The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  The difficulty was convincing Simon. His face hardened in that expression she so dreaded. His witch-hunter’s look, she’d always called it.

  “Simon, please, you have got to believe me and for once trust my instincts instead of yours.”

  His lips thinned in a harsh line, but as his gaze rested upon Miri, something in his visage softened. “Very well, when I track down these harpies, I will do my best to make sure this girl is judged fairly. I hope that satisfies you and you will return home. You have already taken a damnable risk, haring after me, all alone. To say nothing of the jolt you gave me, appearing out of thin air. How the devil did you manage to get here anyway?”

  “I flew in on my broom.”

  When Simon shot her an exasperated look, she said wryly, “I traveled in the ordinary way, like everyone else. By horse.” Miri gestured to her mount, grazing near where Simon had tethered Elle in the only shade to be had, a stand of poplar trees at the base of the hillside. Contrasted to Elle’s sleek lines and glossy black coat, Miri’s gelding appeared dull and heavy. Mud-colored with a blaze of white upon his forehead, Samson was not the handsomest or the swiftest of horses. But he had a powerful chest and hindquarters. Strong and sturdy, he possessed a remarkable degree of stamina.

  Shading his gaze with his hand, Simon squinted in Samson’s direction. “I don’t recall that beast being stabled in your barn.”

  “He wasn’t. I borrowed him.”

  Simon regarded her uneasily. “Borrowed or, er, liberated him from his owner?”

  Miri smiled slightly, surprised that Simon would even remember her girlhood determination to free every abused animal from cruel or neglectful owners.

  “I didn’t steal Samson if that is what you are afraid of. I have finally learned to accept that the world’s views on animals as property are far different from mine, and happily Samson did not require rescuing. He was loaned to me by—by a good lady, a merchant’s wife from Saint-Malo. She sent three of her servants as well to act as escort until I found you.”

  “What escort? I don’t see anyone hovering about.”

  “They left as soon as I overtook you. My new acquaintances are not, er, comfortable around witch-hunters.”

  “And yet they abandoned you to one.”

  “Because I bade them go.” Miri lifted her chin proudly. “I am Evangeline Cheney’s daughter, and unlike most women, I was taught to make my own decisions. The choice to seek you out was mine.”

  “And a damned poor choice it was,” Simon growled. “Beyond helping this benighted Moreau girl, what did you hope to accomplish?”

  Rescue Carole and . . . somehow manage to save you as well. Miri lowered her eyes, wondering where that thought had come from. If she were honest, she had to admit that it had been in the back of her mind all along. But she didn’t have to admit that to Simon.

  “I thought my purpose in coming should be clear to you,” she said. “I have come to help you unmask the Silver Rose, put a stop to her wicked schemes.”

  Simon looked thunderstruck for a moment, then folded his arms across the broad barrier of his chest.

  “No.”

  Miri blinked, dismayed by the forbidding look that settled over Simon’s countenance. Up until this moment, she had believed that he had actually been glad to see her. More than glad. Now he glared like he wished her at the far ends of the earth.

  “You are refusing my offer?” she faltered.

  “Damned right I am. Whatever made you think I’d accept?”

  “Because that is why you came to Faire Isle, isn’t it? Looking for help.”

  “Not yours,” he said bluntly.

  When she flinched, he went on in a gentler tone, “Miri, it is not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but I never wanted—”

  “I know what you wanted,” Miri interrupted sadly. “The Lady of Faire Isle. Regretfully, you will have to make do with me. If nothing else, I can at least provide an extra pair of eyes, help you to watch your back.”

  “Or distract me so I end up with a witch blade thrust through my heart.”

  “I am glad to hear that that is of concern to you. I was afraid you no longer cared whether you lived or died.”

  “I don’t,” he snapped. “But use your head, woman. If I fell, what the devil do you think would happen to you? By now you ought to realize how deadly this sorceress and her minions are. You can’t get involved in this dangerous pursuit.”

  “But I am already involved, whether I like it or not,” she said. “I may not have the power and influence Ariane once wielded among wise women, but I can help you, Simon. I possess certain . . . connections and abilities of my own. I managed to track you down, didn’t I?”

