The Huntress Read online

  “Only because the murderous bastards have been robbing and raping my country for years.” Cat pulled a wry face and said, “Ah, no need for you to fret, milady. I have traveled among the Sassenach before and managed to contain my feelings. I had to. I ran out of spit.

  “And there is at least one good thing about the English,” she added grudgingly. “They brew a tolerable ale. So where did this—this Martin the Wolf take his daughter in that godforsaken country?”

  “At one time, they had settled in Southwark. Martin used to keep Miri apprised of his whereabouts, but he stopped writing months ago around the time—” Ariane hesitated, reluctant to expose another’s private heartache, but if Cat was going to go after Martin, she needed to know everything.

  “Martin stopped communicating around the time Miri wrote him that she was with child. Wolf adored my sister for years. Despite the brave face he put upon it, he must have found her marriage to Simon Aristide very painful.”

  “So not only is this Wolf a fool, he’s a lovelorn one. Wonderful.” Cat shook her head in disgust. “I am sorry, milady. The man’s love pangs be damned. It should have occurred to him that some of that coven might survive to come after Megaera. To cut himself off where no one can help protect her or even warn of approaching danger—it’s pure lunacy.”

  “Martin believed he was acting in Megaera’s best interests by just disappearing.”

  “Then he’s an idiot. But what can one expect from a man stupid enough to have ever bedded a demented witch the likes of Cassandra Lascelles?”

  “He claimed he was seduced.”

  Cat snorted. “Isn’t that what they all say? Ah, well, at least if he is such a lackwit, this Wolf shouldn’t be hard for me to track down.”

  “Cat,” Ariane admonished. “Please don’t make the mistake of underestimating Martin le Loup. I’ll admit the man can be a trifle rash and impetuous at times, but far from being a fool, Wolf is clever, bold, and resourceful. And from what Miri tells me, he is ferociously protective of Megaera.

  “He can also be very stubborn and proud. It may not be easy to convince him to bring Megaera to Faire Isle.”

  “Oh, I am sure I’ll find a way.” Cat lovingly fingered the hilt of her sword.

  “Catriona!”

  “What? I was only referring to my charm, milady. I am Irish. I am blessed with an overabundance of it.” Cat’s lips tilted in an impish grin.

  Ariane attempted to return her smile, but the tension in her neck had crept upward until it stabbed between her eyes. As she rubbed her temple, Cat’s smile fled, the woman instantly repentant.

  “Ah, I’m the one who’s the idiot. Here I am making stupid jests when you have the weight of this trouble bearing down upon you.” Cat crossed over to Ariane and rested her hand gently on her shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, milady. I’ll take care of this matter for you, I promise.”

  A look of rare vulnerability crossed Cat’s strong features. “Besides my grandmother, you are the only one who has ever believed in me. Please don’t lose faith in me now.”

  “As if I could.” Ariane attempted to smile despite the pain tightening her brow. “Justice and I could never have survived those years hiding in the Wicklow Mountains without your aid. We owe you our lives.”

  “And I owe you more than that. When my clan cast me out, I felt worthless. But you—you gave me back my pride.” Cat swallowed and then said fiercely, “I’ll find that wee girl and protect her as I would you, with the last drop of my blood. I’ll fetch her safe back to you, milady. I swear it.”

  “Just make sure you fetch yourself back safe as well. Whatever would your chieftain do without her gallowglass?” Ariane teased to avoid displaying how moved she was by Cat’s devotion to her. Cat would be mightily disconcerted.

  The Irishwoman had already withdrawn her hand, looking gruff and discomfited by all this sharing of emotion. To spare her friend any further embarrassment, Ariane insisted Cat go inside to rest and refresh herself. Later they could form a plan for Cat’s search in more detail.

  It took some doing to persuade the woman to return to the house without her, but Ariane succeeded at last. She needed a few moments alone to gather both her thoughts and her strength.

  Long after Cat had vanished into the kitchen, Ariane lingered. The sun was fully up, bathing the garden in a white glow, the dew glistening on the grass, the larks twittering cheerfully. It promised to be one of those temperate days of early summer.

