The Courtesan

by Susan Carroll

  The look that crept into his eyes was one Gabrielle had seldom seen. Cold, hard, somehow more frightening than the prospect of the spy lurking in the bushes. It was the Scourge and not Nicolas Remy who eased the weapon from its sheath, coolly preparing to slit a man’s throat.

  He backed away from Gabrielle, looking so deadly calm as he bowed, saying in a loud clear voice. “I give you good night, mademoiselle.”

  Then he whirled about so fast, Gabrielle scarce had time to draw breath. Darting behind the shrubbery, he pounced on whoever lurked there. An alarmed cry rang out as Remy raised his knife.

  Gabrielle pressed her hands to her mouth, not wanting to see, yet unable to look away. At the last possible moment, Remy froze, moonlight glinting off the blade. Then he swore roundly, sheathing the weapon again.

  Reaching down, he collared the intruder and dragged him out from behind the bushes. Her heart still thudding from her fright, Gabrielle blinked in surprise. The person that Remy grasped by the neck of his tunic certainly didn’t look like anyone the Dark Queen would employ as a spy.

  He was no more than a boy, with a tangled mass of dark hair and blade-sharp features. Anyone else would have been cowed by the murderous glance Remy darted his way. Although the boy did appear abashed at being caught, he nonetheless had the impudence to offer Remy a weak smile.

  “Good evening, Monsieur le Capitaine.”

  Gabrielle averted her gaze from the boy to stare questioningly at Remy. “You know this person?”

  “Yes, I am afraid I do.” Remy shot the boy another dark scowl, then thrust him toward Gabrielle. “Mademoiselle Cheney, allow me to present my Wolf.”

  Gabrielle was rather bemused to see that the boy appeared far more terrified of her than of Remy. He made a tremulous sign of the cross, clutching at something hidden beneath his tunic, something that smelled truly foul. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  As Remy cuffed Wolf lightly on the back of the head, obliging him to make his bow to Gabrielle, none of them noticed the other figure slipping out from behind a tree. A gray ghost of a man stealing toward the palace to make his report to the Dark Queen.

  Chapter Ten

  Remy followed Gabrielle along a back corridor of the palace, a sullen Wolf trailing behind him. There had been no getting rid of the boy no matter how Remy had growled at him for not obeying orders. To his astonishment and irritation, Wolf had growled right back. While Gabrielle had returned to the salon to arrange this meeting with Navarre, Remy had spent the interval pacing the garden, locked in bitter disagreement with his young companion.

  “Monsieur, you must not trust that wicked sorceress. She is going to lead you into some sort of trap. I knew I should have made you take the amulet. You are falling back under her spell again.”

  Remy would have roundly rebuked the boy for his impudence except he feared that Wolf could be right. At least about the spell. When he had stolen into the salon and seen Gabrielle flirting with Navarre, he had been seized by a kind of madness. Jealousy. Pure mindless jealousy over every smile Gabrielle had accorded his young king.

  Remy had forgotten his mission, forgotten the peril to his life when he had inserted himself into the dance. He’d tried to tell himself it was the only way to get close to his king, but it was Gabrielle he’d needed to be near. Part of him had wanted her to recognize him, to know he was there. God help him. He was indeed a great fool.

  Remy’s gaze never left Gabrielle as she led the way down the passage, her skirts swishing against the stone floor. Light from the torches embedded in the wall flickered over her graceful figure. Her lacy collarette rose up from her gown like a pair of wings, emphasizing the slenderness of her neck, framing the golden halo that was her hair.

  Once Remy had believed her all that was good and innocent. Disillusioned, he thought he had finally taken her measure as one of the coldest and most ambitious women he’d ever met. But her actions in protecting him tonight had again upended all his opinions of her until he began to despair of ever understanding Gabrielle Cheney.

  And he wanted to . . . as badly as he wanted to haul her back into his arms. That heated kiss they’d shared in the gardens had sent the blood surging through his veins, left his body hard, aching for her.

