The Courtesan Read online

  “Very well. Why don’t you have a seat while I make myself a bit more presentable? Then you can regale me with your adventures these past three years and tell me how I may be of use to you, Captain Remy.”

  Captain Remy? What the devil? Remy frowned, wondering what he could have said or done to produce this change in a woman who had been all but melting in his arms only moments ago. But before he could question her, Gabrielle had disappeared behind a wooden dressing screen at the far end of the room. He had no right to hope that anything could come from his feelings for Gabrielle. He never had. But he felt as though he’d had a touch of heaven this night and had somehow let it slip through his fingers.

  Chapter Five

  Gabrielle thrust her arms into the sleeves, easing the dressing gown over her shoulders. The intricately carved wooden screen shielded her from Remy’s gaze, but she had not retreated behind it out of any sense of modesty.

  It was far too late for that after the way she had stormed around in her flimsy shift. But she had done far worse than bare the secrets of her body. She had exposed her heart to him as well, all the feelings she had long refused to acknowledge even to herself.

  She did care for Nicolas Remy, far more than she had ever wanted to. Of course she was not in love with the man. She was incapable of that, but when she thought of how she had grieved for him all these years, she wanted to pound her fists against his chest and rage at him.

  Why? Why the devil could you not have let me know you were still alive? If I hadn’t thought you were dead, I would have . . . have . . .

  Have done what? a voice inside her mocked. Not pursued a career as a courtesan? Saved herself for him? There had never been any question of that. Thanks to Etienne Danton, it had already been too late even when she had first met Remy. Her joy at finding Remy alive had made her momentarily forget herself, who she was, what she was destined to become, and it wasn’t any man’s blushing bride.

  As she struggled with the ivory buttons on her robe, Remy’s voice echoed sadly through her mind. Nothing could have been any different. His words had jolted her back to reality with a painful thud, but she was grateful to Remy for reminding her of that. Before she made any more of a fool of herself over him than she already had. Kissing him, swooning in his arms, almost forgetting all the ambitions that had enabled her to survive these past years.

  Gabrielle looked up, her gaze drawn to the mirror mounted upon the wall, reflecting back the golden crown of hair, the creamy complexion and delicate features so many ladies envied her. All she saw was a woman haunted by the knowledge that her beauty was only a surface one, a thin disguise for all the dark stains on her soul. It was one thing to bewitch a man out of his senses, to keep him in thrall. She was certainly capable of that. But to inspire a love that was real and true, that was a magic she did not possess.

  Remy thought her so beautiful. Very likely, he even believed that he loved her. But how could he love her when he didn’t even know her? If he did, he would never connect her with such terms as honor and innocence.

  But what the devil did it matter how Remy felt about her? She had long ago realized it was better to be a wealthy lord’s mistress than a poor soldier’s wife. Seduction . . . that was where a woman’s real power lay. And power meant the ability to protect her family and herself from the machinations of the Dark Queen. To be strong, invulnerable to the kind of hurt that could be inflicted upon one by predatory men like Danton. Or even unintentionally by a gallant man like Remy.

  According to Nostradamus, her future was set. She was destined to become the most powerful woman in all France, mistress of Remy’s own king, Henry of Navarre. She wondered how Remy would react to that. Would he be stunned? Hurt? Angry? Would he turn away from her in disgust or do his best to persuade her to abandon her plans, leave Paris?

  She would never do that. Paris was where she belonged. If anyone should go, it was Remy. This city was just as dangerous for him now as it had been three years ago. Gabrielle smiled bitterly at the irony of it. She had hoped, prayed, even risked breaching the realms of the dead to see Remy one last time. And now that she had him back, she was going to have to do her damnedest to drive him away again.

  She closed her eyes in momentary despair, then forced herself to rally. She finished buttoning up her dressing gown to the very top where the high standing collar framed her slender neck like a ruff. Moving with the swiftness of long practice, she swept up her hair, confining it to a net caul studded with tiny pearls. The mirror reflected back a proud and distant woman.

