The Courtesan Read online

  Cass’s voice was somewhat mocking, but Gabrielle could not help thinking that Cass had hit upon an apt description of Remy.

  Cass emptied her glass again. “That is still not enough. You don’t by any chance happen to have something of his, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Gabrielle reached for the sword buckled to her side and slowly unsheathed it. It was a soldier’s weapon, the hilt plain and unadorned, the blade fashioned of fine tempered steel. As simple, strong, and true as the man who had once owned it.

  Gabrielle carried the weapon over to the table and guided Cass’s hand until the other woman’s long, thin fingers closed over the hilt.

  Cass’s lips parted in surprise as she felt the handle and discerned what it was. “Captain Remy’s sword? How on earth did you come by this?”

  “It is a long story.” Gabrielle sighed. “My brother-in-law, Renard, was with Remy in Paris the night he was killed. Renard barely escaped from the mob with his own life, but he managed to bring Remy’s sword away with him. R-remy wanted me to have it.”

  Cass gave a sly smile. “And you’ve cherished it all this time.”

  “Why not?” Gabrielle bridled. “I told you! Remy was my friend, the only friend I ever had outside of my sisters.”

  Cass fingered the hilt, stroking the pommel and finger guard, carefully testing the sharpness of the blade. She sucked in her breath with a sharp hiss. “This weapon speaks to me of—of a darker side to your gentle knight. A man who could be a ruthless enemy when possessed by the killing fury. Fierce, violent, even savage.”

  “You are obviously better at reading palms than swords,” Gabrielle said, resenting such words applied to Remy. “Remy was nothing like that.”

  “They called him the Scourge, Gabrielle. I doubt that a man acquires such a title because of his kind and sweet nature.”

  “Remy hated that nickname!” Gabrielle blazed. “He was a soldier. He did his duty, nothing more.”

  “All right. All right.” Cass flung up one hand in a peacemaking gesture. Some unreadable expression softened her gaunt features. She continued to caress the sword in a slow, lingering fashion that stirred in Gabrielle a jealous impulse to snatch the weapon away from her.

  She felt curiously relieved when Cass finally shoved the sword back toward her. “Here. Put it away.”

  Gabrielle seized the weapon, her fingers curling possessively about the hilt as she restored the weapon to its sheath. She was dismayed to see Cass turn immediately back to her bottle, fearing that Cass was going to drink herself insensible.

  When Cass started to refill her glass, Gabrielle shot out her hand to stop her.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” she asked softly.

  Cass scowled, attempting to thrust Gabrielle’s hand away, but Gabrielle tightened her grip on the bottle.

  “Please, Cass. You yourself said how dangerous conjuring the dead can be. Would it not be better to proceed with your senses fully alert?”

  “I could conjure up the devil himself, drunk or sober.”

  “That is exactly what worries me.”

  Cass’s lips tightened with a mutinous expression. She and Gabrielle tussled for control of the bottle until Cass grudgingly let go.

  “I s’pose you are right,” she grumbled. “Take the damned stuff and put it away. For now.”

  Gabrielle was relieved, even though it was a somewhat hollow victory. She realized the bottle was nearly emptied. She returned both the brandy bottle and the half-filled goblet to the cupboard shelf, all the while anxiously keeping an eye on Cass.

  The woman rubbed her hands across her face as though trying to clear her senses. Gabrielle wondered in dismay if Cass was sober enough to proceed any further. Cass struggled to straighten up, shaking back her mass of unruly black hair. Her voice sounded astonishingly steady as she began rapping out commands.

  “Go back to the cupboard and find a large copper basin and a black candle. Fill the basin with water. Light the candle and then place both of them on the table. Put out the torches and take up your seat opposite me.”

  Gabrielle hastened to obey, carrying out all of Cass’s orders, her veins thrumming with a nervous excitement. Soon all of the torches were extinguished, the objects Cass had requested positioned in front of her. The black wax candle stood poised in the center of the table, burning with an almost unnatural intensity. The small but brilliant flame shimmered over the water in the copper basin and cast a strange white glow over the pale features of Cassandra Lascelles.

