The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  Meg heaved a deep sigh. “No. There were too many daft courtiers on the boat with her.”

  The girl spoke with such an unconscious imitation of Cat’s own lilt that Cat was forced to laugh.

  So did Martin. “Daft courtiers, is it now?” he chuckled, likewise copying Cat’s brogue. “It appears Cat is after turning you into an Irishwoman.”

  “An improvement over becoming English,” Cat retorted. “As for her speech, you’ve only yourself to blame. Your daughter has inherited your devilish talent for mimicry.”

  Martin grinned at her and the tension that had divided them this past week seemed to dissolve until Lady Danvers stepped forward.

  Her lips curled in the tentative smile of someone who senses that something might be amusing but hasn’t the least idea what it is. “I saw you tumble to the bank, Margaret. Were you playing some sort of a game?”

  Recollecting that she was supposed to be here in the guise of lady’s maid, Cat stepped back, trying to efface herself. But Meg caught at her hand, explaining to Lady Danvers, “I wanted to get a good look at the queen and Cat tried to help me. She lifted me up and we fell.”

  Mistress Porter bustled toward Meg, straightening the girl’s ruff and plucking strands of grass from the sleeve of her gown. The maid pursed her lips at Cat in disapproval.

  “A proper servant usually tries to protect her mistress from such a vulgar crowd,” Porter said. “But perhaps being Irish, Mistress O’Hanlon doesn’t know that.”

  Meg shied away from the woman, backing up against Cat. “Cat does protect me. Always. And she is not my servant. She is my fianna—”

  Cat gave Meg’s shoulder a warning squeeze.

  “My friend,” Meg concluded.

  “Mistress O’Hanlon’s services have proved invaluable to my daughter,” Martin added with a warm glance at Cat.

  Porter gave a haughty sniff and started to say something. But to Cat’s surprise, Lady Danvers quelled her maid with a reproving frown.

  “That will do, Porter.” Her ladyship turned to Meg, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind the girl’s ear. “I quite understand. I had someone who took great care of me for years and I regarded her as my dear friend. My old nurse, Sarah, was a very kind and good woman.”

  “When did she die?” Meg asked.

  It might have been a good guess on Meg’s part based on Lady Danvers’s melancholy demeanor. But considering how earnestly Meg stared into the lady’s eyes, Cat suspected otherwise. She gave Meg another warning nudge and the girl guiltily lowered her gaze.

  Her ladyship looked mildly astonished by Meg’s insight, but she answered, “I lost Sarah only recently. She died from a tumor.”

  Her voice dropped even lower as she added, “It—it was a most painful death.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meg replied.

  “At least now the poor woman is at peace,” Martin said.

  Her ladyship nodded, but Martin’s attempt to comfort her only rendered Lady Danvers more melancholy. An awkward silence ensued.

  The woman certainly knew how to leach the joy out of a pleasant afternoon outing, Cat thought. She was relieved when Martin suggested they continue on to the theater.

  As they wound their way up the street to the Crown, Martin encouraged Meg to walk with Lady Danvers and her maid. The girl obeyed dutifully if not enthusiastically.

  The theater was only a short way from the riverbank, but the narrow street was crowded with vendors, carts, and people streaming to the small arena opposite the Crown.

  A group of men was playing at bowls on a patch of green outside a tavern. Normally Meg would have craned her neck to watch, her curiosity like an empty well, eager to drink in every new sight and sound.

  But her disappointment at being so near Queen Elizabeth and not being able to see Her Majesty had cast a damper over Meg’s spirits. That and striving to be agreeable to Jane Danvers, a lady so grand she could not venture abroad without her maid and an escort of serving men.

  The men marched ahead of her ladyship, clearing a path for her and keeping back the crowd. Meg could not help reflecting that Cat would never required any man to pave the way for her, nor would have Meg’s formidable mother—and Cassandra Lascelles had been blind.

  But neither Maman nor Cat was a proper lady like Jane Danvers, all that Meg’s father wanted her to be one day. Papa had never said as much, but Meg suspected he hoped to wed Lady Danvers and provide Meg with a new mother, the last thing she desired.