  Ariane tried to enjoy it, suspecting this might be the last moment of peace she would know for some time. But her throbbing head was already crowded with thoughts of all she needed to do. Prepare Cat for her journey, warn Miri and Simon of what had transpired, and consult with Justice about how to tighten the security of Faire Isle.

  And no matter how much she dreaded it, tell him about the babe as well. Cat was right. Ariane could not keep her secret any longer.

  Even now, she could feel her child quicken inside of her. Not like the fragile flicker of a butterfly but more like the strong beat of an eaglet’s wings.

  Ariane pressed her hand to her womb and tried to smile, but was surprised to find her eyes fill with tears instead. If—if only she did not feel so weak and tired all of the time, much more tired than she should be.

  Almost against her will, Ariane’s face turned skyward. The comet was no longer visible, but it was strange. She felt as though she could sense it hovering there, its fiery tail like a sword suspended over the thread of her life.

  Her babe was indeed strong. It would survive the ordeal of childbirth. The Lady of Faire Isle was not as certain that she would.

  Chapter Two

  “AVANT, THEE WITCH,” THE KNIGHT GROWLED, DRAWING HIS sword. “I’ll see thee cast into hell ere I be tempted again by your evil conjuring.”

  The sun glinted off the weapon and his breastplate, bathing Sir Roland in a shining aura. His dark hair swept back from his brow, the rich sable waves offset by the scarlet of his doublet. A beard and mustache softened the blade-like aspect of his chiseled features, but his green eyes were fierce and compelling. He had such a commanding presence few noticed that he was not overly tall, his frame more wiry than strapping. But his shoulders were broad enough, his waist trim, and he had a handsome pair of legs, the brevity of his trunk hose revealing well-honed calves and a hint of muscular thigh.

  More than half of the women in the audience were in love with him, the men awed to silence. Even the ground-lings in the pit, a raucous and noisy lot, were held spellbound as Hecuba hissed and cajoled the bold Sir Roland.

  Martin le Loup repulsed the hag with an angry gesture, roaring out his defiance in a series of spirited couplets. He strode downstage, reveling in his power to carry the audience with him far beyond the confines of the theater. The crowded galleries and cramped pit with its stench of sweat, pipe smoke, and stale ale transformed into a midnight heath, the rushes that crackled beneath his boots turning to windswept grass.

  “Love’s fool I have been, but no more,” Martin intoned. “Traveling through realms of despair, my hopes wrecked upon a distant shore. Bartering my soul for one dark spell to win my beloved, never counting the cost. All to no avail, no magic strong enough to bind a heart that is lost.”

  His throat thickened, his voice vibrating with an emotion that Martin did not have to feign. All he needed to do was think of Miri Cheney, his lovely Lady of the Moon.

  No, not his, never his, Martin reminded himself with a dull ache. She was Madame Miri Aristide now.

  “Then here upon this cursed heath, let all dreams die,” he cried hoarsely.

  Somewhere in the audience, a woman let out a shattering sob and more than a few sniffled as Martin continued.

  “Sink all my desires into a deathlike sleep. I’ll traffic no longer in your darkness, witch. Though my heart be lost, my soul I’ll keep.”

  Hecuba sprang from behind her cauldron with a furious snarl. “Nay, Sir Knight. Break faith with me and ’tis thee w
ho shall die.”

  The crowd gasped and a few called out warnings as the witch prowled closer, played to sinister perfection by Arthur Lehay, the old man a fine actor when he was sober. He made a repulsive crone in his rags and straggly gray wig, his chin sporting days-old bristle.

  But it was not the witch menacing him on stage that caused Martin to stumble back a pace, but the one he spotted lurking in the audience.

  He froze, his gaze riveted on a petite woman seated at the front of the first-tier galleries close to the left of the stage. Crushed between a plump matron munching an apple and a burly merchant, the woman might have gone unnoticed but for her flaming crown of hair.

