The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen)

by Susan Carroll

Good, Martin thought. But that still left him with one devil of a problem. What in the bloody hell was he going to do with her? Weigh her down with rocks and toss her in the Thames? He wasn’t capable of that, although in the past any chivalry he’d shown these witches had nearly proved his undoing.

  Even if he could be that cold-blooded, it was still daylight, the streets teeming with people. He was damn fortunate this little scene hadn’t already attracted someone’s attention inside the theater.

  He couldn’t dispose of the witch, but he could hardly risk just walking away and leaving her here either. Before he could come up with a solution, Meg hurled herself at him, her small frame heaving with a mighty sob. Martin caught her in his arms, interposing himself between her and the sight of the unconscious witch. His daughter had borne witness to far too much violence and horror for her tender years.

  “Oh, P-papa.” Trembling like a leaf tumbled by the wind, Meg wept into his doublet. “I—I th-thought…terrible w-woman…k-kill you.”

  “Non. Hush, ma petite. It is all over now.” Martin soothed, stroking her back, feeling the wings of her bones through the layers of chemise and silk. Although she had gained a little weight since being with him, Meg still struck him as being far too frail.

  He eased Meg away so that he could hunker down in front of her. Stemming the flow of her tears with the pads of his thumbs, he managed to smile. “What! You thought your bold Papa could be bested by a redheaded midget? Moi? Martin le Loup? Why, even as you arrived, I had a cunning plan. I was preparing to—to—”

  To be skewered like a chicken on a spit.

  Martin faltered, annoyed to feel a tremor course through him. He had been in scores of duels, narrowly escaped with his life on more than one occasion, only to mop the sweat from his brow and laugh, his blood singing through his veins.

  Never had he experienced such terror, such despair as when he had found himself at the witch’s mercy. His one thought, Meg. He was about to die and leave his daughter unprotected. Becoming a father had given him an entirely new acquaintance with fear.

  Thank God for Mistress Butterydoor and her cane, although Martin was not sure whether he most wanted to embrace or strangle Agatha, a familiar mix of emotions where the cantankerous old woman was concerned.

  His anger won out. Giving Meg another fierce hug, he straightened and glared at the old woman.

  “Explain yourself, Mistress Butterydoor. What demon possessed you to bring my daughter here?”

  The old woman gave a haughty sniff, as usual unimpressed by Martin’s growl. Before she could answer, Meg tugged at his sleeve. “Please, Papa. It was not Aggie’s fault. I begged her to bring me to the theater. I so badly wanted to see you be Sir Roland, but Aggie was slow and then it took so long to find a boatman to bring us across from the city and we arrived too late.”

  Meg’s shoulders slumped with chagrin. She asked wistfully. “Were you utterly magnificent?”

  “But of course, ma chère.” Martin grinned, only to sober immediately, striving for a graver tone. “But that is of no consequence, Margaret Wolfe. I told you before, this theater is too rough, too crude a place for a young lady.”

  “But Papa, I always used to watch you perform in the innyards when we traveled with Master Roxburgh’s company.”

  “Those days are long behind us, Meggie. We are respectable folk now.”

  When Agatha snorted, Martin scowled at her. “As for you, Mistress Butterydoor, I engaged you to look after my daughter, not expose her to the dangers of the streets or the vulgarity of a theater.”

  “Oh, pooh! As if I am not fully capable of protecting my little poppet.” The old woman brandished her cane with a fierceness Martin might have found amusing under other circumstances. “Besides, it is perfectly acceptable for a young girl to go to the market or the theater when accompanied by her maid.”

  “Meg is not just any young girl as you well know. The dangers that could threaten her—” Martin broke off, hating to speak of the dark forces from Meg’s past in front of his daughter. “Her circumstances are…extraordinary.”

  Mistress Butterydoor looked somewhat chastened by his reminder, although she muttered, “It has been so long since we were troubled by any of those madwomen. How should I have guessed we would find you fighting tooth and nail with some demented hussy?”

  She gave the inert witch a poke with her cane. “So who is she?”

  “Some lunatic Irishwoman named Catriona O’Hanlon. One of that hellish Silver Rose coven.”

