Twilight of a Queen Page 26

  He eyed the half-empty bottle morosely, unable to summon the will to refill his glass. It was poor quality whiskey, especially with the taste of it soured by alternating bouts of self-pity and self-loathing.

  Only yesterday he had been a brother, an uncle, and very close to becoming a husband and father. Now he was nothing, alone again and a fugitive to boot. But he had only himself to blame.

  Pietro had tried to warn him. He could not cheat a vengeful woman like Catherine de Medici and expect to remain unscathed.

  There had been a time when he would have laughed to hear that someone had put a price on his head. He was after all a corsair and had never lived within the confines of the law. He would have thumbed his nose at the queen and set sail far across the ocean, beyond the line of civilization, and never looked back.

  But for the first time, he had weighed anchor in a place that felt akin to home, surrounded by the warmth and the love of family. To his complete amazement, he had liked it.

  He should have told them all about his connection with Catherine de Medici. But as the days had gone by and he had become enmeshed on the island, it had become harder to blurt out such a confession. That he had not done so made him look guilty. But damn it, did they all have to be so quick to think the worst of him? Although he didn’t know what else he should have expected. His father had always been swift to do so.

  But nothing had ever cut him as deep as that moment when he had watched Jane shrink away from him. And yet how could he blame her? He had brought her nothing but trouble. He hoped to hell that she was not with child. But even if she was, she was still better off without him. She certainly seemed to think so.

  She would likely forget him fast enough after she went to wait upon her cousin in Paris, doing her duty, burying herself back in the respectable life she seemed to crave.

  And as for himself… Xavier attempted to shrug but ended up taking another gulp of whiskey instead in an effort to blot out those last moments with Jane in the garden.

  “There is nothing to hold you here,” she had said.

  Then why did he feel so damned hollow, as though he’d cut out his heart and left it behind on Faire Isle? Before he had met Jane, he had never even thought he had a heart, other than some organ that beat out regular rhythms keeping him alive.

  Now all he felt inside his chest was this heavy weight of loss and guilt. Jane had tried to appear so calm, so stoic when she had bid him farewell, but her eyes had told him a different story and Jane’s eyes never lied. He knew he had hurt her deeply, just as Meg had predicted that he would.

  And Meg—what had his deception done to her? The girl did not trust easily. Xavier understood that because he was just the same. He had promised the girl that she would be safe from the Dark Queen. But hadn’t he always been good at weaving lies and making rash promises he was unable to keep? He took another swallow of his whiskey, diving deeper into his glass. As always when he was at his lowest ebb, his father’s censorious voice rang loudest in his head.

  “I have done my best to teach you the ways of a gentleman. But that glib tongue of yours will be your undoing one day. You have an unholy talent for deception, especially with women, and I have no idea how you came by it.”

  “Don’t you?” Xavier had drawled. “I would have to say I came by it naturally, mon père.”

  The chevalier had backhanded him so hard, he had fallen off his stool. Xavier rubbed his cheek absently at the memory. It was the only time he could recall his father striking him. The chevalier had raised quite a bruise on his cheek, but Xavier had enjoyed the dubious satisfaction of having pierced through his father’s self-righteous façade.

  The chevalier had divided himself in twain, pledging devotion to two different women. When he had no longer been able to deal with all the heartbreak he had caused, he had simply fled across the seas.

  Xavier’s reasons might be different but he was about to do the same thing, just run away. His lip curled in self-derision and he raised his glass in a mock salute.

  “Here’s to you, Papa,” he muttered. “No matter what you claimed, it would appear that I am your son after all.”

  Xavier started to take another swallow of his whiskey, only to thrust it away from him. He regretted pouring out his shaman’s brew. If there had ever been a time when he needed to vanish into his dream world, this was it. It was the only hope he ever had of seeing Jane again, the elusive mermaid of his visions.

  All he had was that healing potion Meg had given him. He drew it out, staring glumly at the small vial.

