The Huntress (6 page)

“Mademoiselle O’Hanlon? Catriona?” The voice that called her name was a low purr, as coaxing and seductive as the hand that brushed back her hair.

But even that light touch caused her to throb with pain. Cat groaned again. Her head…someone had whacked her with an axe. No. They had buried the blade in her skull. She lifted her trembling hand to her brow, terrified she would find her brain leaking out of her pate. Her fingers struck up against a thick wad of something. Her brain? No, a cloth of some sort, but before she could explore further, a warm calloused hand caught her wrist, easing her arm back to her side.

“Here. Let me,” the deep voice murmured.

Let him what? She felt the cloth being removed and then replaced with another, damp and cool. The compress sent an initial shock through her. She shivered. But as the cold penetrated, it dulled the ache enough that she dared risk opening her eyes.

The world was still far too bright, streaming with sheets of fire. She blinked hard, trying to clear her blurry vision. The blazing light resolved itself into nothing more than a candle flickering upon a tripod table, the flames no more than bed-curtains of crimson damask.

Bewildered and alarmed, Cat looked around the unfamiliar bedchamber. Where—where the devil was she? What had happened to her?

She struggled to spring up, only to gasp as her head throbbed and swam, the room reeling around her.

Gentle hands eased her back against the pillow. “Careful, my sweet. You are going to be all right, but you had best take it slow. Here, drink this.”

He lifted her head, pressing a cup to her lips. She sought to obey his command, although her tongue felt thick and unwieldy. She choked on her first swallow, the liquid potent and bittersweet. But her mouth was so parched she drank greedily, the brew soothing to her dry throat, sending a reviving surge through her veins.

Cat’s lashes fluttered as she sought to focus on the man sitting on the edge of the bed, bending close to her. He at least was familiar. She knew that darkly handsome face, that trim beard, that lean blade of a nose, those vivid green eyes.

Wonderingly she reached up to touch his cheek. “Sir—Sir Roland?” she asked hoarsely. “Did you save me from the witch?”

“Alas, no, ma chère.” He caught her hand and upturned it to plant a light kiss against her palm. “I fear I mistook
you
for the witch. My sincerest apologies, milady.”

Cat frowned, trying to make sense of his words, trying to remember. The effort caused her head to pound, but she persisted until the events of the afternoon came rushing back to her.

Southwark, the quay, the crowded market, the Crown Theatre. Breathlessly watching the play and then—then fighting for her life in the theater pit. This man who had the temerity to kiss her hand was the same bastard who had tried to run her through. Not the noble Sir Roland, but Martin le Loup.

Cat jerked her hand away from him and cringed at both the pain in her head and the one in her lower back. The place was sore where Megaera had stabbed her with that cursed witch blade, sending a deadly poison through her veins. Or so Cat had thought.

Cat ran her hand over her face, testing for any sign of fever. None. She pressed her fingers to her neck, her pulse strong and steady.

“I—I am not dead,” she marveled.

“No.” He chuckled. “Why? Did you think you had awakened to find yourself in heaven?”

“Hardly. Not if you’re here.” Her palm still tingled where he had kissed her. She wiped it on the bedclothes and curled it protectively back to her side.

“And where exactly is
here
?” she demanded.

“La Maison des Anges.”

The house of the angels? Cat glared at him. “My head hurts far too much for any more stupid jests, le Loup. So if you don’t mind—”

“Here in London, I go by Marcus Wolfe, mademoiselle, and I would thank you to remember that.” He frowned as though recollecting himself. When he spoke again, he had ironed all trace of French from his accent. “And I made no jest. The houses in London all have names, and this particular one is called the Angel. And that is where you are, reposing safely beneath my roof, tucked up in my bedchamber.”

His house? Her gaze more focused, Cat took another look about the room, assessing her surroundings. For a simple player, Martin le Loup had done astonishingly well for himself. The walls were decorated with tapestries that appeared as costly as the richly embroidered bed-hangings. The carved oak bed was luxurious, with a thick feather tick mattress and linens finer than Cat had ever lain upon. The sheets were seductively soft against her bare skin.

