The Courtesan (69 page)

Remy gazed up at her with that deep earnest expression that had so long ago won her heart. “But you are not my duty, Gabrielle. You are my love, my life, my very soul.”

Gabrielle’s heart swelled with such emotion, her eyes filled with tears threatening to overflow. She tried to lean closer, to brush her lips against his, but Remy forestalled her by saying, “No, wait. There is something I have to do first.”

He grimaced, shifting as though he could struggle from the bed, as though he seriously thought she would allow such a thing. When she sternly ordered him to lie still, he subsided with a disgruntled sigh. “All right, but then you are going to have to help me. Do you know what became of my things? My saddlebag?”

“Everything is stacked there in the corner.”

“Good.” He sighed. “Open the saddlebag, will you? And look for a small leather pouch.”

Gabrielle did as he asked, returning with the object he’d requested, a pouch so light it felt as though it contained nothing at all. It pained Remy far too much to move his injured arm and he was unable to work the drawstring with one hand. He surrendered the pouch to Gabrielle. She shook the contents out onto the palm of her hand, a gold ring.

“It’s a betrothal ring,” he said gruffly. “I know it isn’t anything much. In the midst of all this madness, I didn’t exactly have time to look properly and—and this was the best I could afford.”

Gabrielle’s eyes did overflow then. All she could do was choke out, “Oh, Remy.”

“You accused me of only wanting to wed you at the king’s command. Well, I couldn’t have you thinking for the rest of our lives that that was the case, so I made up my mind to ask you properly. I really should get down on one knee.”

“Don’t you dare even think of it,” Gabrielle cried fiercely.

“All right then,” Remy said with a regretful smile as he took hold of her hand. “I suppose this will have to do. Gabrielle Cheney, will you do me the honor of—”

“Yes!”

“At least let me finish,” Remy growled. “Do me the honor of becoming my wife, allowing me to love, cherish, and protect you until the end of our days?”

“Oh, yes,” Gabrielle whispered. “As I will love and cherish you.” Her hand trembled as Remy took the ring from her and slipped it onto her finger.

Her hair fell over him in a golden shower as she bent close, intending to whisper her mouth so very gently over his. But the Scourge was having none of that. Regardless of his wound, he cupped the nape of her neck and drew her mouth to his, sealing their betrothal with a fiery kiss.

Epilogue

T
he sun pierced the leafy canopy of the trees, scattering diamonds of light over the stream that meandered lazily past the banks. A hush seemed to have settled over the forest behind Belle Haven, broken only by the murmur of the water, the occasional breeze rustling branches as though the ancient trees themselves breathed a sigh of contentment at the return of a long-lost daughter.

Gabrielle paused in her work to savor the crisp scent of pine mingling with the sweeter fragrance of wildflowers and the heavier aroma of the earth itself. Never before, she thought, had she so appreciated the calm beauty of her home on Faire Isle.

Perhaps her appreciation had deepened because she realized, sorrowfully, this peace was only fleeting. Simon Aristide and the witch-hunters would eventually come, no doubt backed by the king’s troops. Henry Valois was likely to be furious at the attack upon the man he had commissioned to rid France of witches. Faire Isle itself might no longer prove a haven for the women who had long sought to do nothing more than to learn, to teach, to heal, to preserve what was best of the old ways and knowledge.

Gabrielle thrust that fear from her mind, refusing to dwell on any grim prospects on such a lovely day. She shook back her hair, curling her bare toes in the cool grass, reveling in the magic of Faire Isle, until it seemed to surge from the soles of her feet all the way up to tingle through her fingertips.

Her hands pulsed with her own unique magic, her fingers seeming to move of their own volition as she wielded her brush, applying deft strokes to the canvas mounted on the easel before her. The image reaching its final completion was in part the product of the vision in her head, the rest inspired by the man sprawled beneath the tree.

Remy had recovered well from his wound. Perhaps it was more the somnolence of the summer’s day or Gabrielle’s absorption in her work that had caused him to doze off. He leaned back against the trunk, cradled in the arms of old Sycamore, the dragon likewise benign on such a lazy summer afternoon.

