As soon as they finished their repast, Simon was ready to set out again. He thought Miri would be just as eager, but when he tried to rise, she leaped to her feet, pressing her hand on his shoulder to stay him.
“No, Simon. Rest awhile.”
“But those witches have a considerable start. If they are traveling by mule, that’s in our favor. We should be able to overtake them if we keep pressing on. The horses are rested—”
“But you are not,” she insisted. “You look almost gray with fatigue and I noticed earlier you were practically nodding off in the saddle.”
“I do that sometimes when I have had little sleep,” Simon admitted as he shrugged off Miri’s hand, struggling to his feet. “Elle is used to it. She just slows her gait when she feels my hand start to slack on the reins.”
“But she cannot catch you if you tumble off. You make her very nervous.”
“Oh, I suppose she told you that,” Simon drawled.
“Yes, she did,” Miri replied somberly.
He eyed her askance, realizing she was not jesting. From the first that he had known Miri, she had insisted she had this extraordinary ability to communicate with animals, a claim that had always rendered Simon uneasy.
She bumped up her chin, frowning. “Don’t look at me that way, Simon Aristide. As though you think I am either mad or possessed. Elle speaks to you, too. You told me that she has frequently warned you of danger.”
“Yes, but that’s different,” Simon said. “I can tell that from the way she whinnies or shies back or—or tosses her head.”
“She speaks to you in dozens of different ways, just as all animals are capable of doing. I am simply able to hear and understand them better than most humans can. And I happen to know you are a great source of concern to Elle. She doesn’t think you look after yourself properly.”
Simon shifted his gaze from Miri to his horse and was disconcerted when Elle lifted her head and pricked her ears as though she knew they were discussing her.
“But I can’t just doze off out here in the open, in the middle of the day, leaving you unprotected—”
Miri pressed her fingertips to his mouth to silence his protest. “Yes you can. We are safe enough here. You said the Rose’s coven has never attacked during the day and you won’t be much of a protector if you collapse in a heap. You asked me earlier to trust you. But you have to learn to do some trusting yourself. Lie down for a while and close your eyes,” she coaxed. “Depend upon me to look out for you.”
She didn’t know what a difficult thing she was asking. It had been so long since he had ever depended upon anyone but himself. But she was right. He was dead on his feet. He would be of little use to her if his vigilance was impaired.
“All right,” he consented grudgingly. “But you are not to let me sleep more than five minutes, do you hear?”
Miri only gave him a serene smile. She led the horses down the hill to water them as Simon stretched out under the tree. By the time she returned, he was fast asleep, one arm pillowed beneath his head.
Miri eased down beside him, taking great care not to wake him. He looked so worn down, as though even in sleep he could not entirely escape a lifetime of cares and regrets. She was unable to resist stroking a tangle of hair back from his face. Her fingertips brushed up against his eye patch and she was tempted to remove it, but she feared Simon would find that another intrusion. He didn’t like exposing his wounds, either those of the flesh or those buried deeper in his heart.
She had known him for a good portion of her life, from the boy she had been infatuated with to the man she had believed she’d hated. Simon Aristide, the infamous Le Balafre, master witch-hunter, the bane of Faire Isle. But these past two days she had glimpsed another side of him as well, the man who had chastely kissed her good night and gallantly placed the barrier of a door between them. The same man who had risked going alone to confront a dangerous enemy to keep Miri safe, the one who had cradled Colette Paillard in his arms, trying to absorb her pain. Simon Aristide . . . the protector.
“Who are you really, Simon?” Miri whispered. “I warn you, this time I mean to find out, no matter how fiercely you try to guard your heart.”
But for now she was content to watch over him while he slept.
———
SIMON STUMBLED through the village, the lanes empty and silent, rakes and plows abandoned in the fields, cottage doors boarded over.
“Maman? Papa? Lorene?” he called frantically. But there was no answer, only the eerie moan of the wind, the thunder of his heart. It was as though he was the only one left alive in the entire world.
Except for the old woman on the village green, her straggly gray hair blowing in the wind as she tossed something down the well, muttering curses.
“You there! Stop!” Simon shouted. “What are you doing?”
The hag straightened from bending over the well and grinned, revealing the blackened stumps of her teeth. As Simon darted forward to seize her, the witch rose into the air with a cackling laugh.
He ducked down as she flew at him, her nails extended like claws. But as she swooped past him, he was horrified to realize he was not her target. She flew toward a child picking daisies in the meadow. Her dark head bent earnestly over her task, she did not see the hag bearing down upon her.
“Lorene!” Simon screamed his little sister’s name but his voice was torn away by the wind. He started to run, legs pumping, but he knew he’d never get there in time. Lorene looked up at last, screamed in terror as the witch descended.
“Lorene!” Simon came awake gasping, sitting bolt upright. He squinted against the bright flood of sunlight, his mind still fogged from his dream. He felt disoriented, unable to place where he was until he became aware that a woman hovered over him, her face set beneath a silken blond crown of braids, her eyes gentle with concern.
“Simon, are—are you all right?” Miri asked.
