The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  “Perhaps I was at one time—”

  “No, you still are!” Remy paused in his pacing to glower at her. Beneath his rising anger, he had the look of a cornered man, fighting hard to hold on to his illusions of her, no doubt as hard as he had ever fought against impossible odds on any battlefield. Remy was not a stupid man by any means. But he was proving more willfully blind than Gabrielle would ever have believed possible. He stalked toward her and crushed her hands between his. When he spoke it was clear that it was costing him great effort to keep his voice level.

  “Gabrielle, you have obviously been confused and hurt by your father’s behavior. But you must not let it make you cynical or bitter. You have no idea what it would be like to sell your virtue.” Remy added fiercely, “You couldn’t.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” Gabrielle said.

  “No! I won’t accept it. Not until I hear the truth from you. You tell me.”

  Gabrielle had to close her eyes briefly to shut out the tormented face of this man who wanted so badly to believe in her in a way no one else had ever done. No, not her, Gabrielle was forced to remind herself. Just some dream of her, a Gabrielle who had never existed.

  Remy gripped her hands hard, offering her no quarter. So he insisted upon hearing all the painful details? Very well, then. She would give them to him. Gabrielle wrenched free of Remy’s grip and stalked away, fortifying herself with a deep breath. She positioned herself behind the chair and faced him, assuming her iciest façade, the one that had stood her in good stead during all the most painful moments of her life.

  “Of course I know how to barter with a man.” She curled her fingers around the back of the chair for support. “How do you think I ever managed to get here to Paris to claim this house? With Ariane opposed to me, Renard was practically holding me prisoner. I had no choice but to run away. I finally managed to escape with the help of a wine merchant who was visiting the château.”

  Gabrielle dropped her gaze, staring rigidly at the gilt trim that adorned the chair. “Monsieur Duclous was a very kind, good-humored sort of man. He was more than willing to take me to Paris in exchange for—for my favors.”

  Gabrielle heard the sharp intake of Remy’s breath, but she did not risk looking at him. “Once I arrived in Paris, Monsieur Duclous could not be of help to me in gaining what I really wanted. Access at court and the higher circles of society. I needed the duc de Penthieve for that.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more of this,” Remy growled. He stalked over to the windows and turned his back as though he could shut out the sound of her voice.

  “No, damn you. You asked for this and you are going to hear it all,” Gabrielle cried. She bit down hard upon her lip to still its trembling and then went on ruthlessly, “Monsieur le Duc was very urbane, witty and charming. I learned a great deal from him. Regrettably the duc suffered financial losses and felt obliged to retire to his country estate. I had no wish to leave Paris, so then I—”

  “Stop it, Gabrielle,” Remy grated. He braced one arm against the window frame, the line of his back looking rigid enough to snap.

  “Then I found the Marquis de Lanfort. A nice boy, but with a tendency to write dreadful poetry. I probably still have one of his—”

  “I said, stop.” Remy roared so loud that Gabrielle flinched and faltered to silence. Remy clenched the wooden frame so hard, his entire arm shook with the force of it.

  As he whipped around, Gabrielle’s breath hitched in her throat, fearing that she had gone too far. She had never seen such a look on Remy’s face before, his mouth pinched white, his nostrils flared, his breath coming quick and hard as he advanced toward her. Gabrielle stumbled back, retreating to the other side of her dressing table, her heart thudding.

  Remy dashed his hand across the table with a violent oath. Bottles and jars hurtled to the floor, shattering. Gabrielle shrank back, flinging up her hands to avoid the shards of flying glass. She emitted a cry that was part protest, part alarm.

  Before she could even draw another breath, Remy was upon her. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and hauled her toward him. Remy’s breath was hot on her face, his lips pulled back in a taut furious line. She was reminded suddenly of what Cass had said when she had touched Remy’s sword.

  “This weapon speaks to me of a darker side to your gallant knight. They called him the Scourge, Gabrielle. I doubt that a man acquires such a title because of his kind and gentle nature.”

