The Courtesan Page 15

  “Oh, no, please, m’sieur. You must wear it.” Wolf sought to close Remy’s fingers over the small sack. “To keep you safe from her.”

  “I assure you that I intend to keep well clear of the Dark Queen.”

  “No, not her. The other one, the sorceress who so bewitched you before, the beautiful Gabrielle.”

  Remy tensed at the mention of Gabrielle, but he shrugged off Martin’s fears. Gabrielle Cheney might endanger his life, betray him to death or imprisonment, but there was one thing he was sure of. She would never weave her enchantment over his heart again.

  “No, lad. I don’t need this. I am quite impervious to her charms.” Remy shoved the small pouch firmly back at Wolf, this time forcing him to take it. “Now you have done your part. Go along with you and wait for me back at the inn.”

  “But, m’sieur—”

  “No arguments, boy. We settled all this before and a good soldier always obeys his captain.” Remy gave Wolf’s shoulder a bracing squeeze, then a small thrust to send him on his way.

  Wolf stumbled back a pace, watching unhappily as Remy started his ascent up the rope, an awkward business for the captain in his slick new suit of clothes, but he managed with his usual strength and dexterity. When Remy had clambered inside the window, he paused long enough to direct one final curt gesture in Wolf’s direction.

  “Go!” the captain rasped.

  Wolf drew farther back into the shadows, waiting until Remy disappeared from view and the window went dark again. Ignoring Remy’s orders, he lingered, passing the small pouch restlessly from hand to hand.

  The taste of adventure had been sweet in Wolf’s mouth up until now, but he was left with nothing but fear for his friend. He would have felt so much better if he could have persuaded Remy to take the amulet. He was impervious to Gabrielle’s enchantment, the captain had declared. But if that were so why had Remy spent so many of these past nights muttering the witch’s name in his dreams?

  Sighing, Wolf returned the protective charm to the purse fastened to his dagger belt. He knew what Remy expected him to do. Return to the inn and wait. If Remy had not returned by morning, take what remained of their money and flee to safety.

  “And have a good life, lad,” Wolf muttered to himself. Remy had not said as much but he knew that was what the captain had meant.

  Wolf was glad that Remy was gone and unable to see the mutinous expression settling over his face. A good soldier might obey his captain, but a wolf was not nearly so biddable. He was going nowhere until he saw his captain safely returned.

  The salon blazed with a dizzying whirl of color, courtiers clad in a brilliant array of silks, satins, and flashing jewels. Pipes, lutes, and tambouras sounded out a lively trill of music. Their faces safely concealed beneath an assortment of masks, the dancers cavorted about the room, smiling and flirting with an air of unrestrained gaiety.

  Perhaps because as yet the Dark Queen had not put in an appearance at the evening’s festivities. Catherine could produce a marked tension at the most carefree event. Even her son appeared more relaxed in her absence. The king of France lounged upon his throne, the dais surrounded by the throng of perfumed and masked young men, his intimate circle of friends all vying for His Majesty’s attention.

  But the eyes of most other men were drawn toward a young woman swirling amidst the dancers. Never had Gabrielle Cheney appeared more radiant, her hair swept up into a golden crown on top of her head, her features even more lovely and seductive when partly concealed beneath a silvery half-mask.

  Her ivory silk gown was the envy of all the other ladies present. Trimmed with rich embroidery, it flared out over a farthingale, emphasizing Gabrielle’s tiny waist, the daringly low décolletage affording a glimpse of her full, firm breasts. A high wired collarette of lace rose up, framing her slender neck like a fairy’s wings.

  She made a regal, graceful figure as she danced, her delicate hand swallowed up in the grasp of a king. Henry of Navarre promenaded at her side, easily identifiable beneath his mask by his thick curly black hair and satyr-like beard.

  As they moved forward and back in the steps of the dance, Navarre’s dark eyes glinted at Gabrielle through the slits of his mask, his rapt admiration of her evident for all to see. Gabrielle should have been filled with triumph. Instead she was finding it hard to maintain her bright smiles and Gabrielle knew well who to blame for that. Nicolas Remy. Damn the man. Despite her best efforts he continued to torment her every waking moment. She fought so hard to thrust his image from her mind, but she was sick with fear for him, wondering where he was, what rash action he might be contemplating.