Remy didn’t bestir himself until Gabrielle was putting the finishing touches to the canvas. He was roused by the crashing of branches as two squirrels bickered overhead. Chattering and scolding each other for possession of a particular tree limb. Or perhaps it was merely the prelude to a mating. Miri would have known.

Remy sat up, stretching his arms overhead with a mighty yawn. He cast Gabrielle an apologetic smile. “Did I doze off? Sorry. I suppose I have not been the most scintillating company. Or did you even notice?”

“Of course I did. But after last night—” Gabrielle’s body tingled at the memory of Remy’s exertions in her bed. “I thought you could use the rest.”

“Humph! More likely you welcomed the chance to work undisturbed.”

Hearing the slightly disgruntled tone in Remy’s voice, Gabrielle set down her brush. She padded over to offer him her hand as he struggled to his feet. She winced at the sight of her hand spattered with dried paint, her nails cut bluntly short.

But Remy carried her hand to his lips as though it was still as silken and elegant as in her days at court. “I fear that in time I could wax quite jealous of this magic of yours that absorbs you to the exclusion of all else.”

Despite his teasing complaint, she caught the gleam of pride in his eyes and it warmed her more than the sun.

“So am I finally permitted to see this masterwork of yours?” he demanded.

“Well, I—I—” Gabrielle faltered. The return of her magic still felt so new, so tentative. This was the first painting she had done in years and she had guarded it jealously from everyone’s sight, especially Remy’s.

But when he ducked playfully past her, she made no effort to stop him. As he slipped around in front of the canvas, she caught her breath, waiting anxiously as he stared at her work. Her heart sank with dismay as Remy’s jaw dropped with horror.

“Gabrielle!” he gasped.

“You—you don’t like it,” she cried. “You think it’s dreadful.”

“No. No,” he reassured her hastily. “It—it is truly magic. I feel as though I could walk straight into the canvas, but—but—” He gestured helplessly toward the easel. “You’ve been painting me.”

“It isn’t supposed to be you. I only used your face for my model.”

“You used a great deal more than my face, woman,” Remy said accusingly. “Hell’s fire, Gabrielle. You have me completely naked.”

Gabrielle stepped to Remy’s side, critically eyeing her own work. The beauty of the forest surrounding them seemed to live in the painting. A horse grazed near the stream, its saddle and its rider’s armament—his sword, armor, and clothing—scattered nearby. But the foreground of the painting, the focus of the work, was of the knight sleeping beneath the trees, half-turned on his side, his head pillowed upon his outstretched arm, his tumbled hair an extraordinary blend of sun and shadow. Even in repose, the power and strength of the man were evident, delineated in his sinewy shoulders and limbs, the ripple of muscle across his chest, the taut curve of his buttocks. His vulnerability was laid bare as well in the scars that marred his smooth skin, in the weariness that lined his face as he slept so hard and deep. Every inch of Remy captured from Gabrielle’s loving memory.

Although his reaction was not what she’d hoped it would be, she lifted her chin defiantly. “I think it is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“Yes, it—it’s very well executed, but—” Remy looked highly discomfited. “Why is your knight naked? I would never—I mean he would never just strip off and go to sleep like that. It would leave him too open, too vulnerable to his enemies.”

“The knight was hot and tired from his many quests and battles,” Gabrielle explained patiently. “He cooled himself in the nearby stream and fell asleep beneath the tree. It is an enchanted wood and he feels safe here.”

“If he is so exhausted, then why is he so—so—” Remy pointed uncomfortably to the rather impressive appendage between the knight’s legs.

“Obviously, he is having pleasant dreams about the lady he loves.”

“But couldn’t you at least place a discreet bush or some weeds—”

“No, I couldn’t! I am sorry if it offends you, but I find nothing shameful in the magnificence of the male body, especially yours.”

Remy draped his arm about her shoulders and said more gently, “I am not offended, love. I am actually rather flattered to realize that is how I appear to you. Do I really look that—that—”

“That good? Oh, yes, you do,” Gabrielle replied with a shiver and sigh.

