The Huntress (7 page)

“Tell me,” Martin said, nodding toward the window. “What can you see out there?”

Cat craned her neck only to stop when her head throbbed and the covers threatened to slip.

“Damned little,” she grumbled. “Not without making my head explode or affording you a view of my bare arse. Even if I could drag myself out of bed, I don’t imagine I’d see much beyond rooftops.”

“The rooftops of a vast city.”

“Dirty, noisy, crowded. Too full of bloody Englishmen.”

“You are right.” Martin smiled, but as he stared out the window, a dream-ridden expression stole over his face. “But it is also a city teeming with energy, enterprise, and opportunity. A place where any man can make his fortune, bury his past, and lose himself in the future.”

Cat regarded him with barely suppressed exasperation. “Is that what you believe you have done? Lost yourself? I admit it took me awhile to track you, and I have some skill at hunting. But so does the Dark Queen. If I could find you, so could she, especially with you strutting about on a public stage.”

“That was a mistake, I grant you. But when our lead actor fell ill, I could not resist the temptation to—” He checked himself, a tide of color washing into his face. Letting the drapery fall, he turned away from the window. “I won’t be so careless again.”

“So you will what? Quit the company? How will you provide for your daughter if—”

“That is not how I provide for her
now.
” Martin swept his arm in a gesture that encompassed the room. “Do you think I afford all this on an actor’s wages? When we first arrived in England I might have been nothing more than a vagabond player, but my fortunes have risen greatly since then. I am actually an investor in the Crown Theatre, and I have powerful friends.”

“Those actors?” Cat asked scornfully. “A grand help they would be with their fake cauldrons and blunted swords.”

“My own blade is sharp enough, as you nearly discovered. And I have acquaintance beyond Master Roxburgh and the company. I have acquired a patron, a man of vast resources and influence.”

“Who?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Martin snapped. He compressed his lips in a taut line, and then addressed her in a more moderate tone.

“Look, Mistress O’Hanlon…Cat. Don’t think I am not grateful to you for coming to warn me. I realize that you did so at no little inconvenience to yourself. I shall see that you are generously rewarded.”

“Rewarded! Why, you ignorant lout.” Cat sat bolt upright, ignoring the ache in her head and the fact that she was close to giving Martin another eyeful. “I came because Ariane asked me to, and I serve the Lady of Faire Isle out of love and devotion, not for any reward or—or—.”

“Forgive me.” Martin flung up his hands in a defensive gesture to stem her flow of fierce words. “I have no wish to offend you or Ariane. I appreciate her offer of sanctuary, but even if Faire Isle was not so close off the coast of France, it would be the last place I would be inclined to take my daughter. As I told you before, I mean to bury the past.”

“Whose past? The child’s or yours?” Cat retorted.

When Martin arched one brow in haughty inquiring fashion, Cat knew she might do better to hold her tongue, but that had always been a wisdom she lacked.

“I know all about your relationship with Miribelle Cheney.”

“Indeed?” Martin inquired politely, but his eyes flashed a strong warning.

Cat ignored it, rushing on. “Ariane told me how much you loved her sister. And that your heart was broken when she married Simon Aristide. I understand how awkward and painful the thought of seeing Miri again must be, but you needn’t worry. She hardly ever comes to Faire Isle these days.”

Martin frowned. “Why is that? Faire Isle was Miri’s home. She loved it there beyond any place on earth.”

“Yes, but her husband, the erstwhile witch-hunter, is not exactly welcome there.”

Martin approached the bed. Curling his fingers about the newel post, he peered anxiously down at Cat. “So—so Miri is not happy then?”

“I didn’t say that. Miri might have loved Faire Isle, but she loves her husband more. She is completely besotted with the man, more so than ever since the birth of their daughter and—” Cat checked herself at last, glancing ruefully up at Martin. “I am sorry. This is likely the last thing you wanted to hear.”

“No, it is exactly what I wanted to hear. I am glad that she is well and—and happy.”

He truly meant that, Cat was astonished to realize. Lord knows she had not been so generous when Rory O’Meara had broken faith with her all those years ago, roundly cursing the man’s name every time it was mentioned.

