The Courtesan (70 page)

T
HE
D
ARK
Q
UEEN

Praise for Susan Carroll

The Night Drifter

“Carroll writes sparkling dialogue and exquisite prose.”

—T
ERESA
M
EDEIROS
,
author of
Yours Until Dawn

“Carroll has topped herself and proved her genius by creating a romantic situation without equal.”

—
Rendezvous

“Carroll has a gift more powerful than the St. Legers’: the ability to bring a sense of joy and true peace to her readers. Her magical romances give life to remarkable characters and superb stories, but also to the idea that hope and faith prevail.”

—
Romantic Times

“Susan Carroll definitely has star quality.”

—I
RIS
J
OHANSEN
,
author of
Blind Alley

The Bride Finder

“An intriguing tale that proves the wounds of the heart can be healed by the magic of true love.”

—N
ORA
R
OBERTS

“An absolutely beautiful love story, a spellbinding combination of magic, passion, and destiny.”

—K
RISTIN
H
ANNAH

“A beautiful, tender, funny, unique story that captures the essence of romance . . . One of those magical books that touches all the right buttons, bringing you joy and a deep sigh of pure pleasure.”

—
Romantic Times
(Gold Medal review)

“Paranormal reaches a new high through the unique talents of Susan Carroll. Her dark sensual hero inflames the reader’s passion as much as the heroine’s. Time ceased to matter as I turned the pages.”

—
Rendezvous

“Spellbinding from its first page to the last . . . Sensational sorceress Susan Carroll scores a big-time success with this magical story.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

Midnight Bride

“Fascinating . . . Once again, Carroll, who sets the standard for paranormal romance with her beautifully crafted tales of the gifted St. Legers and the women who love them, enchants readers by subtly enhancing her alluring love story with lush historical details.”

—
Booklist

“[A] compelling, mesmerizing tale . . . This [novel] is beautifully crafted, laced with occasional humor, and rife with Gothic atmosphere.”

—
Library Journal

“Bewitching nineteenth-century historical romance . . . Carroll’s swift-moving tale won’t disappoint.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“The power of Ms. Carroll’s writing is truly amazing, and
Midnight Bride
teems with emotional intensity . . . There is also magic and wonder and such an intense pace that when you turn the last page, you will want to start reading all over again. This is a special book; a rare, eloquent tribute to the love of man for mankind. Brava Ms. Carroll.”

—
Romantic Times

Read on for a sneak peak at
Miri’s story, the next captivating novel
in the Cheney Sisters Trilogy!

Coming in February 2006
from Ballantine Books

Prologue

T
he sun slipped below the horizon, the last of the light fading like smoke from a snuffed out candle. Darkness descended over the cliff side and the line of trees, turning the rugged Breton coastline into the kind of land Simon Aristide understood best. A land of night and shadow.

His hands encased in leather gloves, the witch-hunter gripped the reins of his mount. Like her master, the spirited ebony mare blended with the darkness. Aristide’s shoulder-length hair was as black as the horse’s mane and just as wild in the brisk wind blowing leeward. He was likewise garbed all in black from his thick boots to his leather jerkin. His beard-shadowed face cast no pale gleam to alert his enemies, his skin toughened from many days spent in the saddle, weathering the elements.

Simon had an angular countenance, the set of his mouth hard and uncompromising, rarely softened by a smile. His right eye was as dark as the rest of him, glinting with a piercing intelligence. His ravaged left eye was usually kept concealed beneath a black patch. A heavy scar, the result of a duel, bisected his forehead, disappearing beneath the patch only to emerge in a thin crease that marred his cheek. He was an intimidating figure; tall, with sinewy limbs. Anyone would have to be mad to have attacked him.

But Simon had concluded that the creatures stalking him
were
mad or else imbued with evil and malice to a chilling degree. On a night like this, alone, isolated from any sign of human habitation, he preferred to think his pursuers were merely insane. It was more comforting than the alternative.

As the shadows deepened around him, Simon resisted the urge to nudge Elle into a gallop. The barest pressure of his knees and they’d both be off like the wind. But it would be far too dangerous; the cliff path narrow and treacherous even in the full light of day. A full out gallop in the dark would be pure suicide. An easier road beckoned to him through the trees that rimmed the cliffs, but the gnarled trunks, the thicket of shrubs and undergrowth offered far too many places for concealment.

Simon kept the mare to a sedate walk. He heard nothing beyond the steady clop of Elle’s hoofbeats, the wind rustling through the trees, the surf battering the rocks far below and yet the back of his neck tingled with the awareness that he was not alone out here in the darkness.
They were here.
At least one of them. Perhaps the one he had sensed dogging him in the last village he had passed through.

Or perhaps exhaustion and only a few snatched hours of troubled sleep were starting to get the better of him. But he didn’t think so. Elle’s behavior told him otherwise. The mare had been twitchy the past mile or so, skittering, tossing her head, her ears pricked.

Simon reached down to pat her neck when the sound carried to his ears. At first he thought he imagined the faint wail of an infant. It could be no more than the wind keening over the rocky headland. Simon’s gut knotted with dread all the same.

Around the next bend, the land leveled off and the cries became louder and more plaintive. Simon drew Elle to a halt, tersely scanning the distance. Barely one hundred yards ahead, moonlight flooded an object abandoned perilously near the edge of the cliff. Anyone else might have mistaken it for a blanket roll left behind by a careless shepherd. But Simon had seen such bundles before, with one difference this time.

This one was still alive, the infant’s cries borne to him clearly on the wind. Simon’s heartbeat quickened, his first impulse to charge forward. But he’d narrowly avoided ambush too many times to be that rash.

