He would soon have his answer . . .
The thick canopy of trees and the storm-ridden sky robbed the afternoon of much of its light. As the road narrowed, Simon squinted to discern the way ahead, trying to compare what he saw with the directions he had been given.
Knowing that Miri’s former home, Belle Haven, was lost to her, Simon had made inquiries at the inn regarding her present whereabouts. The Passing Stranger was the sole male bastion on this island populated by petticoats. Although the men were not as frightened of him as the women, the habitués of the taproom regarded him with dour suspicion.
Simon had always found that if he scattered enough coin, he could loosen someone’s tongue. The one who had finally betrayed Miri to him was not one of the rough-hewn seamen or fisher lads, but another woman. She’d come creeping into the taproom with a shawl flung over her head, a faded creature with hard, shrewish features. Although she had trembled with fear, she had dared to seek Simon out.
“I—I hear you are looking for the Lady of the Wood,” she said in such a quavering voice he had to bend closer to hear her.
Simon nodded.
“And—and you are paying?”
Simon had been hard-pressed to conceal his astonishment. His memory of the women of this island was that they were doggedly loyal to one another and especially to their beloved Lady of Faire Isle and her family. As he pressed several coins into Madame Alain’s eager work-reddened hands, he felt a curious mingling of contempt and pity for the woman. That had not stopped him from acquiring her information.
“Just follow the road through the forest. Eventually you’ll see a path split off leading deeper into the wood itself. Just follow that path and it’ll take you straight to her cottage.” His money clutched tight in her fist, Madame Alain had stifled a sob and bolted, although Simon was not certain what she was running from, him or her own guilt.
As he neared the track Miri’s betrayer had spoken of, Simon realized there was one fact the woman had failed to mention. There was not one path, but two forking off from the road in completely opposite directions. As Simon reined in, hesitating over which way to go, he was startled to discover that his horse had definite opinions on the subject.
Elle tossed her head, pulling toward the least likely of the paths, the one that was less traveled and more overgrown. Simon did all he could to hold her back as lightning lit up the wood again. He spied something so astonishing he thought if he had been a horse, he would have reared back.
Elle merely strained at the bit, redoubling her effort to surge down the path. Simon barked out a sharp command, hauling back on the reins in a way that demonstrated he’d tolerate no more of her nonsense. When he finally settled the mare, he peered down at the creature he’d spotted, still unable to credit his eyes.
There was something almost supernatural about the cat squatting calmly at the fork in the paths, in this wild place, upon this wild afternoon. Its wind-ruffled fur was as black as ink except for the snowy white of its paws. Simon blinked, half-expecting the creature to vanish. But the cat’s amber eyes blinked back at him, stirring in him a memory of a long-ago night upon a windswept hill at the far side of this very island.
Simon had charged forward, his heart thudding with the fear and eagerness of his very first raid, hoping to catch a coven of witches in the act of performing their satanic rites amidst the towering circle of standing stones. What he’d found was a beleaguered Miri fiercely fighting off the other girls in her effort to save the cat slated for sacrifice.
The brazen young hussies had scattered in terror at the sight of Simon, but Miri had determinedly stood her ground, freeing the small black cat bound to the stone altar. That had been the first time he and Miri Cheney had ever clapped eyes upon each other. The witch-hunter and the witch.
No, Simon thought ruefully. They had not been that to each other, not way back then. He had only been a boy with so much yet to learn and she had been little more than an appealing child with fey eyes and a winsome smile.
This creature staring at him surely could not be the same cat Miri had rescued that night, not after all these years, could it? Simon cocked his head, studying the cat intently. Although he felt like a perfect fool, he called uncertainly, “Necromancer?”
The cat meowed for all the world as though it acknowledged its name, then with a saucy flit of its tail, it vanished up the path. When Elle strained to follow, Simon made no effort to stop her. If that was indeed Miri’s cat, and why else would such a tame creature be out here in these woods, then it was undoubtedly streaking for home.