  “Not to belittle your accomplishment, my dear, but I have been making no effort whatsoever to conceal my whereabouts.”

  “That was remarkably careless of you. The Silver Rose’s agents could have—” Miri shivered as comprehension dawned on her. “You wanted them to find you!”

  Simon shrugged. “I lost all trace of the Silver Rose after my return from Faire Isle. Another attack is my only hope of picking up the scent again.”

  “No, it isn’t. Do you realize the pair that took Carole from Faire Isle has been journeying in the same direction? I have been able to follow them as well as you.”

  Simon paled beneath his layering of beard. “Are you completely mad, Miribelle Cheney? Do you realize what could have happened to you if you had overtaken those witches on your own?”

  “I was being careful, far more so than you have been.” Miri paced slightly ahead of him, frowning. “Too careful, perhaps. I lost all sign of them near Tours. I believe they might have taken to traveling by river and I am sure we will have no trouble—” She gasped as Simon seized her by the shoulders and spun her about to face him.

  “No! Let us get one thing straight here and now. There is no we. Go back to Faire Isle. This is not your battle.”

  “Yes it is.” She tipped back her head to peer at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “Oh, Simon, how can I make you understand? I am a true daughter of the earth and the evil this woman is doing— Not only does she threaten innocent lives, she defiles all the goodness and harmony I believe in, every principle that I hold dear. It is my duty to stop her as much as it is yours.”

  “And how can I make you understand? If you were killed or even hurt— Damn it, Miri, I have enough regrets where you are concerned. Don’t tempt me to make use of you again.”

  He thrust her away from him, giving her a small shove down the hill in the direction of her mount. “Saddle up and go find those fools who escorted you here. Go home, Miri. Before it is too late.”

  Miri staggered a little to regain her balance, then dug in her heels. “I am sorry, Simon, but I can’t do that.”

  “Would you prefer that I truss you up and drag you back to Faire Isle myself?” Simon’s voice was low, almost silken, but she could tell from the dark glitter in his eye that the threat was very real.

  “You could do that,” she replied with a stubborn lift of her chin. “You are much stronger than I. But it would be a great waste of time for both of us. You might be able to make me return home, but you’ll never be able to keep me there. As soon as your back is turned, I will only have to set out again.”

  Simon stalked away from her, swearing under his breath just as Miri had often heard Renard do whenever he became frustrated by what he termed Ariane’s obstinacy. Simon and her brother-in-law were such bitter enemies. How appalled both men would be to discover they had anything in common. The thought would have provoked a smile from Miri under other circumstances, but she rubbed her arms, feeling at a loss.

  It should have occurred to her Simon might refuse her help, but his rejection hurt all the same. She had always been accounted the youngest, the weakest of the Cheney women, the little sister who needed to be sheltered and protected, safe in her world of dreams. And for so long, she was ashamed to admit, she had preferred it that way. Perhaps she
still did.

  She trailed after Simon where he stood near the edge of the vineyard, gazing moodily toward the valley below. A small village of white stone cottages dotted the banks of the Cher River like beads from a broken strand of pearls. The rays of the setting sun made the thatched roofs appear as though they had been spun from gold. Despite her exhaustion, worries, and fears, Miri was touched by the simple peace and beauty of the scene.

  She wondered if Simon felt the same, but she doubted it. Judging from his tight-lipped expression, she suspected that all he saw were the lengthening shadows, the dangers of another night about to descend.

  From the nearby grove of poplars, Elle emitted a soft whicker. She twisted her head to nuzzle Samson when he lipped playfully at her ear, the pair behaving as though they had been pastured together all their lives.

  Miri smiled ruefully. “Our horses appear to be getting along far better than we are.”

  Simon cast a cursory glance toward the horses. “That is because they have nothing at stake, nothing like our past history.”

  “No, I think it is because animals are more sensible than humans. They view the world in much simpler, uncomplicated terms. I often envy them.” Stepping closer to Simon, Miri said quietly, “I am sorry that you doubt my strength and courage for this enterprise.”