  Disillusioned and disappointed in him, Jane would go to her cousin in Paris, his little wren slamming her cage door shut. Meg would return to living in fear of the old queen, more mistrustful that ever, more tempted to turn to the darker side of magic for answers.

  Damn it. He could not just sail away and abandon them. He needed to stop feeling so sorry for himself and find some way to undo the damage he had wrought. But what the devil could he do?

  He fingered the vial Meg had given him, holding it up to the candle. Perhaps it was the way the flame reflected against the glass that sparked something in his brain. An idea formed in his mind. A notion so outrageous, so completely mad, it was enough to daunt even him.

  Staring at the vial as if mesmerized, he scarce looked up when Jambe and Pietro returned.

  Dropping into the seat opposite him, Jambe said, “It is all arranged. We found a small trading vessel making for Portsmouth at first light. The captain said we can work off our passage.”

  “That sounds fine. You and Pietro go ahead,” Xavier murmured. “I have other plans.”

  “Other plans?” Jambe echoed. “Lad, you may soon have the queen’s men scouring the entire coast. What better plan could you have than getting out of France?”

  “If the queen has a price on my head and is searching for me, there is only one place for me to go.”

  “And where would that be?”

  “Back to Paris, to the Hôtel de la Reine.”

  Jambe and Pietro gaped at him.

  “You don’t look drunk. But it’s clear you’ve had a drop too much.” Jambe snatched his whiskey bottle away.

  “Have you run mad, Captain?” Pietro exclaimed. “Why would you want to do a fool thing like that?”

  Xavier flung back his head and laughed. If his men were worried for his sanity he was certain he must confirm their worst fears when he grinned.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  JANE FOLDED UP ONE OF HER CHEMISES AND LAID IT CAREFULLY in the bottom of her trunk. When she had been Lady Danvers, wife to a wealthy London merchant, preparing for a journey had been an exhausting ordeal, packing a mountain of clothes and household items, organizing an entire retinue of servants.

  Traveling was much simpler when one had more memories than possessions to stow in one’s trunk. She followed up the chemise with a petticoat, a shawl, and her handkerchiefs.

  One of the squares of linen slipped from the pile and fell, scattering a trail of dried petals across the bedchamber floor. Jane froze, staring down at the remnants of a white rose as she was assailed by a recollection.

  Last week … had it only been last week, it felt like a lifetime ago, she had been sitting in the garden, virtuously attempting to see to some mending. Xavier had been doing his best to distract her, snatching the net from her hair, playfully tucking the flower behind her ear.

  Somehow her stitching had ended up in the rose bed and she had found herself perched upon Xavier’s knee, her arms twined round his neck and …

  Jane bent down to sweep up the petals, doing her best to sweep the memory aside as well. She cradled the withered remnants in her palm. The rose still managed to exude its intoxicating scent and for one weak moment she was tempted to carefully tuck the dried leaves back into the handkerchief.

  She marched resolutely to the window and flung them out, dusting her hands. But as the petals were borne away on the summer breeze, she was engulfed by an unb
earable wave of sadness.

  It would get easier when she was in Paris, she told herself. She would no longer stumble over memories of Xavier everywhere she turned. She would not listen for the rough timbre of his voice, spellbinding her with tales of his travels, all the adventures she would never have. She wouldn’t glance up from her book when anyone entered the room, anticipating the sight of his teasing smile, her heart quickening at the prospect of his warm touch, the feel of his lips on hers.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could somehow be magically transported to Paris, the painful wrench from Faire Isle already accomplished. She had spent last evening paying calls, bidding farewell to friends that she had made on the island.

  It had been melancholy saying good-bye to Madame Bevans, to old Agatha Butterydoor, to Carole Moreau, and the little Remy girls. Even Seraphine’s eyes had gotten suspiciously moist as she had bestowed upon Jane a fierce hug.