But the track that the cat led them down was scarcely worthy of the name. The trees closed rapidly around them, branches and leaves slashing at both Simon and his horse. The ground became too treacherous with thick roots and hidden chuckholes to make riding safe any longer.
Simon dismounted and led Elle, shoving back limbs to clear the path. From time to time he caught the rustle of bushes, the glimpse of a shadow that was the cat. The little black devil was either leading him toward Miri’s abode or else to some dark center of the forest where he would be hopelessly lost.
Either way, it was too late to turn back. The sky grumbled and Simon felt the first cold splash of rain upon his cheek. He needed to find shelter for himself and Elle and find it soon.
Just when the path seemed in danger of disappearing entirely, he was heartened to spy a clearing in the distance. Smoke curled in wisps from the chimney of a small stone cottage. He’d lost sight of the cat, but this had to be the place. Who else but Miri would live in such a godforsaken place with only the beasts and birds of the wood for neighbors?
Leading Elle past the thick trunk of an oak tree, Simon strode forward only to feel the ground shift. He lost his grip on the reins as he was swept roughly off his feet, the world rushing past him in a dizzying blur.
Stunned by the unexpected assault, it took a moment to comprehend what had happened. He was entangled in the rough cords of a thick net, swaying yards off the ground, trapped like any witless rabbit blundering into a hunter’s snare. The taut ropes of the net gouged his face and arms. Simon might have experienced a grudging admiration for Miri’s ingenuity in arranging this little surprise if he had not been so alarmed for Elle.
The mare had been spooked when he’d been caught in the trap. As he twisted to look for her, one of his boots ripped through the mesh of the net. He saw no sign of Elle. If she had taken off in panic, plunging blindly through the woods, it would be a miracle if she didn’t end up breaking a leg. The sword Simon might have used to cut himself loose was strapped to her saddle.
As for his knife, it was tucked in the boot that now dangled through the hole in the net. As Simon struggled to work his foot free so he could reach the weapon, the branch of the tree that held him creaked ominously.
He swore roundly, not knowing how the situation could possibly get any worse. That was when the clouds opened up and it started to pour.
———
MIRI HUDDLED IN THE DOORWAY of her cottage, heedless of the wind and rain lashing inside. She eyed the dark figure trapped in the net high above the ground with a mingling of grim satisfaction and awe.
With his wild mane of dark hair, massive body, and fierce cursing, Simon Aristide seemed more ferocious beast than man. She could not make out his face from where she stood, but he must have been able to perceive her hovering upon the threshold of the cottage.
“Miri!”
Her name was borne back to her on the wind like the infuriated roar of a dragon. Even though the witch-hunter was in no position to be a menace to her, she shrank back involuntarily. She started when Necromancer brushed up against her ankles, the cat taking shelter beneath the hem of her skirts.
“I got him,” Miri said somewhat breathlessly.
The cat glared up at her. “Wonderful. Now close the door. I am getting soaked.”
Necromancer slipped past her, retreating deeper inside the cottage. Miri hesitated, despite the rain that spa
ttered her face and dampened the front of her gown. A deafening clap of thunder sounded, followed by a jagged flash of lightning, heightening the peril of Simon’s predicament. She ought to just slam the door closed, leave him to his fate.
But she fretted her lower lip and fingered the hilt of the knife sheathed in her belt, the blade sharp enough to easily cut him free . . .
“Miri!” Simon bellowed out her name again. “I know you are there. Get out here right now and cut me down or I swear I will—”
He choked off into impotent fury, but the implied threat was enough to harden Miri’s resolve. She backed up, starting to close the door when his voice roared out again.
“For the love of God, woman. At least go find my horse.”
His horse? Miri froze, horrified that she had overlooked a detail so important. Alerted by Necromancer, she had watched from the cottage for Simon’s approach, her attention fully focused on the witch-hunter, waiting as he had walked right into her trap.
