“My babe. I want to see my babe,” she whispered.
Cat nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. But when she hastened over to Justice to convey Ariane’s request, Cat’s heart sank.
She could tell from the grave expression on his face that something was terribly wrong. The babe who had cried out so lustily before had gone omniously still.
“My lord, what is amiss?” Cat hardly dared to ask but somehow she found the courage. “Is something wrong with the child?”
Justice nodded, numbly. “The babe. The child Ariane risked her life for—and she will never have another.”
Peeling back the blanket, he displayed the babe to Cat. She caught her breath.
Justice cast a stricken look. “What am I to tell Ariane?”
“The truth.” Cat hunched her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “You can hardly conceal it from her.”
Wrapping the blanket back around the babe, Justice shuffled to the bed. Ariane scooted higher on the pillows, stretching out her arms.
Justice flinched at the sight of the eager, expectant look on Ariane’s face. Desperately, he sought for the words to prepare her.
“Ariane, there is something important I must tell you—”
“Tell me anything you like,” she interrupted. “Just as soon as you give me my son.”
Justice was so stunned, he nearly lost his grip on the babe. Somehow he managed to convey the babe to Ariane without dropping him.
As Ariane drew the child close, Justice sagged weakly down beside her on the bed.
“You—you knew it was a boy?”
“Oh, yes, I sensed that some months ago. Your son has often communed with me in the early hours of the morning. Mostly through lusty kicks on his part.”
Her eyes glowing, Ariane peeled back the blanket, inspecting tiny fingers and toes. She gave a heartfelt sigh of satisfaction.
Justice continued to regard her in amazement. “And you don’t mind that the child is a boy?”
“Why would I mind? He’s beautiful.” Ariane beamed at her son, cooing words that sounded like some ancient tongue. Or perhaps it was only that peculiar language that only mothers and babes could comprehend.
“But I thought you wanted a daughter so badly, to succeed you as the Lady of Faire Isle.”
“All I wanted was a healthy child. Yours and mine. As for the succession, I can do as other Ladies of Faire Isle have done before me. Search out the right young girl and train her. I have plenty of time to do so now.”
Justice smiled at her tenderly. Wrapping his arm about her shoulders, he drew Ariane and their new son into his strong embrace.
Ariane pulled down her shift and set the boy to nurse. He latched eagerly onto to Ariane’s nipple, delighting both his parents with his vigor.
Justice pressed a kiss upon Ariane’s brow. “While our son was communing with you, did he ever happen to mention his name?”
Ariane peered deeply into her son’s unfocused blue eyes.
“Leon,” she pronounced softly. “His name is Leon, our young lion.”
THE NIGHT THAT HAD BEEN SO SOLEMN ERUPTED WITH WILD rejoicing. The Lady of Faire Isle was safely delivered of a son. The wine flowed, bonfires were lit. Fishermen, house-wives, and young maidens alike all danced with madcap abandon, capering about the flickering flames.
Martin le Loup hung back, observing the merriment from beneath the shadows of a huge oak. Happy as he was for Ariane and Justice, he was content to observe the celebrations from a distance, wistfully watching Cat as she linked hands with the other women, laughing and dancing wildly about the bonfire. Even old Agatha Butterydoor joined in, hopping about and brandishing her cane.
Out of all of Martin’s household, only Agatha had been brave enough to face the channel crossing and the prospect of living in a foreign land.
She had declared fiercely that nothing or no one would separate her from her wee poppet, certainly not a parcel of Frenchies. And if Agatha could accustom herself to Mistress Cat and her strange Irish ways, the old woman was confident that she would not be daunted by anything.
And indeed for a woman who had never been farther from London than Southwark, Mistress Butterydoor had adapted remarkably well to Faire Isle. She was even learning to speak French, albeit with an accent that often caused Martin to cringe.
He summoned up a half-smile as he watched Cat and Agatha prance about the flames, even though he felt closed outside of the celebrations, of the entire world that comprised Faire Isle. He had never been entirely comfortable on the island, finding it entirely too narrow and solitary.
The important thing, he told himself, was that Meg seemed happy here. But it had been difficult to watch her these past few weeks becoming more and more absorbed in Ariane’s teachings, caught up in the life of the island. His daughter seemed to be growing up and away from him at far too great a rate.
When she sought him out in the garden, he thought that Meg looked so much older, even though she wriggled beneath his arm, nestling against his side in quite the old way.
“Isn’t it wonderful, Papa? About the Lady of Faire Isle’s new babe?”
“Wonderful,” Martin stooped down to deposit a kiss atop Meg’s head. “So you are quite pleased with your new home?”