  Gabrielle perched on the edge of her chair, aware of the tomblike silence that had fallen over the room. She heard nothing but her own quickened breathing and the thud of her heart. It was hard to remember that there was a vast city teeming just beyond the walls of this house. Paris, with all its noise and bustle, seemed very far away as Gabrielle braced herself to follow Cass into another world, a land of shadows.

  “Give me your hand,” Cass commanded.

  After how easily Cass had been able to pry out her innermost secrets, Gabrielle was reluctant. But when Cass extended her hand with a gesture of impatience, Gabrielle gingerly took hold of her. She couldn’t help shivering a little. Cass’s fingers were so cold and dry for such a young woman.

  “Now what?” Gabrielle whispered.

  “Nothing. Sit still and be quiet. And whatever happens, don’t break the contact of our hands during the conjuring.”

  Gabrielle glanced dubiously at the copper bowl of water and burning candle. They seemed simple objects to accomplish such a mighty feat as raising the dead. Even if the candle was black.

  “Is nothing else required beside that bowl and candle?” she asked. “Don’t we need a potion or—or something?”

  “Potion.” Cass’s lip curled in a sneer. “Other witches might need such pitiful aids, but I possess a natural affinity for the world of the dead.”

  What a chilling way of putting it, Gabrielle thought. She was beset by an unwelcome memory, one of the more disturbing rumors she had heard about Cassandra Lascelles. That when Cass was a little girl, her gypsy mother had struck a hellish bargain, trading Cass’s eyesight to the devil so that her daughter might be granted great supernatural powers.

  A patently ridiculous tale, Gabrielle assured herself. More likely Cass had become blind through scarlet fever or some other bout of childhood illness. There was nothing sinister or all-powerful about the woman seated opposite her, looking almost childlike in her overlarge dress, her hand so thin it felt as though one hard squeeze might crush Cass’s bones to powder.

  And yet a voice inside Gabrielle warned, “Do not be deceived by appearances. Maman always told us to stay clear of anyone who practices dark magic. You can still stop, Gabrielle. Now. Before it is too late.”

  The voice sounded remarkably like her older sister. Ariane, whose hands were always too ready to reach out to protect even when one had no wish to be protected, to soothe and comfort even when one was too raw to be touched.

  An image of her sister forced its way into Gabrielle’s mind, Ariane’s clear gray eyes, her soft brown hair, her solemn smile so like their late mother’s. It had been such a long time since Gabrielle had seen Ariane. Far too long, she thought with a pang.

  But she resolutely thrust her sister from her mind and focused on Remy. If this dark magic of Cass’s actually worked, in a few moments it would be his face Gabrielle would see.

  As Cass flung back her head and closed her eyes, Gabrielle held her breath, waiting for Cass to murmur an incantation, the magic words that would bring Remy back to her.

  But interminable long moments passed and the woman simply sat there, not moving, not making a sound. Patience had never been one of Gabrielle’s virtues. She watched the wax drip down the sides of the black candle with mounting restiveness.

  “Damnation!”

  Gabrielle was startled when Cass swore, her grip tightening over Gabrielle’s fingers. The woman’s eyes fluttered open, her lips thinned with annoyance. �
�Will you please stop fidgeting. I am getting nowhere.”

  “Sorry.” Gabrielle tried to sit still, but Cass continued to complain. “This isn’t working. You have got to give me something more to work with.”

  “But I don’t have anything else of Remy’s.”

  “Then give me a memory.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Gabrielle protested. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Close your eyes and concentrate,” Cass said fiercely. “Think back to a time when you were with Remy. Not a time of any great danger or excitement. Just one quiet moment.”

  Gabrielle nearly burst into hysterical laughter. A quiet moment in a summer that had seemed filled with nothing but threats of death and disaster, Remy on the run from the Dark Queen. She had sent her soldiers to tear Faire Isle apart in their search for him. When that effort had failed, Catherine had resorted to far worse tactics, setting the witch-hunters upon them, led by that dread, half-mad fanatic, Vachel Le Vis.

  The bastard Le Vis had arrested Gabrielle’s little sister Miri, threatening to torture the child if Remy was not handed over to him. This threat had only been averted by the Comte de Renard, driving the witch-hunters back to the mainland. But all too soon Le Vis and his minions had returned under cover of darkness, this time attacking Belle Haven itself, nearly burning the house over all their heads.