  “Sisterhood,” Meg corrected him in a small voice. “Maman didn’t like the word coven. She said we were a sisterhood.”

  Martin bit his tongue to avoid retorting that Meg no longer had to worry about what her mother liked. Cassandra Lascelles was dead. How many nights had he cradled his daughter, soothing her back to sleep when Meg had awoken screaming from nightmares about watching Cassandra sink to a watery grave in the Seine?

  Better the evil woman’s name never be mentioned. Better that Meg simply forget those terrible days when she had been forced to play a part in her mother’s insane schemes. And far better that Meg was well out of this, tucked safely back in their snug house in Cheapside.

  Tenderly stroking Meg’s hair back from her brow, he said, “You don’t need to worry about this particular member of the sisterhood. Your Papa will deal with her. You just go home and put all this out of your head. Mistress Butterydoor, I want you to escort Meg back to—”

  Martin broke off, vexed to discover that Agatha was paying no heed to him. Hunching over, she examined the cloak that the witch had discarded in the midst of the duel.

  Straightening with a grunt, Agatha produced something that looked like a rectangle of parchment.

  “What have you got there?” Martin demanded.

  “I don’t know. Some sort of letter. That redheaded vixen must have dropped it.” Agatha squinted at the paper she held. Not that it would do the old woman much good. She could not even read her own name.

  “Give it here,” Martin said. Striding over to her, he snatched the missive from her. “Now will you kindly do what I told you and take Meg…”

  Once more his words trailed off, his gaze locking on the single inked line on the note.

  Martin le Loup.

  “What the devil?” he muttered, jolted by the sight of his own name, made even more uneasy by the fact that the elegant handwriting was vaguely familiar.

  Meg crept to his side. “What is it, Papa?” she asked.

  “Nothing of consequence, I daresay. Just something belonging to the witch. Her passport perhaps,” Martin lied to reassure his daughter.

  “More likely some sort of curse or wicked spell. Don’t open it,” Agatha advised.

  But Martin had already broken the seal. The old woman sucked in her breath, and Martin found himself doing the same as he scanned the note’s brief contents.

  Mon cher Martin,

  This letter is to introduce my emissary, Catriona O’Hanlon. A new trouble has arisen. I dare not say more. Cat will explain all. Trust in her as you would me.

  As ever, your devoted friend,

  Ariane Deauville

  Martin expelled his breath in a long rush, feeling as though he had been poleaxed. Ariane Deauville, the Lady of Faire Isle, sister to his beloved Miri, sending him some sort of warning? And the red-haired virago at his feet, the one that Agatha had rendered unconscious, the woman he had nearly killed, was Ariane’s emissary?

  “Merde!” Martin swore, crushing the note in his hand.

  “Papa?” Meg pressed close to his side, her small brow furrowed with deep anxious lines. “What is wrong? The letter…is it about that witch?”

  “She’s no witch,” Martin groaned. “At least not one of the evil ones. She was sent to bring me a message from the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  Meg’s eyes flew wide, what little color she possessed draining from her cheeks. “A m-messenger from the Lady?” Meg cast a stricken glance in Catriona’s direction. “Oh, P
apa!”

  “Odd sort of way to deliver a message,” Agatha groused. “With the point of a sword.”

  “She was only trying to defend herself. I drew steel on her first,” Martin admitted grudgingly. He dragged his hand back through his hair in frustration. As if his life was not already difficult enough without this fresh complication.

  He glared at Cat, torn between regret and the desire to shake the woman even more insensible than she already was. Why the bloody hell couldn’t she have shown him that letter at once? Maybe he hadn’t given her much chance, but she could have tried harder instead of going all stubborn and belligerent on him. But there would be time enough for assigning blame later. Right now, the important thing was to get the woman looked after, get her out of here before anyone turned up asking awkward questions.

  Kneeling down beside the unconscious Irishwoman, he attempted to chafe her wrists, hoping to rouse her. But her hand remained limp and cold, his touch not eliciting so much as a moan.

  He felt Meg’s small hand light upon his shoulder. “She—she’s not going to die, Papa,” she faltered.