  Sometimes Gabrielle felt she had been better off when she had believed him dead. Even the pain of that had been easier to bear than knowing he was somewhere here in Paris, despising her, laying plots that might well get him killed. Nearly a fortnight had passed with no sign of the man and Gabrielle fervently hoped he had abandoned his mad quest to rescue the king. Unfortunately, knowing Remy’s infernal sense of duty as well as she did, Gabrielle seriously doubted that.

  The sudden pressure of Navarre’s hand startled Gabrielle back to her surroundings, made her realize she had stumbled out of position. The steady strength of the king’s arm guided her back into the line of the dance.

  Henry shot her a quizzical look as he did so, murmuring, “You are very cruel, milady.”

  “I—I beg your pardon,” Gabrielle said, deeply mortified as she struggled to regain the rhythm. “I didn’t tread on you, did I?”

  “It is far more likely I would step on your toes, ma mie. Great oaf that I am.”

  Gabrielle cast him a wry smile. Careless Navarre might be concerning his appearance, but he was a good dancer, his muscular limbs treading through the measures with all the grace of a natural athlete.

  Hands clasped together, they glided two steps forward, raised up on their toes in perfect unison, then moved two steps back again.

  “No, my fairy queen,” he continued. “When I said you were cruel, I was complaining about the way your thoughts keep drifting from me. Not to another man, I hope?”

  Gabrielle was glad her mask concealed the telltale flush that rose to her cheeks. “Certainly not.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. I should be devastated to discover I had a rival.”

  “Who could possibly rival Your Majesty?” Gabrielle replied smoothly.

  The intricate weavings of the dance separated them and Gabrielle found herself momentarily partnered with the Chevalier D’Alisard, his hawk-shaped mask doing little to disguise his plump features. His gallantries were as oily as the palm of his hand and Gabrielle felt relieved when the steps of the dance returned her to her original partner.

  “So you have figured out who I am,” Navarre said, resuming their previous conversation as they circled each other. The king pretended to be chagrined, but it was all part of the game.

  To Gabrielle, these masked affairs at court were a bit of a farce. Most of the courtiers here were perfectly well aware of each other’s identities, although they furiously pretended otherwise.

  Prancing forward and back in tempo with the king’s steps, Gabrielle flashed him her most dazzling smile. “Of course, Sire. How could I fail to penetrate your disguise? There is only one Henry.”

  “You are mistaken, mademoiselle. There are several beside myself. Henry, the handsome duc de Guise, and of course, there is Henry Valois, our noble king of France.”

  The movement of the dance brought them closer together and Gabrielle murmured, “Perhaps what I should have said is that there is only one Henry of Navarre.”

  Henry’s sensual mouth crooked in a rueful smile. “Only one Navarre, eh? I might take that as a compliment except I know how I am described here at court. The kinglet whose nose is bigger than his kingdom.”

  Gabrielle slanted him a mischievous glance. “As to that, I could not say, Your Majesty.”

  “Because you don’t find my nose so appallingly large?”

  “N
o, because I have never seen your kingdom to compare.”

  Another man might have been offended, but Navarre possessed a self-deprecating sense of humor. He flung back his head with a hearty laugh, which caused more than one head to turn in their direction, wondering what Gabrielle had said to so amuse the king.

  “Ventre Saint-Gris! What a wicked minx you are, to so tease your poor Navarre,” he said in a tone of mock complaint. When the king swore and abandoned his courtly manners, he was at his most engaging. His Bearnais accent grew thicker, reminding Gabrielle of Remy. She had to duck her head to hide the pang that shot through her.

  The dance once more obliged them to change partners. Gabrielle cringed when she felt D’Alisard’s sweaty hand steal about her waist. The next step called for the man to lift his lady off her feet, swirl her in a circle. Grunting and puffing, D’Alisard barely managed with Gabrielle, nearly dropping her in the process. But at least the clumsy interval gave Gabrielle time to compose herself before she was returned to the king.