  The corridor ended abruptly before a steep set of stairs that yawned upward. Pausing at the foot, Gabrielle leaned closer to Remy, whispering, “This is the back stair that leads up to Navarre’s bedchamber, used by the servants and the king’s, er, guests.”

  And exactly how was Gabrielle so familiar with this discreet, private stairway? Remy wanted to demand sharply. He feared he knew the answer to that and it left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “You wait here until I see if it is safe for you to go up.” Gabrielle held a cautioning finger to her lips. “Don’t make a move until I signal you the way is clear.”

  Before Remy could object, she lifted the hem of her skirts and rustled up the stair, disappearing into the darkness of the landing. Wolf crowded close behind him, tugging urgently at his sleeve.

  “Monsieur, there is still time. We could—”

  “Be quiet,” Remy muttered. He grimaced as he caught the pungent odor of the amulet Wolf was nervously fingering. “And if you insist on waving that damn thing about, get back a pace from me.”

  With a disgruntled sigh, Wolf did so, slinking back a few steps, but not far, looking as wary as though they were both about to get their heads snapped off in the steel jaws of a trap. Maybe they were, but Remy doubted it. Gabrielle could have betrayed him already if she wished to do so. Instead she had taken pains to preserve his life, even at the risk of her own safety. But why? She had never really given him an answer.

  He wanted desperately to believe she cherished some sort of tender feelings toward him. But how was that possible in a woman whose avowed ambition was to become the mistress of a king?

  Above him on the landing, Remy caught the faint sound of Gabrielle tapping on a door, the creak of it opening. Words were exchanged in low murmured voices, but strain though he might, Remy could not hear what was being said.

  Gabrielle was good at all this intrigue. Far too good, able to lie so smoothly, even to the Dark Queen, familiar with every twist and turn of this rambling palace. Remy could not begin to imagine what combination of charm, bribery, and cunning she’d used to get him undetected this far.

  “This is my world. I belong here,” she had said.

  As much as the notion pained him, she did. Dazzling in her costly jewels and gowns, as seductively beautiful as Helen of Troy, capable of inspiring men to fight and die for her. And yet there had been fleeting moments back there in the garden when she had not appeared quite the poised lady of the world. When she had mounted her strange defense of the Dark Queen, that old sadness had crept back into Gabrielle’s eyes.

  “There are far more dragons than knights in the world. Fiery monsters to reduce your dreams to ashes, to scorch you with betrayal until you wither and die or let your heart be forged into steel.”

  Those words seemed to have been wrung from her heart and she had no longer been the bold courtesan and seductress. She had looked so young and lost that Remy had wanted to gather her up in his arms and demand, “Who or what blighted your dreams, Gabrielle? What dragon’s fire forged your heart?”

  But he doubted she would have ever answered him. Gabrielle had always been too skilled at hiding her secrets and it was far too late to ask her anything now. Because he’d promised . . . no more questions.

  There was a flutter of movement at the top of the stairs, then Gabrielle reappeared. She came partly down the stairs and beckoned to him. Remy sprang toward her, pausing on the riser just below hers.

  “You can go up now. It’s safe. Navarre has found an excuse to dismiss his attendants, many of whom are definitely not to be trusted. The Dark Queen plants her spies everywhere. So do be careful, Remy, and try not to remain too long. When you are done, the king will help you to get safely away.”


  “Then you are not staying?” Remy asked in surprise.

  “No, I agreed to let you have your chance to persuade the king to leave Paris.” She offered him a wry smile. “If I remained, I think I’d prove a bit of a distraction.”

  Remy was forced to agree, although he was not sure who would be in greater danger of being distracted, Navarre or himself. As Gabrielle eased past him on the stairway, he breathed in the sweet scent of her perfume. Even as his body tightened in response, his heart sank with a sudden realization.

  If he convinced Navarre to escape with him, Remy would soon be leaving Paris. If he didn’t, he would likewise be gone. There would be no reason for him to remain in this cursed city. Either way it would be highly unlikely he would see Gabrielle again.

  Before she could retreat back down the stairs, Remy caught her hand.

