The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  Her very first kiss . . . Simon had been so tender, as tender as he was being now. Miri caught her breath, cutting off the thought.

  “Don’t start doing that again. Looking for things in Simon that aren’t there,” she adjured herself. Miri carried the towels over to him, taking great care to keep an arm’s length away.

  “There now, Elle. You are safe. You have nothing to fear.” As the mare calmed beneath his hands, Simon turned to Miri. “You have nothing to be afraid of either.”

  “That is a strange assurance to come from someone who once did his best to terrorize me and my entire family.”

  “That was a long time ago, almost ten years. I—I have many regrets about that summer.”

  “And perhaps your chief one is that you never charged me with witchcraft. So is that why you are here? To finally remedy your error.”

  “No.” Simon frowned as he loosened the straps of Elle’s saddle. “After all this time, I hoped you would have realized I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Miri regarded him incredulously. “Thanks to you, the king of France attainted my entire family for sorcery and treason. We had to flee into exile while the crown confiscated Renard’s estates on the mainland. They even took Belle Haven, my family home that was handed down through generations of daughters of the earth, the land that was never any man’s to take. And I can’t even begin to describe what you did to Faire Isle itself, turning it into a place I don’t even recognize anymore.

  “God help me, Simon, if you ever did decide you wanted to hurt me.”

  “Miri, I—” He broke off, apparently realizing the futility of anything he could say. But his face was shadowed with regret as he stripped off Elle’s saddle.

  “You might as well have charged me with witchcraft, too,” she persisted. “Why didn’t you?”

  Simon propped Elle’s saddle up in a corner. “Because I believed you were innocent.”

  “No more innocent than many other women you persecuted, including my own sisters. So why did you always insist upon sparing me?”

  “I don’t know.” Simon’s lips quirked into a rueful half-smile. “Perhaps because you have always been my one weakness.”

  Just as Miri feared he had always been hers, but she was not about to admit that to him. She thrust one of the towels into his hand. Thunder boomed outside but to Miri, it seemed as nothing compared to the tension crackling inside the barn. As Simon began to rub down Elle’s flanks, Miri tried to towel off the animal’s neck, but the horse shied back in alarm, nearly stepping on Simon.

  “Whoa,” he called, patting the mare reassuringly. “What’s the matter, Elle?”

  Peering into the mare’s wide brown eye, Miri could tell at once.

  “She’s afraid of me now,” Miri said in a small voice. “Because she saw me try to hurt you.”

  Simon stroked the mare until she calmed again. “My poor Elle,” he murmured “She ought to be used to people attempting to kill me.”

  “It—it happens that often?”

  “Often enough,” came his wry reply.

  The information provided her with a disturbing glimpse into what Simon had become, the object of hatred, isolation. Why did he travel alone? Why was he no longer surrounded by an army of men to protect him? Miri fiercely reminded herself that it was none of her concern. The last thing she wanted was to feel any interest or empathy with the man.

  When he went back to toweling Elle down, she approached the horse with more caution, gradually winning back her trust, until she was able to dry off the mare’s powerful chest. Miri knew she’d be better off not knowing, but she could not stop herself from asking. “So how did you know where to find me? Who did you bribe?”

  “Some sour-faced creature. Madame Elan was her name, I believe.”

  “Madame Alain,” Miri corrected, more saddened than angered. “Of course it would be Josephine. I only hope you paid her well. She has a large family to support and things have not prospered on Faire Isle. People from the mainland have been afraid to come here since your raids and our trade has fallen off badly.”

  Simon paused in his vigorous toweling to peer gravely at her. “The lack of trade has nothing to do with what happened ten years ago, Miri. People have little goods or money to barter. Have you been to the mainland recently? Crops are failing because of the drought, livestock dropping in the fields. Gangs of desperate people rove the lanes, ready to attack each other for a crust of bread. Faire Isle is not the only place enduring hard times. This island is no different from the rest of France.”