Remy’s mouth crooked in an adorably sheepish smile. “It is only that I don’t know how I will ever look either one of your sisters in the eye again after they have seen that.” Her mighty Scourge actually blushed to the roots of his hair. He added with a groan, “To say nothing of the bedeviling I will be forced to take from Wolf and Renard.”

Gabrielle draped her arms about his neck. She said soothingly, “I never intended to embarrass you. I did this painting for myself as a celebration of my love for you and for the return of my magic. I thought it gone forever after what Danton did to me. But you gave it back to me.”

Remy gazed down at her, his deep brown eyes tender and earnest. “Your magic was never any man’s to take, Gabrielle. Nor mine to give. It has been there inside of you all along, just waiting for the day you’d find the courage to summon it again.”

“A courage I might never have found but for you.” She caressed his cheek lovingly. “And don’t worry. No one will ever see this painting but you and me.”

Remy responded by fastening his lips on hers, his mouth warm and coaxing. Even as Gabrielle strained toward him, eagerly returning his embrace, she felt a prickle of unease. She had vowed with Remy to be completely honest with him from now on, and she intended to be. So then should she tell him about Miri’s latest dream?

Her sister had ceased having those troubling nightmares about Gabrielle becoming Navarre’s mistress. Her dream had clarified, revealing the face of the lady stealing toward the king’s bedchamber, another golden-blond beauty, another woman named Gabrielle.

Miri’s latest prophetic dream conjured up Paris in the far distant future, when it had become a city of mysterious lights that never burned themselves out. A Paris no longer governed by a king or queen, the vast palace of the Louvre transformed into a repository of art collected from the far corners of the world. Displayed right there in one of the main galleries for millions of visitors to see was a collection of Gabrielle’s paintings, including her most famous work.

The Weary Knight.

But this vision struck Gabrielle as being too bizarre and far-fetched, even for Miri. She saw no point in troubling Remy with it. She was no longer interested in prophecy or seeking her destiny in dreams or some distant stars. Let the future look to itself, Gabrielle thought as she melted before Remy’s kiss, her lips parting to welcome his passion and tenderness. All that mattered to her was Remy, his love.

And their time was here and now.

Author’s Note

Although the mercenary regiment of witch-hunters is a product of my imagination, sixteenth-century France was rife with sorcery trials and burnings. The populations of some villages were entirely decimated of their women. There actually was a Le Balafre, the charismatic and ambitious duc de Guise. I found his nickname, “Scarface,” much more appropriate for my tormented witch-hunter Aristide and so I shamelessly borrowed it.

Catherine de Medici herself was suspected by many French people of being a poisoner and sorceress. She was known to have frequently consulted the French physician and astrologist Michel de Nostredame during his lifetime. Michel, better known as Nostradamus, is said to have foretold both the death of Catherine’s husband and the downfall of her line. The predictions in his book
Centuries
are still studied to this day.

To what degree Catherine believed Nostradamus’s predictions is not known, but she certainly kept close watch over other possible claimants to the French throne, most especially Henry of Navarre. Navarre was held prisoner at court. He survived all the intrigue and hostility only by sheer nerve, adopting an indolent manner that masked his keen intelligence.

After several elaborate escape plots that failed, he finally eluded his captors in the simplest manner. During a hunting party at Senlis, Navarre and several trusted attendants galloped off, disappearing into the woods. As soon as he had crossed the Loire and was well clear of any French pursuit, Navarre is reported to have said, “God be praised who has delivered me . . . I’ll never return unless I’m dragged.”

Events proved otherwise for the man who was fated to become one of France’s most beloved kings, known as the Evergreen Gallant.

About the Author

S
USAN
C
ARROLL
is an award-winning romance author whose books include
The Bride Finder
and its two sequels,
The Night Drifter
and
Midnight Bride,
as well as
The Painted Veil, Winterbourne,
and most recently,
The Dark Queen.
She lives in Rock Island, Illinois.

Also by Susan Carroll

W
INTERBOURNE

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HE
P
AINTED
V
EIL

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HE
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RIDE
F
INDER

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HE
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IGHT
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RIFTER

M
IDNIGHT
B
RIDE