gray pony while Wolf leaned up against the paddock gate watching her.

The early morning peace was broken by the dull thud of an axe. Shirtsleeves rolled up, the Comte de Renard was busy chopping firewood, not looking in the least fazed by the battle at the inn or their fatiguing flight from Paris. The man had always possessed a stamina that was downright exhausting. The pleasure he took in such simple tasks as chopping wood had once caused Gabrielle to dub him a peasant. But she found something solid and reassuring about the sight of her brother-in-law wielding his axe while he kept an eye on the track leading to the farm, alert to any possible danger.

It was good to have an ogre guarding the castle, especially when her Scourge was so vulnerable. As Ariane finished rebinding his wound, Gabrielle took some comfort in noting her sister’s nod of satisfaction as she drew back from the bed. Ariane joined Gabrielle at the window, speaking low so as not to disturb Remy.

“Your captain will be fine. He is a very strong man who has survived much worse. He lost a great deal of blood, but there is no infection, no fever. All he needs is a little time to rest and heal. Pray God he will have that.”

Ariane stole an anxious glance out the window. The sight of her stalwart husband must have offered her reassurance. Some of the tension melted out of her shoulders. It was a rare thing to see Ariane with her hair unbound. She usually dressed simply, but neatly, her glossy brown tresses done up in a chignon or confined beneath a veiled headdress. Her hair hanging loose about her shoulders made her look younger somehow and yet there was a shadow of sorrow lurking in Ariane’s serene eyes that Gabrielle did not remember being there, not even after their mother had died.

They’d had little time alone since their hurried and perilous reunion, too many other concerns and dangers getting in the way. This was their first quiet moment together and the silence that descended felt strained with memories of their quarrels, the bitter differences of opinion that had caused their paths to diverge.

There was so much Gabrielle wanted to say to her sister but she scarce knew where to begin. She was surprised Ariane hadn’t forced the issue between them before now. Her older sister had never been one to let matters simply rest, always wanting to fix everything, to heal what was sometimes not ready to be healed. Gabrielle had often resented Ariane’s probing, those discerning eyes of hers that could peel back layers of the heart too easily, leaving wounds one sought to protect raw and exposed.

But Ariane didn’t push, didn’t probe. She waited, her eyes downcast, her hands folded before her. Gabrielle suddenly realized this was just as hard for her sister, finding a way to bridge the gulf between them.

Gabrielle cleared her throat. “It was my fault.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” Ariane faltered.

“Our quarrel. The rift between us and what has happened to Remy.” She gestured miserably toward the bed. “I am to blame for all of it.”

“Oh, you are the one who shot the captain? Well, I am sure that is quite understandable. There have been many times I wanted to do the same to Renard, especially when I found out he really did have that cursed book.”

Her sister’s jest left Gabrielle reeling in astonishment. Ariane had always been so serious, almost painfully so. She saw what Ariane was trying to do, teasing to ease the situation. But her gentle humor had the unexpected effect of cracking Gabrielle’s reserve. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Ari. I—I have made such a d-dreadful mess of everything.” Her voice broke on a mighty sob.

Ariane said nothing, just gathered Gabrielle into her arms. There had been so many times Gabrielle had resisted her older sister’s comfort. Now she melted willingly against the softness of Ariane’s shoulder, weeping out all the heartache, fear, and stress she had kept bottled up since her quarrel with Remy.

Ariane rocked her, stroking Gabrielle’s hair, her gentle, healing hands so like their late mother’s. “Hush, dearest. Nothing has happened that can’t be mended.”

“You—you don’t know. You have n-no idea some of the things I have done.” Gabrielle drew back, shuddering on a hiccup. She wiped furiously at her eyes until Ariane produced a handkerchief. Ariane
always
had a handkerchief.

She cupped Gabrielle’s chin, drying her cheeks. “I am afraid I do have some idea of what you’ve been up to. It was no accident that Bette followed you to Paris, seeking employment. I sent her.”

As Gabrielle’s eyes widened, Ariane went on hastily, “I couldn’t endure the thought of not knowing what happened to you. Not with all the dangers of the city, the court, the Dark Queen. I sent Bette, instructed her to dispatch regular reports. Those pigeons she raised in the pen behind your stables weren’t for your dinner table.”

“I should have suspected as much. I loathe pigeon pie and Bette knows it.”

“Please don’t be angry with her. It was my idea. I made her do it.”

“I am not angry with her or you either.” Gabrielle said. “Perhaps at one time I would have been foolish enough to have been furious. But I have been so afraid you no longer cared if you ever saw or heard of me again. That—that I’d so shamed and disappointed you by becoming a courtesan, by living in the house that belonged to Papa’s mistress. I thought you must hate me.”

“Oh, Gabrielle, how can you think such a thing? You and I have always had our differences—”

Gabrielle smiled. “That is a bit of an understatement.”

Ariane also smiled but it was a tremulous one. “I have often been worried by your choices, afraid for you, hurting for you. But you are my sister. I will always love you no matter what.” Ariane’s eyes filled with tears. “And I have missed you so.”

“I have missed you, too.”

Gabrielle drew her sister to her fiercely. They hugged, laughed, and cried over each other. Drawing apart, they peered guiltily in Remy’s direction, but he slumbered on undisturbed. They shared the handkerchief between them, drying damp eyes. Gabrielle had always hated what she thought of as the womanly weakness of tears. She had especially loathed ever breaking down in front of her composed older sister. But it was different somehow, sharing a good weep with Ariane. She felt curiously better for it.

Ariane composed herself with a final sniff. “Now, what is this I hear about you becoming betrothed to Remy?”

Gabrielle shook her head sadly. “Unfortunately, that is all over. I daresay you haven’t heard the rest of the story because Bette did not know.”

“I didn’t get the tale from Bette, my dear heart. I heard it from Remy.”

“Remy?” Gabrielle echoed in astonishment.

“When Miri sent word to the château about Simon Aristide’s demand, Renard and I headed for Paris at once. Our first thought was to contact Remy, but we found him only by chance. Your Scourge was tearing the city apart looking for that Lascelles woman.”

“For Cass? But why?”

“Remy had some notion of forcing her to come forward and tell the truth to clear you. He didn’t want you to end up a fugitive, forever on the run from witch-hunters.”

So that was what Remy had been doing when Gabrielle had begun to fear he had abandoned her. She was moved that he should have attempted such a desperate thing on her behalf and dismayed as well.

“I am glad Remy never found her,” she said. “Cass is the most dangerous person I’ve ever met and that includes the Dark Queen. You always warned me to steer clear of anyone who practiced dark magic, but of course I didn’t listen. You would have never been so tempted.”

A chagrined expression played across Ariane’s gentle features. “I am not a saint, Gabrielle. Although you have often implied that I thought I was.”

“I am sorry, Ari. I never meant—”

“No, you were quite right. I did try very hard to act the part of the all-wise, all-knowing Lady of Faire Isle. Mostly so no one would ever realize what a fraud I am. I must have been quite insufferable.” She fetched a deep sigh. “The truth is, I am not wise. Far from it. It was particularly difficult for me just after Maman died. With our father lost at sea, you and Miri to look after, all the debts Papa left, and then everyone on the island turning to me, expecting me to be as wise as Maman.”

Ariane swallowed hard before confessing. “I was so desperate. I turned to black magic myself to—to conjure Maman’s spirit.”

“
You
practiced necromancy? I didn’t even realize you knew how.”