  Navarre’s hand closed possessively over hers as he led her through the next step of the dance. “I called myself ‘your poor Navarre.’ Have you nothing to say to that, my lady?”

  “I would say that I don’t think any king could be described as poor,” Gabrielle replied lightly. “I would also wonder if you are truly mine.”

  “I am and I would show you just how much so, if I ever had the opportunity of being alone with you.” As they circled each other, Henry carried her hand lightly to his lips.

  Bending closer, he whispered in her ear, “Come to my chamber tonight, Gabrielle, and let me prove to you the full measure of my passion and devotion.”

  Gabrielle drew back from him, experiencing that cold sick dread that always overtook her when she contemplated going to bed with a man. She would overcome the hollow sensation. She always did, but she wished she might postpone the conquest a little longer. Somehow she did not feel quite ready to yield to Navarre.

  But Henry was clearly growing impatient and Gabrielle did not know how much longer she could continue to hold the king at arm’s length. She was spared the necessity of immediate reply as the dance separated them again.

  Distracted by her thoughts, she scarce noticed her new partner, unconsciously bracing herself to be mauled by D’Alisard again. To her astonishment, she felt her waist seized by a strong arm. She was lifted off her feet and whirled with such force it left her giddy. Her partner plunked her back down again, the impact jarring her off balance.

  As she recovered her footing, Gabrielle complained, “By my faith, m’sieur, you scarce know your own strength. The idea is to lift your partner, not toss her like a spear.”

  “Pardon, milady,” he mumbled.

  “You should—” The rest of Gabrielle’s words faded as she took her first good look at her dancing partner, a tall man with a short cape slung off one shoulder, the dark color of his entire garb rippling blue and black like a storm at sea. Definitely not D’Alisard or any of the other courtiers Gabrielle could readily identify.

  She tipped back her head, studying the stranger’s features, the lean uncompromising line of his jaw and taut set of his mouth left exposed by his leather mask. He stared back just as intensely, his deep brown eyes piercing her through the slits of his mask, his expression a strange mingling of sorrow and anger.

  Remy.

  Gabrielle froze, forgetting to move. The other dancers swirling around her became a blur of color like paints on a palette left out in the rain. The music faded, to be replaced by a loud drumming in her ears. For the second time in her life, Gabrielle feared she might be about to faint from shock. But the progression of the dance separated them and her partner disappeared into the circle of dancers.

  Somehow she recovered her wits enough to resume her place at Navarre’s side. As the king’s strong hand steadied her through the next few steps, Henry frowned down at her with concern.

  “Are you all right, milady?”

  “F-fine, Sire, “ Gabrielle lied with a wan attempt at a smile.

  “You look pale enough to have seen a ghost.”

  Navarre’s words sent a jolt through Gabrielle, but she did her best to conceal it. Not a ghost, she thought, resisting the strong urge to peer fearfully over her shoulder. Only a phantom of her imagination. Yes, that was it, she sought to convince herself.

  The man she had just danced with could not possibly be Nicolas Remy. It was just that she had spent so many of these past days torn between the hope and dread of seeing him again, she was starting to fancy that she did.

  As she danced with Navarre, Gabrielle twisted and turned, craning her neck for another look at the man in midnight blue. She caught glimpses of him, but the patterns of the dance frustrated her, preventing her from entirely laying her doubts to rest.

  Surely Remy was taller than the leather-masked stranger. Or was he shorter? The stranger’s soft-brimmed cap all but covered his hair. Gabrielle’s stomach knotted when she fancied she caught a hint of dark gold.

  But no, that was only a trick of the candlelight. The stranger likely had brunette hair and he was clean-shaven. Remy never went without a beard. Not that Gabrielle was such a half-wit as to suppose Remy unacquainted with the use of a razor. But shaving was one thing, she argued. Remy had appeared on the brink of poverty only a few weeks ago. Where on earth would a fugitive soldier have gotten the funds to outfit himself in such costly attire? How would he have ever managed to gain admittance to the court? And surely not even the great Scourge would be reckless enough to venture here, unprotected in the midst of so many enemies.