“Oh, yes. Cat was right. Faire Isle is an amazing place. You can feel the ancient magic pulsing everywhere, even in the trees.” Meg wriggled away from him to caress her fingers along the trunk of the tree. “You see? Try it for yourself.”
To oblige her, Martin stroked the oak’s trunk. “Feels like tree bark to me.”
Meg laughed and shook her head at him. “I love you dearly, Papa. But you are so hopelessly obtuse sometimes about a good many things.”
“I realize I was wrong when I tried to force you to deny your gifts as a daughter of the earth. I believe I have apologized on several occasions.”
“I am not talking about your blindness in regards to me. I am speaking of Cat. I know you adore her and you are certainly adept at courting a lady. So why haven’t you gone down upon your knee and declared yourself by now?”
“Perhaps because I am afraid of getting my ears clouted,” Martin retorted. He added in a quieter tone, “Cat does not love me, no matter how much you or I might wish it.”
“Yes, she does,” Meg insisted with an impatient stamp of her foot.
“What have you being doing? Reading her eyes?”
“It so happens I have, but any dolt could see how much she adores you. She is just far too proud to tell you so.” Meg splayed her hands upon her hips, leveling a severe look at him.
“The question is, Papa, what are you going to do about it?”
CAT STRODE ACROSS THE MEADOW, MOONLIGHT SHIMMERING over the frost-struck grass, the earth crunching beneath her feet. The sounds of the revels left far behind, she drew in a deep breath, relishing the quiet to gather her thoughts.
She reflected back to when she had first left the island at the beginning of summer to carry out the mission Ariane had given her. Things had turned out so much better than Cat had had reason to hope at the time.
Ariane was safely delivered of her babe, the coven of the Silver Rose destroyed, Meg safely lodged on the island. With the Book of Shadows gone, it seemed unlikely that even the Dark Queen would have reason to pursue the child.
Cat was now back on Faire Isle, exactly where she had so longed to be. Why then had she often found herself so restless and beset with melancholy?
She did not have to wrack her brain too hard for an answer to that. Martin. Cat could tell that he was not comfortable residing here on Faire Isle any more than Jane Danvers was.
Exiled from England, her ladyship had joined them on the journey to the island, a sorrowful figure in the black mourning Jane had donned in memory of her brother. The mystical atmosphere of Faire Isle clearly made Lady Danvers uneasy.
She intended to move to Paris, where she had friends among the other Catholic exiles. It would not surprise Cat if Martin v
olunteered to escort her. Jane’s tragic situation was exactly the sort of thing to appeal to Martin’s romantic notions of chivalry.
Expecting the parting to come, Cat had done her best to detach herself from Martin, reclaim the heart that she had given him. Thus far she could not congratulate herself on her success.
The crackle of a twig alerted her to someone’s approach. She came about to find Martin striding toward her.
Her heart did its familiar foolish dance, but she sought to quell the emotions that flooded her at the mere sight of the man.
“Martin.” She managed to greet him with a friendly, but cool nod. “So you felt the need for a little quiet too?”
“The revels do appear likely to go on until morning.” He smiled. “But they all have reason to rejoice. A young Lord of Faire Isle is not born every day.”
“Everyone is glad to see our Lady safely delivered of a healthy boy. But the child will never be the lord of this island. Only a woman has ever ruled this island and thus it will remain. Ariane will still have to find a successor.”
Cat hesitated before adding, “There is a good chance she will choose Meg. The child is so extraordinary.”
She watched Martin, uncertain how he would react to the prospect. But he replied, “I would be very proud if Meg were chosen. It would be a great honor. Cassandra always insisted Meg was destined to become a leader among wise women. Perhaps her prophecy will come true in a way she never imagined.”
“And what of the destiny of Martin le Loup?” Cat asked, striving to keep her voice light as though the answer was of no import to her. “I suppose you will be off on some new adventure, seeking another damsel in distress. Perhaps Lady Danvers will serve your turn. She still seems in great need of rescue.”
“Perhaps she does, but some other man will be obliged to do it. I have quite enough on my hands rescuing you.”
“Me?” Cat snorted. “What do you imagine I need rescuing from?”
“Your stubborn Irish pride. I fear it may prove enough to do us both in.” Martin took a step closer, planting his hands on his hips, his boots square upon the ground. “So you expected me to just go riding off into the sunset? Well, I can be just as stubborn as you. I am going nowhere until you tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“That you love me.”
Cat gasped, making a great show of spluttering with indignation. “Where did you get a damn fool notion like that?”
“From Meg. She said she read it in your eyes.”
“The impertinent little vixen.” To her dismay, Cat felt her cheeks fire so hot, she doubted even the shadows of night would be enough to hide it.