  A bright beacon and not the first time that day Martin had noticed those fiery tresses. He’d caught a glimpse of her earlier when he’d disembarked from the wherry at Southwark. And then again later in the marketplace down by the docks. Modestly cloaked, garbed in a plain spun woolen gown, the woman would have occasioned little remark except for that red hair.

  Having once been a skilled street thief in Paris, Martin had too much of the hunter in him not to sense when he had become the prey. He had set a deliberately casual pace, the woman always earnestly inspecting the wares at some shop counter when he chanced to look behind. A pickpocket? Or someone more menacing, after a treasure far more valuable than his purse?

  When he had finally lost her outside the Crown, Martin had exhaled in relief, dismissing his apprehensions as merely the product of that tension that always beset him before a performance.

  But here the wench was again…

  “An’ you do not defend yourself, you shall die, Sir Knight,” Hecuba all but shouted in Martin’s ear. He started, realizing he had missed his cue to draw his weapon.

  Even as he unsheathed his sword, Martin could not tear his gaze away from that gallery. Arthur spread wide his arms, roaring out a threatening incantation only to stop mid-curse, nonplussed when Martin darted past him.

  There was more than one redheaded woman in London, Martin told himself. Mayhap he was mistaken. Mayhap it was not the same chit. He needed a closer look.

  Ignoring the glares he was receiving from the stage manager, Martin stalked toward the left side of the theater. He stopped just short of colliding with one of those young noblemen who paid extra for the privilege of sitting at the edge of the stage. Edward Lambert, the Baron of Oxbridge, had more right to do so than most. His family’s money had paid for the building of the Crown Theatre.

  Ned Lambert grinned and playfully pelted Martin with a cherry pit. Martin ignored his lordship, his gaze honed upon the red-haired woman.

  She leaned forward on the bench, bracing her hands against the gallery rail, her expression one of rapt attention.

  Martin’s stomach knotted. Mon Dieu. No mistake. It was her. She had an unusual face, the delicacy of her cheekbones at war with the strength of her chin. For a moment, her piercing blue eyes collided with his and he felt a strange connection sizzle through him as though he had just grasped the wrong end of a red-hot poker.

  Stumbling back, his heart thudded. Who the devil was she? He could fathom no reason for her to dog his steps, except for one. She was one of them. She had to be. What he had long feared had come to pass. The coven had found him again and that meant his little Meg was in the gravest of danger.

  Cold sweat broke out on Martin’s brow. He was seized by a blinding panic, the urge to leap from the stage, race for home, and—.

  And lead the coven straight to his daughter, which was likely what this witch hoped he’d do. Somehow the voice of reason quelled his alarm. If the witches had already located Meg, this flame-haired she-devil wouldn’t be wasting her time stalking him. She would have simply killed Martin or tried to.

  His lips tightened, his initial panic giving way to the wily calculation that had saved him and his daughter upon more than one occasion.

  A shrill whistle and a few catcalls from the pit jarred Martin back to his surroundings. Aware of the restiveness overtaking the theater, he realized that Arthur was all but plucking out the ends of his grizzled beard in his frustration with Martin.

  Martin managed to resume the performance as though nothing was wrong. He had been a consummate actor his entire life, playing at one part or another: soldier, spy, courtier, gentleman. There had only ever been one role where his glibness had failed him.

  Father. The advent of Meg into his life had changed everything. He’d die for his little girl…kill for her. If those witches threatened her again—

  The thought sent such a feral surge of anger through Martin, he stopped just short of slashing down his fellow performer. Arthur yelped with fright, shook his fist at Martin, and then collapsed awkwardly into his death scene.

  The applause that followed was deafening, but no more than a distant roar in Martin’s ears, his mind busy with the trap he would lay for the red-haired witch.

  Perhaps she was a member of the Silver Rose coven. Perhaps she was not. Whoever she was, she had best be prepared to give a good account of herself, or unlike the witch sprawled on stage at his feet, she wouldn’t be getting up to take her bow.

  LONG AFTER THE PLAYERS HAD EXITED THE STAGE, CAT REMAINED in her seat, feeling dazed. Like some hapless maiden lured off into a fairy wood, she blinked hard, groping her way back to the real world.