  “Gabrielle, I—I just wanted to say—” Remy compressed his lips. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say, so many conflicting emotions churning inside him toward this lovely woman with her face upturned to his.

  At last he muttered, “Thank you for doing this for me, although I still don’t know why—”

  “Ah, no,” Gabrielle admonished him with a shake of her head. “No more questions, remember?”

  With her free hand, she reached up to stroke his cheek, her fingers so soft and warm, he had to suppress the urge to bury his lips against her palm.

  “You really do look better without that beard,” Gabrielle murmured. “If you ever grow it back, I vow I will come after you with a razor myself.”

  “For the beard or my throat?” Remy attempted to jest even though his heart felt hollow.

  “I don’t know. It would depend on how angry you had made me at the time.” As she gave him her familiar impish smile, she looked much less like Mademoiselle Cheney, the infamous courtesan and more like the Gabrielle he’d once known. Remy curled his fingers tightly around hers as though he could keep that girl from disappearing.

  But she had already gently loosened his grasp on her hand. As she rustled down the stairs, she encountered Wolf at the bottom. The boy flattened himself against the wall as though terrified the slightest contact with Gabrielle would turn him to stone.

  His fear of her obviously afforded Gabrielle a certain amount of amusement. She tapped him playfully on the tip of his nose. “And so you are Martin Le Loup, the young man who once saved Captain Remy’s life?”

  “Oui, m-mademoiselle.” Although Wolf shrank farther away from her, he tipped up his sharp chin in defiance.

  Gabrielle regarded him for a long moment, her face softening. She leaned over and she brushed a kiss against his cheek.

  Straightening away from the boy, she looked up at Remy and cast him a tremulous smile that lodged deep in his heart. Then she turned and hurried away down the corridor without another glance back.

  As soon as she had vanished from sight, Wolf peeled himself shakily away from the wall. Yanking at his neckline, the boy stole an anxious peek inside his shirt. Despite the leaden feeling bearing down upon him, Remy’s lips quirked in a half-smile.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Have you acquired an extra nipple?”

  “N-no.” The boy smoothed his shirt back into place. “Although I still fear that lady is indeed a powerful witch. But by my faith, she is a most bewildering one.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that,” Remy responded dryly. He had struggled, saved, and plotted for three years to be able to return to his king. The long anticipated meeting was now arranged. Navarre was waiting for him.

  But instead of rushing to Navarre’s side, he lingered, gazing after Gabrielle, longing to call her back. He should have given Wolf’s amulet a try. He clearly needed some protection from the enchantment Gabrielle wove over him, to banish her from his heart. Except that Remy feared there was no magic in the world strong enough to do that.

  Gabrielle’s footsteps echoed down the shadowy halls of the Louvre, the great palace settling into silence. The ball long over, the king and courtiers had retreated to their own apartments, even most of the servants retired for the night. Here and there, Gabrielle could hear a door creak, the sound of a whisper, a giggle, that told her that intrigues were afoot of a more amorous nature than the one she had just arranged.

  Gabrielle could not help congratulating herself on how she had managed the secret meeting between Remy and Navarre. Although it was an odd thing for her to regard with satisfaction considering she might well have put her own future at risk.

  “I must be completely mad to have helped him,” Gabrielle told herself ruefully. But how could she have done otherwise? She would have hazarded her own ambitions a dozen times over to keep Remy from harm. And besides, she doubted he would succeed in his mission. Not according to Nostradamus’s prophecy.

  Yet Gabrielle could not help remembering how little her mother had believed in prophecies. What if Remy succeeded in getting Navarre to escape, the both of them disappearing back into the mountains of their border country? Gabrielle was disconcerted to realize she would not regret the loss of the king so much as she would Remy.

  “Confound the man,” she murmured. Every time Remy crossed her path, he tangled her emotions into a hopeless snarl, longing, wariness, joy, and despair. He made her feel vulnerable again, the last thing she could afford to be in this court crawling with jackals ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.

  Unfortunately one of them was waiting for her near the door where she meant to make her own escape out into the gardens. Signore Verducci melted out of the shadows.

  “Good evening, Signorina Cheney.”

