The Huntress (23 page)

“Because I don’t
understand
the notes. They make no sense to me.”

“Well, never mind. Perhaps you will prove more gifted in other arenas.”

Sander craned his neck in Agatha’s direction as though satisfying himself that the old woman truly was asleep. Leaning closer to Meg, he murmured, “I brought you the object you asked me to purchase.”

Meg tensed, stealing a nervous glance at Aggie herself. But the woman continued to snore softly as Sander delved into the pack in which he carried his sheets of music.

He produced a crystal orb the size of a small melon. Before he would hand it over, he said, “Now you’ve got to promise you won’t tell your father about acquiring this. I consider scrying a harmless diversion, but I know Master Wolfe doesn’t hold with any sort of magic. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Oh, I promise,” Meg whispered, setting the lute aside. Her fingers quivered as she took the orb from him. She had heard much of scrying balls but had never actually seen one before. It felt cool and heavy in her hands, the glass sparkling in the light pouring through the windows.

Because of her blindness, Cassandra Lascelles had never consulted a scrying ball, although she did not scorn the device.

“
A gazing globe can be useful if one possesses the natural ability of a seer,
” she had told her daughter. “
Perhaps in time we will test if you possess such skill. But for now I want you to keep your mind to the task of translating the
Book of Shadows.”

The memory of her mother’s voice was enough to send a chill through Meg. She had been forced to master the book and had dreaded that Maman might one day teach her the arts of raising the dead. Even the prospect of a scrying ball had sounded a little frightening. She had never had any interest in acquiring one until now…

Holding the orb up to eye level, Meg peered into it, wondering if she did possess the ability to divine the future. She saw nothing except Sander’s image distorted by the glass.

Lowering the ball, she realized he was regarding her curiously.

“What a mysterious girl you are, Margaret Wolfe. I still have never figured out what you wanted with those odd curved lenses you had me order from the glassmaker.”

Sander thought her mysterious. Meg rather liked that. She summoned up what she hoped was an elusive smile. “Mayhap someday I’ll show you.”

“At least I know what a scrying ball is for, although I cannot begin to fathom what you mean to do with it.”

Divine my future and hope that my mother was wrong, that I am not destined to be this evil Silver Rose.

Meg hunched her shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant and not desperate to discover the truth about herself. “I just thought it might be amusing to—to play with a scrying ball, see if it really is possible to see into the future.”

“You don’t need a ball for that. I can tell you your destiny.”

“You—you can?”

Sander plucked the scrying ball from her grasp and set it on the window seat. He turned one of Meg’s hands palm upward and examined it. Her fingers looked depressingly short and squat compared to his long, graceful ones.

Meg squirmed, her skin tingling as Sander traced the lines on her palm.

“Ah!”

“What do you see?” she asked anxiously.

He squinted at her hand and intoned in a voice of mock solemnity. “I see you grown up to be a dazzling beauty, about to be married to some rich merchant or even a knight in a ceremony so grand, the queen herself will attend. And I shall be obliged to play the lute at your wedding, gnashing my teeth in envy of the bridegroom.”

“Oh!” Meg’s shoulders slumping in disappointment, she drew her hand away. Sander was only teasing her. He had to be. He was a handsome boy of sixteen while she was only a girl of eleven, scrawny and small for her age at that.

Still, she could not help wondering what he really did think of her. Cat said it was rude to read eyes, invade the privacy of another’s thoughts. Meg had been seeking earnestly to curb her ability and it was usually easy with Sander. She was so bashful in his presence, she hardly dared raise her gaze to his.

For once the temptation was too strong for her. Overcoming her newfound scruples and her shyness, she tipped back her head and peered intently into his eyes. They were the softest shade of blue, fringed with pale lashes.

Meg delved deeper and deeper into his mind, groping for his thoughts.

“She is so young, still just a little girl.”

Meg’s heart sank. Mortified, she nearly broke off contact.

“But what a beautiful woman she promises to be someday. Eyes like emerald fire, a neck as white and graceful as a swan.”

Overcome, Meg dropped her gaze back to her lap. He hadn’t been jesting. Sander really believed she would be beautiful. Meg pressed her hand to the bodice of her gown, wishing Aggie had not laced her corset so tight this morning. She could hardly breathe.