  “What happened to you, Gabrielle?” Remy rasped, his eyes dark with anguish and rage. “How could you have changed so much?”

  Though her pulse raced, Gabrielle lifted her chin, meeting his black anger with defiance. “I haven’t changed. I have always been a very ambitious woman.”

  “No, you weren’t!” Remy snarled. “You were never this cold and calculating, willing to do anything for money and power. You were restless and passionate, yes, but always honorable and innocent—”

  “No, I wasn’t. I had already had my first lover before I ever met you.” Gabrielle flung the bitter words in Remy’s face. It nigh sickened her to describe Danton in such a way, but she would have died rather than admit the shame of what had happened that hot summer afternoon.

  Remy uttered a savage oath. His grip tightened so painfully, she gasped, certain he meant to shake her until she dropped in a heap. But he released her abruptly, all but flinging her away from him. As Gabrielle staggered to regain her balance, Remy retreated to the far end of the room.

  A terrible silence ensued, broken only by Gabrielle’s tremulous breaths as she struggled to compose herself. She trembled, rubbing her bruised shoulders, and stared at the shattered remains of all those lotions and perfumes Cass had so carefully brewed.

  “So—so you see,” Gabrielle concluded in a low voice. “You never really knew me at all.”

  “Evidently not.”

  Her confession about Danton seemed to have dealt Remy the final blow. His rage faded as swiftly as it had come. He dragged his hand wearily across his face and Gabrielle thought she could see every dream he had ever had of her dying in his eyes.

  Remy placed his hands on his hips and stared up at the ceiling with a bitter laugh. “Lord! I have to be about the biggest fool of all time,” he muttered.

  No, Gabrielle thought sadly. Only an honorable man who expected the rest of the world to be the same.

  She picked her way past the debris of broken glass and lotion that smeared the carpet and approached Remy tentatively. “I am sorry if I have hurt you,” she said. “Truly that was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

  Gabrielle reached out to touch his sleeve, but he shook her off with such a look of contempt that she recoiled. His rejection hurt so much, she wanted to wrap her arms around herself as though fending off a blow. But if there was one thing she had always been good at, it was taking her wounds and burying them deep where no one could see.

  She kept her arms pinned to her sides and faced him regally instead. “At least now you understand why I will not help you with any of your schemes. You would do better to forget about Navarre. Escapes for the king have been tried before and failed. You will only end up getting yourself killed.”

  “Your concern for my welfare is touching, madame,” Remy sneered.

  His words stung. She was concerned for him, if only she could make the stiff-necked fool see that. Gabrielle made one last desperate attempt to reason with him. “I fully intend to make sure Navarre gains his rightful place of power in France. You will do far better by your king to just leave him to me.”

  “I would as soon leave him in hell.”

  Gabrielle tensed when Remy stepped closer and took hold of her chin. His grip was not rough this time, but inexorable all the same, forcing her head up so she had to look directly into his eyes. They were like points of steel, cold and hard, and that was somehow worse than his anger had been.

  “I mean to have my king far away from the Dark Queen’s clutches and yours as
well. So be warned, Gabrielle, and stay out of my way. You never really knew me either. I can be damned ruthless to my enemies.”

  She had already seen proof of that, Gabrielle thought. A shiver of fear worked through her, but she refused to be intimidated by Nicolas Remy or any other man. She thrust his hand away, saying just as coldly, “It is you who should take care. You seem to have forgotten that after all, I am a witch.”

  “How could I have possibly overlooked that fact?” Remy strode to her bedchamber door, wrenching it open. He did not even glance back as he left, slamming the door behind him.

  Gabrielle remained just as she was for a long time. As the events of this tumultuous evening overwhelmed her, she began to shake uncontrollably and was obliged to sink down onto the chair. She hugged herself tightly in an effort to still her trembling. Remy clearly despised her now.