  “Of course not.”

  “But she will be dreadfully sick. And it’s all my fault.”

  “Your fault?” Martin twisted round to peer at her. “How could you possibly be to blame, my angel? You weren’t the one who thumped her on the head.”

  Meg cast him an odd guilty look, his daughter’s reasoning as ever a puzzle to Martin. The girl had a tendency to take the blame for everything onto her own slender shoulders.

  “This was all just an unfortunate misunderstanding. But we’ll bring Mademoiselle O’Hanlon back to our house, mend her head, and then she’ll be fine.”

  He gave Meg’s cheek a reassuring pat, and then turned back to the O’Hanlon woman. But before he could lift Cat into his arms, Agatha let loose a loud shriek and rushed forward as if to prevent him.

  “Lord save us, master. What are you doing? You can’t mean to fetch this creature back to your house.”

  “What else would you have me do with her?”

  “Turn her over to the constable. Or—or one of the charity hospitals.”

  Martin eased his arm beneath Cat’s shoulders. “I told you. She’s not one of the evil witches. She was sent by the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “I don’t know anything about this lady. But I know what she is.” Agatha leveled an accusing finger at Cat. “And you can’t have her beneath your roof.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  “Because she’s Irish. That’s why not,” Agatha spluttered. “And everyone knows they’re nothing but a pack of bloodthirsty savages with their wicked Popish ways. Ignorant idol-worshipping barbarians who practice human sacrifice.”

  Martin rolled his eyes.

  “It’s true. They devour babes and little children.”

  Martin gathered Cat close to his chest, straightening carefully to his feet. “I doubt Mademoiselle O’Hanlon will have an appetite for much of anything for a while. Before she recovers, you’ll have plenty of time to hide any stray infants in the larder.”

  “Jest if you will, master, but—”

  “Enough! For once will you do what I pay you for and look to my daughter.”

  The old woman’s mouth puckered. She subsided with an offended sniff, but not before she had the last word.

  Wrapping her arm about Meg, she steered the girl toward the theater exit, flinging back at Martin over her shoulder. “You’ll be sorry, master. Mark my words. That Irish creature will prove nothing but trouble.”

  Martin merely grunted, seeking to shift Cat into a better position as he followed. The woman was small enough, but her dead weight made her awkward to balance. Her head lolled against his arm, her hair spilling like a flame across the sleeve of his doublet. She seemed somehow smaller and more fragile cradled in his arms, but Martin was not fooled. Even unconscious, the woman had a damned truculent set to her chin.

  Nothing but trouble. Martin grimaced. Hadn’t he sensed that about Catriona O’Hanlon from the moment he’d first clapped eyes upon her?

  CAT STRUGGLED TO OPEN HER EYES, BUT HER LIDS SEEMED FAR too heavy, as though they were weighted with tiny anchors. She felt as though she was lost beneath a midnight sea, so peaceful she wished she could surrender, sink deeper into the soothing darkness.

  But the warrior in her urged her to fight, strike her way back to the surface. She forced her eyes open, emerging into a world of crimson, fire, and pain.

  Cat moaned, twisting away from the blinding light. She closed her eyes, burying her face deeper into the soft down of a pillow.

  “Mademoiselle O’Hanlon? Catriona?” The voice that called her name was a low purr, as coaxing and seductive as the hand that brushed back her hair.

  But even that light touch caused her to throb with pain. Cat groaned again. Her head…someone had whacked her with an axe. No. They had buried the blade in her skull. She lifted her trembling hand to her brow, terrified she would find her brain leaking out of her pate. Her fingers struck up against a thick wad of something. Her brain? No, a cloth of some sort, but before she could explore further, a warm calloused hand caught her wrist, easing her arm back to her side.

  “Here. Let me,” the deep voice murmured.

  Let him what? She felt the cloth being removed and then replaced with another, damp and cool. The compress sent an initial shock through her. She shivered. But as the cold penetrated, it dulled the ache enough that she dared risk opening her eyes.