As Agatha jerked awake again, Meg barely had time to spread her skirts over the gazing globe. She and Sander were obliged to resume the lesson, but Meg found it more difficult to concentrate than ever.

She was far too conscious of both Sander’s presence and the treasure hidden beneath the folds of her gown. Her mind wandered, imagining peering into the globe and finding a future as delightful as the one Sander had described. A grand wedding and herself tall and graceful, attired in a lovely gown, the queen nodding in approval as Meg joined hands with a handsome bridegroom who looked a great deal like Alexander Naismith.

But the wonderful daydream faded, swiftly overshadowed by a darker vision, that of Cassandra Lascelles, her raven hair thrown back, her sightless eyes gleaming with derision as she laughed all of Meg’s wistful hopes to scorn.

Chapter Twelve

C
AT EDGED HER STOOL CLOSER TO THE HEARTH, RELYING ON
the fire and the glow of a branch of candles for light as she labored over her task. Stripping the peacock feathers from Martin’s arrows, she fletched them with far more sensible ones of goose.

She didn’t approve of his reason for learning to use the bow, but if it was that important to Martin, she might as well do what she could to help. It wasn’t as though she had anything else to occupy her this evening other than watching Meg flit restlessly about the bedchamber.

Meg usually had her nose buried in a book or badgered Cat for more tales of Ireland at bedtime. It was not the girl’s habit to be so restive, but Meg had not been herself. At the supper table, she had fidgeted in her seat, toying with the food on her plate, which she had scarce tasted.

Martin was usually able to jest and tease Meg out of her solemn humors, but he had been too distracted. Cat had frequently observed such edginess in Martin when he was about to disappear on one of his mysterious nighttime errands.

His excuse this evening had been a flimsy one. He needed to meet with Master Roxburgh to go over some accounts for the Crown Theatre. At this time of night? Cat had longed to demand. Some men might go all urgent and tense over totting up figures in a ledger, but Cat doubted that Martin was one of them.

Cat had divided her time at the supper table between studying Martin and his daughter. Both were quick to avert their eyes when they caught Cat staring. While Martin was able to maintain a smooth mask, Meg was too young to do other than start in a guilty manner that filled Cat with unease and made her wonder.

What might Mistress Margaret be up to now? Considering the girl’s abilities and knowledge, the possibilities were endless and alarming. Martin’s affairs were his own province and none of Cat’s concern, she was forced to remind herself. On the other hand, Meg very much was.

But when they had retreated upstairs to the bedchamber, Cat had refrained from the urge to hammer the girl with questions. A friendship had blossomed between her and Meg over these past weeks, but it was a most tender shoot. Cat was loath to trample over it by forcing confidences from Meg.

Although it was difficult, she held her peace. Pretending to be absorbed with the arrows, she watched Meg’s pacing out of the corner of her eye.

The girl stopped in front of the looking glass suspended over the washbasin. Meg tended to avoid gazing at her own reflection, almost as though she feared to find some great flaw. But she leaned in close to the glass, studying herself earnestly.

She widened her eyes and craned her neck, shifting her face to one side and then the other, examining her profile. Her expression alternated between hope and despair as she tugged on her night rail. Pulling the linen fabric tight against herself, she stared down at her chest and emitted a deep sigh.

Cat’s lips twitched with a smile, part amusement and part relief. At least now she had some inkling what might be ailing Meg and for once it was nothing so disturbing as wrestling with dark memories of her mother or questions of destiny.

How often as a girl had Cat done the same thing, studied the flat planes of her own body and despaired of ever looking like anything but a half-starved urchin. Of course, she had been a few years older than Meg when she had vexed herself with such thoughts, but Meg was nothing if not precocious.

When Meg caught Cat observing her, Cat swiftly bent back over her work. The girl sidled over to her. She stood before Cat, twisting her hands in the folds of her night dress.

“Cat, may I ask you something?”

“Anything you wish, sweetling.”

“How old were you when you grew one?”

“One what?”

“A—a bosom.” Meg stared fixedly at her bare toes, her cheeks coloring a fiery red.

Cat bit back another smile. “I don’t entirely remember. Fourteen, I believe.”

“Fourteen!” Meg cried. “So old?”

“I was quite in my dotage, wasn’t I?” Cat replied dryly. “I remember thinking that I was fated to remain as flat as a shield forever and then one summer my breasts erupted like melons ripening on the vine.”