He blew out a gusty breath, and dragged his hand down his face, trying to clear off the last vestiges of sleep. “Yes. It was only—only—”
“A bad dream,” she filled in. She paused, then asked softly. “Who is Lorene?”
Simon grimaced, mortified to realize he must have been muttering in the throes of his sleep, whimpering like some frightened child.
“No one,” he started to snap, but for once the denial stuck in his throat. He stared down at his hands dangling between his knees. “She is . . . she was my sister.”
Miri reached out, took hold of one of his hands, the gesture soft and encouraging. Her eyes were full of questions, but she didn’t press him, just waited. But Simon felt he had already taken enough painful journeys into his past for one day. Lord! He hadn’t had that particular nightmare for years. That’s what came of letting himself remember.
“Look. I’m fine. It was nothing but a stupid dream.” He carried her hand brusquely to his lips, then released it. “I am sorry if I alarmed you. Damned embarrassing way for a man to behave.”
“No, don’t be embarrassed. Everyone has bad dreams.” Her lashes swept down as she confessed, “I—I sometimes do myself.”
“Yes, my dear, but I am a witch-hunter. I am supposed to be the stuff of nightmares, not cringe from them myself.” He attempted to smile, lighten the mood as he struggled to his feet.
He extended his hand to her. She retrieved the hat she had discarded, then allowed him to pull her up. Simon frowned when he saw how far the sun had journeyed across the sky.
“Miri, I told you not to let me sleep so long.”
“You were tired. You needed the rest.”
“But you must have been bored to distraction just sitting there watching me snore.”
She fingered the brim of her hat and shook her head, smiling softly. “No, actually I found it good to steal a moment of peace. Despite the drought, this valley is still a lovely place and after all the darkness we have been facing, it was comforting to watch people going about normal, everyday sorts of tasks.”
Simon swept a glance down the hill and understood what she meant. The village of Longpre seemed as far removed from danger and evil as any place could get. Simon knew from hard experience how quickly that could change, how such serenity could be shattered in the time it took to draw breath. But still there was something reassuring about the sight of two small boys racing a little black dog down the lane, a plump housewife hanging out her wash to dry, some lusty lads jumping off a raft, splashing noisily about in the river.
Some lusty naked lads.
Simon cleared his throat and stepped quickly to one side, trying to shield Miri from the sight. She smiled when she perceived what he was doing, looking amused by the gesture.
“It’s all right, Simon. I have been watching those young men cooling themselves off in the river for some time now. With great envy, I might add,” she said, fanning herself with her hat. “A swim would be tremendously refreshing.”
“But Miri, those men are—are—”
“Naked?” She shrugged. “I don’t think there is anything shameful about the human body. We are as God made us. And those young men are fine, strapping examples of His creation. Although not quite as fine as you.”
“But you have never seen me naked.” He added uneasily, “Er—have you?”
Her lashes swept down demurely. “Not completely. But there was that time when I hid you on Faire Isle. I brought you those clothes to change into so you could get out of your witch-hunter’s robes. When you retreated into the bushes to change, I tried to peek.”
“Miribelle Cheney!”
Her smile was completely unrepentant. “I couldn’t help myself. I was curious. It was Gabrielle’s fault. She kept telling me that the reason witch-hunters hate women so is because their man parts were all shriveled.”
“I don’t hate women and there is nothing wrong with my—my male parts,” Simon spluttered indignantly.
“I will have to take your word for that. I wasn’t able to see enough to tell.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “But what I did see of you was quite lovely.”
Although Simon was annoyed to feel his cheeks fire, he couldn’t help laughing. “I never had any idea you were such a little devil.”
“You were too busy imagining I was a witch.”
“No, I never thought that about you.” His smile softened into something more tender as he touched her cheek. “Not once.”
She smiled back at him, her eyes as silvery as the river, her lips soft and moist. It would be so easy to slide his hand behind the nape of her neck, draw her closer, so easy to taste the sweetness of those inviting red lips . . . so easy to love her.
The last thought shook Simon to the core. He hastily dropped his hand back to his side. “We had better be going and make the most of what daylight we have left. With any luck we might be able to overtake those witches by late tomorrow.”
He trudged toward the horses, finding it easier to concentrate on tightening Elle’s girth than to examine too closely the effect that Miri had upon him. The desire—God, how he wished it was only desire she roused in him. Lust, passion, those things he could understand and deal with. It was the deeper emotions she evoked that alarmed him.
She had followed him over to the horses, but instead of readying Samson to depart, she lingered by Simon.
“Simon . . .” She touched his sleeve.
When he risked a glance at her, he saw she was looking subdued, the shadows back in her eyes. He supposed it was his mention of the witches that had done that, reminded her.
She looked up at him gravely. “When we do overtake these women, you—you will remember your promise, won’t you? You do accept that Carole is innocent and that she is not to be harmed?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“And the others?”
Simon couldn’t bring himself to reply, but the taut set of his mouth must have been answer enough.
Miri shivered. “But what if some of the other members of this coven are like Carole and they were tricked or—or coerced?”
Simon fetched a heavy sigh. “Miri, I will try to see that these women are judged fairly and with as much compassion as possible. Except for one.” His lips thinned.
