The Lady of Secrets (11 page)

“Very clever, milady. I will have to remember your little trick if I am ever confronted with a similar situation.”

“I doubt that you could pull it off. After all, you are not … what was it you called me last night?
A witch with pretensions to supernatural powers.
”

Of all Blackwood’s insults, Meg was surprised that she still remembered that one so well or that it had had the power to sting.

He came to an abrupt halt. “Did I say that to you? Then I must have been drunker than I realized.”

The wind ruffled his hair, making him appear wilder and rougher than ever, but something gentled in his face. “Forgive me. I am truly sorry.”

He meant it. There was none of his usual offhand manner or mockery in his tone. His apology astonished her, left her more confused about the man than ever.

Meg stared up at him, desperately trying to read Blackwood’s eyes. They were not as dark as they had appeared by the dim light of the candles last night, but rather a deep blue-gray, the same hue as the overcast sky.

She remembered being alarmed by his gaze, finding it as chillingly empty as her blind mother’s had been, but she was wrong. If anything, there was too much going on behind Blackwood’s eyes, the man more of a cauldron than an abyss; too many simmering emotions, thoughts, and memories for her to gain an accurate read on him.

Her earnest probing appeared to make Blackwood uncomfortable. He resumed walking, his features settling into his usual indolent expression.

“Ah, here we are at last,” he said. “Chez la Mère Poulet.”

He indicated a distant structure that looked at first like nothing more than the wreckage of a boat that had been washed ashore. Perhaps at one time, that was what it had been.

But as they drew nearer, Meg saw that the broken hull had been cobbled together with other stray boards to form a shelter of sorts. The hut had been constructed far up from the shore’s edge, nestled among some jutting rocks to protect it from the wind. One strong gust would surely have been enough to bring the entire ramshackle thing crashing down.
Meg marveled that last night’s storm had not been enough to do so.

Blackwood clambered upward in a series of long strides. Plucking up the hem of her skirts, Meg proceeded more slowly. Even so, she nearly lost her footing and stumbled.

Blackwood turned and offered his hand to steady her and Meg accepted after only a brief hesitation. His palm was warm and not calloused, as she would have expected considering the rest of his rough exterior. His hand was surprisingly well formed, strong with long fingers, his nails clean and neatly trimmed.

He pulled her beside him on the ledge near the hut. On closer inspection, it bore the appearance of a low wooden cave with a flap of canvas nailed over the opening.

“Hortense,” Blackwood called out. “It is me. I have returned as promised.”

“Hortense?” Meg asked as she withdrew her hand from his grasp.

“Hortense Matisse. That is the real name of the woman you all call la Mère Poulet.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked her.”

Which was more than anyone else had ever thought to do, including her, Meg reflected with a twinge of shame.

The canvas flap stirred, and Hortense peered out, twitching her sharp nose like an inquisitive ferret. The old woman brightened at the sight of Blackwood, her lips parting in a near-toothless grin. The beaming smile vanished when she noticed Meg.

“Who’s that with you?” Hortense demanded.

“This is the famous Lady of Faire Isle. She has been looking for you, too.”

“Why?”

Meg hunkered down so that she would be at eye level with the old woman. “Because I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, la Mère Poul—I mean Hortense.”

“That would be Madame Matisse to you, mistress sauce box.”

“I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to offend you. I have come to extend you an invitation to visit my island.”

“That vile place? No, thank you.”

“I fear you must have heard too many alarming stories from the villagers about how Faire Isle is the haven of witches.”

“Witches, bah! I am not afraid of witches. I enjoy pretending to be one myself from time to time.” The old woman laughed before puckering into a frown. “It is the other tales of your island I don’t like, the fact that the place is full of women.”

“Faire Isle is mostly the home of many women, the wives and daughters of captains and sailors who are long absent at sea.”

“I don’t much like the company of women.” Hortense leered up at Blackwood. “I prefer men.”

“We do have some men. There is a small harbor on Faire Isle where trading vessels dock from the mainland. There is an inn called the Passing Stranger where seamen and merchants gather.”

“Would he be there?” Hortense interrupted, pointing at Blackwood.