  The world was still far too bright, streaming with sheets of fire. She blinked hard, trying to clear her blurry vision. The blazing light resolved itself into nothing more than a candle flickering upon a tripod table, the flames no more than bed-curtains of crimson damask.

  Bewildered and alarmed, Cat looked around the unfamiliar bedchamber. Where—where the devil was she? What had happened to her?

  She struggled to spring up, only to gasp as her head throbbed and swam, the room reeling around her.

  Gentle hands eased her back against the pillow. “Careful, my sweet. You are going to be all right, but you had best take it slow. Here, drink this.”

  He lifted her head, pressing a cup to her lips. She sought to obey his command, although her tongue felt thick and unwieldy. She choked on her first swallow, the liquid potent and bittersweet. But her mouth was so parched she drank greedily, the brew soothing to her dry throat, sending a reviving surge through her veins.

  Cat’s lashes fluttered as she sought to focus on the man sitting on the edge of the bed, bending close to her. He at least was familiar. She knew that darkly handsome face, that trim beard, that lean blade of a nose, those vivid green eyes.

  Wonderingly she reached up to touch his cheek. “Sir—Sir Roland?” she asked hoarsely. “Did you save me from the witch?”

  “Alas, no, ma chère.” He caught her hand and upturned it to plant a light kiss against her palm. “I fear I mistook you for the witch. My sincerest apologies, milady.”

  Cat frowned, trying to make sense of his words, trying to remember. The effort caused her head to pound, but she persisted until the events of the afternoon came rushing back to her.

  Southwark, the quay, the crowded market, the Crown Theatre. Breathlessly watching the play and then—then fighting for her life in the theater pit. This man who had the temerity to kiss her hand was the same bastard who had tried to run her through. Not the noble Sir Roland, but Martin le Loup.

  Cat jerked her hand away from him and cringed at both the pain in her head and the one in her lower back. The place was sore where Megaera had stabbed her with that cursed witch blade, sending a deadly poison through her veins. Or so Cat had thought.

  Cat ran her hand over her face, testing for any sign of fever. None. She pressed her fingers to her neck, her pulse strong and steady.

  “I—I am not dead,” she marveled.

  “No.” He chuckled. “Why? Did you think you had awakened to find yourself in heaven?”

  “Hardly. N
ot if you’re here.” Her palm still tingled where he had kissed her. She wiped it on the bedclothes and curled it protectively back to her side.

  “And where exactly is here?” she demanded.

  “La Maison des Anges.”

  The house of the angels? Cat glared at him. “My head hurts far too much for any more stupid jests, le Loup. So if you don’t mind—”

  “Here in London, I go by Marcus Wolfe, mademoiselle, and I would thank you to remember that.” He frowned as though recollecting himself. When he spoke again, he had ironed all trace of French from his accent. “And I made no jest. The houses in London all have names, and this particular one is called the Angel. And that is where you are, reposing safely beneath my roof, tucked up in my bedchamber.”

  His house? Her gaze more focused, Cat took another look about the room, assessing her surroundings. For a simple player, Martin le Loup had done astonishingly well for himself. The walls were decorated with tapestries that appeared as costly as the richly embroidered bed-hangings. The carved oak bed was luxurious, with a thick feather tick mattress and linens finer than Cat had ever lain upon. The sheets were seductively soft against her bare skin.

  Bare skin? Cat stiffened, and then stole a cautious peek beneath the coverlet. She was mortified to realize that not a stitch of her clothing remained. Not only was she ensconced in Martin le Loup’s bedchamber, she was stark naked.

  Gasping, she made a frantic effort to drag the covers higher, her efforts hampered by the fact that he was sitting on the bed.

  “Get off!”

  “Happy to oblige, my dear.” He rose at his own languid pace. “Although I feel compelled to remind you that it is my bed you are tossing me out of.”

  Cat scowled daggers at Martin, but had to stop, the ferocious expression aggravating her headache. “You miserable wretch. What have you done with my clothes?”

  “Me? Nothing. I had one of the housemaids undress you for your own comfort and, er, not to be disparaging, your garments were a trifle travel-stained for my bed linens. But given that little performance of yours during our duel, I didn’t imagine that you suffer overmuch from modesty.”