The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  “And I tell you what, Alexander Naismith, if you continue to be so careless of your costume, I shall lodge a complaint with Master Roxburgh, that I shall. Do you think fine dresses like this shake themselves down from the trees?”

  The boy’s only response was a bored yawn, and in that instant Cat was dismayed to recognize in him the fair-haired Belinda who had so completely broken Sir Roland’s heart in Act Four.

  The magic of the performance was further dispelled by some of the props left lying about. Hecuba’s cauldron was no more than a rusty iron pot, and the magic mirror’s glittering gold frame was merely wood gilded with paint.

  Passing in front of it, Cat pulled a face. Definitely no magic there; the polished steel reflected all too truthfully a short disheveled woman wearing a dusty cloak, her red hair as usual defying her chignon to escape about her face in mad tendrils.

  Licking her fingers, Cat tried to slick back some of the strands from her eyes. She froze in mid-swipe at the sight of the dark figure hovering some distance behind her. He had changed out of his costume, the red doublet and armor discarded in favor of tight leather breeches and a black doublet, the sleeves slashed to show the white linen of the shirt beneath. Both shirt and doublet were unlaced at the neck, revealing a glimpse of bare chest and crisp dark hairs.

  “Sir—Sir Roland,” Cat stammered, her pulse skittering. Feeling like a fool, she corrected, “I mean, Marcus Wolfe?”

  But by the time she spun around, he was gone. Now where the blazes could he have disappeared to so quickly? As she peered round a pillar, she concluded there was only one way he could have gone. Back out on the stage. She thought she heard a footfall.

  She darted after him through the center curtain. The late afternoon sun poised at just the right angle to blind her. Cat was obliged to shield her eyes as she walked downstage. A stage that was empty.

  Puzzled, she frowned, glancing to the right and the left, wondering if he had somehow doubled back through one of the other stage doors when she spied a movement in the same gallery where she had been seated.

  Wolfe lifted one hand to his brow in a mocking salute before melting back into the shadows.

  “Wait. Please. Just one moment. I need a word with you. I—”

  But he was already gone. Cat’s jaw fell open, and then snapped shut as she realized the man was toying with her, playing at cat and mouse.

  Stomping to the edge of the stage, she muttered, “Fine! But you had best be aware, Monsieur Mouse. This cat has claws.”

  Hiking up her skirts, Cat dangled her legs over the side of the rail. Between the short sword strapped beneath her cloak and the height of the stage, it was not an easy feat, but Cat leapt, landing on the balls of her feet.

  She staggered a little, but quickly recovered her balance, racing toward the doorway that led to the galleries. By the time she got there, there was no sign of the man. At least not in that gallery.

  He waved at her from the one on the opposite side of the theater. Swearing in vexation, Cat tore after him, chagrined to realize this mouse had one advantage. He knew his theater far better than she did.

  Ten minutes later, she was hot, perspiring, short of breath, and short of temper. Finding herself back at the entryway to the galleries for the third or fourth time, she bellowed, “All right, you fool. I am not amused by this game. Enough of this nonsense.”

  “Oh, I entirely agree with you.”

  The voice was low and silky and so close behind her that Cat jumped. She whirled around. He stood a few risers up the gallery stairs, leaning against the wall, coolly studying her as though enjoying her discomfiture.

  “You appear to be rather befuddled, my dear. Racing about in circles as though you’d lost something. Can I be of assistance?”

  Cat released her breath, struggling to keep her temper, remind herself why she was there.

  “That—that all depends,” she said, annoyed that she sounded so breathless as he levered himself away from the wall.

  He was even more handsome up close than he had been on the stage, although there was no longer any hint of the noble Sir Roland about him. He didn’t move with the knight’s heroic swagger. He prowled down the stairs, and as for the expression on his face—there was no other word for it. His countenance was decidedly wolf-like.

  He halted a foot away from her. “Depends upon what?” he asked.