  What did you expect, you little fool, she chided herself. That Remy was somehow going to be able to understand, to forgive her for being who she was? Not even Remy could be that noble. Like most men, his views on women were appallingly simplistic. The fair sex only came in two forms, madonnas or whores. And there was little doubt how Remy now regarded her.

  Well, what did it matter, Gabrielle asked herself, fiercely refusing to cry. It was not as though she and Remy had ever had any kind of future together. She should be feeling relieved. After all of this time, she had laid his ghost to rest. She was finally free to carry on with the rest of her life. Gabrielle closed her eyes against the sting of tears, denying their release.

  Nicolas Remy would haunt her no more.

  Chapter Six

  A single candle rested on the rough-hewn table, casting its light over the only other furnishings in the small room, a narrow wooden bedstead and a washstand with a cracked pitcher. The lodging that Nicolas Remy shared with his young companion was cheap, affording few comforts. But the bleakness of the chamber appeared to suit the captain’s mood tonight. Grim and silent, he readied for bed, removing his cloak and divesting himself of the dagger he kept tucked in his belt.

  As Martin Le Loup unrolled his pallet on the floor nearby, his usual swagger was absent. He stole worried glances at the captain and felt more ashamed of himself than he had ever been in his life. He had failed his captain this evening. Wolf fetched a deep sigh. He might as well fling himself into the murky waters of the Seine. That would be the only fitting punishment for a miscreant such as himself.

  Martin had ever prided himself on being as bold and fierce as the creature whose title he had adopted to give himself a surname. But tonight he had proved to be more like a jackal than a wolf. When the captain had ordered him to leave at the gates of the Maison d’Esprit, Wolf should have refused. He should have followed Remy straight into that devil’s den. Instead he had allowed his great fear of witches and curses to get the better of him. Wolf had slunk away with his tail between his legs like a whipped cur, abandoning the man who had become all things to him.

  Despite all of his hardship these past years, Remy had found the time to instruct Wolf in the arts of fighting. Not with clubs and knives like some mangy street thief, but with rapier and dagger like a true gentleman. But Remy had given Wolf a far greater gift than that. The captain had taught him how to read and to write his name.

  And how had Wolf chosen to repay the magnificence of such a man? He had forsaken his captain when he had needed his Wolf the most and now something terrible had happened to Remy. The captain who had set out after his beautiful lady was not the same man who had returned to their lodgings. Remy always carried himself with an upright, military bearing. But there was an aura of defeat about him as he unbuckled his sword and dropped it carelessly to the floor in a way that was most unlike him. A good soldier always took painstaking care of his weapon and the captain was a great soldier.

  At least he had been until he had followed the lovely Gabrielle to that devil’s manor, the Maison d’Esprit. Wolf shuddered with the fear that the Captain had fallen prey to the witch’s curse, no matter what Remy had told him to the contrary.

  As Remy stripped off his shirt, Wolf stared at Remy’s broad back, anxiously looking for witch’s marks. He craned his neck, trying to see around to the other side of Remy. Straining forward, he lost his balance and tumbled into the little table. The candle nearly went flying and he grabbed for it, hot wax splashing on his hands.

  “Merde,” Wolf muttered, wincing at the pain.

  The commotion roused the captain from the black haze that enveloped him. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he growled, stealing an irritated look over his shoulder.

  “Nothing, m’sieur.” Wolf hastily righted the candle. He rubbed the wax from his hand and then licked the spot where he had been burned. Remy was generally the most patient of men, but his temper seemed on a short fuse ever since his return.

  Another bad sign that the captain was no longer himself. Wolf knew that Remy had already had a belly full of what the captain termed Wolf’s “superstitious nonsense.” But Wolf was far too worried to keep his fears to himself.

  “Er-ah—Captain. I—I don’t like to keep harping on this,” Wolf ventured. “But old Tante Pauline, the closest thing I ever had to a mother, always told me that when a man is attacked by a succubus or cursed by a witch, he often acquires an extra teat. And I was just afraid that—”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Remy muttered a fierce oath and spun around. The smooth, hard-muscled surface of the captain’s chest was streaked with scars from more wounds than any mortal should ever have endured and survived. But the captain still only had two nipples like any normal man. Wolf heaved a sigh of deep relief.

