Chapter 23
“One day when [they] were hunting in the forest they came to a stately dūn, white-walled, with coloured thatching on the roof, and they entered it to seek hospitality . . . In the midst there was a table set forth with a sumptuous feast of boar’s flesh and venison, and a great vat of yew wood full of red wine, and cups of gold and silver .
. . So they knew they were being entrapped by some enchantment of the Fairy Folk. ”
Weapons gathered, I am in my room and replaiting my hair when a commotion outside the door draws my attention. Braid unfinished, I jerk open the door with one hand and draw a long dagger with the other. “What is it?”
“The Duke of Maudite.”
“Maudite is here?”
“No, m’lady.” The guard shrugs. “The Countess of Fleuriste said the duke was going t’be.”
I twist my half-finished plait into a bun on the back of my head, jab a wee wooden spear into it, and set off to find Mother.
By the time I walk into Mother’s rooms, ready to argue, my mother announces, “Go to the village to offer our hospitality to the duke.”
“She could come here tomorrow or—”
“You were going to Maudite Castle,” Rylan interrupts. “Why not talk to her here?”
I mutter an expletive that has Mother raising her brows at me, but there’s no reasonable argument I can make beyond telling them that I am simply not ready to talk to her.
I refuse to add a gown over my hunting attire, so in as little time as it takes to collect our horses and ride to the village, Rylan and I are approaching the Dancing Goose.
Henry makes a show of looking me over from head to toe. “You look like a proper Hunter dressed like that.”
“I am a proper Hunter,” I snap.
“We know that. Them monsters will know it, too.” Henry is impossible to perturb. “No insult meant, Lady Huntress. Violence looks good on you.”
The words both sting and warm me. I want Isabeau to see me and be impressed by what I am, but being a Hunter is more than violence. At the end, killing the beast is my duty, and that is violence. Finding it is another matter, one that relies on my mind and my resources.
“Violence is not all you are,” Rylan says softly as we walk away from Henry. My sister’s voice is thick with urgency. “Isa sees you. She might surprise you when you tell her.”
“I doubt it,” I whisper back. “All she knows how to do is break my heart. Better to get it over with, I suppose.”
My mind darts back to the first time I trusted Isabeau with my heart, when we were girls and I thought I’d be her bride. I believed in the impossible then.
“Do you truly not mind?” Isabeau asked.
“I don’t,” I answered, grateful to finally have the future duke’s attention.
Then Isabeau clumsily lowered her lips to mine, not quite slanting enough at first so our noses bumped. We figured it out, though, and I all but melted when we did. There were sparks zinging in places that I didn’t imagine feeling such things.
When I stepped back, Isabeau’s hand brushed my barely there breasts accidentally.
I pressed closer. “Do that again.”
Isabeau’s hands fumbled at the top of my dress. “Like this?”
“No. Like this.” I reached forward, running my thumb over the nipples hidden under Isabeau’s shirt. “See?”
“Yesss.” Isabeau did the same, and we kissed again, trying to touch each other and kiss at once. It was an awkward thing, but it was the single most exciting thing I ever felt.
Then Isabeau said, “May I write to you? May I come see you? Tell your father I want to court you?”
But her fervent interest died the moment Father refused her. Why would I expect any different now?
Though I’d let myself hope of late, I’ve never told Rylan the extent of the physical encounters I shared with Isabeau then—or the recent ones.
I certainly haven’t explained the way my heart has become invested, but that part I think I cannot hide as well.
I let myself dream, and that was foolishness.
“Isabeau lives a pampered life, Ry. I will not be able to be her duchess. She will not still want me after she knows what I am.” I aim to keep my voice level in a weak attempt to hide my sorrow at an affair ending too soon. I will content myself with memories; that will have to be enough.
“Shall we?” Rylan urges me forward, and I realize I have stopped moving.
There Isabeau stands. She wears a simple riding set—browned trousers and vest over a loose tunic. The one spot of color that’s anything other than earthen tones of brown, cream, and black is a cherry-hilted sword. It does not look ornamental.
“What do you mean there are no rooms to let?” the Duke of Maudite snaps.
Girard shrugs and lies, “No rooms. Too many soldiers in the village.”
Such deceitful behavior is foolhardy at best. As the Duke of Maudite, Isabeau could seize ownership of the Dancing Goose with nary a word from the crown. It is assumed, often wrongly, that the nobility has a higher moral code. Isabeau is a being of temper and impulse.
I barely finish the thought when Isabeau’s attention is on me like fire. Her eyes widen slightly as her gaze rakes over my trouser-covered legs. Her mouth softens into a smile that seems to relax her entire body visibly.
