“You had better take care how far your gratitude leads you, Ariane Cheney. There is some part of herself that a woman surrenders to a man she cannot get back again.” Swallowing thickly, Gabrielle lifted her skirts and stormed after Miri.
Ariane gazed sadly after her, thinking that she needed no such reminder. If she was ever in danger of forgetting, she had only to look into Gabrielle’s wounded eyes.
But as Ariane returned to Renard, she was acutely aware of being alone with the man, of the intimacy of their surroundings, the close proximity of the bed.
Renard rose courteously at her entrance. He was a titanic figure, easily able to overpower another man, let alone a woman. But his hooded eyes were his most alarming feature, those eyes that seldom revealed his thoughts.
When he held her chair for her, Ariane remained where she was, nervously entwining her fingers, feeling both awkward and slightly embarrassed by her sister’s recent behavior.
“I—I must apologize for Gabrielle’s rudeness,” Ariane began.
“She doesn’t trust me and warned you to beware of being alone with me,” Renard said smoothly.
When Ariane flushed, he added with a grim smile. “It is all right, ma chère. I know that even when I don these ridiculous fine clothes, I still look like an alehouse ruffian, as my grandfather frequently pointed out to me. And your sister has reason to be wary of men. She suffers from a bruised heart.”
Renard’s expression turned grave. “I fear I can be all bully and bluster sometimes. And I did once threaten to carry you off if you refused to wed me, something I am now deeply ashamed of. I didn’t mean it, Ariane.”
“I know that.” Ariane was surprised to realize that for all of his intimidating appearance and manner, there was an astonishing streak of gentleness in Renard, one that perhaps he was not aware of himself.
And he had betrayed himself again. There was only one way he could know about Gabrielle’s bruised heart. He had the ability to read eyes, as Ariane had long suspected.
Renard was more unguarded tonight than Ariane had ever seen him. If she could get him completely relaxed, perhaps she could finally learn the truth about this enigmatic man.
Instead of settling into her chair, she hastened to refill his wineglass to the very brim. Renard made no demur, but his half-closed eyes glinted with amusement.
“That will not work, ma chère,” he said softly.
“W-what won’t?”
“Trying to ply me with wine. I have a hard head. Getting me drunk never loosens my tongue to give away secrets. I will be far more likely to regale you with bawdy songs.”
“I wasn’t . . . that is, I didn’t mean—” Flustered, Ariane nearly tipped the bottle over as she plunked it down. “All right, perhaps I do hope you might mellow enough to let something slip, but you can hardly blame me after today. When I used that ring and then you appeared, you seemed to thunder out of those clouds as though you truly were some sort of sorcerer—”
“I am no sorcerer.”
“But you do read eyes. You looked at my sister, Gabrielle, and you saw the pain she allows no one to see. You read the sorrow in her eyes.”
“No.”
Ariane frowned, frustrated that he could still persist in denying his ability. He continued in tones of quiet resignation, “I can read of her sorrow in yours.”
At long last. She had finally gotten him to admit it, that he possessed skills and knowledge no ordinary man could possibly have. She sank weakly down into her chair and raised her eyes to his with a desperate earnestness.
“Please, Renard, you have got to tell me the truth. Who are you?”
Clad in her nightdress, Miri perched on a low stool, teasing the cat with a hair ribbon while Gabrielle brushed out her hair. Gabrielle dragged the brush ruthlessly through the moon-gold tangles, angry with Ariane. Angry with herself as well, for betraying to Ariane the existence of a wound that Gabrielle wanted to believe long healed over.
“Ouch!” Miri shot a reproachful look up at her. “You are pulling.”
“Sorry.” Gabrielle began to twist the shining strands into a braid. She tried to focus on the task and subdue all the unwanted emotions and memories churning through her. She didn’t know why this evening should have triggered so many thoughts of her painful interlude with Etienne Danton.
Perhaps it was observing the soft light that had started to creep into Ariane’s eyes when Renard was present, the innocent blush stealing into her cheek, an innocence Gabrielle no longer possessed.