  “Damn it, Miri, I never said—”

  “And I don’t blame you,” she rushed on, not giving him a chance to speak. “But you should know. If you won’t let me come with you, I will be obliged to continue on alone.”

  Simon cut her a glance filled with dark impatience. “You will, will you? And if you did find the Silver Rose on your own, what the devil are you planning to do with her? Reason with her, tell her this is not how nice wise women behave? Because we both know damned well you’d never be able to shoot her or thrust a knife through her black heart.”

  Although she winced at his sarcasm, Miri replied with dignity, “I hope I would find the fortitude to do whatever must be done, but that is why it would be better if we joined forces. I believe I can help you find the Silver Rose, but you are much better at—at—”

  “Being a cruel and cold-hearted bastard?”

  Miri frowned at him. “At fighting evil, I was going to say.”

  “Ah, so you finally acknowledge the need for the ruthlessness of the witch-hunter.”

  “Just as the witch-hunter needs the lore of the wise woman,” she retorted. “You’ll never defeat this woman on your own either.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “You haven’t succeeded thus far,” Miri reminded him. “An alliance between us seems the most sensible thing, but the choice is yours. We can risk our lives together. Or alone.”

  Simon vented a wearied sigh and lapsed into silence, the agitation of his thoughts only betrayed by the way he flexed and unflexed his hand at his side. Miri maintained an aura of calm indifference, although her heart raced, wondering what she would do if Simon refused her offer, if she truly would have the courage to go alone. His dark eye probed hers as though testing the measure of her resolve. She forced herself to steadily meet his gaze.

  At last he said, “If I was mad enough to agree to this alliance, as you call it, there would have to be certain conditions.”

  “Such as?”

  “I will be the one in charge of our hunt, the one who has the final say in how we proceed. If I ever order you to remain behind, you’ll do it, no arguments. If we ride into danger and I command you to flee, you will, no hesitations. Even if it means leaving me behind.”

  Miri frowned, not at all liking these terms, but realizing from Simon’s grim expression that she had little choice but to accept them. She nodded. “All right. But I also have conditions.”

  When Simon arched his brow questioningly, she went on, “You might find my methods of tracking a little, um, unorthodox and disconcerting. You must promise not to ask questions about my ways or about any of the people I might contact en route.”

  “And if these people of yours are in league with the Silver Rose?”

  “They won’t be. You will have to trust my judgment for that.”

  Simon looked no more pleased with her conditions than she had been with his. He finally conceded, “Very well, damn it.”

  Miri held her breath, scarce able to believe she had won. “Then—then we are agreed? We continue on together?” She tentatively held out her hand. Simon gazed at it for a long time before encompassing her fingers in his strong, steady grip.

  “Together.” He added grimly. “And may God help us both.”

  Chapter Eight

  THE BRASS HORSE WAS LIKE MANY OF THE HOSTELRIES situated along the Cher, a modest inn that catered mostly to the river traffic, merchants, and watermen moving goods up and down stream. But the dire events that had resulted in the infant Luc’s death had left a permanent pall over the establishment run by the Paillards, the innkeepers among the first families to be devastated by the sinister designs of the Silver Rose.

  Once a jovial bustling man, Gaspard Paillard’s movements were lethargic as he wiped down tankards and replaced them on the cupboard shelves. When Simon entered the taproom with Miri trailing in his wake, no sign of welcome flickered in the innkeeper’s dull eyes.

  Paillard had been grudgingly grateful to Simon for doing what he had lacked the courage to do himself: defy the local priest and see that his grandson was properly laid to rest instead of being burned as the spawn of a witch. But Simon was a bitter reminder of his cowardice, and Paillard would have been relieved to never clap eyes upon the witch-hunter again.

  Simon would as soon have stopped elsewhere himself, but with night falling, he had only one aim—to get Miri safely bestowed within four walls.

  “Monsieur Paillard . . .” It would be an insult to ask the man how he was faring. Simon contented himself with a curt nod.

  “Master Witch-Hunter,” the landlord replied sourly. “What ill wind brings you back to my door this time?”