But Martin’s voice had softened as he spoke of Miri, his eyes full of such tenderness and regret, it roused a strange ache of envy within Cat’s bosom. She wondered if Rory ever still spoke of her with such fondness. No, she thought bleakly, very likely the O’Meara never spoke of her at all, never even spared her a thought. She was not like Miri, fey and gentle, full of feminine graces, the sort of woman a man would never forget.

Martin’s gaze turned inward as though caught up in some poignant recollection of the past. Then he gave himself a brisk shake.

“Miri and I parted as good friends. My reluctance to go to Faire Isle has more to do with Meg. When I rescued my daughter from that coven, I vowed to expel all witchcraft and magic from her life.”

“You can hardly equate the women of Faire Isle and Ariane with those evil witches of the Silver Rose.”

“I have nothing but the greatest respect for Ariane Deauville—”

“And so you had better,” Cat said fiercely.

“But I don’t see where studying this ancient knowledge ever did anything for Ariane except get her charged with witchcraft. I envision a far better, safer future for Meg. I intend to see her become a great lady one day, happy, prosperous, and well married.”

Cat regarded him incredulously. “And you think what? That the past will all go away just because you will it so? From what I have been told, your daughter possesses certain gifts and abilities that she inherited from Cassandra Lascelles.”

“That woman’s name is not to be mentioned beneath my roof,” Martin snarled. “Meg inherited
nothing
from her mother. Nothing. As far as I am concerned that part of her life is over and done with. Now where are the rest of your belongings?”

“My belongings?” Cat faltered, jolted by the abrupt change of subject. “I didn’t have much, just a small saddlebag. I left it at the inn where I stayed last night. The Fighting Cock in Southwark, near the riverbank. But regarding your daughter—.”

“I know the place. I will send one of my servants to fetch your pack.” He strode toward the door.

“But Monsieur le Loup—I mean Master Wolfe.” Clutching the covers and ignoring her aches, Cat tried to struggle to the edge of the bed. “Martin!”

He paused at the door, turning to look back at her. Something had shut down in his eyes, his expression so cold and forbidding, for once Cat was stilled to silence.

“Understand this, Mistress O’Hanlon. As a friend of Ariane, you are welcome to remain here until you are recovered. But there will be no further discussion of my daughter. When you are well, you will return to Faire Isle and convey to the Lady my compliments and thanks for her concern. But Meg is staying right where she is.”

Sketching a civil bow, he swept from the room, leaving Cat staring openmouthed at a closed door. Then she flopped back down upon the mattress with a groan, frustrated and fuming.

She had been warned that Martin le Loup might be a trifle stubborn, but even Ariane had not prepared Cat for a man as blockheaded as this. She needed to get up, find her clothes, go after Martin, and pound some sense into his thick head. Even if she had to use old Agatha’s cane to do it.

If only her own head wasn’t still throbbing as though a hundred
bodhrans
were drumming away in her skull. She rubbed her temple. The futility of arguing with Martin le Loup had only aggravated her headache. She would just rest her eyes for a moment and recover some of her strength before she tackled the obstinate fool again.

Cat was on the verge of drifting off when she heard the door creak. Opening her eyes, she saw the bedside candle flicker from a draft. Tensing, she realized someone had inched open the bedchamber door just far enough to peek inside.

Le Loup returning in a more reasonable frame of mind? Cat doubted it. He would have no reason for being so stealthy. She started to call out, demand to know who was there when she caught a glimpse of a ghostly figure clad in white, a pale face that was all enormous green eyes.

Shoving herself up onto her elbows, Cat said tartly, “Why don’t you come in, Megaera, and take a closer look?”

The child froze like a coney caught in an eagle’s sight. Cat half expected the girl to bolt. But after a moment’s hesitation, Megaera stepped inside the room and closed the door.

She approached the bed with a dignified carriage a princess might have envied, her slender frame garbed in a night rail of the finest white lawn, her dark brown hair spilling about her shoulders. Her face was framed by a lace-trimmed nightcap that might have looked well on a plumper, prettier girl but only served to accent the sharpness of Megaera’s features. Her dark brows stood out in marked contrast to her pale skin.