He slid from Elle’s back and drew the mare into a stand of trees, tethering her to the trunk of a sturdy, but pliant beech. Elle’s eyes did not roll in terror, but she was blowing and stamping. She shifted her sleek powerful chest and shoulders as though to block him from leaving the grove.

Simon stroked the horse to soothe her. He lingered in the shadow of trees, his gaze tracking the path to the jutting of cliff. The plateau where the child had been abandoned offered no place of concealment, no cover for anyone attempting to hide. It would not offer Simon any either if some assassin lurked further down the path or even in the trees, preparing to lodge an arrow in his back.

But that was not his enemy’s usual mode of attack and the cries of the infant overrode his caution. They were growing weaker by the moment. It was just possible that they had never counted on Simon being here this soon.

Easing past Elle, Simon drew his sword and started forward. He could barely hear the child now, only one final whimper and then a terrible silence. All stealth and wariness forgotten, he ran, dislodging a hail of pebbles beneath his boots.

He hurtled towards the small bundle on the edge of the cliff, dropping to his knees beside it. The wind stirred the edge of the coarse blanket, but there was no movement from the tiny figure. Simon set down his sword and stripped off his gloves. He gathered the swathed infant into his arms with gentleness, which was as rare as his prayers.

Please. Please let me have arrived in time. Just this once.

He peeled back the flap of the blanket, his breath hitching sharply. The doll’s glass button eyes fixed him with an empty stare, the jagged mouth stitched onto the canvas face sneering at him.
Tricked.

He scarcely had time to register that fact before he heard the snap of a twig on his blind side. He jerked towards the sound and realized that there was a hollow in the ground below the place where he knelt. He caught the barest blur before the woman crouching there sprang at him.

Her teeth bared in a snarl, she launched into him, knocking him onto his back. Moonlight glinted off the weapon in her hand as she thrust at his neck. Simon deflected the blow with the doll and bucked upward, hurling his attacker off of him. She hit the ground with a furious screech. By the time he had regained his feet, she had also scrambled to hers. And she was between him and his sword. With a contemptuous smile, she kicked it further out of his reach.

She was much the same as all the others who had been sent to kill him. Clad in baggy breeches and a peasant’s tunic, her dark hair, unkempt, her eyes manic, her mouth cruel and cunning. Simon kept a knife hidden inside his boot, but he made no move to go for it.

“Keep back, woman,” he said. “I have no desire to harm you. Drop your weapon and I am willing to spare you if you answer my questions.”

The creature threw back her head, emitting an eerie imitation of an infant’s mewling cry. “What’s your question?” she mocked. “Where’s the babe? There is none, witch-hunter. Not this time. And that is the only answer you’ll get from me. Aside from this.” She brandished her weapon, circling in closer.

“No desire to harm me. Bah.” She spat in Simon’s direction, the spittle landing inches from his boot. “I know how you witch-hunters ask your questions. With the rack and the branding iron.”

“That is not my way,” he said, “If you attack me again, I will have to kill you.”

“What does that matter? I am not afraid to die. The Silver Rose will resurrect me.”

With a blood-curdling screech, she leaped and was on him again. Simon caught her wrists to hold her back. No mere woman should have been so strong. Whatever madness or evil surged through her veins, it was all Simon could do to keep her at bay. He felt the heat of her fetid breath, heard the gnash of her teeth as she came within an inch of tearing open his cheek.

He was more concerned with the strange weapon she clutched in her right hand. She stabbed at him, the tip tearing through his jerkin. The only thing that saved him was the light coat of mail he wore beneath. Simon twisted her wrist until she cried out and dropped the weapon. She went into a frenzy of fury, kicking, snapping, and trying to bite. When nothing else availed, she butted the top of her head beneath his chin. Simon reeled, his jaw exploding with pain. He lost his grip on her and staggered back, barely managing to stop himself from plunging off the edge of the cliff.

His attacker rushed at him in an effort to drive him over. He dodged her charge and it was she who teetered, the ground giving way beneath her. She fell, scrambling wildly for purchase. Simon flung himself to the ground and caught her arm. She dangled below him, her legs and free arm flailing, her face white with rage. Her weight strained the muscles in his arm until they burned with pain.

“Who sent you?” he growled. “Who is this Silver Rose that you serve?”

“Go to hell,” she shrieked.

“Tell me what I want to know or—” Simon gasped as she clawed at his hand, digging her nails in so viciously, his grip slackened.

He felt her start to slip, and made another desperate grab for her arm. But it was too late. She hurtled into the darkness, his last view her face gloating with insane triumph. He heard the thud of her body as it struck the cliff side on the way down and then a splash. The sea was like a dark, hungry beast, frothing at the mouth as it devoured the witch’s broken body and all the answers he so desperately sought along with her.

What demon possessed you, woman? Where does your coven hide when all of you are not out spreading terror and trying to kill me? And who is this she-devil you call the Silver Rose? This sorceress you all worship so much you are willing to die for her, believing she has the power to raise you from the dead.

And what if she could?

A chill went through Simon that had nothing to do with the wind whipping in from the sea. With a low groan, he retreated from the edge and rolled onto his back, seeking to recover his breath. He sat up slowly, brushing the tangle of hair from his face. He winced at the throb of his hand where the witch had lacerated him with her nails. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth. He had bitten his cheek when she had butted him with her head.

He worked his jaw carefully. It hurt like the devil, but she hadn’t managed to dislocate it or loosen any of his teeth. His injuries could have been a great deal worse, he reflected as his gaze fell upon the strange weapon he had forced from her hand. He had caught glimpses of these hellish devices on other encounters with these witches, but he had never managed to gain possession of one before. Simon picked it up carefully.