“Truly?” Meg stole a hopeful peek down the neckline of her gown.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to grow, my wee friend. Acquiring a bosom can be a mixed blessing.”

“How so?”

Cat smoothed the tip of a feather as she fitted it onto the arrow. “Well, my new protuberances certainly increased the admiration of the lads. But my bosom also got in the way and diminished my skill with the bow. I was a cursed poor shot until I learned to make adjustments.”

“I have no interest in learning to use the bow.”

“And what about catching the eye of a certain lad?” Cat teased.

“Don’t be foolish,” Meg replied. But her color deepened, confirming Cat’s suspicions that the girl might be in the throes of her first infatuation and Cat had a fair idea with whom.

But she said nothing as Meg drew up another stool to sit beside her. The girl picked up one of the discarded peacock feathers and played with it.

“How was your music lesson?” Cat ventured.

“I am sure you must have heard.”

“Ah, er, no, I was out in the garden for most of it.”

“With your hands over your ears, no doubt. It takes a great deal of effort to strangle a lute, but I succeeded in the end.”

Cat chuckled. For such a solemn little thing, Meg occasionally evinced a flash of humor.

“If your music lessons are making you so miserable, I will try to speak to your father about it,” Cat suggested slyly. “I am sure he loves you enough to—”

“No. No!” Meg cried out in alarm. “I—I am very fond of my lessons.”

“Or at least fond of your music master.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Meg snapped. She threaded the peacock feather between her fingers. “Although Master Naismith is very handsome, isn’t he?”

“A little too pretty for my taste.”

When Meg glowered at her, Cat hastened to add, “I daresay I am too old to appreciate the charms of such a young man.”

“He
is
charming and—and clever. He plays the lute and the tabor and has a voice like an angel. I am sure he must be one of the finest actors in all of London, although I have never seen him perform.”

“I have. He is very good. In fact, the lad is far better at playing the woman than I am.”

Meg crinkled her nose. “I shouldn’t like to see Sander pretending to be a lady. He ought to be given a more dashing role, like that of a soldier or a knight.”

“His voice isn’t deep enough and I wager the boy has more skills with a fan than a sword.”

“Why would you say that?” Meg asked indignantly.

“If the lad was any good at fighting, my sweet, he’d likely still be in possession of both his ears.”

“It wasn’t Sander’s fault he lost his ear,” Meg cried. “It was an act of the greatest injustice and cruelty. He was arrested for stealing and carted off to Newgate—”

“Alexander Naismith used to be a thief?” Cat interrupted sharply.

“He couldn’t help it. He was young and poor and starving. All he took was a loaf of bread!”

Or at least so he had told Meg. Cat wondered if Martin was aware of Alexander Naismith’s disreputable past. She would have liked to give the boy the benefit of the doubt, but there was something about the young actor that didn’t sit quite right with her.

At times, his eyes could be a trifle too bold, too calculating. He was obviously an ambitious lad and how better for an actor to advance himself than by flattering and cajoling the daughter of the man who was part owner of the Crown Theatre.

Meg was very young and Cat doubted that Naismith was rash enough to seriously trifle with her. But her tender little heart was certainly capable of being bruised.

Brushing the feather against her cheek, Meg peered dreamily into the fire and murmured, “I have heard that sometimes girls are betrothed very young and their bridegrooms wait for them to be old enough to wed.”

“That is true, but it is usually for the sake of ambition, for joining great estates, acquiring wealth or a title.”

“My papa has ambitions for me.”

“True, but he loves you far too well to barter you off so young.” Cat added gently, “And I don’t think his dreams include seeing you married to a penniless music master who was once jailed for thieving.”

“I know.” The light in Meg’s eyes dimmed. “Sometimes I don’t think I shall ever marry at all.”

Cat wrapped her arm about Meg’s shoulders and gave her a bracing squeeze. “Of course you will, but—”

“No, I won’t.” It was not the melodramatic wail of a young girl, but a quiet pronouncement. That unnerving far-too-old look crept into Meg’s eyes.

“Sometimes I believe I am fated to be alone.”

“Oh, sweetling.” Cat cupped the girl’s cheek. “You haven’t been fretting over your mother’s predictions again?”

“This has nothing to do with Maman, at least not entirely. It is just something that I sense about myself. That I will never have a husband or children. That I will remain solitary like—like—”

“Like your great heroine, the Virgin Queen?” Cat filled in with a grimace.