  Tormented by her doubts, Gabrielle scarce responded to the words the king murmured in her ear, continuing to urge her to join him in his apartments at midnight. Gabrielle returned some vague promise as she waited with mounting dread and impatience for the dance to bring her back into the stranger’s presence again.

  When she at last did come face-to-face with the man in midnight blue, Gabrielle managed to greet him more calmly this time, although her heart was pounding harder than the tambouras. She placed her palm against his and they slowly circled each other, completely out of tempo with the music.

  It was as though they danced to a rhythm only they could hear, Gabrielle thought. His skin was warm against hers, his palm rough and callused. Not like the silken hand of a courtier at all, but more like a soldier’s . . . more like Remy’s hand.

  Gabrielle felt a tremor course through her and she was afraid to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to do so. His eyes did not appear as hard and angry as before, but he still stared at her with an intensity that caused her pulse to race, those dark velvet depths so like Remy’s.

  A mask did something to a person’s eyes, rendered their expression more mysterious and dangerous. Was this man Nicolas Remy or wasn’t he? She would know in a heartbeat if only she could force him to speak. As she moved warily around him in the steps of the dance, Gabrielle murmured, “Monsieur is an excellent dancer.”

  He acknowledged her compliment with no more than a stiff nod of his head. Moistening her lips, Gabrielle tried again.

  “Monsieur seems very familiar to me. Do I know you?”

  His only reply was a slight shrug of his shoulders, filling Gabrielle with a mounting sense of frustration. They would be parted soon by the steps of the dance and she could not endure the suspense any longer.

  Throwing caution to the wind, she leaned in closer and pleaded, “For mercy’s sake, monsieur, who are you? Oh, please, Remy, never tell me it is you.”

  “Very well. I won’t,” he said in her ear, the voice unmistakably Remy’s.

  “Oh, God.” Gabrielle stumbled, her hand tightening convulsively on his. She stole a wild glance around her, terrified that someone might have overheard or realized what she had. That the Scourge had returned and was here in their midst.

  “Have a care, Gabrielle,” Remy murmured. “You almost stepped on my foot.”

  “Step on your foot,” Gabrielle hissed
back. “I’d like to—to step on your great thick head. Are you completely insane to come here?”

  “Undoubtedly,” was his cool reply.

  Gabrielle glared up at him, uncertain what she longed to do most. Give him a swift clout to the ears or drag him to the safety of the nearest exit. But before she could think what to say or do next, the music stopped. Not as though the dance had reached its natural conclusion, but abruptly, the lilt of the violins replaced with the sudden hum of voices.

  Clutching Remy’s hand, Gabrielle was too caught up in her own tangle of emotions to notice at first what was happening. But realizing that everyone else in the salon was sinking into curtsies or bowing, she turned around and her blood ran cold.

  With her usual impeccable timing, the Dark Queen had finally arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  Gabrielle’s heart constricted with dread as Catherine de Medici made her entrance into the salon. The queen mother stole upon the masqueraders like a falling shadow, her black gown in sharp contrast to the brilliant array of silks and sparkling jewels. She had adopted the hue of mourning upon the death of her husband years ago and never seen fit to abandon it. She looked deceptively matronly in her somber garb, her silvery hair confined beneath a peaked cap, a modest white ruff encircling her plump throat. Her only adornment was the jeweled cross that dangled over her ample bosom.

  She had not bothered to don a mask for the evening’s festivities, but she didn’t need one. Her face was a smooth, white mask in itself, seldom giving away any of the Dark Queen’s emotions, her dark de Medici eyes far more likely to pierce the secrets of another than reveal her own.

  Gabrielle had always succeeded in blocking her thoughts from Catherine. After she had believed Remy dead, Gabrielle’s hatred for the Dark Queen had burned inside her like molten steel, but over time, before she had ever ventured to court, Gabrielle had learned to temper her anger into something colder, more patient, more calculating, as impenetrable as armor.