“There will be no mercy for the Silver Rose.”
Chapter Eleven
LIGHT FADED FROM ANOTHER SWELTERING DAY IN THE CITY of Paris, the shades of evening offering little relief from the heat. Another day of blistering sun and no rain had rendered the city a strange blend of lethargy and tension, especially in the poorer quarters of the city. Along the rue de Morte, another fight had broken out near one of the taverns, fists flying, knives flashing. It was far too hot for such an incident to draw the usual crowd of jeering onlookers, even the pickpockets too listless to take advantage of the distraction a brawl offered to their trade.
The three women who made their way down the narrow street gave the tavern a wide berth. Ursula Gruen, who led the way, was tall and big-boned, with straw-colored hair. She made a striking contrast to Odile Parmentier, dark and petite, with a sharp little face, almost elfin features.
Ever since they had entered Paris, the pair had been engaged in a low-voiced argument, occasionally pausing to glance back at the unhappy girl who trailed in their wake.
“We ought to get rid of her now while there is still time,” Ursula grumbled. “Stupid worthless blubbering little chit. You made a mistake recruiting her and you just won’t admit it, Odile.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, the girl is very young. Give her a chance,” Odile whispered back. “Let the Silver Rose decide her fate.”
Carole Moreau trudged along behind the two women, fully aware that she was the subject of this fierce conversation. But she was so consumed by her own misery, she was beyond caring. Exhausted and hungry, her throat was parched, her legs aching from fatigue. The leather of her shoes had worn so thin, she had raised an ugly blister on her heel and her filthy shirt and gown were soaked with sweat, clinging to her thin frame. Her right cheek was bruised and swollen from the last blow she had received from Ursula’s ham-like fist. Odile had cautioned Carole upon more than one occasion.
“You don’t want to provoke Ursula. She has a vile temper. She murdered her own husband, you know. Bashed in his skull with the fire iron. That is the reason she had to flee her village and why she became a follower of the Silver Rose, to avoid doing the hempen jig.”
“T—the hempen jig?” Carole had faltered.
“The gallows. Death by hanging, you little fool.” Her head bent to one side, her arm upraised, Odile had mimed someone dangling from a rope, her feet tapping out a frenetic little dance.
Although she had shuddered at Odile’s warning, Carole had always had difficulty minding her tongue. She had earned her latest blow from Ursula by daring to complain of the woman’s treatment of the stolen mules. After the poor things had been ridden to the point of collapse, Ursula had insisted they get rid of the mules before they were caught with them. She had turned them loose, leaving the creatures to fend for themselves in a thicket of trees.
The heat had made Ursula even more surly than usual. When Carole had tried to object to this cruelty, Ursula had struck her to the ground, snarling that they were close to their destination. The mules were no longer necessary, but at least they had served some useful purpose, which she was sure was more than would ever be said for Carole.
That brief altercation had taken place just outside of Paris. Since then, Carole had maintained a glum silence, reflecting that for once Ursula was right about something. Carole was no longer of use or value to anyone. The last time she had caught a glimpse of her own reflection, she had been shocked and disgusted by what she had seen, a pale, thin, waif of a girl clad in dirty, ragged clothes, her hair matted and filthy.
She had never had much to call her own, but at least she had taken pains to present a clean and tidy appearance. She had faults aplenty, but being a slattern had never been one of them. She could be too quick-tempered and sharp with her tongue and, as he
r mother had tried to instruct her, she needed to rein in some of her stubborn pride. She had lied to her aunt and uncle when she had sneaked out for her trysts with Raoul, but other than that, she had always been a basically honest girl and never asked anyone for so much as a crust of bread.
But since meeting up with Ursula and Odile, she had been reduced to the lowest kind of vagabond. She had become a beggar, a thief, and perhaps a murderess as well. Her little boy . . .
A lump rose in Carole’s throat and she worked hard to swallow. She had always hated to cry in front of anyone, but since leaving Faire Isle she constantly found herself on the verge of tears, a dangerous weakness around Ursula, who had no patience for any display of sentiment. The slightest sniffle could earn Carole another kick or cuff to the head. Even Odile would frown, looking mighty disappointed in her, unable to understand why Carole was so unhappy. Carole had been offered the great privilege of serving the Silver Rose. She had a glorious future before her.
But Carole felt as though she had left her future, her entire life back on Faire Isle, when she had been obliged to abandon her babe by the stream near Miri Cheney’s cottage. She had been so sure she would hate the alien thing that had grown inside her all these months, turning her life into one long misery.
What she had never expected was the rush of feeling that came over her at her first sight of the babe. He was so small, so helpless, and . . . so utterly perfect with his diminutive fingers and toes.
“Don’t look at him and whatever you do, don’t name him,” Odile had advised.
But Carole’s heart had already christened him, Jean Baptiste, after her much-loved grandfather. Gathering the babe closer in her arms, Carole had stammered out her thanks to Odile and Ursula for helping her through the ordeal of childbirth, but she had changed her mind. She no longer had any interest in joining the coven of the Silver Rose.
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