  Miri frowned as she bent to tend to the mare’s forelegs. “I am sorry to hear of such troubles, but there is one thing you have never understood, Simon. Faire Isle is different from the mainland or at least it was. This island was always a special place of peace and healing, a refuge that you destroyed. The women who fled have never returned and those who remain are cowed, their spirits withered like Josephine Alain.”

  Simon rested one arm across Elle’s back and blew out a wearied sigh. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but I do truly regret much of what happened on Faire Isle. When I rode out here to find you, it—it disturbed me to see so many shops still abandoned, so many homes that have never been rebuilt.”

  “I am not just talking about burned-out cottages and empty shops. There was a gentle spirit on this island, a magic that you crushed beneath your boot heel.”

  Her lips thinned in a bitter smile. “But you are a witch-hunter. I always seem to forget that. Destroying magic is your mission, your sole purpose in life, is it not?”

  Although Simon flushed, his jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “You seem to have forgotten why I was obliged to come here to Faire Isle. I was the king’s appointed representative to investigate charges of sorcery. Your family attacked me and my men, burned down the inn where we were staying.”

  “Because you had charged Gabrielle with witchcraft and were holding her hostage to trap my brother-in-law. You were going to hang Renard without even trying him first.”

  Simon scowled at the reminder but he was quick to counter, “Perhaps that was wrong, but a trial seemed an unnecessary waste of time. The Comte was clearly guilty. He was caught possessing the Book of Shadows. And your sister wasn’t exactly innocent either. Gabrielle admitted to consorting with Cassandra Lascelles, a noted practitioner of black magic.”

  Miri felt the heat rush into her cheeks, her anger compounded by the frustration of not being able to defend her loved ones as indignantly as she would have wished. Because Simon was right, blast him. Renard was a good man, but he had inherited an unfortunate fascination with the darker side of magic from his wicked old grandmother, Melusine. And Miri herself had been nervous of Gabrielle’s friendship with Cassandra, a sorceress skilled in necromancy and crafting amulets of alarming power.

  The Book of Shadows had only tempted Renard because he had hoped to ease his wife’s heartache, find some safe way for Ariane to bear a child. And Gabrielle had only been seeking a way to protect her beloved Captain Remy, not understanding the true evil of Cass’s amulets until it was too late.

  But Miri knew it would be useless trying to explain any of that to Simon, especially about Renard. Simon had long ago convinced himself that the Comte was a sorcercer. It was far easier to remind Simon of his own inequities instead.

  “You told me that all you wanted was to see the Book of Shadows destroyed,” she accused. “You said that if I persuaded Renard to surrender that evil book, you would let both him and Gabrielle go free and like a fool, I believed you. But you continued to hound my family long after that night. You had the Book of Shadows. Why couldn’t you just get rid of it and leave us alone?”

  “Because I never got the chance to destroy the cursed thing.” The color in his face heightened as he admitted reluctantly, “It—it disappeared.”

  “What!”

  “At some point during the chaos of the fire, someone stole the book.”

  “You mean that terrible Book is st
ill out there for someone to make use of, to decipher all those hideous spells?”

  Simon nodded grimly.

  “Oh, that’s marvelous.” Miri threw up her hands and paced past the stalls in her agitation, ignoring Willow’s playful attempt to nip at her. “Well done, Simon. You persecute my innocent family to the ends of the earth while you let one of the greatest evils of all time slip through your fingers. So that is why you tore this island apart. You thought one of us still had that Book.”

  Simon followed her out of the stall and locked his arms across his chest. “Perhaps one of you still does.”

  “You mean Renard, I suppose. I can tell you with certainty that he doesn’t.”

  “You never believed he had it the first time,” Simon replied coolly, but when Miri halted and glared at him, he flung up one hand. “Truce. I didn’t come here to rake up the past or quarrel with you.”

  “Then I wish you would come to the point and tell me exactly why you are here.”

  “I am beginning to wonder that myself.” He grimaced, but as his gaze rested on her, something softened in his face. “Perhaps it is partly because when I heard you had returned to Faire Isle, I—I just wanted to see you again, to know how you were faring.”

  “Now you’ve seen me and I’m just fine,” Miri snapped. “So what’s the other part of your reason?”

