Read Online Twilight of a Queen by Susan Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Carroll
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He crumpled up the page and flung it across the cabin.
Then he leaned back in his chair and locked his armsacross his chest as though he could wall out the emotions that threatened to breach the hull of his indifference, a dark floodtide of bitterness, hurt, and regret.
His gaze traveled to his sea chest. He stared at it for a long time before rising to his feet. Drawn almost against his will, he knelt beside the battered oak chest and threw back the lid.
He delved beneath charts and articles of clothing until he found the journals stacked on the bottom, a sum total of six leather-bound volumes. His father had kept records of their voyages ever since they had sailed from France, his writings interspersed with sketches of jungle plants, exotic birds, painted natives, animals unknown to Europe.
Xavier ran his fingertips over the cover of the most recent journal, wondering why he resisted the temptation to flip it open, devour the book’s contents. His father was no longer here to say him nay.
Perhaps he was restrained by the knowledge that these journals had never been intended for him. But he had never had qualms about plundering another man’s treasure before. Or in this case, a woman’s…
No. He could not deceive himself. What kept him from delving through the journals was nothing but cowardice. Not the fear that he might stumble across an unflattering reference to himself, but the fear that there would be no mention of him at all in his father’s journals.
As though Xavier had never even existed …
Perhaps the blasted priest was right about one thing. Those journals weighting down his sea chest were like a spike imbedded in his flesh. He never would have any peace until he got rid of them. He had buried the chevalierwith his beloved Evangeline’s portrait clutched in his hands. Xavier didn’t know why he hadn’t tossed the books into the grave as well.
He picked up the topmost journal. Such an insignificant thing really, a bit of cow’s hide stretched around a collection of old parchment and ink strokes. Then why did it feel so cursed heavy?
Xavier hefted it in his palm for a moment before heaving a disgruntled sigh and dropping the book back atop the stack. Just like he always did.
Then he groped for the other object he kept buried in the bottom of the trunk. His fingers closed around a leathern jack, the flask filled with the amber liquid that had steered Xavier through more than one endless dark night or dreary idle afternoon.
He had learned how to distill the potion from an Indian shaman in Peru, a careful blending of certain kinds of jungle liana. The devil’s brew, the Spanish priests called it.
But the natives had another name for the liquid, the vine of the spirits, a portal to another world, a place where the mind could expand to embrace the mysteries of the universe, visions that were not always clear or perfectly remembered, but elusive with promise. Not the kind of chicanery Xavier had practiced upon the Dark Queen in Paris, but true magic.
Xavier uncorked the flask. He’d been a trifle reckless last time and drank too much. This time he’d be more judicious. Xavier moistened his lips and took a long swallow.
The liquid coated his tongue and palate, the taste a strange mingling of bitter and sickly sweet. It oozed downhis throat like a live eel, making him want to retch. He gulped, breathing carefully until the nausea passed.
He corked the flask and returned it to the trunk, closing the lid. Kneeling, he waited for the brew to take effect, just as the shaman had taught him, arms outstretched, eyes closed. He commenced a rhythmic chanting, the drone of his own voice mesmerizing him deeper into the trance.
His senses become more acute, the tang of his sweat sharp in his nostrils, the sound of his own heartbeat thundering like jungle drums in his ears.
He swayed in time to the beat, his breathing coming quicker. The first wave of pain in his gut caused him to double over. He chanted
Then he leaned back in his chair and locked his armsacross his chest as though he could wall out the emotions that threatened to breach the hull of his indifference, a dark floodtide of bitterness, hurt, and regret.
His gaze traveled to his sea chest. He stared at it for a long time before rising to his feet. Drawn almost against his will, he knelt beside the battered oak chest and threw back the lid.
He delved beneath charts and articles of clothing until he found the journals stacked on the bottom, a sum total of six leather-bound volumes. His father had kept records of their voyages ever since they had sailed from France, his writings interspersed with sketches of jungle plants, exotic birds, painted natives, animals unknown to Europe.
Xavier ran his fingertips over the cover of the most recent journal, wondering why he resisted the temptation to flip it open, devour the book’s contents. His father was no longer here to say him nay.
Perhaps he was restrained by the knowledge that these journals had never been intended for him. But he had never had qualms about plundering another man’s treasure before. Or in this case, a woman’s…
No. He could not deceive himself. What kept him from delving through the journals was nothing but cowardice. Not the fear that he might stumble across an unflattering reference to himself, but the fear that there would be no mention of him at all in his father’s journals.
As though Xavier had never even existed …
Perhaps the blasted priest was right about one thing. Those journals weighting down his sea chest were like a spike imbedded in his flesh. He never would have any peace until he got rid of them. He had buried the chevalierwith his beloved Evangeline’s portrait clutched in his hands. Xavier didn’t know why he hadn’t tossed the books into the grave as well.
He picked up the topmost journal. Such an insignificant thing really, a bit of cow’s hide stretched around a collection of old parchment and ink strokes. Then why did it feel so cursed heavy?
Xavier hefted it in his palm for a moment before heaving a disgruntled sigh and dropping the book back atop the stack. Just like he always did.
Then he groped for the other object he kept buried in the bottom of the trunk. His fingers closed around a leathern jack, the flask filled with the amber liquid that had steered Xavier through more than one endless dark night or dreary idle afternoon.
He had learned how to distill the potion from an Indian shaman in Peru, a careful blending of certain kinds of jungle liana. The devil’s brew, the Spanish priests called it.
But the natives had another name for the liquid, the vine of the spirits, a portal to another world, a place where the mind could expand to embrace the mysteries of the universe, visions that were not always clear or perfectly remembered, but elusive with promise. Not the kind of chicanery Xavier had practiced upon the Dark Queen in Paris, but true magic.
Xavier uncorked the flask. He’d been a trifle reckless last time and drank too much. This time he’d be more judicious. Xavier moistened his lips and took a long swallow.
The liquid coated his tongue and palate, the taste a strange mingling of bitter and sickly sweet. It oozed downhis throat like a live eel, making him want to retch. He gulped, breathing carefully until the nausea passed.
He corked the flask and returned it to the trunk, closing the lid. Kneeling, he waited for the brew to take effect, just as the shaman had taught him, arms outstretched, eyes closed. He commenced a rhythmic chanting, the drone of his own voice mesmerizing him deeper into the trance.
His senses become more acute, the tang of his sweat sharp in his nostrils, the sound of his own heartbeat thundering like jungle drums in his ears.
He swayed in time to the beat, his breathing coming quicker. The first wave of pain in his gut caused him to double over. He chanted
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