  “Only the need for a light repast and a night’s lodgings for myself and—” Simon hesitated, trying to decide how to account for Miri.

  “His cousin Louis,” Miri spoke up in a husky voice that Simon feared would fool no one.

  “Er—yes, Louis.” Simon gave her a warning frown. He had ordered her to remain silent and let him do all the talking.

  She adjusted the brim of her hat lower over her face, but she needn’t have bothered. To Simon’s relief, Paillard did not cast so much as an inquisitive glance in her direction. The man seemed to have lost all interest in anything beyond his own misery since the winter his only daughter Lucie had sold her soul to the devil and abandoned his grandson to freeze to death.

  “I’ll see what’s available in the kitchen for your supper,” Paillard said. “As for the room, you may take your pick. It is not as though we are swamped with custom since—since—” He paused, his throat working in a rare display of emotion.

  “First room at the top of the stairs is ready and clean,” he concluded gruffly.

  As Simon thanked the man, he was aware of Miri regarding both of them, no doubt sensing the undercurrents. Her gaze moved on to the inn itself, the gloom-shrouded walls, the tables and chairs that would still look just as stark and empty even after the candles were lit.

  Simon was quick to gather up their saddlebags and hustle her toward the stairs. A maidservant toting a jug of hot water appeared to usher them to the landing above. The young strawberry blonde was no one Simon remembered from his previous visits. Doubtless she had been engaged to replace the pair of hands lost when Lucie Paillard had vanished. The presence of the new maid suggested that the Paillards had finally accepted the fact that their daughter was never coming home.

  As the chambermaid escorted Miri up the stairs, Simon prepared to follow. But a hand reached out to pluck at his sleeve.

  “Monsieur Aristide?”

  Simon’s gut knotted as he turned to face the wraith of a woman who had melted out of the shadows. Once as
pretty and youthful as her daughter, Colette Paillard looked like a lovely gown that had been worn too hard, faded from too much washing and bleaching in the sun. As much as her husband abhorred the sight of Simon, Simon dreaded encountering this woman with her tremulous mouth and tragic eyes.

  He ducked his head in a curt bow. “Madame Paillard.”

  “Forgive me, but I was wondering if anywhere in your travels you had heard anything of—of—” She stole an anxious glance into the taproom, where her husband was serving wine to the river men. Gaspard Paillard had forbidden his daughter’s name to ever be spoken beneath his roof again.

  Colette sank her voice to a whisper. “Lucie.”

  “No, madame. I am sorry. I have not.”

  Miri and the chambermaid had already vanished up the stairs. Simon tried again to follow, but once more Madame Paillard detained him.

  “But if you did learn anything—if you ever found my girl—”

  Simon adjusted the weight of the saddlebags across his shoulder, his mouth tightening. Did not this pathetic creature understand what would happen to her girl if he did find Lucie? That he’d be obliged to see her tried and hung for witchcraft and the murder of her child?

  “It—it is just the never knowing that is the worst,” she quavered. “Always wondering what’s become of her that keeps me awake of nights. So if you did know, if you would promise to be kind enough to come and tell me . . .”

  Simon thought he would sooner have hot spikes shoved beneath his nails than be the one to inform this mother of the fate that was bound to befall her only child. But when Colette’s eyes filled, he said gently, “I promise.”

  She blinked back her tears, made a pitiful attempt to smile before she faded back into the taproom. Simon stalked up the stairs, not for the first time cursing his profession and witches like Lucie Paillard and this damnable Silver Rose who made his work necessary. As he gained the landing, there was no sign of Miri. But the chambermaid emerged from the first door to his right.

  “This way, monsieur,” she said, bobbing a nervous curtsy, taking such obvious pains not to stare at Simon’s eye patch, he nearly snapped at her to take a good long look. But he restrained himself. He was accustomed to the stares his scarred face attracted, and it was not this girl who disturbed him, but coming back to this cursed place. He should have tried harder to find somewhere else to safely pass the night. He had to have been mad to bring Miri to this inn, haunted with its weight of bitter memories and despair. No, he decided. When he had truly lost his wits was back there in the vineyard when he’d agreed to let Miri accompany him at all.