  “There, are you satisfied?” Remy demanded, flinging his arms wide. “No extra teat. I haven’t been suckled by the devil or cursed by a witch. I never even went into the Maison d’Esprit. I merely waited in the courtyard until Mistress Cheney emerged. Now stop being such a bloody fool and go to bed.”

  Wolf drew himself up with wounded dignity. “Is it being a fool to fear for one’s friend? Then plague take me for the dolt that I am, but I would rather perish a hundred times, have a thousand hot spikes rammed up my arse than—”

  “Ah, Martin, please,” Remy said tersely. “None of your theatrics tonight. I am too damned weary for them. I have told you I am well. Be content with that.”

  “Yes, m’sieur,” Wolf grumbled. But as he stripped off his own jerkin, his lips thinned into a stubborn line. He was far from content. A witch may not have suckled the captain, but there was something very wrong with him.

  As Remy sank down on the edge of the bed to tug off his boots, his eyes looked as black as they did on those nights when he sprang awake from one of his nightmares. Wolf spread out his wool blanket on top of the pallet, struggling to make sense of his captain’s condition. He inhaled his breath sharply as the realization struck him.

  He truly was a numbskulled, ox-pated fool. The captain had never entered the accursed Maison d’Esprit, but his lady had. Wolf shot Remy a glance of mingled compassion and reproach.

  “Ah, m’sieur. You should have told me.”

  “Told you what?” Remy grunted, working off his first boot.

  “About your lady. The beautiful and reckless Gabrielle. She went into that cursed house and now something dreadful has befallen her, has it not?”

  The captain confirmed Wolf’s suspicions by freezing at the mention of Mistress Cheney. Then he gave his boot a hard yank and flung it into the corner.

  “She is not my lady and you needn’t worry about her. She is just fine. If there is one thing the beautiful and reckless Gabrielle is good at, it is looking out for herself.” There was an acid note to Remy’s voice when referring to the lady that Martin had never heard before.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain. I don’t understand.”

  Remy lifted his foot, reaching for the heel of his second boot. “It is I who should be begging your pardon. When I sent you off to find the woman for me, I should have warned you. Mist
ress Cheney is a witch herself.”

  Mistress Cheney, that loveliest of ladies? A witch. Wolf gaped at the Captain.

  “Mother of God!” he exclaimed. “But m’sieur, how do you know this?”

  “Because she had me bewitched for years,” Remy said, his mouth twisting bitterly. “But tonight the spell was broken. I am free of her at last.”

  “Thank the lord,” Wolf cried. The room was small and cramped, even more so with the pallet stretched out on the floor. But Wolf managed to pace a few steps, seeking to work off his wonder and agitation at the news.

  To think how blithely Wolf had trailed after that deceitful woman, admiring her from a distance, not knowing what an evil creature she was. And him, without a single amulet or charm for protection!

  “Oh, Captain,” Wolf said, nearly stumbling over the pallet as he prowled the room. “God should make all sorceresses old and ugly hags so that a man might be warned to steer clear of them. It is not right that Mistress Cheney should appear so fair.”

  “No, it isn’t,” the captain muttered.

  “So tell me what happened. Did her magic finally weaken and you finally perceived her true wicked face beneath that beautiful mask?”

  “Something like that.”

  “All I can say again is, thank God.” Wolf flung up his hands dramatically to the heavens. “You have had a narrow escape, m’sieur. We should have a cup of wine to celebrate.”

  “I suppose we should.”

  But the captain did not look much in the mood for celebrating. He appeared drained. He removed his second boot and let it fall to the floor. Wolf studied him anxiously. It was not a good thing when the captain became too exhausted. When Remy was particularly worn down, that was when the captain’s nightmares came.