  Gabrielle drew up sharp at the sight of Catherine’s favorite spy. The torchlight played over his gaunt features lost behind the straggling gray beard, the flickering light making him appear more cadaverous than ever.

  He sketched her a stiff bow. “You are here very late, my lady. Some new conquest perhaps among the king’s gentlemen?”

  Recovered from her initial alarm, Gabrielle cast him an icy look. “That is hardly any of your concern.”

  “Perhaps not, but I fear it is of great concern to the queen.”

  Gabrielle had prepared to make a dignified sweep past Verducci, but she froze, her heart skipping a beat. “The—the queen?”

  “Si.” The dour little man was rarely given to smiling, but his eyes lit with a certain malicious satisfaction. “It really is most fortunate that you have not yet returned to your own home. It just so happens Her Majesty would like a word with you.”

  Remy stood before the bank of windows in the king’s bedchamber, as tense as a soldier on parade, his hands locked behind his back. He had never been at ease in the grandeur of the Louvre and was even less so in the apartments of his king. Remy had spent so much time plotting and working toward this reunion with his king, he had never planned exactly how he would go about persuading Navarre to escape from Paris. Gabrielle had afforded Remy this golden opportunity and he found himself unaccountably tongue-tied.

  Even in the middle of explaining to Navarre how he had survived the massacre, Remy stumbled to silence, his gaze drawn once more to the moonlit night beyond the windowpanes, as though he half-expected to see a fairy-like creature making her regal way across the grounds. He wondered if Gabrielle had left the palace yet, hoping that she had and was safely back at her own town house.

  Remy wished that he could have escorted her. A foolish wish, he knew. Gabrielle would neither have desired or needed him to do so. She was obviously well able to look out for herself, but Remy couldn’t help remembering how small and fragile she had appeared as she vanished down the dark corridor of the Louvre.

  “Captain Remy?” Navarre’s voice wrenched Remy’s thoughts back to the king.

  As Remy tore his gaze from the windows, one of Navarre’s thick brows arched upward in questioning fashion.

  “You were telling me how you and this remarkable young man who saved you arrived on the shores of Ireland,” the king prompted. “Then what happene
d?”

  “Why, nothing else of note, sire. There is really little more to tell.”

  Navarre’s mouth quirked. “You always were a man of few words, Captain.”

  And one that Remy knew the king had always found rather dull. Henry had preferred the company of reckless youngbloods like himself who enjoyed carousing and hunting, whether it was deer, wild boar, or women. Remy feared he had had a tendency to quietly remind Navarre he had more pressing matters to attend.

  By the pale glow of the candlelight, Remy studied the king, searching hopefully for some new sign of maturity in him. After all, Henry was now what? Three and twenty and he’d been through enough harrowing experiences to age any man, the murder of his mother, the massacre of his subjects, the constant peril to his own life.

  Yet on the surface Navarre appeared much as he’d ever been, a wiry athletic young man, his full dark beard framing a face noted for its prominent nose and full sensual lips. He still carried himself with that careless attitude that had ever been the despair and worry of his mother, although he could adopt a regal enough manner when he chose. When he had commanded his pages and Wolf to retire to the antechamber, even the impudent Martin had been awed into obeying without hesitation.

  With the servants gone, Navarre moved to pour a glass of wine for himself and Remy. Crossing the room, he fetched the goblet to Remy with a genial smile. Any awkwardness between them, Remy realized, was entirely on his part and not the king’s.

  Perhaps it was owing to his guilt at having survived the massacre when so many other good and brave men had fallen. Perhaps it was his consciousness of having failed to protect his king and spirit him safely out of Paris that grim night. But as Remy accepted the glass from Navarre, he knew there was a far more basic cause for his tension. The shadow of a woman lay between Remy and his king.

  Remy wondered if he had failed to appear this evening, if even now Gabrielle would be tumbled in the sheets of that massive bed that formed the centerpiece of this chamber. The image of her lying naked in Navarre’s arms ate like lye at his soul and Remy had to fight hard to thrust the picture from his mind.