A man didn’t need a magic ring to seduce a woman and Renard seemed to know just the right way to get round Gabrielle’s prudent sister. Bringing Miri that damned cat, drawling out his clever compliments.
Smooth-tongued villain, spouting the sort of flattery that Ariane would be most eager to believe! But perhaps she was merely jealous, Gabrielle reflected miserably.
Gabrielle snatched the ribbon away, disrupting Miri’s game with the cat. She gave a last twist to the braid, then secured it with the now slightly frayed bit of silk.
Miri reached around to pat the braid, frowning. “It is too tight. I like the way Airy does it better.”
“I did the best I could and unfortunately our older sister is a bit preoccupied tonight.”
Miri scooped up the cat and regarded Gabrielle with a troubled look. “Is Ariane going to have to marry the comte now because she used his magic ring?”
“No, she has to use it three times. That is their ridiculous agreement.”
“And . . . and do you think Ariane will ever use the ring again?” Miri asked anxiously.
“I hope not. If she does, I will find a way to get rid of that cursed thing, myself.”
“Good. I don’t want Ariane to go off and leave us to marry the comte. Even if we become dreadfully poor.”
“That won’t happen,” Gabrielle said, briskly turning down the covers on the bed. “I will find a way to take care of all of us.”
“But I don’t want you to go away either. I wish all three of us could remain here on Faire Isle together, just as we are, and never change.”
“I am afraid that is impossible.” Gabrielle sighed. Change came to a woman whether she wished for it or not. The important thing was not to be powerless when it did.
“At least nothing will change right now.” Miri comforted herself, cuddling the cat. “Monsieur Renard will go away again . . . although he does not seem quite as bad as I first thought him.”
Gabrielle rolled her eyes. “Do not be imagining that a man is some sort of hero just because he gives you a cat.”
“He can’t give me what he doesn’t own.” Miri nuzzled her nose against the cat’s dark fur. “But the comte did rescue me and Necromancer, and for that we are grateful.”
“Necromancer?” Gabrielle stared at her little sister in disbelief. “Miri, considering you have already been suspected of witchcraft, do you really think that is the wisest thing to be naming that cat?”
“That is what he wants to be called.”
“Fine,” Gabrielle muttered. “Far be it from me to argue with a cat. Now show Monsieur Necromancer the door and give him directions to the barn.”
Miri clutched the cat closer in her arms. “B-but he wants to stay with me.”
“Oh, no. I am not going to tolerate any of your creatures here in our bedchamber. I have always made that plain.”
Miri said nothing, just continued to regard Gabrielle with wide, beseeching eyes. She looked suddenly so small and fragile standing there in her nightdress and bare feet. Gabrielle’s heart twisted with the thought of exactly how close she had come to losing her little sister that day.
Her eyes misted. She swallowed hard, then surprised both Miri and herself by enveloping the girl, cat and all, in a fierce hug, until Necromancer let out a yowl of protest.
“All right. He can stay,” Gabrielle said. “But he’s not sleeping on the bed.”
“No, indeed. Necromancer wants to mount guard on the window seat and keep
watch in case the witch-hunters try to return.”
“Oh, good,” Gabrielle drawled. “I feel so much safer.”
“Yes, me too,” Miri replied seriously. She settled the cat on the window seat, with much fussing and petting until Gabrielle ordered her to come to bed.
For someone who had almost been nodding off at the supper table, Miri now fidgeted about the room, picking up discarded clothing, pausing to straighten the half-finished painting of the unicorn.
“That stupid thing,” Gabrielle groused. “We should burn it.”
“No!” Miri cried. “You gave the painting to me and I love it.”
“A portrait of a legless unicorn?”
“Don’t you think you will ever want to finish it?”
Gabrielle stared at the canvas. The dream-ridden girl who had been able to lose herself in the world of paint, canvas, and vivid imaginings seemed just that to Gabrielle. Lost.
“No,” she said, abruptly turning away. “I don’t have that kind of magic anymore.”