  “If you are Martin le Loup.” Cat had meant to be more subtle, more discreet, but her bluntness startled a reaction from him, the merest flicker of an eyelash, but it was enough.

  “Alas, my dear, I fear you have made a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.” It was all Cat could do not to crow with triumph. “You have led me on quite a chase, Monsieur le Loup, but I have found you at long last. My name is—”

  “Completely irrelevant,” he cut her off, looming so close Cat took an involuntary step back.

  A mistake, for he now had her pinned against the corridor wall, one arm braced to either side of her as though to cut off her escape.

  “As I’ve already said, you have made a mistake. But one that I might be willing to let you walk away from.” He regarded her through narrowed predatory eyes that were the deep green of a primeval forest. Although his voice remained pitched low, there was an edge of danger to it. A danger that emanated from every pore of his taut frame and seemed to prickle along her skin in a way that was both exciting and disconcerting.

  “You don’t understand. If you will but let me explain. I have something for you—” Cat reached beneath her cloak for the letter of introduction Ariane had provided her. He prevented her, seizing her wrist in an iron grip.

  “Whatever you’re hiding beneath that cloak, you’d best keep it there, sweetheart. I have no interest in your wares, and as you can see, any other prospective customers are long gone. But you can find a bawdy house at the end of this street where—”

  “A bawdy house.” Cat’s face flamed with indignation. “You take me for some common doxy?”

  “No respectable woman would pursue a man through the streets as you have done me. If not to spread your legs for my coin, what other reason could you have?” His eyes both mocked and challenged her.

  Cat didn’t know whether she was more vexed with him for his insults or herself for being so clumsy that he had detected her shadowing him.

  Wrenching her hand from his grip, she proudly lifted her chin. “It will be a frozen day in hell when Catriona of the Clan O’Hanlon ever sells herself to any man.”

  “Ah, give it away for free then, do you?”

  “No!” Cat spluttered. “And certainly not to a spalpeen such as you.”

  She struck her fists against his chest, shoving him away from her. He staggered back, clearly caught off guard as most men were, surprised by her unexpected strength.

  “Now listen well, you fool. I followed you because I had to be certain it really was you before I revealed myself. You are in very grave danger and—”

  “Truly? I would say it is quite the other way around.”

  He prowled toward her again, but Cat ducked away from him. “We have no time for this nonsense, le Loup.”

  “Pay close heed to me, my dear. As I told you before,” he said enunciating each word with exaggerated care as though she were some witless dolt. “You. Have. Made. A. Mistake. You. Have. The. Wrong. Wolf.”

  “One who apparently knows his name when it is spoken in French. By the way, it is astonishing how well you disguise your accent. I must commend you.”

  He cocked one eyebrow, much to Cat’s annoyance. She had always envied people able to do that, convey scorn and skepticism with such a suave, simple gesture.

  “Is that why you followed me? To extend your congratulations on my voice? Much as I would like to believe my charms are enough to send you trailing after me—”

  “Ho! No doubt you would. I wager you are conceited enough for anything.”

  His lips thinned and he took a menacing step closer. “Enough o
f these pleasantries. Tell me who you are and what you want and do it quickly.”

  “Haven’t I been after trying to do so? If you would shut your mouth long enough to listen.”

  “Talk about the inability to keep your mouth shut! Stop nattering on about nothing and give me a straight answer, woman.”

  Cat folded her arms across her chest. “How observant you are, le Loup. Yes, I am a woman and one who does not tolerate being insulted or ordered about. Give me one reason why I should tell you anything until you start being more civil.”

  “Here’s an excellent reason.” He unsheathed his rapier and leveled it at her. “I have a sword with a very sharp point.”

  Cat sprang back, her hand flying instinctively to her own blade. She unsheathed it in one fluid motion.

  “What a coincidence,” she said with her sweetest smile. “I have a sword, too.”