A child of light and shadow, Cat thought with an inexplicable shiver. She struggled upward and swung her legs over the side of the bed, draping the sheet over her shoulder like a chieftain donning his plaid.

Ridiculous, she thought, to be so wary of a wee slip of a girl, but she had already had a sharp taste of what this particular girl could do.

Megaera halted about a foot away, devouring Cat with her eyes. Cat stared back just as fiercely, squaring off with her small nemesis.

“My name is not Megaera,” the girl announced with a stubborn lift of her chin. “It is Margaret Elizabeth Wolfe.”

“And mine is Catriona of the Clan O’Hanlon. Would you care to be telling me why you were lurking outside the door, spying upon me?”

A hint of color crept into the girl’s cheeks. “I wasn’t lurking. I only wanted to see how you were faring.”

“How kind of you,” Cat replied dryly. “Aside from the hole you punched in my back and the hammering in my skull from whatever concoction you shot into my veins, I am faring just grand. I’d like another look at that witch blade of yours. I never saw one before and I confess I am curious.”

Meg’s lips tightened in a stony line. “I do not have the least notion what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you? Then perhaps we had best call your father and ask him.”

“No!” Meg’s hauteur vanished, her face suffused with something akin to panic. “Please, don’t do that. Papa has no idea that I—I—.”

“Go about stabbing folk with your witch blade?”

“It is not a witch blade. Its proper name is a
syringe
and I don’t go about stabbing people. Not unless I have to and—and I can’t show it to you because I don’t have it with me.”

“Truly? I thought you might have been sneaking in here to take another poke.”

“No!” Meg cried again. “I wouldn’t have poked you the first time if I hadn’t thought you were trying to kill my papa. Anyway it was only a sleeping draught.”

“Only a sleeping draught?” Cat pressed a hand to her throbbing head. “I suspect much more of your sleeping draught and I might never have waked up.”

The girl stiffened indignantly. “I know the right amount to use. Besides, if I had wanted to kill you, I could have just used poison. I am very skilled at brewing those, too.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that you are.”

“I would never want to hurt you, but make no mistake, to protect my father, I would destroy you or anyone else.”

The warning look that Meg leveled at Cat was disconcertingly adult, woman to woman, warrior to warrior.

“I believe you would,” Cat replied gravely.

Meg regarded Cat belligerently for a moment, then her lip trembled and she whispered in a voice that was that of a child.

“I love my papa. He is everything in the world to me, all that I have.”

“I can understand that,” Cat admitted. “I felt the same way about my father.” Against her will, Cat was carried back to that summer when she had raced desperately through the heather after the brawny man whose fire-colored hair was so like her own.

“Da! Wait,” she had panted, her small legs pumping hard to overtake his great strides. Tiernan O’Hanlon had turned to wait for her and she had flung her arms about his waist, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Da, you must not go to fight today. Gran has had one of her visions. She—she says you’ll not return if you go.”

Her father had merely let loose his booming laugh and scooped her up in his burly arms. “Whist now, ma chroi. You’ll not be after listening to the rantings of that foolish old woman. Be a good lass, my Cat. Run home and wait for me. I’ll be back before the sun sets with many a fine tale to tell you.”

Her father had kissed her cheeks, dried her tears, but in the end pried away her small arms and set her from him. Because nothing or no one stayed an Irishman when his blood ran hot and the war drums were calling, Cat reflected bitterly.

She had returned to their cottage and waited…and waited. But as usual her grandmother’s vision had proved true. Long after the sun had set, her father’s stool by the hearth remained empty and Tiernan of the Laughing Eyes came no more.

A timid touch on her arm drew Cat back to the present. She was startled to find Meg standing right in front of her. The girl peered up at her with intent sad eyes.

“You lost your papa when you were very young, didn’t you? I am sorry.”

Cat stared at the girl. It could have been a good guess on Meg’s part or the girl just might be adept at the ancient wise woman’s art of reading the eyes.

Cat had always kept her hurts and grief buried deep in the dark corners of her heart, wounds too tender to bear the light of day. Clutching the sheet like protective armor, Cat inched warily away from the little girl.

“That was all a long time ago,” she said. “Besides, we weren’t talking about my father. I believe we were discussing yours.”