Bare skin?
Cat stiffened, and then stole a cautious peek beneath the coverlet. She was mortified to realize that not a stitch of her clothing remained. Not only was she ensconced in Martin le Loup’s bedchamber, she was stark naked.

Gasping, she made a frantic effort to drag the covers higher, her efforts hampered by the fact that he was sitting on the bed.

“Get off!”

“Happy to oblige, my dear.” He rose at his own languid pace. “Although I feel compelled to remind you that it is
my
bed you are tossing me out of.”

Cat scowled daggers at Martin, but had to stop, the ferocious expression aggravating her headache. “You miserable wretch. What have you done with my clothes?”

“Me? Nothing. I had one of the housemaids undress you for your own comfort and, er, not to be disparaging, your garments were a trifle travel-stained for my bed linens. But given that little performance of yours during our duel, I didn’t imagine that you suffer overmuch from modesty.”

“One does what one must in the heat of battle.”

“Even resorting to such a paltry trick as shoving your bare teat under a man’s nose?”

“I would hardly call it paltry.” Cat burrowed deeper beneath the covers until only her head peeked out. “That trick has worked every time I’ve ever used it, men being the lascivious simpletons that they are. Back when I used to spar with Rory O’Meara, that fool actually fell for my ploy three times.”

Martin flung back his head and laughed. “You’ll pardon my saying so, but I doubt this Rory was the one being fooled.”

“You think he was only pretending in order to—to—.”

“To get himself an eyeful? Why not? It’s a lovely breast, well worth a second look or even a third.”

The miscreant was laughing at her, but his twinkling green eyes seemed to invite her to share his amusement, his voice full of frank admiration.

Cat rarely allowed any man to fluster her, scorning any sort of flattery or flirtation. To her annoyance, she realized she was blushing.

“Remind me to box your ears later when I am feeling better,” she said gruffly.

He chuckled and drew up a chair to the bedside. Placing it backward, he straddled the seat in boyish fashion, resting his hands upon the oak slats of the back.

“Let us declare a truce, Mistress O’Hanlon. I fear we have gotten off to a very ill start.”

“For which I am sure you are sick with remorse, entirely blaming yourself.”

His teeth flashed again in that devastating smile. “Not exactly. You might have spoken up and showed me this letter before matters got so far out of hand.” He produced Ariane’s creased note from inside his jerkin and tossed it down on the bedside table. “For a woman who likes to talk so much, it takes you a long time to come to the point.”

“As though you were prepared to listen to anything I might have had to say.”

“I tend to be a little edgy when I am followed and accosted by strange women. Since you are familiar with my daughter’s history, you should understand why.” His features took on a grim cast, and then softened as he added, “But I am sorry that you were hurt. Mistress Butterydoor is devoted to both Meg and me. She believed she was saving my life.”

“Mistress Butterydoor?”

“Agatha. The old woman with the cane. She whacked you into oblivion and gave you that lump on the head. Remember?”

Cat remembered, but the blow of the cane was not what had sent her spiraling into oblivion. That was entirely owing to Megaera and her witch blade. Cat studied Martin through narrowed eyes. Did the man think to cozen her, protect his daughter from any possible repercussions of Cat’s anger? Or was it possible he had not seen what had really happened?

His next words answered that question.

“I realize you took quite a painful blow, but I fear the one most hurt was my daughter. Meg was very distressed by what happened at the theater. She has already endured so much, one would not have expected her to be so upset. But my angel has such a tender heart. You cannot possibly imagine.”

Cat winced, rubbing the small puncture wound in her back. Yes, she could imagine and apparently far better than he. From his fond smile and the protective light in his eyes, it was obvious le Loup didn’t have the least notion what his daughter was capable of. Cat debated enlightening him, but decided to keep her own counsel. At least until she had had the chance to speak to Megaera herself.

“And now Mistress O’Hanlon,” he began, but she interrupted him.

“Will you please stop calling me that? It makes me feel like some old woman.” Her lip curled with distaste. “And an
English
one at that.”

“All right then. Catriona…”

“Cat. Just Cat will do.”