  With one last glance at her icy image, she emerged from behind the screen. She had taken so long she expected to find Remy pacing the room with impatience. But he waited by the chamber’s imposing fireplace, looking as uncomfortable as any man possibly could, left to his own devices in such a thoroughly feminine room.

  The hearth had been swept clean for the summer, the brass andirons polished and gleaming. The marble surround was whimsically carved with dolphins and mermaids, costly silver branches of candles situated at either end of the mantel. The expanse in between was cluttered with some of Gabrielle’s fans, a leather bound book of poems, an hourglass, and some discarded hair ribbons.

  One object in particular had caught Remy’s eye. Some of the tension in his face relaxed as he lifted a miniature down from the mantel. It was a portrait of her little sister, Miri, one of the few things that Gabrielle had brought from home with her.

  As Remy studied the portrait, the taut set of his mouth softened into a smile. His distraction enabled Gabrielle to do what she had been unable to before—take a good long look at him, and she was daunted by what she saw.

  Remy had changed and in ways that went far beyond his unkempt appearance. He seemed leaner and harder than she remembered, looking like a man who gave little thought to food or sleep beyond what he needed for survival.

  Gabrielle longed to urge him to rest while she ordered him up a decent meal and a hot bath to soak his wearied bones. Get him out of those travel-stained clothes, trim his beard, comb his hair, scold him and fuss over him, tease him into laughing as she used to do. Tuck him up in her bed and caress the lines of care from his brow while he sank into some obviously much needed sleep. And then—

  Gabrielle hitched in her breath, checking her wayward imaginings. These were stupid thoughts to be having about a man she had just resolved she must be rid of. Especially the thought that involved bringing Remy anywhere near her bed.

  With great difficulty, Gabrielle struggled to maintain her distant demeanor as she glided toward him. Remy glanced up at the rustle of her skirts. But the smile he had bestowed on her little sister’s portrait faded at the sight of Gabrielle. His mouth turned down with a mixture of disappointment and confusion, clearly perceiving the changes in her and not liking what he saw.

  Gabrielle steeled herself behind a glittering smile. “I am sorry I took so long about tidying myself. What must you think of my manners, Captain Remy? I trust I have not kept you waiting?”

  “No,” he muttered. He shifted his eyes back to the miniature in his hand. “I was admiring this portrait of Miri. It is a remarkable likeness, just as I remember her.”

  “Oh? Do you think so?” Gabrielle’s cool manner faltered a little as she plucked the picture from Remy’s hand. He was right. The likeness of Miri was very true to life. Gabrielle remembered the long-ago spring day in the garden when she had painted it, the sweet smell of Ariane’s herbs filling the air, the drone of the bees amongst the flowers, a day when Gabrielle’s magic had been at its strongest.

  Bending over that small oval of ivory, working with her finest brush and softest colors, she had succeeded in capturing her little sister perfectly, no easy task with Miri, fairy child that she was. There was an ethereal quality about the girl in that portrait, as elusive as a beam of moonlight. Miri leaned forward, her long white-blond hair spilling over one shoulder, her quicksilver eyes dancing with impatience as though she might vanish at any moment to go romping wit
h elves in the woods or hunting for unicorns.

  There was no telling how much Miri resembled that portrait anymore. It had been over two years since Gabrielle had seen Miri and heaven only knew when she would do so again, if ever. That thought filled Gabrielle with a rush of sadness for the little sister who was as lost to her as her long-ago magic.

  Gabrielle became aware of Remy watching her far too intently for comfort.

  “Is that one of your paintings, Gabrielle?” he asked.

  “Yes, I painted it back when I had time for such nonsense.” She handed the miniature back to him with a show of indifference. “Of course Miri has grown up a great deal since then. I doubt you’d even recognize her anymore.”

  “I daresay I would not,” Remy agreed with a sad smile.

  Neither would I, Gabrielle thought, suppressing a pang.

