Twilight of a Queen (29 page)

Well, he had made her no idle promise when he had sworn he would not forsake her. Not after the way his own father had denied and abandoned him. That was a pain he would not wittingly ever inflict upon his own flesh and blood.

If Jane was with child by him, then so be it. He would be obliged to marry her even if he was convinced he would make her the very devil of a husband.

Husband … father
. The mere words were enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. He would have felt less fear facing all the holy monks of the Spanish Inquisition. But there was time enough to deal with all his qualms about an event that might never happen.

Shielding his eyes from the sun reflecting off the water, Xavier focused on the harbor instead. He scanned the gangplank and the dockside, hoping for the return of the messenger Ariane had dispatched to the mainland to make enquiries after the
Mirabelle
.

Xavier froze when a sight met his eyes, far more welcome than any messenger—a tall dignified man, his ebony skin and powerful physique garnering stares, even from dockworkers accustomed to encountering seafarers from many lands.

The man strode toward the dockside inn, accompanied by a disreputable-looking old sea dog, stumping along on one wooden leg.

Relief surged through Xavier, accompanied by a stronger emotion that thickened his voice as he called out, “Pietro. Jambe!”

The pair stopped beneath the swaying inn sign and turned. Pietro’s face lit up, his teeth flashing against his dark skin. Jambe flushed, so excited he lost his balance and would have fallen but for Pietro’s steadying arm.

Xavier started forward and they met midway. Pietro seized him in a rib-cracking hug, half-lifting him off his feet. Jambe contented himself with some vigorous backslapping
that jarred Xavier’s injured arm, but he was too elated to care.

He retaliated with some playful cuffs of his own until he realized they were attracting a good deal of notice. The three of them drew apart, adopting gruffer stances. Jambe attempted to glower at Xavier but was unable to conceal his grin.

“Damn your eyes, lad, but you gave us a fright,” he said, the old man blinking away some suspicious moisture from his own eyes. “We had given you up for dead until that boy turned up from Faire Isle asking about the
Miribelle.”

“I had nearly given up on you as well.” Xavier smiled. “But I should have known you two were too ornery to drown. Especially you, old man. But what of the rest of the crew? And what of my lady?”

Pietro and Jambe sobered, exchanging a look that did not bode well.

“We’d best head on inside, Captain,” Jambe said, jerking his head in the direction of the inn. “I think you might be wanting some strong drink.”

THE PASSING STRANGER SAT AT THE MOUTH OF THE HARBOR
, the only male bastion on an island inhabited mostly by women. Of a summer evening the taproom was crowded with fishermen, sailors, and peddlers from the mainland, the drone of masculine voices interspersed with outbursts of raucous laughter.

Much as he had learned to value the friendship of the ladies of Faire Isle, Xavier often frequented the Passing
Stranger for an evening, seeking more than tidings of his lost ship. He found it a relief to be back among his own kind, companions who required little conversation from him beyond a grunt and who were not forever insisting he share his feelings.

Not that his quiet Jane made many demands upon him. No, it was those wistful eyes of hers that did all the asking.

At this hour of the morning, the taproom was empty save for the table Xavier shared with Jambe and Pietro. Phillipe, the inn’s current landlord, had served up a bottle of Ma deira for Pietro’s more refined palate. The innkeeper had presented Jambe with a tankard of ale he had recently purchased from a Portsmouth captain.

England’s finest brew, Phillipe had boasted. Piss water had been Jambe’s gloomy assessment, but he drank it anyway. Xavier sprawled in his chair, a large glass of whiskey in front of him.

He had rendered his companions a brief and highly expurgated version of his own adventures since the night of the storm. Jambe and Pietro had nodded, making few comments.

Xavier drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “All right. Now you know what happened to me. So quit stalling. Tell me about my ship.”

Jambe sighed and swilled some ale. “Well, it was a bloody miracle we rode out the storm. But the wind shifted, driving us away from Faire Isle back toward the mainland. We ran aground along the Breton coast.”

“You know how treacherous those reefs can be, especially near St. Malo,” Pietro put in.

“We expected to break up or capsize, but God bless
her, somehow the
Miribelle
remained afloat. We considered ourselves damned fortunate until first light, when our luck ran out.”

Jambe took another swallow, pulling a sour face. “We were hit by scavengers, Captain. A pack of Breton fishermen who considered our cargo fair game.”

“Some of the men tried to fight them off,” Pietro said. “But we were exhausted and there were too damned many of them. The vultures stripped the holds bare.”

Jambe slammed his tankard down, quivering with outrage. “One villain even tried to make off with the Sea Beggar, but he escaped and flew back to me first chance he got, the clever lad.”

“We did manage to salvage your clothes, charts, and books,” Pietro continued. “Father Bernard is keeping your belongings and the Sea Beggar safe at a monastery outside of St. Malo.”

Xavier could find little humor in any of this but he managed a grim smile. “Considering the Sea Beggar’s vocabulary, that ought to be interesting.”

Jambe sniffed. “That wretched priest will probably try to teach my poor Beggar to recite the paternoster.”

“Many of the crew believed that it was Father Bernard’s paternosters that saved us,” Pietro said.

“That and the fact that their devil of a captain was washed overboard.”

“Jambe!” Pietro cast him a reproving scowl.

“Well, it’s true.” Jambe offered Xavier an apologetic grin. “Partly your own fault, Captain. It always amused you to let them think you were some kind of sorcerer. You know what a superstitious lot sailors can be.”

The old man drained his tankard and signaled for more ale. “Anyway, the disloyal dogs have all dispersed, seeking out berths on other ships. Me and Pietro are all that’s left of the
Miribelle’s
crew.”

“And the
Miribelle
herself?”

“I reckon whatever is left of her has broken up on the rocks by now, been dragged out to sea.”

