The Courtesan (31 page)

“Dev,” Remy choked.

The dead man’s eyes flew open to stare accusingly at Remy. “Why didn’t you save us? You should have saved us. You are our Scourge.”

“Dev, I—I am sorry. I lost my sword. I—” Remy clutched at Devereaux’s hand. But the man’s flesh melted away until Remy gripped nothing but skeletal fingers.

Remy recoiled, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he heard the tramp of feet, the strike of boots against stone. They were coming for him now, the demon army that had murdered his people. And he had no armor, no weapon. He braced himself.

But only one man emerged from the ashy shadows at the end of the street. Tall and powerful, his features were obscured beneath the half-visor of a steel helmet, his tunic and hands soaked in blood. The demon bore down upon Remy, a cold smile curling his lips. He raised one bloodstained hand toward the visor, preparing to shove it back and reveal the rest of his hideous features.

“No!” Remy tried to escape, not wanting to see. But he was held fast by soft warm hands, the voice of an angel calling to him from some far-off place . . .

“Remy! Remy.”

Gabrielle hovered over him, not wanting to make things worse by brutally snapping Remy awake. She shook his shoulder gently, called his name in soothing tones, but to no avail. Remy thrashed on his pillow, ranting about lost swords and demons. Gabrielle took his face firmly between her hands, straining to hold him still.

“Remy!
Wake up.
”

With a loud roar, Remy opened his eyes. He surged upward and launched himself at Gabrielle, her straw hat flying off her head. Before she could draw another breath, he had her pinned beneath him on the bed, his muscular body bearing down upon her.

Damp strands of hair tangled across his eyes, his expression so wild, Gabrielle’s throat clogged with fear. Remy growled, drawing back his fist.

“No! Remy,” Gabrielle cried. “S-stop. It’s me.”

She flinched, bracing herself for the blow. Remy checked his hand, bare inches from her face. Blinking in confusion, his gaze traveled from her to the gloom-ridden surroundings of the bedchamber.

“Gabrielle? W-wha—”

“You were having a nightmare.” She wriggled one arm free. With trembling fingers, she stroked the hair back from his brow. “Only a nightmare.”

Panting, he shifted his gaze back to her. She thought herself familiar with all of Remy’s expressions, proud, stern, tender, even the darkness of his temper. But never had she seen this strong, silent man look so broken and vulnerable. Gabrielle wrapped her arms around him, drawing his head to her shoulder. He buried his face against her neck, his breath still ragged.

“It’s all right,” she crooned, seeking to comfort him as she would have her little sister, Miri, who was frequently prey to bad dreams. Gabrielle caressed the back of his head, burying her lips in his hair.

“It’s all over and I am here,” she murmured. “Just hold on to me.”

His arms closed so tight about her, Gabrielle thought she would be crushed to the very bone. But she hugged him just as fiercely until she felt the mad race of his heart begin to slow. She stroked her fingers down the curve of his spine, over his warm, bare skin, trying to ease the tension she felt in the taut muscles of his back. As her hand trailed lower, she was startled by a fact that had escaped her before.

Remy was completely naked.

Muttering something incoherent, he levered himself off her. Springing from the bed, he groped about the floor until he found a pair of breeches. Gabrielle struggled up more slowly, trying to do the modest thing and avert her eyes. She had had many lovers and never any desire to look at any of them.

But their bodies had been weak and soft compared to the hard frame of a man who had spent his life soldiering. Remy had his back to her as he eased the fabric up over his sinewy thighs and the taut curve of his buttocks. Gabrielle could not help staring.

Remy darted a furtive look back at her. He finished doing up his breeches, then stalked over to the washstand, splashing so much water over his face, it was as if the man was trying to drown himself. Slicking back his hair, he wrenched the shutter open, letting the morning breeze play over his face and bare chest.

The eruption of sunlight into the room caused Gabrielle to blink. She shaded her eyes with her hand to peer at Remy. He braced one arm against the window frame, his face half-averted from her, but she noted the dark stain of red that began at his neck and crept all the way up into his cheeks.