  Gabrielle opened her mouth to inform Cassandra that she had never known one quiet moment with Nicolas Remy hidden on Faire Isle. But she faltered, obliged to admit that that wasn’t true as other memories flooded back to her.

  Gabrielle had been so restless and bored that summer, still coming to terms with the pain of her past, not yet able to chart the mysteries of a future beyond Faire Isle, the present seeming locked in endless quarrels with her sister, Ariane. But in looking after Remy, aiding in his recovery, Gabrielle had found a measure of peace. She recalled days in which she had forgotten herself entirely in her efforts to keep Remy’s mind off the pain of his wound. Doing anything to entertain him, even unpacking the remnants of girlhood she had put behind her, her books of poems and romances.

  Remy’s hands, so large and callused, had been better suited to wield a sword. He’d looked uncomfortable and awkward turning the leaves of her books, far preferring to have her read to him. But Gabrielle wondered how much sense he’d ever made of the words. She’d glance up from the page to find him staring at her with such a look of steadfast adoration. It had almost been enough to make her feel young and innocent again, untouched. Almost.

  Gabrielle stiffened in her chair, shying away from the recollection. But she became aware of Cassandra gently stroking her hand and urging, “Go on, Gabrielle. Remember.”

  Against her will, Gabrielle’s mind drifted to one particular afternoon when Remy had finally been well enough to rise from his bed and Gabrielle had persuaded him to steal away from the safety of the house, into the woods behind Belle Haven.

  The grass had felt cool and crisp beneath Gabrielle’s bare feet, the sun warm upon her face, but not as warm as Remy’s hand clasped in hers. Gabrielle’s breath snagged in her throat, her head filling with a clearer image of Remy than she’d had for a long time. Soul-weary eyes of a melting brown were shielded beneath thick dark lashes as he smiled down at her, his sensitive mouth so at odds with the rugged lines that time and hardship had carved into his face.

  Remy had had an unusually sweet smile for a man, a little solemn, a little shy, made all the more endearing by the fact that he—

  No. Gabrielle’s eyes flew open, her throat clogging with the familiar grief.

  “I can’t do this,” she said hoarsely.

  “Yes, you can,” Cassandra soothed, continuing her rhythmic caress of Gabrielle’s hand. “You must if you ever want to see Remy again. Just listen to me and I’ll carry you safely past the hurt.”

  Gabrielle sighed, unwilling to return to that August day, the last one she had ever shared with Remy before he’d ridden away from Faire Isle to meet his death. But as she fell under the spell of Cassandra’s hypnotic voice, Gabrielle closed her eyes and fought hard to remember that afternoon by the riverbank.

  She had been teasing Remy again despite the fact that Ariane had frequently scolded her for doing so. Tormenting the man, as her older sister had called it. But Nicolas Remy had needed to be teased out of his seriousness if ever a man did. He needed someone to ease that grave look from his eyes, to make him laugh, to forget for a time whatever heavy burdens he carried.

  Gabrielle had coaxed him into setting aside his solemn dignity and joining her in a favorite flight of fancy from her childhood, playing at knights and dragons.

  If she concentrated hard enough, she could still hear the rough timbre of his voice.

  “So does this game include a part where the fair damsel rewards her bold knight with a kiss?” Remy tried to make the question sound like a jest, but his deep brown eyes were far too serious for Gabrielle’s comfort.

  Gabrielle moved away from him, sweeping her skirts in a grand manner. “A kiss? Fie upon you. It is clear you understand nothing of damsels. We are a cold and cruel lot, requiring our champions to worship us from a distance. The most we ever allow is our knight to kneel at our feet and swear eternal devotion and service.”

  She spoke with forced playfulness, never expecting Remy to comply with her request. But to her consternation, he stepped in front of her and began to slowly lower himself.

  “Oh, Remy, I was only jesting—” she began, but Remy went down on one knee, the effort obviously costing him some pain from his recently healed wound. He flinched.

  “Remy, stop,” she said. “The game is over. Do get up.”

