The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  Unfortunately Remy possessed no such armor. Like everyone else in the salon, his attention had riveted on Catherine, his jaw clenched to such a hard angle, Gabrielle was astonished that the bone did not snap, his loathing so palpable even a child could have discerned it. One look into his eyes and Catherine with her uncanny perception could not fail to guess his identity.

  The courtiers fell back respectfully to clear a path for the Dark Queen toward the dais where her son awaited her, a sullen expression on the king’s face. Gabrielle seized Remy by the arm and dragged him behind one of the salon’s tall pillars.

  “Remy, you have to get out of here. Now,” she urged him in a low voice.

  Remy whipped his arm away from her. “I am sure you would like nothing better than for me to cut and run so you can continue seducing my king. Regrettably I cannot oblige you, milady. I am not going anywhere until I have accomplished what I came for.”

  “And what is that? To get yourself killed?”

  “You know perfectly well why I am here. To speak to Navarre.”

  “You won’t have much to say if you’re dead.”

  “Is that a threat?” His eyes glinted at her through his mask, cold and hard with mistrust . . . the Scourge’s eyes. Gabrielle could tell what he was thinking, that all she wanted to do was keep him away from Navarre.

  Stepping closer, she snapped, “No, consider it a warning. I am trying to save your life.”

  Remy’s lips thinned, making it clear he did not believe her. Gabrielle’s gaze cut anxiously toward the Dark Queen, each step bringing her closer to the spot where Gabrielle argued with Remy.

  In pure desperation, Gabrielle whipped off her mask, hoping that somehow the sight of her face might convince him of her sincerity.

  “Please, Remy—” Gabrielle began, then lowered her voice for fear of being overheard. “You have got to disappear before Catherine notices you. She reads eyes as well as most people crack open a book. It is an old sorceress’s trick and she is diabolically good at it. Have you forgotten what she is?”

  “I have forgotten nothing about that cursed witch. But tonight may be the only chance I have to communicate with my king. The Dark Queen believes me dead and I am masked the same as the rest of these fops. Odds are she won’t notice me unless you decide to betray me.”

  Remy leveled a hard challenging look at her. Could Remy truly believe she would be capable of such a thing? Had his opinion of her really sunk that low? Apparently it had. A mingling of hurt and anger brought a flush to Gabrielle’s cheeks.

  “Me? Why—you—you pigheaded fool. You betray yourself with every word, every gesture—”

  “Mistress Cheney.”

  Gabrielle broke off as she heard herself being summoned in accents that were all too icily familiar. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as she realized the courtiers surrounding her and Remy had thinned away. It was far too late for him to fade into the background or slip out the salon doors.

  The Dark Queen stood but yards away, subjecting them both to her piercing stare. Gabrielle froze, momentarily seized by a sensation of panic. But she fought to quell it. Casting one final warning glare up at Remy, Gabrielle surged forward to intercept Catherine before she could draw any closer.

  Gabrielle sank into a deep curtsy, spreading her skirts wide as though that would somehow serve to shield the man who towered behind her. Her heart was hammering so hard, she feared that the queen must hear it. Desperately Gabrielle sought to calm herself. When it came to scenting fear, Catherine possessed all the instincts of a jackal.

  She touched Gabrielle’s shoulder lightly. “Please rise, mademoiselle.”

  Gabrielle straightened, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. But she realized that that would only serve to rouse Catherine’s suspicions. Gabrielle lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the Dark Queen’s stare with her customary boldness.

  Catherine caught hold of Gabrielle’s chin, her dark gaze probing Gabrielle’s mercilessly. Gabrielle stared back, scarce breathing, willing her mind into a smooth, impenetrable shield.

  At long last, Catherine released her with a wintry smile. “Why, my dear Gabrielle, it is nowhere near time for the unmasking and yet you have removed yours.”

  “It was chafing me.” Gabrielle smiled back just as falsely. “Your Grace must have suffered from the same complaint. You are not wearing yours either.”

  “As I am sure you are well aware, child, I consider myself too old for the lighthearted folly of such masquerading.”

  “What a pity. Since I am certain Your Majesty would be very skilled at it.”