“Tell me!” Martin persisted. “Is it true? Do you love me?”
Cat squared off with him in belligerent fashion, arms akimbo, imitating his stance.
“Mayhap I do. What of it?”
“This,” he growled, seizing her in his arms, crushing his mouth against hers.
Cat struggled to break free before he reduced her to a state of melting helplessness with the fire of his kiss.
“No,” she panted. “You—you need not feel sorry for me just because I was fool enough to go and fall in love with you. I won’t be the object of your chivalry.”
“Chivalry be damned. I am completely besotted with you. Can’t you see that? What sort of wise woman are you?”
“One who has never been all that good at reading eyes.” Cat reared back, trying to search his face, scarce daring to believe. “I am not in the least like Miri Cheney or Jane Danvers. Some sweet gentle beauty that you—you could—”
“Worship from afar?” Martin quirked his brow. “You yourself told me that was not what I needed. What I need, nay, what I want is…”
Martin smiled at her and quoted her own words back to her. “A woman who knows how to get right down there, thick in the muck of life, sweating and fighting beside me, nurturing, loving, and protecting each other to the end of our days.”
“Oh.” Cat swallowed and said gruffly, “Well, I suppose it is possible that woman could be me.”
“More than possible, petite chatte. Of complete certainty.”
Martin gathered her back in his arms and this time Cat surrendered to his embrace without a murmur. They simply held each other thus for a long time under the vast canopy of the night sky.
Martin was the first to break the silence, exclaiming suddenly, “It’s gone.”
“What is?”
“The comet.”
Cat lifted her face and peered upward at the moon and stars, the heavens no longer disturbed by any ghostly phenomenon.
She gave Martin an indulgent smile. “You are just now noticing that? The thing disappeared days ago.”
“You mean after plaguing us for all these months, it vanished just like that?” Martin asked in disbelief. “Maybe the comet was a portent of something.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it announced the birth of Ariane’s babe or—or an event even more earthshaking, you agreeing to be my wife.”
Cat tipped up her chin challengingly. “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”
“You will,” Martin replied with a trace of his old arrogance. “Maybe the comet heralded our union, a love that will be the stuff of legends, outlasting the moon, the stars.”
“And maybe it was only a comet.” Cat laughed and dragged his mouth down to hers for another lusty kiss.
Author’s Note
The comet that trails across the sky throughout this novel blazed entirely out of my own imagination. There was no such celestial phenomenon in the summer of 1586 when my story takes place. The emotional impact of the comet and the reactions of my characters are drawn from records of comet sightings throughout history.
Much of this novel deals with one of the many plots against the life of Elizabeth I. The Babington conspiracy was as complex and devious as the mind of the queen’s spy master, Francis Walsingham. For the purposes of fiction, I was obliged to condense and simplify the details of the plot. Martin le Loup’s participation in uncovering the conspiracy and the theft of the portrait are entirely my own creation.
The painting, itself, is not. The conspirators were indeed foolish enough to sit for the portrait which eventually aided in their capture. The Babington portrait is one of those marvelous tidbits of history, far better than anything a writer could invent.
About the Author
SUSAN CARROLL is an award-winning romance author whose books include The Bride Finder and its two sequels, The Night Drifter and Midnight Bride, as well as The Painted Veil, Winterbourne, and most recently, The Dark Queen and The Courtesan. She lives in Rock Island, Illinois. Visit Susan Carroll’s website at www.susancarroll.org.
Also by Susan Carroll
WINTERBOURNE
THE PAINTED VEIL
THE BRIDE FINDER
THE NIGHT DRIFTER
MIDNIGHT BRIDE
THE DARK QUEEN
THE COURTESAN
THE SILVER ROSE
* * *
Don’t miss these three captivating novels in the
DARK QUEEN series
by Susan Carroll
The Dark Queen
On sale April 2005
Set in Renaissance France, a time when women of ability are deemed sorceresses; when France is torn by ruthless political intrigues; and all are held in thrall to the sinister ambitions of Queen Catherine de Medici—Ariane Cheney, Lady of the Fair Isle, must risk everything to restore peace to a tormented land.
The Courtesan
On sale August 2005
Skilled in passion, artful in deception, and driven by betrayal, she is the glittering center of the royal court—but Gabrielle Cheney, the most desired woman of Renaissance France, will draw the wrath of a dangerous adversary—the formidable Dark Queen.
The Silver Rose
On sale February 2006
France is a country in turmoil, plagued by famine, disease, and on the brink of a n
ew religious war. In the midst of so much chaos, Miri Cheney must face a far greater evil—a diabolical woman known only as The Silver Rose.
Published by Ballantine Books • Available wherever books are sold
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The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen) Page 39