  Unless it was Cat, Meg thought wistfully. But that was impossible, given the way Papa and Cat often quarreled and their very different views of the world, especially concerning the use of the ancient lore and the ways of wise women.

  Considering the dark destiny that Maman had predicted for Meg, she supposed that her father was right to want her to be more like Lady Danvers.

  But her ladyship seemed as restricted by the narrow confines of her life as she was by her corsets. As they picked their way up the street, Lady Danvers carried herself rigidly erect. Yet she managed to keep the hem of her costly gown out of the muck with an effortless grace Meg doubted she would ever be able to learn.

  Meg knew that her papa was anxious for her to make a favorable impression, but she felt awkward and tonguetied. She had not the slightest notion what to say to this woman with her perfect carriage and solemn demeanor.

  At least her ladyship did not seem as cold and disapproving as her horrid maid. When Meg risked a glance at her, Lady Danvers fidgeted with her ruff, something Meg longed to do herself. The heavily starched frill made her neck itch.

  Was it possible that this elegant lady was as ill at ease as Meg was? The notion struck Meg as ludicrous.

  “It—it is very warm,” the woman ventured.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And the street is so crowded.”

  Once again, Meg agreed politely.

  “It rather surprises me, this crush of people. Where can they all be going? Your father told me there is no performance at the theater this afternoon.”

  “No, the actors are rehearsing a new play. I expect all these people plan to attend the baiting at the bear garden.” Meg scrunched her face in a fierce scowl.

  “You do not approve of such sport?” Lady Danvers asked.

  “It is not sport at all. Setting a pack of dogs upon a poor chained beast! I wish the bear would escape and eat them all. Well, not the dogs. They don’t know any better. But those wicked men placing their bets—”

  Meg checked her angry tirade. Cat would have understood her need to vent her indignation, but Meg feared her ladyship would be shocked.

  But Lady Danvers replied, “I quite agree with you. I have often wished the same thing myself, that the bear might enjoy a good meal of its tormentors.”

  Meg regarded the woman in astonishment. Perhaps her ladyship was not quite as prim and proper as she seemed. The woman’s remark caused Meg to like her better in spite of herself.

  “If I were the queen, I would outlaw all bear and bull baiting,” Lady Danvers continued. “But I fear Her Majesty is rather fond of such blood sports herself.”

  “Oh.” Meg pursed her lips. This was not information about her heroine that she cared to hear. But the thought that Lady Danvers knew the queen, had actually stood in Elizabeth’s august presence, overcame Meg’s qualms.

  “So you have been to court? You know the queen? You have seen her? Spoken to her? How did she seem? What did she—” Meg tried to curb her eager questions. “I am sorry. I should not be badgering you.”

  “No, that is quite all right, my dear. Your papa told me you are a great admirer of Elizabeth. So was I.”

  Was? Meg homed in on the word and the shadow that seemed to pass over Lady Danvers’s face.

  “I cannot claim to know Her Majesty well. I have not been often in her presence, but when my father died, the queen was very kind to me and my brother. And this despite the fact that my father had greatly angered her.”

  Lady Danvers hesitated as
though choosing her next words with great care. “No one can be more compassionate than Her Majesty toward widows or orphans or anyone who has suffered a grievous misfortune. But when it comes to doing what she believes necessary to keep her throne secure, Elizabeth can also be very…stern.”

  Meg read enough of Lady Danvers’s thoughts to realize what the woman had meant to say.

  Elizabeth can also be very hard, unjust, and cruel.

  But Meg could hardly wax indignant over such criticism of her beloved queen, not when it hadn’t been voiced aloud. Obliged to hold her tongue, Meg lapsed into a dour silence.

  Her ladyship did likewise, appearing lost in her own thoughts. As though seized by a sudden impulse, she delved into a small purse she kept tied to her belt.

  Inquisitive as always, Meg could not help trying to steal a peek at the contents of the velvet sack. Lady Danvers yanked out something blue that she offered Meg.

  “Here. You may have this.”

  Meg accepted a frayed, slightly soiled scrap of silk. Eyeing it dubiously, she said, “Er—thank you.”