  “No more skilled than you, my dear,” Catherine shot back.

  Gabrielle often fiercely enjoyed her battles of wits with the Dark Queen, but never before had she had so much to conceal. Gabrielle longed to steal a glance back toward Remy, see how he was faring, but she did not dare. Fighting to conceal her nervousness, Gabrielle unfurled her fan and waved it languidly before her face.

  “So tell me, child. Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” Catherine purred.

  “Oh, immensely, Your Grace.”

  “Truly? I thought you seemed a trifle distressed. You look so pale.”

  “It—it is only the heat.” Gabrielle fanned herself more vigorously. “It is devilishly warm here in the salon.”

  “Oh, yes, devilishly. You should take great care.” Catherine’s eyes narrowed slyly. “All that vigorous dancing you were doing earlier. It cannot be good for you.”

  Gabrielle started in spite of herself. So Catherine had been spying on Gabrielle all evening and she was at great pains to let Gabrielle know it, no doubt hoping to rattle her. Catherine was doing a remarkably good job of it too, Gabrielle thought grimly. She wanted to make some sort of clever reply, but her mouth had gone dry.

  With an expression of mock concern, the queen patted Gabrielle’s cheek. “Clearly you have overexerted yourself. But I understand the temptation. So many charming men . . . my son-in-law Navarre, the Chevalier d’Alisard, and then, that dashing young gallant in the midnight-blue cloak.”

  Gabrielle thought her heart would stop entirely as the queen made reference to Remy. Her fingers trembled and she nearly dropped her fan.

  “Now where has he got to?” Catherine feigned a sweeping search of the ballroom. “Ah, yes, there he is.”

  As Catherine honed in on a point just past Gabrielle’s shoulder, Gabrielle felt as though her corset strings had tightened to the point where she could scarce breathe. She wished that Remy had used the interval of her conversation with Catherine to make good his escape. But of course he hadn’t.

  He remained rooted beneath the pillar like an obstinate general determined to hold his position on the battlefield at all costs. When Catherine craned her neck in his direction, at least Remy had the wit to swallow his hatred and accord her a stiff bow.

  Catherine frowned slightly, tapping her chin. “How strange. I would have thought I could recognize anyone at court, masked or not. But I confess I find this gentleman most mysterious.”

  “No!” Gabrielle cried.

  When Catherine regarded her with brows upraised in surprise, Gabrielle made haste to recover herself.

  “I—I mean no,” she said in a more moderate tone. “There is nothing in the least mysterious about him. Surely Your Grace recognizes him.”

  “No, I don’t. Who is he?”

  Gabrielle felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck. Fluttering her fan, she essayed a laugh. “Why—why, he is the Marquis de Lanfort, Your Grace.”

  It was the most reckless gamble Gabrielle had ever taken. She did not even know if de Lanfort was present this evening. From a distance, Remy could easily pass for the young marquis, but if Catherine were to beckon Remy closer . . .

  Gabrielle held her breath as Catherine studied Remy for what seemed an interminable length of time. At long last, Catherine murmured, “Oh, yes. Of course, de Lanfort.”

  With a dismissive nod toward Gabrielle, the Dark Que
en continued her progress down the length of the salon. Gabrielle sank into another respectful curtsy at Catherine’s departure, but this time she felt her knees tremble.

  Had she managed to deceive Catherine? Gabrielle believed so, but with the Dark Queen who could ever tell? Gabrielle was only certain of one thing. She would not know a moment’s peace until she got Nicolas Remy out of the palace tonight. Even if she had to club the obstinate fool over the head to do it.

  The music had recommenced, the dancers cavorting about the floor. The king lolled back on his throne, braying with laughter at something one of his painted mignons said to him. Hovering near her son on the dais, Catherine suppressed her irritation. She was fond of Henry in her own way, fonder than she had ever been of any of her other children. His effeminate mannerisms and his foppish friends often vexed her, but she had more pressing matters to occupy her tonight.

  Beyond the whirl of dancers, far across the salon, Catherine could just make out a lovely golden-haired woman disappearing out the door with a man in a midnight cloak.

