Twilight of a Queen (19 page)

Why did he have this unsettled feeling that whatever was in that vial, it was nothing that Ariane had taught this girl to prepare? He frowned, remembering what Queen Catherine had said about Megaera.

“I have already seen evidence of her power. She knows
how to grow deadly roses, how to fashion a knife with a blade so needle-thin, it can deliver poison direct into a man’s veins.”

When Meg extended the vial toward him, Xavier made no move to take it.

“No thank you, my dear. I believe I have had my fill of draughts these past few days.”

“You would rather continue to lie here helpless?”

“I appear to have little choice, unless you claim that vial of yours contains some magic potion.”

“It is not magic. It won’t heal your broken bone any faster, but the draught does have invigorating properties. It will restore your strength.”

She uncorked the vial and held it out, demanding, “Here. Drink it.”

“I think not.”

“It’s not poison if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said as though she had read his thoughts. “I’ll prove it to you.”

She tipped up the vial and took a swallow herself. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she offered the bottle to him, her expression challenging.

Xavier took the vial and sniffed it. The substance had no odor. As he held the bottle, considering, he could well imagine what Pietro would have said to him, the same thing the towering black man had remarked the day Xavier had first ventured to sample the shaman’s potion.

“Your reckless curiosity will be the death of you one day, my friend.”

Xavier hesitated a moment more, then took a cautious sip of Meg’s elixir. It tasted like nothing more than water.
He frowned, wondering if this strange girl was mocking him, having a jest at his expense.

But the next instant an explosion of warmth shot through his veins, unlike anything he had ever experienced even from the most potent of whiskeys.

His senses reeled for a moment, then cleared until he felt more like himself than he had since being cast up on this cursed island.

He moved eagerly to take another swallow, when Meg prevented him. She took the vial and corked it. “You must only take a sip every few hours or the potion can be too strong. It might cause your heart to burst.”

“Thank you for the warning. You might have mentioned that a trifle sooner.”

“I was watching to see how much you drank. I would not have let you die.”

“I am touched, mademoiselle.” Xavier leaned back against the pillows. “But as you said before, you do not know me. Why all this concern for my welfare?”

“Because I want you well enough to leave Faire Isle, the sooner the better. You see, I know why you are here, monsieur, and what you are after.”

Xavier started in surprise but recovered himself, concealing his alarm behind a bland smile.

“How could you possibly know that, mademoiselle? When I am not even sure myself what the devil I am doing here.”

She stared at him. If he had thought the Lady of Faire Isle’s gaze powerful, it was nothing as compared to this girl’s. Meg’s eyes pierced him like a sword, poking and
prodding through the thicket of his mind, attempting to drive all of his fugitive thoughts out of hiding.

Although he repelled the assault, he ran his fingers over his brow, half expecting to find blood trickling from a gaping hole in his forehead.

Meg lowered her lashes, muttering, “Perhaps I cannot tell precisely what you are about, but I foresaw your coming.”

“What? In your dreams?” Xavier asked derisively.

“No, in my scrying glass. I had a vision of a large fierce black cat stalking through the jungle.”

A black cat like the jaguar Xavier transformed into whenever he sank into one of his trances? Once more he struggled to conceal how disconcerted he was by this girl’s perception.

He managed to shrug. “What has some black cat got to do with me?”

“I don’t know.” She glared at him. “I am just certain that there is some connection and—and you had best leave Lady Danvers alone. If you hurt her—”

“Hold, mademoiselle,” Xavier snapped, flinging up one hand to silence her. “What has Jane got to do with anything and why do you fear I would hurt her?”

“Because you are a predator, just like that jungle cat. I think you could be careless and cruel and Jane is my most particular friend. So if you harm her, I vow I will—will lay a curse on you and shrivel up your man parts.”

She added fiercely, “I could really do that.”

“By God, I believe you,” Xavier murmured, resisting the urge to protectively cup his balls.

“Good. Just so long as we understand one another.” Meg dropped the vial on the bed beside him and flounced out of the room.

Xavier slowly released his breath. Any lingering doubts he had had about Meg Wolfe being Megaera were dispelled.

Perhaps Catherine de Medici was not completely mad in her obsession to find this girl. Megaera was, to say the least, unusual and more than a little disconcerting. Small wonder Catherine was willing to pay a queen’s ransom to gain possession of the young sorceress.

Or if not quite a queen’s ransom, at least a tidy sum, enough to restore the fortunes of a destitute seaman who was no longer sure he had a ship to call his own.

Xavier grimaced, disgusted with himself, ashamed of the direction in which his thoughts had strayed. He shoved the small vial beneath his pillow, struggling to thrust the tempting possibility out of his head.

Xavier closed his eyes, his last thought as he drifted off to sleep, the sooner he managed to get himself off this benighted island, the better. For everyone.

THE MIDNIGHT SKY WAS LIT BY FIRE, THE FLAMES SCORCHING A
path through the tiny French settlement. Xavier could feel the heat blistering his skin, sweat trickling into his eyes. He staggered toward the dock where the settlers were scrambling for the safety of the Miribelle, the only escape possible from the oncoming Spanish raiders
.

The night was thick with smoke and confusion. Xavier’s heart beat harder, reverberating with the terrified cries of those who pushed past him. Only his father appeared calm
as he shepherded frantic settlers into the longboats, the chevalier, a heroic beacon amidst all this madness
.

Clutching his leg where he had been grazed by a pistol shot, Xavier limped forward. When he saw his father load the last of the boats, he called out, “Monsieur. Wait!”