  Ariane’s face had been filled with sorrow when Jane had spoken of her intention of removing to Paris. But the Lady had made no attempt to dissuade Jane. As regretful as Ariane was, she appeared to understand why Jane felt obliged to go. Jane was not as sure about Meg. The girl had scarce spoken two words to her since Jane had announced her imminent departure.

  When Jane turned from the window to continue her packing, she was brought up short by the sight of Meg standing in the open doorway of her bedchamber.

  “Meg, you—you startled me.”

  “I knocked. You didn’t hear me.”

  “I am sorry. I fear I was preoccupied.”

  “Simon sent me to ask if your trunk is ready to be carried down and loaded on the cart.”

  “Almost.” Jane snatched up one of her gowns and hastily began to fold it. Meg leaned against the doorjamb, watching her.

  “Monsieur Aristide has been so kind, arranging all the details of the journey. He and Miri are returning to their farm outside of Paris. I will accompany them and rest there for a night and the next day Monsieur Aristide will escort me the rest of the way to my cousin.” Jane chattered, trying to sound brisk and cheerful in the face of Meg’s stony silence.

  She studied the girl out of the corner of her eye, wishing she had an inkling of what was going on in Meg’s head. Something had hardened in the girl’s eyes since the revelations about Xavier. It was as though Meg had constructed an invisible wall about herself that could not be breached.

  Jane paused, hugging the folded gown to her chest. She said gently, “I won’t be gone forever, Meg. I will come back to Faire Isle as soon as I am able.”

  “No, you won’t. You never really liked it here. At least not until he came.”

  It was the first time Meg had alluded to Xavier since his departure. Jane laid the gown in the trunk. She longed to reach out to Meg, gather the girl into her arms, but the look on Meg’s face warned her not even to make the attempt.

  “Meg, I—I know that Xavier’s confession about being employed by the Dark Queen shocked and hurt you. But I believe him when he said he never meant you any harm.”

  Meg’s only response was an incredulous lift of her brows.

  “Only consider. If Xavier had wanted to abduct you, he had plenty of opportunity to do so.”

  “Maybe he was just biding his time, studying the island. Maybe even now, he has scurried like a lapdog back to his mistress to report to her, to return here with a troop of soldiers.”

  “Xavier wouldn’t do that.”

  “How do you know that?” the girl demanded scornfully. “You have no ability to read eyes.”

  “No, I don’t.” But Jane felt she had come closer to understanding Xavier than anyone. Flawed the man might be, reckless to a fault, but he did have his own code of honor. But she could not expect to convince Meg of that.

  Instead she said, “Think about it logically. Xavier cannot return to the queen. She is hunting for him too. He left Faire Isle to prevent her soldiers from coming here, putting us all in danger.”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Meg broke off, biting her lip. At least Jane had succeeded in provoking some sort of reaction from the girl. Stomping past Jane, Meg took an agitated turn about the bedchamber.

  “Xavier never thought about anything but himself. His lies were exposed so he tore off out of here to save his own skin.” She rounded on Jane, flinging her hands up in exasperation. “How can you keep defending him? After the way he seduced and abandoned you?”

  Jane’s cheeks fired. “He—he didn’t—”

  “Don’t tell me that. I can read it all in your eyes, Jane. He broke your heart.”

  “If Xavier hurt me, it is more my doing than his. He never made me any false promises. He never once said that he loved me.”

  “Then that’s at least one thing the man didn’t lie about. How noble,” Meg said. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Jane. But someone is going to hand me over to the queen’s soldiers. I saw it all happen in my crystal. If it is not Xavier, who else could it be?”

  “You rely too much upon those visions, Meg.”

  “Do I? Maybe it is because my crystal was the only thing that I ever could trust.”

  Meg flounced over to the window, locking her arms across her chest and lapsing back into a brooding silence. Jane ached for her. The girl had always seemed too mature for her years and she appeared to have aged to a frightening degree these past few days.

  She felt as though she was abandoning Meg by going to Paris. But she had never been adequate to deal with Meg’s visions. Even if she stayed, she knew that Meg would continue to shut her out. There was only one person who could help Meg now.