“No, like you.” The girl gazed up at her, her eyes glowing with a respect and admiration that caught Cat by surprise.

“Me?”

“You are so strong, brave and independent as women are rarely ever able to be, not even daughters of the earth. You need no one.”

“I would not precisely say that, but—”

“And you are happy, are you not?”

“Certainly I—I am content,” Cat faltered, as disconcerted by the question as she was by the almost-worshipful look in the girl’s eyes. “But being independent is often just another word for—for—”

“For what?”

“For being alone.” Cat tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind Meg’s ear. “I am no one’s hero, child, or example to follow. You must find your own path.”

Meg wrapped her arms about Cat’s waist and nestled her head against her. “That’s what you keep telling me. But it’s very hard and confusing.”

“I know, babe.” Cat dropped a kiss atop Meg’s head. “Fortunately, you don’t need to find anything tonight. It’s been a long day. I think we had both better be getting off to bed before Mistress Butterydoor scolds us for wasting candles.”

Meg nodded her agreement, allowing Cat to lead her over to the bed and tuck her beneath the covers. The girl was so tired Cat had scarcely gotten halfway through recounting a stirring tale of Grania, the pirate queen, before Meg was asleep.

Long after the girl had nodded off, Cat prowled about the room, tending to small domestic chores she usually left to Mistress Butterydoor or Maude. Picking up Meg’s discarded gown and petticoats and folding them into the wardrobe chest, she continued to be haunted by Meg’s question and her own reply.

“You are happy, are you not?”

“Certainly I am content.”

Cat had always believed that she was. It had been a long time since she had given up hoping for anything different from her life, a home of her own, a husband and children. After Rory O’Meara had broken faith with her, after she had been cast out of the clan, she had had to learn to fend for herself, to be solitary and independent.

And she had more than learned; she had fiercely reveled in her freedom, her only fetter her friendship with Ariane Deauville. Even that had been a bond that she had embraced cautiously, tenuously.

Love anyone too much and the risk of losing them was too great, the pain of the loss unbearable. Meg fancied her to be so brave, Cat thought with a rueful twist of her lips. In truth, she was the veriest coward.

Tiptoeing back to the bed, Cat arranged the covers more snugly about Meg’s shoulder and smoothed her soft tangle of hair back from her brow. The sight of the sleeping girl, so tender, so vulnerable, stirred an ache in Cat’s heart that was alarming.

She had grown fond of Meg, too fond perhaps. If she had ever had a daughter—Cat was quick to check the wistful thought. Backing away from the bed, she reflected that December could not come soon enough. She was in great danger of becoming far too enmeshed in the lives of Martin le Loup and his daughter.

Retiring to her own pallet, she flung herself down only to spring up almost immediately, smothering an oath. Some object, small and hard, had jabbed against her spine. Rolling off the pallet, she caught a gleam of something silvery and the white outline of a piece of parchment.

Snatching up the note, she held it closer to the glowing embers of the fire and was just able to make out Martin’s brief scrawl.

Here is something else I thought you might require.

Cat scowled. Now what the devil had the man had the impertinence to buy for her? Impatiently she groped through the bedclothes until she seized upon the object.

Holding it close to the firelight, her jaw dropped open when she realized what it was. A small silver flask and from the weight of it, it was obviously filled with some liquid.

Cat uncorked it and sniffed, cautiously tipping the flask to her lips. The Irish whiskey flowed over her tongue and down her throat, flooding her with warmth, burning her with memories of peat fires and heather-covered hills, of her father’s booming laugh and her gran’s wry wisdom. Tears stung her eyes.

“Damn you, Martin le Loup,” she whispered.

What right did he have to be giving her a gift such as this? One that was bound to…to touch her heart. No, she assured herself fiercely, wiping her eyes. That was not why she was shaken.

It was the extravagance of the gift that appalled her. The silver flask and the whiskey had to have cost more than her new gown, petticoats, stockings, and shoes all put together. How could Martin afford such things?

Cat frowned, realizing that was a question that had been vexing her for some time. Only a short year ago, Martin had been a fugitive, nothing more than a vagabond player. Now he owned a share in the Crown Theatre, a fine town house staffed with servants, to say nothing of Meg’s lessons, her books, her wardrobe. How did the man afford any of this?