Miri tiptoed around her, then reached up to plant a timid kiss on Gabrielle’s cheek. “That’s all right. I like the painting just as it is.”
“And I would like it if you would stop delaying so we could go to bed. I am exhausted.” But Gabrielle softened her complaint by tugging playfully on her sister’s braid.
Miri clambered reluctantly into bed. Gabrielle extinguished the candle and settled down by her in the darkness. Gabrielle rolled over, punching her pillow into the shape she liked it.
“Gabrielle?” Miri whispered.
“Mmm?” Gabrielle replied, stifling a yawn.
“Do you think you will ever see a real unicorn?”
“No, because—”
Because according to the legend, any maiden who captured a unicorn was supposed to be pure, innocent, untouched. Gabrielle suppressed the bleak thought.
“Because I don’t believe in them,” she mumbled.
“I still do,” Miri said. “And I still believe that Papa will come back someday too. That is what helped me when I was facing the witch-hunters. I tried to remember how brave Papa always was.”
Gabrielle had her own opinions regarding the courage of a man who would abandon his dying wife and three daughters, but she said nothing. Apparently Miri found her silence equally as damning, for she asked, “Don’t you believe that any men are good, Gabby? Not even Papa?”
Gabrielle was far too tired to get into any discussion with her innocent sister regarding their errant father. “Of course I still believe some men are good.”
For some inexplicable reason, Captain Remy’s image sprang to mind. She added, “However, the good ones are usually insufferably noble and earnest.”
“What about witch-hunters?”
“What?”
She heard Miri struggling up onto one elbow to peer down at Gabrielle. “Do you think any witch-hunters could possibly be good?”
“How can you even ask such a thing? All witch-hunters have rotten black hearts. Now will you please stop asking me silly questions and go to sleep?”
Miri sighed and sank back down onto her pillow. After a moment her small voice came again. “I—I can’t sleep, Gabby. I have been having some of my nightmares again and—and they keep getting worse.”
Gabrielle rolled over. Even in the darkness, she could make out the glint of Miri’s wide frightened eyes.
“Come here, then,” she said gruffly. “The nightmares can’t get you if you stay close to me.”
Miri scooted gratefully closer, nestling her head against Gabrielle’s shoulder. She asked in a wondering voice, “Have you become like Maman, then? Able to banish bad dreams?”
“No, she was a wise woman.” Gabrielle gave Miri a squeeze and said in mock-fierce tones. “Me . . . I intend to be the most wicked witch the world has ever known. Even nightmares will be afraid of me.”
Miri giggled. “My brave and bold sister. I will never forget the way you charged those witch-hunters with your sword.”
Yawning, she snuggled down farther beneath the blankets and closed her eyes. Long after Miri had fallen asleep, Gabrielle held her close, listening to the even rise and fall of her breathing.
She was grateful Miri had fallen asleep, grateful for the darkness, glad that Miri had been unable to see her face. Otherwise the child might have realized that her brave and bold sister was just as afraid of bad dreams as she was. Nightmares of a certain sunlit afternoon in the hayloft of a barn.
Chapter Fifteen
The storm had diminished into a monotonous patter of rain against the windows. Renard doubted that Ariane even noticed, her earnest gray eyes fixed on him, offering him no escape this time, her question hanging in the air between them.
“Who are you?”
Renard sipped his wine, resting his hand atop the table, the candlelight glinting off the metal surface of his ring. Ariane placed hers alongside, her fingertips falling just short of touching his, her hand in slender contrast to his own large, ungainly one.
Her brow furrowed in perplexity as she studied their matching rings.
“How could these rings possibly work?” she asked. “I know from my books on ancient science that a well-developed brain may possess the power to transfer thoughts. Do these rings act as some sort of conductor because of the metal they are made of?”
Renard regarded her. “You are a funny sort of witch, ma chère, always looking for logic rather than magic.”
“I am not a witch,” she replied. “And yes, I do prefer rational explanations, so tell me where you acquired these rings and no nonsense this time, please.”