  He moved toward Elle, burying his fingers in the horse’s mane. At last he said as though the words were wrung from him. “I—I need your help.”

  Miri stared at him, too stunned to say anything for a moment. She finally gave a mirthless laugh. “You are completely unbelievable, Simon Aristide. Twice in the past I trusted you, even mistook you for a friend. But all you were doing was using me to destroy my sister’s husband. Is that what you are after again? I couldn’t help you with that even if you tortured me. Since I returned to Faire Isle, I—I have lost track of Ariane and Renard. I have no idea where they are or Gabrielle and Remy either.”

  Miri bumped up her chin defiantly, daring him to call her a liar. Simon likely knew she wasn’t telling the truth, but he chose not to challenge her.

  “I am not after Renard,” he said. “I once believed the comte the most wicked being I had ever encountered, but I’ve learned better. Until recently, I had no idea what real evil could be. I have struck up against an enemy too powerful, too clever in the dark ways for one man to defeat.”

  “So why come to me? Why not go to your patron the king? You and he once made a pact, didn’t you, to rid France of all sorcery?”

  “The king unfortunately lost interest in our campaign and moved on to other pursuits. He has proved a weak and volatile man who has mismanaged France so badly he can barely hold his throne safe from the rising power of his nobles.”

  “Well . . . well, what about your fellow witch-hunters?”

  “I have not employed mercenaries for a long time, not since the raid on Faire Isle. My men slipped completely out of my control, looting and burning. I suffered from delusions of grandeur in those days, imagining that I could command the obedience of such battle-hardened men when I was little more than a stripling myself.” Simon’s lip curled in an expression of self-derision. “What an arrogant young ass I was, so infernally sure of myself.”

  Miri eyed him doubtfully. Yes, he certainly had been arrogant, obstinate, and inflexible. She would have thought him incapable of ever admitting he could be wrong about anything.

  “And just what are you now, Simon?” she asked.

  Simon raked his hand back through his damp hair and gave a ragged laugh. “Now I am sure of nothing. All I am is very tired . . . and alone.”

  He scarcely needed to tell her that. She could see that soul-deep weariness in his gaze, feel the pull of his loneliness like a dark tide threatening to draw her in. She had to lock her arms tightly about her middle to steel herself against it.

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I know I have no right to expect anything from you. All I am asking is that you listen to my tale. If you choose not to believe anything I tell you, I swear I’ll leave you in peace. You’ll never set eyes on me again.”

  He took a step toward her. When she tensed, he stopped, coming no closer. He offered his hand instead. “Is it a bargain?”

  Miri stared at those strong, blunt fingers, feeling more torn than she had ever been in her life. Given her history with Simon, she would have to be six kinds of fool to accede to his demand.

  Except that that was the problem. Simon wasn’t demanding. He was asking, and far more humbly than she would have imagined possible. All that he requested was a hearing. It seemed so unreasonable to refuse him.

  But she could almost hear Gabrielle’s voice scolding in her head.

  “Have you lost your mind, Miri? After all this man has done, you are worried about treating him unreasonably. I vow you’d give the devil himself a second chance.”

  And it could well be the devil standing before her. Miri glanced up at Simon, but his face provided her no answers, his dark gaze steady but unreadable. Although she ignored his outstretched hand and brushed past Simon, she conceded in a low voice, “All right. Come to the cottage as soon as you are done looking after your horse.”

  “Thank you,” Simon said gruffly, but he doubted that Miri even heard him as she slipped out the barn door and vanished into the rain and darkness.

  But her image remained with him as he set about the task of feeding Elle, ladling oats into a feed bucket. For so long, the memory of Miri had been frozen in his mind, a girl just blossoming into womanhood, lithe and willowy, her features so serene, so ethereal, she did not seem like she’d been fashioned out of the same clay as the rest of the world. More like she’d been born of air, light, and spirit.