An awkward silence ensued and Gabrielle sought for something to say. She was supposed to be capable of coming up with a witty rejoinder to cover any situation. Not just sit here, blushing like some foolish virgin.

Nervously twisting one strand of her hair, she said, “G-goodness, Remy, there is no need to be so embarrassed. It is not as though I have never seen a man naked before.”

She winced as soon as the words were out of her mouth, realizing that was not the best thing to remind him.

“I know that,” he replied. “And it is not as though I have that much modesty. It wasn’t you seeing me naked that bothers me. It was . . . the other thing.”

“What other—” Gabrielle began, only to break off as the realization struck her. It was her bearing witness to his vulnerability in the wake of his nightmare. That was what shamed Nicolas Remy to the depths of his proud warrior’s soul.

She understood all too well that raw feeling that came from exposing too much of one’s heart to a stranger. But she wasn’t a stranger. Despite everything that divided them, she was still very much his friend. Gabrielle followed him to the window. He tensed at her approach, presenting her with the rigid line of his back.

She rested one hand on Remy’s shoulder with a gentleness she rarely displayed. “Remy, everyone has bad dreams.”

“Soldiers don’t.” He added, in a voice laced with self-disgust, “At least if they do, they are not supposed to quake like a mewling boy.”

“No one would ever mistake you for a boy.” Gabrielle tugged at his arm, coaxed him round to face her. Remy shifted reluctantly and Gabrielle’s breath caught in her throat, the sunlight revealing to her what she had not noticed before.

Remy’s chest was a mass of scars, some only faint streaks, others jagged lines of white flesh that marred the smooth surface of his skin. Gabrielle clapped her hand to her mouth to smother her cry of horror.

Remy’s mouth tightened, but he attempted to jest. “Not a pretty sight, is it? I expect I look a lot better from the rear. If you’ll just hand me my shirt?”

Gabrielle scarcely heard his request. Remy was a man who’d fought in many battles and he’d always borne a few scars to prove it. But nothing like this. She traced the outline of one that was crueler than the rest, a harsh ridge that began at his shoulder and ended perilously near the region of his heart. She was able to picture too clearly the sword that had left this harsh mark upon him, tearing through skin and muscle. She could almost feel the cold sharp bite of the weapon piercing her own shoulder.

“Oh, Remy,” Gabrielle whispered, splaying her fingers over his chest, needing to feel the strong reassuring beat of his heart.

“It’s nothing to get so distressed about, my dear,” he said gruffly. “Just marks from a few old wounds.”

“The scars are from that night, aren’t they? St. Bartholomew’s Eve. And that is what you were dreaming about.”

“Perhaps. I don’t remember my dreams after I wake.”

He was lying. The memory of that nightmare was still etched in the lines that bracketed his mouth, in the shadows that haunted his eyes.

“You kept muttering something about a demon. A man whose face was hidden from you. A man you didn’t want to see. Who was it?”

“I have no idea. It was only a dream, a foolish dream.”

“But—”

“Just forget about it.”

Gabrielle recognized the note of finality in his voice, like a door being slammed closed in her face, because she had done it so often herself, fiercely guarding the raw places in her heart. She had just never experienced before how hard it was to be the one shut out.

She caressed his chest with both hands as though somehow she could rub out the scars, smooth away the painful memories as well. Remy’s flesh quivered as she continued her reckless exploration, becoming less aware of the scars and more aware of the man, the bold contours of his chest and arms, the powerful sculpting of muscle, the fine dusting of golden hair that disappeared beneath the band of his breeches.

She heard Remy’s breath quicken, realized the heat that surged into his face no longer had anything to do with embarrassment.

“I could take him to my bed, seduce him,”
she had told Catherine.

