The Lady of Secrets by Susan Carroll

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