  “Mine’s bigger.” His teeth flashed in a feral grin. “So you had best put yours away, little girl. I am as chivalrous as the next man, willing to cherish and protect the ladies. But when you draw steel on me, I consider you my equal and I’ll treat you as I would any man.”

  “Your equal?” Cat all but choked. “I doubt anyone on this earth is your equal for arrogance, but when it comes to the foils, this little girl is more than a match for you or any other man.”

  As she struck a fighting stance, the man had the effrontery to heave a long-suffering sigh.

  “God knows I have tried to deal with you reasonably.” He shrugged. “Have at it then.”

  Their swords came together in a clash of steel, their initial feints and parries slow and deliberate. Cat realized he was doing the same thing she was, proceeding cautiously until she took her opponent’s measure.

  Her movements were hampered by both her skirts and the narrow corridor. She backed away, taking care not to trip over the hem of her gown, moving out into the open arena of the pit.

  Between parries, she managed to undo her cloak and toss it aside. The bodice of her gown was tight, lacing up the front for ease in attiring herself. She wished she could have loosened it, but that was impossible. Not with him maneuvering around her like a wolf stalking its prey.

  He was lithe and graceful, quick on his feet, she had to grudgingly admit. As they fought, circled, and clashed, it was like some glorious dance. Cat realized she was enjoying this far too much; it had been such a long time since she’d been involved in a good scrape. And she could tell that he was enjoying it as well, his green eyes glittering, his lips crooked in a languid smile, his movements almost playful.

  Cat experienced a twinge of guilt when she thought of her chieftain. She knew that this would have been the last thing Ariane would have wanted, Cat clashing with le Loup straight off, actually dueling with him.

  But blast the man. He had been the first to draw steel, and there was never any reasoning with any man once he got a sword in his hand. Perhaps after she had disarmed him, they could finally have a sensible discussion.

  Cat saw an opening and lunged, but he swiftly blocked her and sprang back with a low laugh.

  “Bon. You have some skill, mademoiselle,” he said, his accent slipping as he swept her a mocking bow. “For an Irishwoman.”

  “You don’t do so badly yourself,” she crowed. “For a Frenchman.”

  He grimaced when he realized how he had betrayed himself. He leapt back into the fray, pressing her hard, driving her back.

  Cat countered his blows, swearing as her skirts tangled about her legs.

  “I could do a damned sight better if it wasn’t for this cursed gown,” she muttered.

  “Allow me to help you out of it then.” With a lightning stroke, he broke through her guard, his blade slicing open the top lacings of her gown.

  Cat glanced down at her bodice with dismay. “You idiot. This was my best gown. My only gown.”

  Furiously, she struck back at him, slipping past his defense, her rapier tearing a large rent in his sleeve. He twisted, deflecting her sword and swearing.

  “Rot your hide, woman. Do you know how much I paid for this doublet? Several crowns.”

  “Then you wasted your—damn!” Cat cried when he retaliated, severing two more lacings and the top of her shift besides, revealing the soft swell of her décolletage.

  Her cheeks fired when he attempted to stare down the front of her gown.

  “And just what the devil would you be looking for?”

  “I don’t know.” Again the tantalizing lift of that eyebrow. “The carving of a rose, perhaps?”

  “That shows how much you know. The roses are always carved on the right arm…” Cat’s voice faltered at the sudden and swift change that came over his expression. His smile fled, his eyes going hard and cold.

  “Ah. So my first impression was right. You are one of them.”

  “Them?”

  “The coven. You’re a God-cursed witch.”

  “No, you bloody fool, of course not. I—” Cat’s words choked off as he came at her with renewed vigor. It was all she could do to fend off several brutal strokes.

  His face was suffused with anger, his eyes full of deadly intent. “What does it take? How many of you lunatics do I have to kill to convince you to stay away from my daughter?”

  “But I’m not—if you would but listen—” Cat panted from the exertion of defending herself, realizing he was beyond heeding anything she had to say. All playfulness had vanished from their duel. She was fighting for her life and he had the advantage that men always did in battle—strength and endurance, while her chief skill rested in her speed, agility, and wits.