  But he remained where he was, even though he had paled a little. “Nay, milady. You suggested this. Now we will see it through.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. Stand up before you hurt yourself.” She tugged at his sleeve, trying to force him back up. But he captured her hand, imprisoning her fingers in the warm strength of his own.

  Gabrielle attempted to tug free, but when Remy tilted his head to look up at her, she stopped, held spellbound. The sun spilled over him, turning his hair to burnished gold, accenting every line worn by pain and hardship on his beard-roughened features. But his eyes seemed to shine with a light of their own, strong, steady, and honest.

  “Milady, my sword is ever at your service,” he said, gathering her hand close to the region of his heart. “I vow by my life’s blood to serve and protect you forever.”

  It was as though the embodiment of every maiden’s dream had sprung to life at her feet. The battered knight, after much toil and care, fighting his way to his lady’s side, to sweep her off on his charger and into the shelter of his arms.

  A man of complete honor, integrity, and courage, traits that she had once mistakenly supposed belonged to the Chevalier Etienne Danton. But Danton had only borne the title. He’d been no more a knight than Gabrielle was any longer a maiden.

  Only Nicolas Remy was real and true. Unfortunately he’d arrived on her island much too late.

  “Remy . . .” A husky voice breathed the name with a sorrow that might have come from Gabrielle’s own heart. But the sound had emanated from Cass. Gabrielle opened her eyes and stared uneasily at the other woman.

  “Remy,” Cass murmured again. Her head was flung back, a succession of strong emotions chasing across her pale features. One moment her lips were parted with a dreamy sensuality, the next they tightened with despair.

  It was almost as if . . . as if Cass was stealing Gabrielle’s memories of Remy, draining them from her through her fingertips. Gabrielle instinctively fought to pull her hand free, but Cass’s fingers tightened around Gabrielle’s wrist like an icy manacle. Cass’s head snapped forward and Gabrielle ceased her struggles, too paralyzed to move as Cass transformed before her very eyes.

  Gone was any trace of the inebriated woman or the pale recluse. Cass threw back her shoulders and arched her neck, appearing to grow in stature u
ntil she resembled some legendary sorceress of old, a Circe or Morgan le Fay.

  Glowing in the intense white light of the candle, her skin was translucent, a strong contrast with the bloodred of her gown, the ebony tangle of her hair. The candle’s flame reflected points of light in her dark eyes, sharp and cold as some distant star.

  “Nicolas Remy,” Cass rasped. “I summon you back from the realms of the dead. Follow the sound of my voice and come to us. Gabrielle is waiting.”

  She groped for the bowl with her free hand, sweeping her fingers across the top of it. The water in the basin began to roil, vapor rising from the surface until it became a vessel of mist. Cass leaned forward eagerly, her lips parted. The more the water clouded, the clearer her eyes became, the sharper their focus. As Cassandra stared down into the water, Gabrielle realized with a jolt, the blind woman could see.

  “Nicolas Remy,” Cass called again. “Gabrielle has traveled a long way to find you. She is wearied and sore of heart. Do not disappoint her. Part the veil of the dead and let her look upon your face, hear your voice one last time.”

  At Cass’s words, the mist began to swirl and a shape began to slowly emerge, a barely discernible silhouette, like the face of a man lost in fog.

  “Show yourself, Captain,” Cass demanded. “Do not keep us waiting.”

  The vapor shifted and Gabrielle’s breath hitched in her throat as she caught the barest hint of a bearded countenance only to have it fade back into the mist. She bent over the bowl, her heart thudding with a painful mingling of fear and hope.

  Cass intoned more fierce invocations, but the man remained a phantom, lost in the water and mist.

  “He won’t come for me,” Cass muttered to Gabrielle. “You call him.”

  Gabrielle peered down at the ghostly shape in the water, her pulse thundering in her ears. “R-remy?” she faltered.

  “Call to him as if you mean it. Put your heart into it, girl.”

  Gabrielle moistened her dry lips and tried again. “Remy, please. Come back to me—just one more time. I—I need you.”

  The mist whirled and parted and the image hidden beneath the surface gradually became clearer. Gabrielle’s breath escaped in a half-sob as the water shimmered, assuming the contours of a man’s lean face hidden beneath a rugged growth of beard.