  Catherine vented a wearied sigh. Gabrielle Cheney. Blast the girl. She was definitely up to something and for once it had nothing to do with Gabrielle’s determined pursuit of the king of Navarre.

  For perhaps the hundredth time, Catherine questioned her own wisdom in allowing Gabrielle’s presence at court. The wise women of Faire Isle had never been allies of the Dark Queen and even less so since that affair of the gloves. Catherine had reached a truce with the Cheney sisters, but it was an uneasy one.

  Catherine believed it best to keep one’s enemies in close view. However, that was not the only reason she tolerated Gabrielle. The girl was not like her late mother, the saintly Evangeline, or like the present Lady of Faire Isle, the gentle and honorable Ariane. Gabrielle was cunning, ruthless, and ambitious . . . more like Catherine herself. Catherine often wished her own daughter Margot was like Gabrielle instead of the foolish romantic chit Margot was, all passion and impulse. Gabrielle Cheney would never lose her head over any man. The young woman intrigued her. But there could be such a thing as too much intrigue, Catherine thought wryly. Even for one who enjoyed it as much as she.

  Slipping down from the dais, Catherine snapped her fingers, summoning to her a gaunt older man with thinning hair and straggling beard. The only other person present at the ball beside herself who was not masked. Bartolomy Verducci was seldom to be found far from Catherine’s side.

  When asked to define his position in her household, Catherine vaguely spoke of Verducci as her secretary, although she realized no one was fooled. The courtiers referred to him in less flattering terms, spy, informer, dogsbody. Gabrielle had even been heard to mockingly call him “the Dark Queen’s whippet.”

  An apt description, Catherine thought, as Bartolomy slunk toward her, bowing slavishly over her hand. She cut his servile demonstrations short by seizing hold of his ruff and yanking him close so no one else could overhear her words.

  “I thought that I had instructed you to keep close watch over Mademoiselle Cheney this evening, signore.”

  “And—and so I have, Your Grace.”

  “Then why did you just permit her to slip out the door unobserved? Why didn’t you follow her?”

  “Well, I—I—” Bartolomy nervously licked his lips. “It is just that I thought—”

  “I don’t require you to think, sirrah. Just follow my orders. I have made that clear on any number of occasions.”

  The little man waxed pale. “Y-yes, Your Grace. But you instructed me to observe her behavior with the king of Navarre. Since Mistress Cheney left the chamber with someone else, I saw no harm in letting her go. After all, she is only stealing off for a tryst with her young lover, the Marquis de Lanfort.”

  “Is she indeed?” With a scathing glare, Catherine released Bartolomy. “How very odd, considering I myself witnessed the marquis fall from his horse this morning and sprain his ankle. Unless my lord has made an astonishing recovery, that man with Mistress Cheney is not de Lanfort.”

  Signore Verducci’s jaw sagged open, his eyes threatening to pop from his head.

  “Don’t stand there gaping at me like a fresh-caught trout,” Catherine snarled. Placing her palm against his scrawny chest, she gave him a rough shove. “Go after Mademoiselle Cheney, you fool and find out what the devil she is up to.”

  The music and laughter from the salon faded in the distance as Gabrielle tugged at Remy’s hand, urging him across the palace grounds. She risked a desperate glance back toward the steps of the Louvre, half-fearing to find Catherine poised there, like the witch that she was, her dark gaze pursuing them into the night.

  But there was no one there and the masquerade continued, the silhouettes of the dancers flickering past the salon windows. No sudden hue and cry, no summoning of the guards, nothing to disturb the peaceful silence of the night except the rustling of the trees, the distant burble of a fountain, and the thudding of Gabrielle’s own heart.

  She was fairly running across the lawn in her anxiety for Remy’s escape. Remy’s longer stride matched hers easily, his features inscrutable behind his black leather mask. He had acceded to her demand that he follow her from the salon, far too easily given the man’s obstinate pride and reckless courage.

  Gabrielle clutched tightly at his hand, fearing that at any moment he might change his mind and seek to go back. The Tuileries loomed in the distance, the skeletal outline etched against the moonlit sky. Catherine’s new palace, designed after the Florentine fashion, was as yet incomplete, only the maze, gardens, and grotto finished, quiet and deserted at this time of night.