  He was hammering her so hard she could already feel her energy flagging, her breath coming in short bursts. Unfortunately, his anger didn’t make him careless, only more vigorous and determined. Her only hope lay in distraction, a trick that had often served her well in the past.

  Deflecting a thrust that came perilously close to piercing her shoulder, she gripped her sword tighter. With her other hand, she yanked open her bodice, completely baring one breast.

  His eyes widened, his attention wavering just for a moment, but it was enough. Cat thrust, catching the fancy guard on the hilt of his sword. She wrenched the weapon from his hand, sending it flying.

  He leapt back, his boot skidding on an orange peel. His feet flew out from under him and he fell hard, landing on his back. Before he could recover himself, Cat was upon him, leveling her weapon at his heart.

  Propped on his elbows, he glared up at her, his chest rising and falling, his expression dark with a mingling of defiance and despair. He truly expected her to kill him, Cat realized.

  She ought to make haste to reassure him, but damnation, the man had just done his best to cut her down. Heart racing, she was so badly winded that she could hardly speak.

  Yanking her bodice back over her breast, she panted, “Now, Monsieur le-le Loup. Perhaps we can—”

  She broke off, gasping at the sudden sharp pain in her back. The assault from behind was so swift, so unexpected, she nearly lost her grip on her sword. But somehow, she managed to keep the blade leveled at le Loup as she twisted to peer behind her.

  Her assailant skittered back in a rustle of skirts. A slender child, all elbows and wide green eyes startlingly like le Loup’s. And she appeared possessed of his stealth as well for she had managed to take Cat completely by surprise, something that rarely happened.

  “M-Megaera?” Cat faltered.

  The little girl said nothing, her face pale, her chin thrust at a belligerent angle as she secreted the weapon she had stabbed Cat with back beneath her cloak.

  A strange weapon that Cat had only ever heard tell of, never before seen with her own eyes until now. A witch blade, the stiletto of almost needle-like thinness, hollow, capable of delivering the most lethal of poisons.

  Cat could already feel it rushing through her veins like wildfire, pulsing, causing her head to swim. She staggered away from le Loup, her sword wavering in her hand.

 
; She blinked, fighting hard to still her panic, retain control of her senses, but the galleries of the theater shimmied before her eyes. She caught a blurred impression of yet another assailant, but could do nothing to defend herself against an old woman with thin white hair, skin like a dried apple, and an enormous nose.

  The old woman let out a cackling shriek and swung her cane at Cat. The knobby end cracked hard against her brow, causing Cat to gasp with pain.

  She swayed, fell to her knees, her sword falling from her hand. But it was not the old woman’s blow bringing her down, Cat realized in despair. It was that deadly fire coursing through her body.

  She cast a reproachful glance at the child and tried to speak. But her voice came out in a hoarse croak.

  “You—you little witch. What have you done to me?”

  Through the fog that had become her mind, Cat was aware that le Loup was on his feet. Thrusting himself in between Cat and his daughter, he snatched up Cat’s sword.

  “Don’t—need that anymore,” she tried to tell him, but the words wouldn’t come as she sprawled onto her side.

  Black webs danced before her eyes, her last thought what a great muck she had made of her mission, how she had failed her chieftain.

  “Forgive me, Ariane,” she whispered.

  Chapter Three

  MARTIN STOOD OVER HIS FALLEN OPPONENT, HER FACE pale, an ugly lump swelling on her brow where old Agatha Butterydoor had struck her.

  The O’Hanlon witch had proved a skilled fighter, tough and strong. He would never have imagined she could be so easily felled by one blow from the cane of a scrawny old beldame.

  Perhaps this was just another of her tricks like that outrageous stunt of flaunting her breast. Hunkering down, Martin cautiously examined her, feeling for the pulse at her neck. The witch didn’t twitch so much as an eyelash at his touch.

  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.