  Never in all her travels had she seen anything like this vast wooden arena nor the performance that had taken place this afternoon. Three shillings of her scant store of coin it had cost her, but it had been worth every penny.

  Cat had oft thrilled to the stories woven by the outlawed bards in her native land, but that had been magic spun out entirely in her head. Watching this play had been like seeing one of the tales of her childhood spring to life and that had been mostly owing to him—the handsome Sir Roland with his mesmerizing eyes and hypnotic voice.

  When he strode toward her across the stage, she had felt as though her heart might beat straight out of her chest. And when his eyes had locked with hers, she could scarce breathe, his gaze stirring in her memories of the wild young girl she’d once been. Her head stuffed full of romantic notions of legendary Irish heroes, how many nights had she lulled herself to sleep imagining herself lying naked in the arms of the mighty Cuchulainn or the bold Brian Boru and—

  Cat stroked her throat, a flush of warmth spreading through her. She cast a nervous glance about her lest anyone else be aware of her foolish imaginings and was disconcerted to realize she was alone.

  The gallery she occupied was empty and the rest of the theater as well. The audience was gone and perhaps the players too, including the man she had been so determinedly following for most of the day.

  Cursing herself for being a moonstruck ass, Cat sprang to her feet and winced, numb from three hours on the hard bench. Rubbing her bottom, she walked stiffly from the gallery, making her way down the steps and through the corridor into the pit. The cobblestone floor was littered with orange peels, walnut shells, and a pungent dark stain where some drunken groundling had relieved himself.

  Cat wrinkled her nose in distaste. The platform towered above her, vacant and silent, but she thought she heard voices coming from the backstage area, likely the actors changing out of their costumes, and, if she was lucky, Sir Roland still among them.

  She would pay a high price if her moments of witlessness caused her to lose sight of Martin le Loup and after she had had the devil’s own time finding the man in the first place.

  Days of discreet and painstaking inquiries at the inns and lodgings in the quarters of the city where foreigners dwelled had yielded nothing. Only by the merest chance had she overheard a conversation at the tavern where she had broken her fast that morning.

  Two actors had been lamenting the fact that their chief player had been laid low by a bout of dysentery. But fortunately Marcus Wolfe was familiar with most of Sir Roland’s lines and could be persuaded to step into the role.

  Cat’s ears had pricked up. Marcus Wolfe…Martin the
Wolf. The names were certainly similar. It might be mere coincidence, but it was more of a lead than she had uncovered thus far.

  She had watched from a discreet distance as the two actors had greeted their friend when he had disembarked from the wherry. Cat’s pulse had quickened with excitement. The man certainly matched Ariane’s description of Martin le Loup, but Cat was still unsure.

  This man sounded so…so English. Was it possible for anyone to so alter their accent, lose all trace of their mother tongue?

  She could not be absolutely certain until she obtained a private word with this Marcus Wolfe, something she had been unable to do thus far. It was imperative that she corral the man before he left the theater and she had to begin her hunt for him all over again.

  Hastening across the pit, Cat looked for a way to get backstage. She could see none except the two doors at the back of the stage itself. The raised platform would have been at eye level for an ordinary man, but was well above Cat’s head.

  If she hadn’t been hampered by her damned skirts, she could have leaped up, caught hold of the railing, and hoisted herself over onto the stage. The curtained area below the platform held out the promise of an easier egress.

  Lifting the heavy black fabric, Cat ducked inside. The area beneath the stage was stiflingly close, dusty, and dark. When her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Cat spied a ladder leading up through the trap door. Hecuba had arrived on stage that way during the third act, supposedly ascending from the pits of hell.

  Cat did likewise. Clambering through the trap, she let the door fall quietly back into place, and then made her way backstage.

  She braced herself to be challenged, struggling to come up with some convincing lie to account for invading the private regions of the theater.

  But it was unnecessary, her presence going unnoticed. The backstage appeared empty except for a couple in the far corner engaged in some sort of dispute.

  An older woman, apparently the wardrobe mistress, was clutching a rose silk gown and heartily scolding a sullen-looking youth.