“Well, no—”

“Then I am not interested.”

The old woman ducked into her cave, the canvas falling back into place. Meg looked up at Blackwood. His expression
was grave, but she could tell he was trying not to laugh. She had a strong suspicion that the doctor had anticipated her difficulty with Hortense, but had kept silent, relishing the prospect.

She straightened up, saying tartly, “You might have warned me how she was going to react.”

His eyes widened in feigned innocence. “How the devil was I supposed to know?”

“The two of you appear to have become fast friends. She seems quite smitten with you.”

“I frequently have that effect on women, especially the nearsighted ones.”

Meg glared at him and then expelled a frustrated sigh. She wracked her brain for another way to approach the old woman, a more persuasive argument, but she could not come up with anything. She was tired, she was hungry. She just wanted to go home. But she had to try again.

She moved toward the hut, reaching out to twitch the canvas flap out of the way to peek inside. But Blackwood stopped her.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Hortense doesn’t care for uninvited guests, but Marcela is even worse.”

“Marcela? Who is Marcela?”

“Hortense’s chicken.” Blackwood displayed the back of his scratched hand. “Marcela hates visitors or perhaps just me. I cannot blame her after the way I mauled her about, trying to mend her broken wing.”

“You tried to heal an injured
chicken
?”

“I admit I am far more accustomed to ripping the wings off of a capon, especially after it has been broiled to a nice golden brown and accompanied by a generous helping of
roasted turnips.

“I made an effort to help Marcela, but with little success. Have
you
ever tried to put a splint on a chicken?”

“No, I—” Meg began, when she was struck by the ridiculousness of this entire situation. An image filled her mind of Blackwood struggling with a squawking hen, pecking and scratching at him, its feathers puffed up with fury. Meg couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Blackwood tipped his head to one side to peer down at her. “Ah, so you do know how to laugh. I was beginning to wonder. You are such a serious little thing.”

Meg tried to resume her gravity, but her lips quivered. Blackwood crooked his fingers beneath her chin. He tipped her head up, inspecting her countenance.

“You ought to laugh more often. It improves your face. You look almost pretty.”

It was the sort of compliment she would have expected from Blackwood, blunt almost to the point of being offensive. Yet Meg preferred it to the kind of flattery she’d had from other men who had told her she was beautiful, which she knew she wasn’t. At least Blackwood’s words, the warmth of approval in his eyes, seemed genuine enough to bring a faint blush to her cheeks.

Annoyed with herself, Meg pushed his hand away. Between the hostile chicken, the eccentric old woman, and Blackwood, who seemed a bit mad himself, this was beginning to feel like being caught up in a dream stranger than the one she had had last night.

A dream that was destined to wax stranger still, Meg thought as she noticed the two figures traveling in tandem down the beach, heading rapidly in their direction. The pairing of Sir Patrick Graham and Seraphine struck Meg as being as incongruous as herself and Blackwood.

Sir Patrick looked as somber as he had last night. Even the wind tugging at his short cloak and feathered cap did little to ruffle his aura of calm. Seraphine on the other hand resembled a wrathful goddess, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in a wild tangle, one hand twitching on the hilt of her sword.

Blackwood stiffened beside her. He also had caught sight of the pair. He swore under his breath, not the sort of reaction that Seraphine usually engendered in men.

But as Meg and Blackwood descended the rocky slope to meet the pair, Meg realized that Blackwood did not even appear to notice Seraphine. His unwelcoming scowl and his stony regard were directed at his friend.

Sir Patrick bowed to Meg, but before he could speak, he was cut off by Seraphine. “Damnation, Margaret Wolfe, you frightened me half to death. What did you think you were doing, disappearing this way?”

“I was searching for la Mère Poulet. You do recall that was why we split paths and took separate directions.”

“Which I never thought was a good idea. But I thought you would at least have the good sense to confine your search to the village, not go wandering off to some remote spot with this—this—” Seraphine gestured toward Blackwood.

“This doctor,” Meg filled in before Seraphine could come up with a more insulting epithet. “I am sorry if I worried you, but all is well. We have found la Mère Poulet, or rather we must thank Dr. Blackwood for that.”