She had never seen his mount, but she should have had the wit to realize he hadn’t marched all the way here on foot. He must have been leading his horse and now the poor beast, bewildered and terrified by the fate of its rider, had torn off in a panic. Miri bolted out into the rain, not even taking time to snatch up a cloak.
She crossed the clearing, keeping a wary distance between herself and the figure thrashing in the net high above her. If Simon noticed her, he ventured no remark other than a grunt as he struggled to free his boot from a hole in the net.
Miri darted toward the track that led to the glade. Simon’s frightened horse could be anywhere by this time. She was relieved to discover that the mare had not strayed that far. She had no idea what could have curbed the horse’s natural instinct to take flight in the face of danger. The mare waited only a few yards down the path, looking very wet and forlorn, trembling, with no idea where to go or what to do.
Miri approached cautiously. Although the mare’s eyes were dark with fear and misery, she made no effort to pull back when Miri took hold of the bit beneath the bridle. Miri comforted the creature as best she could with the low crooning song that had ever been her own special brand of magic.
She shivered, already soaked to the skin, her braid a sodden weight dangling down her back. Ignoring her own discomfort, she murmured reassurance to the horse as she sought to lead the mare back to the clearing.
“Everything is all right,” she cooed. “I am here to help you. Let me take you to someplace where you will be safe and dry.”
For the first time, the horse offered resistance, rolling its eyes back, one word emerging from the jumbled chaos of its thoughts. “Free . . . free.”
“Of course, you will be free. I’ve liberated many of your brethren from cruel or careless masters. You are bound to serve that horrid witch-hunter no longer.”
The mare gave an impatient stamp of her hoof, her urgent thought communicating to Miri more clearly. “Free . . . him. Free him!”
Miri was so astounded she nearly released the bridle. The mare was not afraid of Simon, but for him. Frightened, confused by the trap, the horse had not known how to help her rider, but she had been unwilling to desert him either.
Miri shook the rainwater from her face, not knowing how to respond to the mare’s desperate plea. The sharp crack of a branch carried to her ears above the wind and the steady drum of the rain.
Miri spun about, her heart leaping into her throat at the sight of the towering figure crashing through the break in the clearing. She had no need to think of a response to the mare’s plea to free Simon. He had somehow managed to do that himself.
Silhouetted by another flash of lightning, the witch-hunter was a figure of nightmare, dark clothing plastered to the hard contours of his body, his black hair snarled in wet tangles across his ravaged face, rain dripping from his beard, his mouth set in a taut white line.
Miri dropped the reins and snatched the knife from her belt. “Keep back or I swear I will—will—”
“Will what? Kill me?”
It was like a horrible echo from the past, hurtling Miri back through years to that night in Paris, that moment in the Charters Inn when she had held Simon at bay with her pistol. His response now was the same as it had been then. He kept coming.
“You want to plunge that knife into me? Go ahead. I won’t try to stop you. Look! I’m not even wearing my mail coat.” He tore open his jerkin and shirt, baring a slash of his hard-muscled chest, the dark mat of hair glistening against his rain-soaked skin.
She stumbled back, slamming up against the rough bark of a tree, the solid elm allowing her no further retreat. She raised the knife, tightening her grip on the hilt.
“Stay back, Aristide! I mean it!”
Simon closed the distance between them in one long stride, drawing so near the tip of her blade rested over the region of his heart. His hand came up and Miri braced herself, expecting him to wrestle the knife from her grasp.
To her astonishment, he laid his palm alongside her cheek.
“Go ahead and do it,” he said in a voice ragged with weariness. “Someone’s going to finish me off sooner or later. It might as well be you.”
Miri swallowed hard, fighting to cling to her anger and resentment, to remember all that Simon had cost her, the loss of her trust, her home, her family, the destruction he had brought to Faire Isle. But another flare of lightning afforded her a glimpse of his face, of Simon Aristide, the man she had convinced herself no longer had a soul. And yet she could see the loneliness, the torment, the exhaustion of his spirit, trapped in the depths of that single dark eye.