But his voice, raw with smoke, came out in a hoarse croak. Xavier watched, stunned, as the last boat was launched, the oars pulling for the safety of the
Miribelle.
The chevalier never even looked back
.

Xavier’s breath escaped him in a mighty sob as he was surrounded by Spanish soldiers. Roughly forced to his knees, his hands were bound behind his back
.

“Papa!”

Xavier jerked, nearly coming up off the bed in his frantic efforts to claw his way out of the dream. He opened his eyes wide to discover his cottage prison darkened by night; a pale moon hung outside his window where the sun had once been.

He sank back, dragging his hand over his damp face to rub out the last vestiges of the nightmare. It had been years since he had been troubled by this particular dream and it had never been quite this vivid before. He wondered if it might be a side effect of young Megaera’s witch’s brew.

He wondered even more uneasily if he had cried out. He had a sinking feeling it might have been the roar of his own voice that had roused him from the dream. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard someone stirring in the next room.

“Merde!”
he muttered. He turned his head toward the door. So which one of his gaolers was about to descend upon him now and could he elude their embarrassing and curious concern by feigning sleep?

A figure appeared on the threshold, haloed by the light of the candle she carried. She looked like something out of a dream herself, the mermaid of his visions, her soft gold hair flowing about her shoulders. But a most sensible and modest mermaid, a dark woolen shawl knotted over her white nightgown.

“Jane!” He sat up, mortified by how eager he sounded.

She hastened to the bedside and held the candle up to look at him.

“What is the matter? I heard you call out. Are you in pain?”

He shielded his eyes from the candlelight. “No, I am fine.”
Now
.

Frowning as though she did not believe him, she set the taper down on the table. She placed her hand upon his brow. Her fingers felt so cool and soothing, he could not help breathing a contented sigh.

Jane’s brow knit in puzzlement. “You do not feel as though you are starting a fever and yet you are damp with sweat.”

“Likely because it is a little warm in here,” he lied. “Madame Bevans insisted upon closing the window.”

Jane went to open it and then returned to retrieve her candle. “There. Do you require anything else?”

“No, only—”

“If you do, I am sleeping on the pallet in the kitchen. You have but to summon me.”

She would have retreated as quickly as she had come if he had not managed to get hold of her arm to prevent her. Although she stiffened at his touch, she did not appear as if she were angry with him, only determined to keep her
distance. The candle’s glow revealed a face that looked pale and tense, shadows beneath her eyes that he feared he had put there with his careless words.

“Jane, I—I am sorry about before,” he faltered. He had had to apologize to this woman so many times; he reflected he ought to be better at it.

“It is no great matter, monsieur. As I told you before, I am not some foolish maiden, to keep fretting over a stolen kiss.”

“Oh, I am not apologizing for that. I like kissing pretty women, have enjoyed it ever since I was breeched.”

He hoped to coax a smile from her. When he didn’t succeed, he continued, “But I do regret alarming you with all my talk of the Spanish armada. I never expected to cause you such distress.”

“Because I am Catholic?” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am also an Englishwoman and you cannot imagine how difficult that has made my life, torn between loyalty to my country and my faith.”

“No, I am afraid I cannot.”

“When I was forced into exile, I thought, well at least I would be able hear the mass without fear of being arrested, that I would find some measure of peace. But now you tell me that England is in danger from Spain and the Inquisition—” She faltered, her lashes sweeping down to veil the moisture in her eyes. “I cannot even pray this war to be averted, for my country’s safe deliverance, without feeling I am committing some sort of sin and needing to do penance.”

Xavier squirmed. He felt he was the last man in the world to advise anyone regarding matters of religion, but he could not bear seeing Jane look so tormented.

“For what an opinion is worth coming from someone who is a bit of a heathen, I don’t think God would object to any prayer for peace and safety. And I am sure you have never done anything in your life that would merit penance.”

Jane blinked back her tears. “That is because you do not know me very well, monsieur.”

“At least I know enough about this Spanish invasion to tell you I don’t think England is in any great peril.”

“No great peril? From an armada the size that you described and Spain the mightiest nation in the world?” Jane shook her head. “As alarmed as I was by what you told me, I value your honesty, far more than you attempting to soothe me with comforting lies.”

“Do you think that I would lie, milady?” Xavier grimaced. “Well, yes, I likely would. I do it all the time, but not in this instance. There are other factors which I would have explained to you if you had not rushed off before.

“Come sit by me and I will tell you.” He shifted, patting the empty space on the bed beside him.

When she hesitated, he added, “I promise I will behave like a gentleman.”

At least as far as I am able
, he was tempted to add as Jane set down the candle and perched on the edge of the bed. But he kept the teasing remark to himself, sensing how little it would take to provoke Jane into flight.

He didn’t even attempt to take her hand as he said, “My father tried to teach me many things and I will admit that not much of it took. But there is one lesson I heeded. The chevalier always said that it is not mighty weapons or even superiority of numbers alone that can determine the
outcome of battle, but rather the courage and skill of the commanders.

“King Philip has placed his fleet in the hands of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. According to reports, the duke actually got down upon his knees and begged not to be appointed admiral of the armada.”

“Is he not a brave man then, this Spanish duke?”

“Oh, quite brave. The duke is a most able commander, but on
land
. He knows little of naval warfare. In fact, I have heard that His Grace cannot set foot on board ship without becoming miserably seasick.”

“Truly?” Jane tilted her head to one side, clearly wanting to believe him, but uncertain.

“Upon my honor, that is what I have heard. And this is the man who will be facing such formidable captains as John Hawkins and Francis Drake? Pah, the duke doesn’t stand a chance. I sailed with Drake for nearly a year and I never met a more able seaman or a fiercer fighter.”