  If she could just get Remy that far, persuade him to keep going, he could make his way back to the city from there. Then she could breathe easier. Then she would know he would be safe—at least for the moment. But to her dismay, Remy balked, his grip tightening on her hand, wrenching her to an abrupt halt.

  “No! You mustn’t stop—”

  Remy clamped his hand over her mouth, smothering her protest. “Careful,” he growled in her ear. “Look.”

  Gabrielle turned in the direction he indicated, her heart going still. Moonlight glinted off the helmets of two of the palace sentries, making their rounds. Remy’s clothes might blend well with the night, but in her ivory gown, she stood out like a fairy fluttering through the gardens.

  It was obvious they had already been spotted, one of the guards gesticulating to the other. Both men veered off the path, marching in their direction. She would be recognized at once, but if they challenged Remy, obliged him to remove his mask and identify himself, it would be all over for him.

  Gabrielle froze in momentary panic, wondering if they should flee back toward the palace or attempt to disappear into the shrubbery. Before she could decide, Remy seized her into his arms. Dragging her beneath the shelter of a towering oak tree, his mouth descended upon hers in a ruthless kiss.

  Gabrielle’s eyes flew wide in astonishment until it occurred to her what he was doing, pretending they were lovers, merely out for a tryst beneath the moonlight. She wrapped her arms reluctantly around him.

  As accomplished as she’d become as a courtesan, she had never truly liked kissing. The mingling of lips, breath, and tongues was far too intimate, demanding that she offer more of herself beyond the mere empty pleasure of her body.

  Remy’s kiss was definitely asking far too much. His lips gave her no quarter, his fierce heat touching too near her own suppressed desires. Gabrielle tried to remain detached, to remember this was only a performance, to keep a wary lookout for the guards.

  But her eyes fluttered closed in spite of herself as she sank deeper into Remy’s embrace. His tongue teased the seal of her lips and with a soft, quivering sigh, she parted for him, allowing him greater access to the sensitive hollows of her mouth, to invade her with hot thrusts that melted her bones and turned her blood to fire.

  This was far different from the frantic joy of their kiss on the night she’d realized Remy was still alive.
This was an embrace born of heat, passion, and danger, perhaps the greatest peril the way her body responded to his. A soft moan escaped Gabrielle. Heedless of the damage to her gown and farthingale, she crushed herself against Remy, desperate to get as close to him as possible.

  His hands moved away from her waist, roving over her back, stroking up her side, tantalizingly near the curve of her breast. She could feel the heat of his hands even through her gown and her nipples tightened in aching response. She buried her fingers in the silky hair at the nape of his neck, forgetting all sense of danger, forgetting everything but Remy, the feel, the touch, the taste of him.

  She felt flushed, giddy, recklessly drunk on his kiss and wondered how it was possible. To feel as though she were about to erupt into flames and yet so safe in a man’s arms all at the same time. When he drew his mouth away from hers, she sighed in protest. She quivered, struggling to regain her bearings, dimly aware that the guards had passed on by, their sniggering laughter echoing to silence as they disappeared.

  Gabrielle wondered if Remy had even noticed they were gone. His eyes were dark and liquid behind his mask. There was no reason for him to continue to hold her so close. Yet he made no move to release her and Gabrielle did not attempt to draw away either. It was as though they were held fast by some strange bewitchment, some dark enchantment of the night and moon, their hearts pounding in unison.

  Gabrielle was the first to recover her wits, pulling away from him. Remy let her go with some reluctance, she thought, but who could tell with most of his face hidden behind that damned mask? Gabrielle regretted ever having discarded her own. Without it, she felt far too vulnerable, stripped naked beneath Remy’s impenetrable gaze.

  Embarrassed that her face was suffused with heat, she pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them. Good lord, she was supposed to be a woman of some sophistication, not the sort of silly girl who would blush and tremble in a man’s arms merely because he’d kissed her.

  Gabrielle smoothed back her hair, straightened her collarette, struggling to recover her customary élan. “Well!” she said as soon as she could trust herself to speak. “That—that was quite a performance, Captain Remy. Your acting is much improved.”