  “That is a segment from the carpet that was unrolled for the queen on her coronation. After the ceremony, it was torn to bits by the crowd, eager for a remembrance of the great event. My old nurse was present and managed to secure a piece.”

  “Oh! Thank you,” Meg repeated in a far different tone, regarding the soiled scrap of fabric in an entirely new light.

  “That tiny bit of the queen’s carpet was among my nurse’s most valued possessions,” Lady Danvers said in a constricted voice. “Sarey gave it to me upon her deathbed.”

  Meg cradled the fragment as reverently as though it was a holy relic. It took all of her willpower to surrender it back to Lady Danvers.

  “Oh, n-no, your ladyship,” she stammered. “You can’t possibly wish to part with this. Such a treasure, a symbol of the day when Elizabeth became our beloved queen. I c-couldn’t accept it.”

  “Yes, child. You can.” Lady Danvers enfolded Meg’s fingers around the cloth. “Keep it.”

  Her ladyship’s smile was at once strangely bitter and hauntingly sad. “I am sure you will cherish that bit of silk far more than I ever could.”

  CAT TRAILED BEHIND LADY DANVERS’S ENTOURAGE, IMPATIENT and testy at having to curtail her usual stride. But hanging to the rear gave her the best vantage point for watching over Meg.

  It also allowed her to critically observe her ladyship’s awkward efforts to befriend Meg. Lady Danvers had even resorted to offering Meg some sort of gift she removed from her purse. Cat couldn’t see what it was. A coin perhaps.

  Meg accepted it eagerly enough, but she still seemed stiff and reserved with her ladyship. Cat was ashamed of the satisfaction that gave her. If Lady Danvers was slated to become Meg’s stepmother, Cat ought to wish for some affection and trust to build between them. For Meg’s sake.

  But Cat was finding it cursed hard to be that generous. Her irritable mood did not improve when Martin fell into step beside her and murmured in her ear, “So what do you think?”

  Cat scowled as Porter stepped behind her mistress, fussing with a fold of her ladyship’s gown and momentarily cutting off Cat’s view of Meg.

  “She’s a bit broad in the beam for my taste.”

  “I’m not talking about the maid. You know perfectly well I meant Lady Danvers,” Martin said.

  Cat shrugged. “Is my opinion of any consequence?”

  “Yes, it is.” He surprised her by insisting, “What do you think of Jane?”

  Cat’s brows knit together in a frown. What did she think? That Jane Danvers was but a pale copy of Miri Aristide, the woman whom Martin had adored for so many years. That her ladyship possessed Miri’s fair looks, but none of Miri’s fey wisdom or quiet strength.

  Jane was so sweet and gentle, Martin and Meg would run completely roughshod over her. Her ladyship would never be able to manage such a rogue stallion and his headstrong filly, never be able to scold and comfort, love and protect them.

  Not the way I could, Cat reflected and then started, wondering where such a wayward thought had come from. Heat stung her cheeks as she realized Martin was regarding her, waiting for her answer.

  She swallowed, for once trying to be tactful. “Lady Danvers seems like a—a most respectable woman. She—she’s blond like Ariane’s younger sister, although not as lovely as Miri.”

  “There will only ever be one Miri,” Martin said, his voice so soft with remembered affection, Cat felt as though someone had raked claws across her heart. A strange sensation, uncomfortably akin to jealousy, and Cat did her best to shake clear of it.

  Martin hastened to add, “But Jane does have her own quiet kind of beauty. A fair English rose.”

  “I am not the best one to judge,” Cat replied tartly, “being but a weed myself.”

  “No, you are more like the heather growing free and wild in your Irish hills.” His gaze was warm and admiring, touching Cat in all her most vulnerable places and angering her at the same time.

  She was struggling so hard to keep her shield in place and he wasn’t making it easy for her.

  Cat forced her lips into a sneer. “How clever of you to compare me to something you have never seen before.”

  “But I have. Through your eyes.”

  Damn the man. Why did he have to say things like that or smile at her that way, forcing her to acknowledge what she didn’t want to face?

  She wasn’t exhausted, her head befuddled with whiskey. She was stone-cold sober and she still thought she was in love with him.