  Approaching the girl, Jane touched her tentatively on the shoulder. “You can always trust Ariane, Meg. She will look after you, keep you safe.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Meg managed a taut-lipped smile. “You needn’t worry about me, Jane. I can look out for myself.”

  She looked and sounded so much like Xavier in that moment, Jane was torn between the urge to laugh or cry. She embraced Meg, but the girl remained so stiff and unresponsive, Jane was obliged to give over the attempt.

  She returned sorrowfully to her packing. Meg went back to staring out the window to block out the sight, determined not to feel any grief over Jane’s departure. She was so angry at Jane for being so blind, loving Xavier, defending him.

  But Meg was even angrier at herself for trusting Xavier, giving him the power to hurt and disappoint her. She supposed she ought to be grateful to the man for snapping her out of the dream world she had been living in, imagining that she could bury her past, shake off her dark legacy as the Silver Rose.

  He had demonstrated all too clearly that the Dark Queen had not forgotten about her, that somehow the old witch had figured out Meg’s secret, that the Book of Shadows was still lodged in the recesses of her memory.

  If the queen could not have the book, she would never rest until she gained possession of Meg herself. Even though Xavier had failed, Catherine would simply send someone else even more ruthless. The queen was relentless and she would not care who else she hurt and destroyed in the process. Meg and everyone she loved would remain in danger.

  There was only one way this could end. The crystal had shown Meg that time and time again. She just hadn’t wanted to accept it. There was only one solution, only one way Meg would ever know peace from the threat of the Dark Queen.

  And that was only when one of them was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE SUN BEAT DOWN UPON THE STREETS OF PARIS. IT WAS not even noon and Xavier was already sweating beneath the trappings of his disguise, the beard that he had grown to conceal his features, the large soft-brimmed hat and the boot-length cloak.

  As he approached the Hôtel de la Reine, he longed to remove his hat long enough to mop his brow, but he did not dare. Not yet.

  It was a miracle he had made it this far. The journey to Paris had taken him far longer than he had expected, constantly having to change routes to
avoid patrols, any beady-eyed official or miscreant rogue who might be anxious to claim the reward for Xavier’s capture.

  He had been further daunted by the number of troops ringing the city itself, keeping careful watch over the city gates. But a conversation he’d overheard between two of the sentries had led Xavier to an embarrassing discovery.

  All of these troops had been posted to counter the duc de Guise, should the duke and his army decide to defy the king and try to enter Paris.

  Xavier’s mouth twisted wryly. It was a bit of a blow to his self-importance to realize that the Jaguar was of little significance compared to a possible invasion. He might have had a good laugh at his own vanity, but the more Xavier saw of the current state of Paris, the less humor he could find in the situation.

  If he had thought Paris a city on edge last autumn, he now found the tension here as unbearable as the heat. Everywhere he looked he saw resentful, unsmiling faces. Tempers were short, voices rough, and glances suspicious. Quarrels seemed to break out over nothing, violence ready to erupt if a man breathed the wrong way.

  Xavier only hoped that Jane had thought better of her plan to come to Paris. He intended to make enquiries, see if he could find her cousin’s residence. It would relieve his mind greatly to discover that Jane had remained on Faire Isle, but knowing the woman’s infernal sense of duty, he doubted it. If Jane was here in the city, likely she would not be too pleased to see him. But at least Xavier would be able to ascertain if she was all right.

  That is, if he didn’t find himself dangling from a rope on a gibbet first.

  Xavier slowed his pace as his steps brought him nearer to the Dark Queen’s palace. If he had any sense at all, he would change his mind and beat a swift retreat. There were far too many ways in which this mad scheme of his could go awry.

  Jambe and Pietro had nearly deafened him on the journey to Paris with their ceaseless efforts to dissuade him. But they had had no more luck than he had, trying to persuade them to turn back. They had remained as stubborn as he. By the time they had passed through the city gates, they had all been hot, weary, and as bad-tempered as the rest of Paris.