  “And what about Ariane? How fares the Lady of Faire Isle?” Remy asked as he replaced the miniature where he had found it. He scanned the mantel as though he expected to spy a portrait of Ariane as well and was puzzled when he didn’t find one.

  Because Gabrielle could no longer bear to look upon the image of the sister who now despised her. Because the portrait was too painful a reminder of the bitter way she and Ariane had parted.

  Gabrielle managed to reply airily, “Oh, Ariane married Renard and she is now living happily ever after with her great ogre at his château.”

  Although Remy smiled, he chided her gently, “Why must you always speak so disparagingly of Renard? He is a good man and he saved all of our lives the night the witch-hunters came.”

  “I know that and I am fond enough of my great hulk of a brother-in-law. But the comte and I have always taken a peculiar delight in vexing one another. We used to drive poor Ariane to distraction. Once she even threatened to lock us both in our rooms until we behaved better.” Gabrielle smiled ruefully at the memory. “Our quarrels were never serious until—”

  “Until?” Remy prompted when she fell silent.

  Gabrielle fretted her lower lip, vexed with herself for even broaching the matter. She continued reluctantly, “Until Renard got this damn fool notion in his head that he should find me a husband. That I could never be happy or content until I was wed.”

  “Is that such a foolish notion, Gabrielle?” Remy asked quietly.

  For her, it was. Renard playing matchmaker for her might have been laughable if it also hadn’t been unbearable, the idea that some nobleman, greedy for the dowry Renard offered, might be willing to overlook the fact he was getting damaged goods. Or worse still be enchanted with her beauty and fancy himself in love with her, a love she’d never be able to return. And when this prospective bridegroom had discovered the truth about her? What then?

  Gabrielle knew there were ways a clever woman could deceive her husband into thinking he had acquired a virgin bride. But the thought of such deception sickened her. No, better at once to let a man know exactly what she was and be warned.

  Then why was she still avoiding revealing the truth to Remy? Feeling the weight of his grave dark eyes upon her, Gabrielle finally answered him. “It was foolish for Renard to seek a husband for me for many reasons, but chiefly because I had no interest in being wed to some provincial oaf, being buried in the country all my life.”

  Seeking to change the subject, Gabrielle rustled over to the bedside stand, where a flagon of wine and a crystal glass were kept to slake her thirst should she awaken in the middle of the night.

  “Can I offer you some Rhenish wine, Captain Remy?” she called over her shoulder. “I could also roust out my cook to serve you a late supper down in the hall.”

  “You mean on that great table that I glimpsed below stairs, the one that’s the length of a battlefield?” Remy grimaced. “No, I am afraid I hardly appear grand enough for such a setting.”

  “Because you clearly have not been taking proper care of yourself. Just like most men when they are left to their own devices.” Gabrielle poured out the wine and marched over to him. “You look as pale as the ghost I mistook you to be. Perhaps some wine will at least put a little color back in your face.”

  She forced the glass into his hand, saying sternly, “Here. Drink this.”

  “Yes, milady,” Remy replied, his meekness belied by the glimmer of a smile in his eyes. When he took his first sip, he winced, and for the first time Gabrielle noticed the split in his lip where she had struck him.

  She forgot her cool demeanor in the wake of her remorse. “Oh, lord, Remy. Did I do that to you?” She feathered her fingertips across his lower lip, dismayed to detect a slight swelling as well. “Oh, I—I am so sorry.”

  Although he winced again at her touch and caught her hand, he said, “It is no great matter, my dear. I’ve been dealt far worse blows, but probably none I ever deserved as much. After all you and your sisters did for me, I should have found a way to let you know I was alive.”

  He pressed a light kiss to her fingers. “It was natural that you should be angry with me.”

  Gabrielle’s skin tingled from even so soft a pressure of his lips. She made haste to pull away from him.

  “Natural, perhaps,” she conceded, “but hardly civil, Captain.”

  “Is that what we are doing now, Gabrielle? Being civil to each other?” Remy asked quizzically.

  She thrust up her chin with a determined smile. “Of course. Why should we not be cordial to each other? It has been a long time but we are still friends, are we not?”