  She was no longer that girl. What curves he could make out beneath that soaked gown were definitely those of a woman. Her face was thinner, paler than he’d remembered. The openness, the wonder that had once sparkled in Miri’s eyes had dimmed, the shadows beneath them deep. He was responsible for that. If he were damned for nothing else he’d done, he would be for the havoc he had wreaked on this one gentle, trusting heart.

  As Elle blissfully plunged her nose into the feed bucket, Simon rubbed his knuckles between her eyes, a caress that the mare was particularly fond of.

  “Ah, the devil take me, Elle,” he murmured. “I’ve inflicted enough pain on that woman. I should never have come here.”

  Time and again he had betrayed Miri’s trust, used her in his quest to rid the world of witches. The damnable thing was he might well end up hurting her again. If he possessed any scrap of decency, he would simply wait out the storm, saddle up Elle, and ride away, find some other way to defeat the Silver Rose and leave Miri in peace.

  But Simon sighed, knowing that he would not. Because he was every inch the bastard that Miri Cheney thought he was.

  Chapter Three

  SIMON PLUNGED THROUGHTHE POURING RAIN, HIS SADDLEBAG flung over his shoulder. By the time he reached Miri’s doorstep, any drying out he’d achieved in the barn was lost. He was dripping wet, his streaming hair snarled across his face. He hammered against the door with his fist, the rough wood abrading his knuckles. He was astonished when it yielded, creaking open. Darting inside, he slammed the door closed.

  As he slicked back the wet hair from his face, Simon saw the reason that it had opened so readily. Miri had neither iron lock nor wooden bar upon her door. He ought to have been grateful for it and it was after all none of his affair. But it alarmed him to discover that the woman was still that trusting.

  The cottage was a far cry from Miri’s former home, Belle Haven, with its beautiful tapestries and multiple bedchambers. The dwelling place consisted of one large room, with a ladder leading to a loft above, the outline of a simple box bed barely visible. The rest of the furnishings below were likewise simple, a pine table, a few stools and chairs, a cupboard, and a cypress chest, but the cottage still managed to convey an aura of cheerful disorde
r. A blue shawl was draped over the back of a chair, the contents of a sewing box were strewn across the table, drying herbs and baskets hung haphazardly from hooks mounted in the beams of the ceiling. A cluster of baby rabbits huddled together in a wire cage bedded with straw, no doubt some orphaned creatures Miri was seeking to rescue.

  Shutters were battened across the windows, muting the wind and the lash of the rain. The soft glow of candles and the logs crackling on the hearth made the place seem like a haven of warmth and light. Or was that more owing to the woman who stood drying her hair before the fire?

  Miri had removed her wet clothes, her gown and underpinnings hanging from a rope she had strung from a hook on the hearth to a peg imbedded in the wall. She was clad only in a shift, and the firelight silhouetted her womanly figure through the thin fabric. Simon could clearly make out the dusky aureole of her nipples, the soft curve of her hips, the shadowy delta at the cusp of her legs. His breath hitched in his throat.

  Miri froze at his entrance, her comb tangled halfway down a long skein of her hair. Obviously she had not been expecting him to finish up in the barn so soon. Simon shuffled his feet. It was damned strange. He had kicked in more doors, forced his way into more homes than he could count, but never had he felt so much like an intruder.

  “Er—I am sorry. I tried to knock. Should I go back out until you—you—”

  Miri tugged the comb from her hair and clutched it in her hands. “Don’t be foolish. You are already soaked. Just take off your boots. They’re muddy.”

  Simon nodded, trying not to stare at her as he eased his saddlebag to the floor. He was bruised. He was tired. He was soaked to the skin and still he was amazed to feel heat course through him. For so long he had thought himself numb to any feelings that were not directly related to his needs for survival. His body announced otherwise, the flash of desire that sizzled through him as unexpected as being struck by lightning.

  Miri tensed like a doe suddenly aware of the hungry gaze of a wolf. She stalked over to the shawl she had left abandoned over the chair. She draped herself in the voluminous woolen folds, knotting the ends across her bosom. Her movements were unhurried and not in the least self-conscious. Rather than a woman modestly seeking to veil herself, it was more like having one slam the bedchamber door in one’s face.