“Very well.
Cat.
” He smiled. “I can’t imagine why Ariane dispatched you to track me down, but knowing the Lady of Faire Isle, I am sure she must have had an urgent reason. I hate to press you while you are still feeling so poorly—”

“No, no,” she cut him off. “I am well enough and we have wasted far too much time already.”

Clutching the covers to her, she made another effort to sit up and was annoyed when her head still reeled. She glanced longingly at the pewter cup he had set upon the table. “If you could just give me another drop of that—that—.”

“Tisane.” He leapt up to fetch the cup. “Agatha brewed it for you. She has some modest skill in the stillroom.”

“When she is not breaking heads,” Cat muttered. She removed the cloth from her head and gingerly felt the lump on her brow. She had quite a goose egg, but the swelling seemed to be going down.

Martin handed her the cup and would have helped her to drink, but she waved him off. What she really longed for was a swig of her usquebaugh, but she had left her flask along with her other meager belongings back at the inn she had frequented last night. The tisane did not pack quite the same fire, but she downed the mug and felt the better for it.

Propping herself up higher against the pillows, the coverlet tucked demurely about her shoulders, Cat started her tale with the revival of the Silver Rose coven and ended with the events on the cliff side that night.

She sought to keep her narrative simple, resisting her natural bent to embellish, to punctuate her words with many gestures.

Martin listened with his chin propped on his hands along the back of the chair, that remarkably intense face of his still for once, revealing little of his thoughts. When she had concluded her tale, he remained quiet and grave. The silence stretched out so long, Cat grew impatient.

“Ariane believes you and your daughter should come to Faire Isle. I am sure you must see the necessity of leaving England at once.”

Martin stirred at last like a man awakening from an unpleasant dream. “No, I am afraid I don’t see the necessity of that at all. It strikes me as being a hasty and foolhardy action.”

“By the goddess Brigid! Have you heeded not a word that I said?”

“Yes, I heard you quite clearly.” Martin raised his head, straightening in his chair. “Witches, bonfires, midnight Sabbaths, the Dark Queen’s soldiers. It all sounds to me like exactly what I left France to escape. All the more reason that Meg and I should stay right where we are.”

“Where you are! Do you imagine you will be safe—” Cat started, only to have him cut her off.

“Clarify something for me. You were obliged to break off your surveillance at the cliff and flee, were you not?”

“Yes,” Cat muttered. She was still chafed by the memory of her retreat without landing as much as a blow. “My orders from Ariane were not to fight. I had to get back and warn her, but I am no coward—”

“I never said that you were. My point is this. You have no idea what actually transpired after you left. For all you know it is possible that this Captain Gautier slaughtered the entire coven.”

“Or more likely he dragged one of those witches back to the Dark Queen, and now she knows the truth about your daughter.”

“You have some proof of that? Before you left France, you saw some sign of Catherine searching for my little girl?”

“Well, no. But there was scarce time—”

“Then I see no reason to panic. It is possible that the Dark Queen learned nothing at all and that the coven was destroyed.”

“And it is possible you are a complete idiot!” Cat flared. “Are you willing to gamble your daughter’s life on
possibilities
? If Catherine has discovered that Meg was the Silver Rose, I
guarantee
you she will leave no stone un-turned to find her, if for no other reason than she still wants the
Book of Shadows.
”

“Then Her Grace will be wasting her efforts because I don’t know what became of that cursed book and neither does Meg.” Martin shoved to his feet, pushing the chair away from him. “If the queen is truly after my daughter, I feel much safer with the English Channel between us.”

“But on Faire Isle, Meg would have Ariane and her husband and a legion of vigilant wise women to protect her.”

“She has her father for that. I have a done a fair job of protecting Meg thus far.”

“No one is saying that you haven’t,” Cat began, only to break off in frustration as Martin strode away from her, unheeding. Damn the man! Could he never listen long enough to allow her to complete a sentence?

He stalked over to a window opposite the bed, drawing back the heavy brocade curtains to reveal diamond panes of glass. Cat blinked in some surprise as she caught a glimpse of night-darkened sky where she had thought to see the purple of twilight. She must have been out far longer than she’d supposed.