After a long, drawn-out sigh, Renard confessed, “The rings were . . . were a legacy. I inherited them from my mother.”
“So she was not the simple shepherd lass you claimed her to be.”
“Oh, yes, she was that. But she was also a daughter of the earth. The same as you.”
Ariane had begun to suspect as much. “And your maman . . . she was the one who taught you to read eyes?”
“No, I learned nothing from my mother. I never knew her.” Renard fortified himself with a swallow of wine. “I was raised by my grandmother, a wise woman of the mountains. It was she who taught me the arts of reading the eyes and other ancient lore. She is also the one who forged the rings for my mother and father. Powerful magic to bind them together forever.
“Unfortunately, forever didn’t last that long. My mother died giving birth to me and my father perished shortly thereafter, struck down by a sudden inflammation of the lungs. Though I suppose there are some romantics who would have said he died of a broken heart.”
“I am sorry,” Ariane said quietly.
Renard shrugged. “It is hard to grieve for people one has never known. My parents seemed to me no more than a sad and sweet fairy tale my grandmother spun for me beside the fire on chilly evenings. Our cottage on the mountain, my kinsman Toussaint, and old Lucy . . . those were all that was real to me.”
“Old Lucy?”
“That was what the folk of the mountain called my grandmother and I grew to do the same. She was not book-learned like your Maman. She could not even read her own name, but she was exceedingly wise—”
Renard checked himself as the serving maid, Bette, appeared, bearing more wine and a dish of comfits. Ariane was quick to dismiss the girl, telling her not to come again unless called. Gabrielle would hardly have approved, but Ariane feared he would attempt to close himself off again.
As soon as Bette had gone, Ariane leaned forward in her seat. “But what of your grandfather Deauville? Were you entirely forgotten by your father’s people?”
Renard’s lips tightened with that grim look he always assumed at any mention of the old comte. “For a long time, mercifully yes, the comte did forget about my existence. My grandfather had entirely cut my father off after his marriage to—as he scornfully put it—a filthy peasant, the daughter of an old witch.
“But my grandfather’s rejection did not matter to me.
I was quite content growing up on my mountain, tending our small garden and our flock of sheep. Exploring the hills with the other lads of our village, indulging in rough-and-tumble games.”
Renard gave a rueful smile, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That is how I broke my nose the first time, in a wrestling match with Timon the Trickster. A small but wiry boy, who could not be trusted to play fair. But for that matter I suppose none of us lads from the mountains could. We were a rather unruly lot, ma chère.”
“I can well imagine,” Ariane said.
Renard’s eyes waxed a trifle wistful. “Don’t mistake me. It could be a hard life up in those hills, the winds at times cruel and unforgiving. But old Lucy’s knowledge of the earth, her skills in the ancient lore made certain we never went hungry. It was a good life, clean and simple until—”
“Until?” Ariane prompted softly when he hesitated.
The dark look crept back into Renard’s eyes. “Until the day my grandfather ran out of other heirs. They died off one by one until his only remaining kin was the grandson of the witch, the oafish peasant boy. So in the summer of my sixteenth year he came to fetch me away.”
Renard paused, taking a swallow of his wine.
“And what happened?” Ariane asked anxiously.
“I resisted him. After all, I didn’t even know the old bas—” Renard checked himself with an apologetic grimace. “I beg your pardon, lady. I didn’t even know my grandfather and I had no wish to ever become Monsieur le Comte. All I wanted was my own small piece of the mountain, a cottage with a fine stone hearth and feather-tick bed. A place to raise both a flock of sheep and a herd of boisterous children, with a sturdy, cheerful wife at my side.
“I had already fallen in love, with a comely miller’s daughter. Martine Dupres was quite plump and pretty, with cornflower eyes and hair the color of wheat.”
Renard’s voice softened at the memory. From his description, Ariane had no difficulty imagining a more rustic version of Gabrielle. She touched the ends of her own somber brown hair and experienced an odd, sharp pang.
“You—you were betrothed to this girl?”
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