“Your Grace?” Rylan says, curtsying low when Isabeau looks her way. “Girard.” Rylan shoots a less-than-friendly look at him. “What appears to be the struggle?”
“No struggle.” Girard narrows his gaze at me. “I’ve got no rooms. She could bed down with her horse.”
“What are you thinking, Girard?” I ask him, trying to ignore the burning glances Isabeau aims at me. “There’s no need for this behavior. I told you she was—”
“You think she is.” Girard glares at me. “Is your thought proof? Is it mere conjecture? You cannot ask me to risk the safety of—”
“Girard.” To answer his half-spoken queries is to blurt out my theories, my secret, and far too much conjecture on monsters and curses. I can’t. Not now. Not here with my ex-lover and my sister.
“Gabrielle?” Isabeau asks.
“Patience, please?” I grit my teeth and force my temper into a pocket where I can address it later. Then I ask Girard, “Are you saying the duke cannot stay here?”
He pauses, weighing the question, before nodding. “I am loyal to you. I always will be. The Dancing Goose has no rooms for the cursed duke, however.”
Rylan exclaims, “How fortuitous! We were coming here to offer the hospitality of Fleuriste Manor to you, Your Grace.” A dangerous smile flashes over her face lightning quick. “My sister and I would be grateful for your company, as when we were younger.”
Girard’s arrogant expression fades a bit at that.
“Fleuriste Manor would be significantly more secure than a stable.” Isabeau glances at the sky briefly before she uncorks a vial that she pulls from her pocket. She drinks it, then repeats the gesture with a second vial.
What is she drinking? Is that the true reason she thinks she’s cursed? I exchange a look with Girard, who shrugs.
“Your Grace.” I step close enough that she pauses mid-drink. “I would like you to come home with me.”
Her hand lowers, and Girard knocks into me. I suspect it’s intentional because as I stumble, I find myself in Isabeau’s arms. In the process, she drops her partially empty vial.
Girard kicks it in a pile of horse dung. He gives me a wry look. “I never expected to watch you fall into her arms, Gabrielle. I certainly didn’t expect to be at fault for it.”
I straighten. “Thank you, Your Grace, for not letting me land in that.”
She looks at the vial as if she is considering scooping it up.
“I would have rather been the one to catch you, m’lady,” Girard adds.
“I am sorry,” I say lightly.
It’s enough, though. The duke’s eyes briefly dart to me and then to him, and I watch her come to a not untrue conclusion. Almost as if she cannot resist the impulse, she steps closer to me as she asks Girard, “What of my request of the Hunter? Have you delivered my letter?”
“Yes. Perhaps, though, you ought to consult the W?chter,” he says, not unkindly. He turns away and grabs a pitchfork to scoop up the dung and vial.
Isabeau watches as he tosses it into a nearby pile.
“The Hunter cannot answer every letter,” Girard tells her.
“Men are dying.” Isabeau folds her arms. “I need the Hunter. Give me the man’s location. I will speak with him directly.”
“That’s not the process, even if the letter is from a duke.” Girard glares at her again. “You wrote. You asked. What happens next is entirely the decision of the Hunter.”
“Your Grace?” Rylan says. “The sun will set soon, so I suggest you say your words of departure.”
Without a word, Isabeau stalks out of the stable, Rylan at her side. I pause briefly. My voice is a scratchy whisper as I point out, “She’s no threat to the village.”
“I hope you’re right, Gabrielle, since you’re taking her home.” Girard shakes his head. “Do you want an escort through the forest?”
I give him a tight smile. “I will hunt there tonight, you realize?”
“You could have escorts then, too,” he suggests, gaze darting to Isabeau and Rylan. After a pause, he adds, “Be careful.”
“With monsters or lovers?” I crack a smile.
“I wish you could avoid both.”
I walk out of the stable and into the night. My sister is pointing at things and chattering on like a determined chipmunk. Isabeau looks wide eyed, as if she might flee.
“I can introduce you to the Hunter tomorrow, Your Grace,” I say, voice shaking slightly. “Come with us now.”
Isabeau stares at me. “You will?”
“I trained with the Hunter,” I remind her as we mount the horses. “I know his daughter.”
My sister rides ahead of us, not quite at the edge of the forest, but gaining distance too quickly. I call out, “Ry. The Beast of Brimmond has attacked two women, the Hunter’s daughter and Emma Iverrson. Do not make me chase you.”
“Emma? I had no idea.” Isabeau glances at me before saying quietly, “I knew her, before you. Is she alive?”
“The beast has only killed men.” I feel like the words sit heavy on my tongue, yet again, I cannot force them to form. “Emma was uninjured, merely startled. I honestly think she may have been lying.”