  “Yes, friends,” Remy agreed, but the intense look in his eyes belied the word.

  He reached up to tuck a stray wisp of hair back inside her net, his fingers lingering against her cheek. Gabrielle always had marveled how Remy’s hands, so hard and callused, could still be so gentle. His touch was almost a seduction in itself.

  She felt a quiver of warmth rush through her. It was all the fault of that heated embrace they had shared earlier. She had always known it would be a mistake to kiss Nicolas Remy. That one moment of folly had cracked a wall of reserve she had built around her heart for years.

  Gabrielle shied back from his touch, saying nervously, “Unfortunately I—I no longer have the time to spare for old acquaintances that I might wish. My life in Paris is very different from what it was on Faire Isle.”

  “So I have heard,” Remy said. The tender light vanished from his eyes. He took a long swallow of his wine, his brows drawing together in a heavy frown. “What are you doing here in Paris, Gabrielle? So far from your family and your home?”

  It was the question she had been dreading. Her heart missed a beat as she wondered exactly what Remy had heard about her. She had been told that they were taking bets in some of the taverns regarding who her next lover would be.

  But whatever gossip he had gleaned, Gabrielle could tell that Remy didn’t want to believe it. His gaze sought hers as though trying to reassure himself that despite all evidence to the contrary, she was still the innocent girl he always imagined her to be.

  So why not make the truth plain to him and be done with it? Gabrielle’s lips parted but no sound came. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it, speak the words that would disillusion Remy, end any feelings he had for her forever. Damning herself for a coward, Gabrielle evaded his probing gaze. She rustled toward an ornate rectangular table positioned along the wall opposite her bed. The glossy surface was laden with an array of bottles of lotion, jars of cream, and those seductive vials of perfume Cass had brewed for her. She removed the gilded lid from one of the jars and scooped out a dab of cream for keeping her hands as smooth and white as possible.

  “You always knew I longed to get away from Faire Isle, Captain Remy,” she replied at last, working the cream into her skin. “To travel, to experience all the excitement and diversion of some great city.”

  Leaning his broad shoulders up against the wall, Remy positioned himself alongside the table where she could not avoid his eyes. “Yes, but how did you acquire this vast house? Forgive me, but I thought your
family’s fortunes were lost when your father did not return from his voyage of exploration.”

  “So they were.” Gabrielle smoothed cream over her fingertips, hoping their slight tremor did not betray her tension. “This house belongs to or . . . I should say belonged to a woman named Marguerite de Maitland.

  “My father’s mistress,” she added in a flat emotionless tone.

  “His mistress?”

  “Many men have them, Captain Remy,” Gabrielle said tersely.

  “I am aware of that. But I had heard . . . I had always thought—” Remy hesitated, taking another sip of wine.

  “You heard all the stories about the great romance between the gallant Chevalier Louis Cheney and Evangeline, the beautiful lady of Faire Isle.” Gabrielle believed herself long over the hurt of discovering her father’s betrayal. But the old bitterness crept back into her voice. “Unfortunately, that is all they were—just pretty stories. Even while professing devotion to my Maman, my father was keeping this other woman here in Paris, lavishing Madame de Maitland with gowns, jewels, and this house.”

  Remy digested her revelation in thoughtful silence, frowning into his glass. “I still don’t understand what you are doing here, living in the home of such a—a—”

  Remy didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. From his censorious tone, Gabrielle could easily guess what he meant. Such a whore, a trollop, a slut. Although she kept her expression neutral, some part of her flinched, wondering what Remy would call her when he realized she was little different from Marguerite.

  Gabrielle picked up a small stiff brush and doggedly buffed her nails. “After my father was declared dead, Mademoiselle de Maitland experienced some fit of repentance. She determined to retire to a convent. Before she did so, she offered this house and her jewels to my sisters and me.”

  “And you accepted, Gabrielle?” Remy asked gravely. “But did that not seem to you like a betrayal of your mother’s memory?”