Gabrielle was dismayed to realize it had not been an empty boast. How easy it would be to carry out that pledge, the more so because Gabrielle wanted Nicolas Remy in a way she had no man for a long time. Perhaps ever. The thought filled her with the familiar panic, made her afraid to meet his eyes.

She forced herself to do so and discovered him staring at her, the faint stubble of beard that roughened his jaw making him look lean and dangerous. But it was his dark, brooding expression that took her aback. His arousal was readily apparent but tempered with wariness.

He seized hold of her wrists and held her hands away from his chest, demanding, “What are you doing here this morning, Gabrielle? And how did you get in?”

This was hardly the greeting she had anticipated after helping Remy to see Navarre last night. She didn’t expect Remy to be grateful, but she thought they had reached a truce of sorts, that Remy might have come to trust her a little. Although—she wincedas she remembered the bargain she’d made with Catherine—there was not the least reason why he should.

Gabrielle yanked her hands free, whipping them almost guiltily behind her back. “I came in as one usually does, through the door. The door that you failed to lock.”

“I did lock the damned thing, but it’s broken. It doesn’t always catch.”

“Then I suggest you have it fixed. Because I noticed you haven’t asked me the most important question yet.”

“And that would be . . .”

“How did I know how to find you?”

“How did you?”

“Catherine very kindly furnished me with your address, even the false name you used to rent your lodgings. She had you followed when you left the palace last night.”

Remy received Gabrielle’s information with astonishing aplomb, his agitation only betrayed by the muscle that tightened in his jaw. Retrieving a discarded shirt, he dragged the white linen over his head.

“Then the Dark Queen knows—”

“Pretty damned near everything,” Gabrielle told him tersely. “She had us spied upon and is fully aware of the little meeting I arranged for you with Navarre.”

Remy eased his arms into the sleeves and then shrugged. After the hellish night she had spent fretting over him, terrified for his life, the man’s calm was maddening. Storming in front of him, Gabrielle placed her hands on the flat of her hips. “Remy! Did you hear what I am telling you? Catherine
knows.
You can’t risk staying here in Paris another day. It would be better if you were miles away from here.”

“Better for who?” Remy retorted. “If the Dark Queen knows everything, then why am I not dead? Or at least arrested. And you too.”

Because I pledged my soul to the woman and yours as well.

“I—I am not really sure,” Gabrielle hedged. “I believe I managed to convince her that you no longer pose a threat to her interests.”

“That must have taken some damned clever convincing.” Remy eyed her suspiciously. “Exactly how did you manage to do that?”

“I am a good liar. Besides, if she martyred you a second time, it would only add fuel to tensions between the Catholics and Huguenots. Catherine is finding civil war a costly business. She will likely want you back at court where she can keep an eye on you. You will be safe enough, but only for the moment.”

As long as she convinced the Dark Queen that she had Nicolas Remy under her spell, beneath her control and in her bed. But Gabrielle could well imagine Remy’s reaction if she told him that.

Instead she stretched one hand out to him in a pleading gesture. “Oh, Remy, please. Even you must see it is too dangerous for you to remain. You have to leave. Now.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said tersely. “But I’ll stay and continue to take my chances.”

Ignoring her outstretched hand, he stepped around her, continuing to dress, tightening the drawstrings of his shirt. Gabrielle let her hand fall awkwardly back to her side. When she had parted from Remy on the backstairs of the palace, there had been something approaching the old warmth between them.

But there was an edge to Remy this morning, even a hint of hostility, and Gabrielle believed she knew the reason for it. He must have failed in his efforts at convincing Navarre to try and escape. She wasn’t that surprised. Despite his indolent manner, Henry was shrewd, a pragmatist who had only survived this long by never taking unnecessary chances.

Henry remaining in France was exactly what Gabrielle desired to further her own ambitions. But she found she could not rejoice over Remy’s failure. She suspected that Remy wanted Navarre to be a second King Arthur, imbued with all that legendary monarch’s courage and ideals, a man that Remy could serve and follow to the death. Just as Remy had once imagined her to be perfect, flawless and chaste.