Xavier’s fingers tightened on his glass. Set against the lives of men he valued, the
Miribelle
was nothing. It was wrong to grieve for a ship and yet he did, pained by the thought of his lady reduced to one of those wrecks that passersby paused to gawk at, eroded by wind and surf until nothing remained but driftwood, perhaps a spar sticking up out of the sand.

The
Miribelle
had served him well over the years. His lady had deserved a far more gallant end. Xavier would have sooner seen her sunk to the bottom of the sea or set fire to her decks himself.

He tossed down his whiskey in one swallow, the fiery liquid doing little to ease the hollow ache inside of him. A heavy silence settled over the table. Pietro sipped his Madeira while Jambe delved into the small leather sack tied to his belt.

“I saved this for you too, Captain. Thought you might be wanting it about now.”

Pietro sucked in his breath with a furious hiss of disapproval and Xavier soon realized why. Jambe slid an object across the table to Xavier, the leather flask that contained his shaman’s brew.

When Xavier regarded his first mate questioningly, the old man scratched his grizzled beard. “I just thought maybe
you might want to conjure up one of those visions of yours. It might help us decide what to do now.”

“The captain has no need of that devil’s brew to guide his course.” Pietro scowled, his hand twitching as though he would seize the flask, but Xavier’s fingers closed around it first.

He stared down at the flask, frowning. He had resolved to have nothing more to do with the vine of the spirits, blaming the potion for dulling his wits the night of the storm. If his head had been clear, perhaps events might have transpired differently. And perhaps not.

He experienced the same old temptation he always did when he felt pained or overwhelmed, to lose himself in the splendors of his dream world. Seldom had he had more cause to want to escape. Discounting the time he had been a prisoner of the Spanish, his fortunes had never been at a lower ebb.

Glancing up, he met Pietro’s troubled gaze.

“You don’t need that stuff, Captain,” he repeated.

Xavier tucked the flask inside his doublet. “I am hardly much of a captain with no ship and no crew.”

Jambe bristled. “What do we look like? Your maiden aunts?”

“As always, we follow you, Captain,” Pietro said.

“Follow me where?” Xavier retorted bitterly. “My prospects appear a trifle dim at the moment.”

“Far better than when we thought you were dead,” Jambe retorted.

“I am glad my sister’s messenger found you and I appreciate your seeking me out but—”

“Your
sister?”
Jambe echoed. He and Pietro exchanged a look.

“Yes, my sister, Ariane, the Lady of Faire Isle.” He glared at his men, daring either of them to make something of it.

Pietro’s disapproving expression vanished. The flask for the moment forgotten, the Cimmarone smiled at him. “So you have owned your kinship at long last. I think it a fine thing that you made your peace with your sister.”

“It’s always a fine thing to be on the good side of a witch,” Jambe muttered.

“Don’t call her that!” Xavier snapped.

“Sorry, but you must have some scheme in mind, Captain. Sister or no sister, why else would you have lingered here on this miserable island so long?” Jambe leaned forward and whispered. “Does it have anything to do with that other witch?”

Xavier stiffened. “Jane is no witch either, damn you!”

“Jane? Who said anything about any wench named Jane?” Jambe demanded, looking bewildered.

“No one.” Xavier grimaced, hoping he did not look too self-conscious. He concealed his embarrassment by reaching for more whiskey.

“I was talking about that other chit, the one that the queen wanted you to find. That—that Maria.”

“Megaera,” Pietro corrected.

“Yes, that’s the one. Did you find her?”

“What if I did?” Xavier retorted.

“Then it seems to me we have the solution to our difficulties. Just fetch that girl back to the queen—”

“I’ll have no part in abducting an innocent young girl,” Pietro said.

Jambe frowned at him. “From what the queen said, this girl is not all that innocent.”

No, Meg wasn’t. Xavier had felt uneasy ever since Ariane had named the girl as her successor, certain that his sister was only letting herself and her small island realm in for a world of trouble. Especially if Queen Catherine should get wind of the appointment.

Ariane had sworn all those who had attended the council to secrecy until Catherine was in her grave. Considering the queen’s age and failing health, that could surely not be long. But Xavier put little faith in the ability of women to hold their tongues.

As Catherine drew nearer to the end of her life, the woman was bound to wax more desperate. Perhaps she would even dispense with her customary subtlety and send a mounted troop to tear the island apart.

Both he and Megaera presented a danger to Faire Isle. Might it not be better for everyone if they were gone, if Xavier fetched Meg to the queen himself? He would do it more gently and perhaps he could convince Catherine that the girl was really of no use to her. She’d release Meg and the girl would finally be free of any further threat from the Dark Queen.

Xavier vented a self-disgusted sigh. Or perhaps he was merely inventing noble excuses to disguise the baser reason behind his temptation—the reward.

He recollected the promise he had made to young Dominique when the boy had lay dying after the attack on the
Spanish vessel. Xavier had sworn to the lad that he would see that the boy’s mother and sister were looked after from the proceeds of the sale of the cargo. But it was a pledge he could no longer redeem.

And what of Jane and the possibility of their unborn child? At the moment all he could offer her was a name stained with infamy.

Even if he was entitled to call himself Louis Xavier Cheney instead of the Jaguar, what would it matter? A respectable name in itself could not put a roof over a woman’s head or food on her table.

Handing Meg over to the Dark Queen would certainly be the most direct path to recoup his fortunes. Except Jane would never forgive him. She’d likely curse him for it, but she wouldn’t have to. He’d damn himself every time he looked in the mirror.

Banishing the ugly temptation from his mind, Xavier shook his head. “No, even if the girl proves to be the most dangerous sorceress this side of hell, I won’t use her to fill my coffers.”

“But Captain—”