He was not merely goading her as he had done that time in Paris. Some part of Simon truly did not care whether he lived or died. Miri wondered despairingly how they had come to this, that innocent boy and girl who had first met on a midnight hillside. Simon, who had learned to hold life so cheap, including his own, and her not much better, a daughter of the earth threatening to kill.
A tremor coursed through her and she lowered her hand, allowing the knife to slip from her fingers and thud to the ground. Twisting away from him, she closed her eyes, assailed by that strong rush of emotion Simon had always inflicted upon her, anger and sorrow, hurt and a frustrated longing for what might have been.
“Damn you to hell,” she cried, hot tears trickling from her eyes to mingle with the cold rain.
“Too late.”
“W-what?”
She started when he touched her cheek, brushing away the moisture with the rough pad of his thumb. “Your curse, my dear. It comes far too late. I’ve been in hell for quite some time.”
Miri trembled so badly, her knees might have given way if Simon had not braced her by grasping her shoulders. She stiffened, resisting, but he drew her gently, inexorably into his arms. No matter how she despised herself for it, she was weak enough to rest her brow against his shoulder. His large hand engulfed the back of her head as he stroked her hair, murmuring something about it being all right.
“All right?” she choked. “Do you realize I’ve never held a weapon in my hand, never tried to hurt anyone until you came along?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Damn him for sounding as though he meant that, Miri thought. So much for all of her fierce boasting to Marie Claire, that she would know how to deal with Simon the next time she encountered him.
How appalled Marie Claire would be to see her cradled in the witch-hunter’s arms. To say nothing of how Ariane and Gabrielle would react. It was the thought of her sisters that gave Miri the strength to draw back, shove Simon away from her.
Mopping tears and rain from her face, she fought through her confused jumble of feelings, focusing on the only thing that made sense to her, the mare that stood trembling nearby.
“Your horse is cold and frightened,” she informed Simon tersely. “We need to get her in out of the rain.”
———
THE SMALL BARN behind the cottage was snug and dry, the air redolent w
ith scents that Miri had long found soothing and familiar, sweet hay and warm horse. Shivering in her wet clothes, Miri gestured toward the only empty stall. Simon eased his nervous mount inside. It was a strange aftermath to their conflict, this working in silent harmony to look after the mare Simon called Elle. But Miri suspected that they both found it easier to deal with the horse’s needs than each other.
Willow thrust his head over the door of his stall and whickered softly, the stolid pony more curious than alarmed by the intruders in his barn. But the pigeons that roosted in the rafters had gone silent. Miri could sense them up there in the shadows, watching warily with their beady eyes. Her birds were fully as disturbed as she was by the invasion of Simon Aristide.
As Miri rummaged about through her tack box for some towels, she studied Simon out of the corner of her eye. He seemed like a stranger, fitting none of her memories of him, neither the handsome boy who had once figured in her dreams nor the dreaded Le Balafre who had formed her nightmares.
He looked older, wearier, his wet hair slicked back from his brow, throwing his beard-coarsened jaw and scarred face into sharp relief. When she had last seen Simon, he had been shaved bald, determined to look as grim as possible, to intimidate everyone who crossed his path, including her.
But nothing could have been gentler than the way Simon handled his horse. The mare was still spooked, blowing and trembling.
“Easy now. Easy, my beautiful lady,” he crooned, caressing the mare’s neck with long firm strokes. “It’s all over. You’re all right now.”
Miri watched him with a kind of wonder. Never had she known Aristide to display such affection to anyone.
You know that is not true, the voice of memory whispered in her ear, recalling a stolen moment in a secluded cove so long ago, the breeze from the channel stirring the black curls of Simon’s hair, his handsome young face as smooth as her own.
Simon leaned forward and Miri’s heart missed a beat when she realized what he intended to do. She shyly tipped up her face, closing her eyes. Simon touched his mouth to hers, so lightly, but the kiss seemed to blossom inside her, sweet and warm.
The Silver Rose Page 5