Seraphine appeared more inclined to run the man through than thank him. She glowered at him as though she had caught him attempting to ravish Meg. But the doctor was oblivious to Seraphine’s murderous look, his attention focused on Sir Patrick.

“Graham, you should have waited back at the inn. There was no need to come in search of me. I told you I could handle this matter.”

“I was sure that you could, at least with regard to the old woman. I did not come here in search of you.” Graham’s tone was as mild as Blackwood’s was curt. The knight shifted to address Meg.

“It was you whom I needed to find this morning. I was hoping that I could speak to—”

“So there she is. Speak,” Seraphine said.

“I would speak to you alone,” Sir Patrick continued as though he had not been interrupted. “Would you honor me with a few moments of private conversation?”

“No!” Seraphine and Blackwood snapped in unison.

“This is a waste of your time, Graham,” Blackwood added. “She will not be interested.”

Seraphine scowled. “And there is nothing you could have to say to her that I cannot hear.”

“
She
is standing right here,” Meg said tartly. “So will you kindly allow
her
to reply?”

Seraphine grabbed Meg’s arm and dragged her aside. “Meg, you should not go anywhere alone with that man. You were foolhardy enough to wander off with that drunken doctor.”

“I thought you had decided Dr. Blackwood and Sir Patrick were naught but a pair of idle travelers. You even teased me for being so nervous about them.”

“I have changed my mind. There is something amiss with both of them, especially Graham. He has been asking far too many questions about you at the inn, among the villagers. He even had the impertinence to press me for details about how long you had been the Lady of Faire Isle, where you hailed
from before that. I get the impression the man wants something from you. I have no idea what that might be, but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I. But would it not be better to speak with Sir Patrick and find out?”

Seraphine pursed her lips. “I suppose. My father taught me it is always best to know as much of one’s enemy as possible. But only go a few yards down the beach with that man. You stay within my sight.”

Meg nodded in agreement and then stepped toward Graham, who patiently awaited her decision.

“I cannot imagine what you have to say to me, Sir Patrick, but I am willing to listen.”

Blackwood muttered something and Meg half expected him to protest again. But when she looked at him, he merely shrugged as though the matter was no longer of any consequence to him.

“Five minutes,” Seraphine warned Graham. “That is all the time the Lady can spare. The two men—the two very large, muscular young men—who rowed us over from Faire Isle are preparing our boat to launch. Jacques and Louis fear we are due for another rainstorm, so we must gather up the old lady and go.”

Meg looked up at the hut. The canvas stirred and she saw Hortense observing them. When she realized she had been spotted, Hortense ducked back out of sight.

“Er, Seraphine, that may prove a little difficult. I don’t think la Mère Poulet wants to be
gathered.
”

“Where is she? Hiding up there beneath that pile of wood? I’ll fetch her out fast enough.”

Seraphine started up the hill only to have her way barred by Blackwood.

“I’ll fetch her. I can persuade her far more readily than you.”

“How?” Seraphine sneered. “By trying to get her drunk? Regaling her with bottles of wine as you did the entire taproom last night?”

“No, by tossing you into the channel. I am sure Hortense would find that far more entertaining.”

“I should like to see you try it!”

Blackwood strode toward the hut with Seraphine hard on his heels, the two snarling at each other the entire way. Meg watched them go uneasily.

“You need have no fear for your friend, my lady,” Sir Patrick said. “Blackwood might roar and bluster, but he would never harm a woman.”

Meg turned toward him. “Actually it was not my
friend
I was worried about.”

“Yes, I have observed that Madame La Comtesse can be a trifle … forceful, but Blackwood is equally hardheaded. I fear that yon slope might be about to witness a battle to rival anything between the gods upon Mount Olympus. Perhaps we might retreat to a quieter distance.” He offered her a rueful smile and his arm.

Meg hesitated. Seraphine had referred to Graham as the enemy, but Meg was having difficulty thinking of him that way. Not just because he was a handsome man, which he was. He had the sort of Adonis countenance capable of melting most women’s defenses.