  Thought she was? No, she knew it, felt it, to the very marrow of her bones. Cat came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the street, using the only weapon she had to hold him at bay, the sharp blade of her tongue.

  “How charming, Master Wolfe,” she said, infusing her voice with contempt. “But you’d best save your flattery for a woman who sets some value on it. If you aspire to be a gentleman, they don’t waste such compliments upon their servants.”

  Martin blinked at her sudden assault. “Sweet Jesu, Cat. You know I don’t regard you in that light.”

  “You’ve no business regarding me in any light at all.”

  Cat lengthened her stride, leaving him looking angry and hurt. But far better that than his guessing the truth.

  She loved the man. But if she spent one more moment in his company, she was going to break something over his thick, obtuse head.

  CAT PACED ALONG THE OUTER RIM OF THE PIT, STARING GLUMLY up at all the vacant galleries. The Crown had lost much of the magic of her first visit, when she had been so spellbound by Martin’s performance. Perhaps it was because she didn’t care much for the present role he was playing, escorting Lady Danvers about the theater, introducing her to the members of the acting company.

  Cat could tell from Martin’s exaggerated gestures he was doing his best to entertain her ladyship, coax the melancholy woman into smiling. He might as well have been performing on the stage.

  Perhaps he would succeed better with Lady Danvers if he devastated her with one of his intent, sincere looks the way he often did Cat.

  Cat sighed, doing her best to dispel the resentful thoughts. Wit and charm came as naturally to Martin le Loup as breathing. He could hardly be blamed if Cat had fallen in love with him. It was purely her own folly and she needed to conquer it, remember that she was here to look after Meg.

  Cat would never have wished for Meg to be in any danger, but it would have helped greatly if Cat had had something of importance to do. Draw forth her hidden dagger and fight off one of the Silver Rose witches or the Dark Queen’s soldiers.

  But according to the last missive Cat had received from Ariane, the dangers threatening Meg had greatly diminished.

  Ma chère Catriona, the Lady of Faire Isle had written.

  At my behest, my brother-in-law journeyed to Paris to see if he could discover anything more. After much discreet investigation, Simon found out that many of the coven were killed or arrested t
hat night on the cliffs. The witches brought to Paris were executed.

  Whether Catherine learned anything about Megaera, I cannot be certain. The members of the coven were so fanatically devoted to Meg, I doubt they would be induced to talk, even under torture. Perhaps that is wishful thinking on my part.

  But if the Dark Queen had discovered she was tricked regarding the identity of the Silver Rose, Simon discerned no sign of it. Surely by now Catherine would have descended upon Faire Isle like an avenging fury, but all remains quiet here…

  The rest of the letter contained cheerful assurances of Ariane’s good health and that all was well with both her and the babe, something that Cat wished she could entirely believe.

  Ariane had concluded by cautioning Cat to maintain her vigilance over Meg, not that Cat needed to be reminded. But the only danger Meg suffered at the moment was a surfeit of sweets.

  The girl strolled about on stage with one of the actors, old Arthur Lehay. The portly man plied Meg with crystallized ginger.

  “Your young mistress has torn the hem of her gown,” a cold voice announced. To Cat’s annoyance, she found Mistress Porter at her elbow.

  “Has she?” Cat asked. “I daresay there is plenty of frock left, enough to garb two wee lasses.”

  When Porter scowled in disapproval of her attitude, Cat shrugged and added, “I’ll be after mending it when we return home.”

  “I am always prepared to serve milady should any such disaster occur,” Porter informed her smugly. “I never travel anywhere unless I am well armed with needle and thread.”

  “I prefer a sharp dagger myself,” Cat drawled. “Your needles wouldn’t be of much use in a good scrap. Although I guess you could jab one in your enemy’s eye if you had to.”

  Porter gasped, regarding Cat with huge eyes, and backed warily away from her. But Cat’s satisfaction in the woman’s retreat was marred as she saw Meg disappearing backstage. The girl glanced about her as though searching for someone and Cat had no doubt who it was.

  All of the players had taken their bows and paid their respects to Lady Danvers. All save one…Alexander Naismith.