But her mind had gone numb with fear, her heart thudding in her chest. Her legs trembled so badly they threatened to give way beneath her as she mounted the dais. Ursula and Odile had risen, drawing back out of the way. Ursula’s mouth curled in an ugly sneer, Odile offering Carole a look that was part encouragement, part plea.
“The wretch is here, milady,” Ursula announced as though the Silver Rose could not see that for herself.
The sorceress held out one dead-white hand. “Come closer, child.”
When Carole hesitated, Ursula was only too pleased to give her a push until she stood quivering, only a foot away from that cold countenance. She bit down on her lip, uncertain what she should do. Curtsy? Kneel as Ursula and Odile had done?
“What is your name, girl?” the sorceress demanded.
“C-carole Moreau.” Her voice came out in a frightened squeak.
“Say milady,” Odile instructed her in a loud whisper.
“M-milady.”
The sorceress crooked both hands about her staff. “And so, Carole Moreau? You wish to become a follower of the Silver Rose?”
This was the moment to tell the sorceress no, to make her plea to be allowed to go free, to return to Faire Isle. But as Carole looked into those flat, empty eyes, her tongue went dry, cleaving to the roof of her mouth.
She gulped and was horrified to hear herself whisper meekly, “Y-yes, milady.”
“And are you worthy of such an honor?”
“I don’t know,” Carole replied miserably.
“Give me your hand.”
It seemed like such an innocuous command. Carole could not have said why she found herself terrified to obey it. She extended her fingers timidly. An expectant hush seemed to fall over the entire assemblage as the sorceress groped the air, seeking Carole’s hand. Carole blinked, stunned by a sudden realization.
The witch was blind. But Carole’s shock at that discovery was as nothing compared to the jolt that went through her when the sorceress’s hand closed over hers, her touch so cold. She ran her fingers over Carole’s palm, scoring her lightly with her nails.
Carole shivered at the disturbing feeling that swept over her, as though she was being pricked by needles, the freezing sensation shooting like a current through her wrist, up her arm, across her chest, probing her heart with fingers of ice. It was as though every memory, every secret, every emotion she’d ever experienced in the span of her fifteen years was being drained from her.
She wanted to wrench her hand free, but even though the witch’s fingers felt thin, almost brittle, it was as though she were caught in the grasp of an iron manacle. By the time the sorceress released her, Carole trembled from head to toe. She drew her hand close to her breast, trying to massage some warmth back into her chilled fingers.
The sorceress murmured, “I do sense some qualities in you that might prove useful, Carole Moreau. Anger, resentment, hatred. But you are also imbued with a degree of weakness, useless sentiment as well. I am not sure . . .” she trailed off with a deep frown.
Carole’s breath hitched in her throat, aware that her life hung in the balance of those last four words.
Ursula all but crowed in triumph. “Ah, milady, it is exactly as I tried to warn you. The girl is not worthy. She should be disposed of and Odile punished for—”
But Odile interrupted swiftly, “If milady is not sure, why not let the Silver Rose herself decide the girl’s fate?”
The suggestion was immediately taken up and seconded by other voices in the hall. “Yes! Yes, let our Silver Rose decide.”
Carole blinked in confusion. She had thought this terrifying woman who loomed before her was the Silver Rose. The witch pursed her lips as though annoyed by the enthusiastic chorus that swelled louder by the minute. Then she shrugged. “Very well. Our queen is young and untried, but it will be good for her to gain experience in making these decisions.”
Tapping with the end of her staff, using it to guide her, the witch moved past Carole until she stood at the edge of the dais. Facing the throng, she called for silence. When quiet had once more fallen over the assemblage, the sorceress intoned, “The time has come when you the privileged few will be permitted to pay homage to the Silver Rose.”
She barked out commands to two of the women, bidding them go escort their queen. As the two vanished up a pair of broad stairs, the entire hall hummed with renewed excitement. Momentarily forgotten, Carole glanced about her in bewilderment, still reeling from her mistake. She turned her questioning gaze toward Odile, but the woman’s face was as rapt as that of every other woman present, all eyes now focused expectantly upon the stairs.
The escort appeared first. Each woman bearing a glowing candle, they solemnly lit the way for the mysterious figure behind them in the shadows.
The black-haired woman touched her medallion, then rapped her staff once more. “On your knees, all of you. Make your obeisance and all hail Megaera. Our Silver Rose, our future queen.”
“Hail Megaera.” The assembled women intoned, everyone sinking reverently to their knees.
Ursula and Odile did likewise, Ursula not giving Carole a chance to obey of her own volition. She yanked Carole down so hard, she crashed to her knees. But Carole scarce felt the pain, a new surge of fear swelling through her. Dear God, if this alarming blind witch was not the Silver Rose, then how much more terrible the true sorceress must be. She scarce dared look up as the procession approached. The hall had fallen so silent, she heard the rustle of a gown, a light footfall as the Silver Rose mounted the dais.
Curiosity finally getting the better of her fear, Carole risked a peek upward. The sorceress had settled upon her throne, small slight fingers gripping the arms of the gilt-trimmed chair.
Carole’s wondering gaze roved over a diminutive figure clad in royal purple robes embroidered with silver roses. A golden circlet crowned thick brown tresses that fell to the sorceress’s waist, her pale oval of a face dominated by large green eyes, that at once seemed strangely older and younger than Carole’s. Carole’s mouth fell open, her mind reeling from her second shock of the evening.
The formidable sorceress, the dread Silver Rose . . . was only a little girl.
Chapter Twelve
A JAGGED STREAK OF LIGHTNING CUT ACROSS THE SKY, thunder rumbling in the distance. Simon lingered in the doorway of the old barn, hoping they might be in for a deluge at long last. The oncoming storm had caused the light to fade early, enough that Simon had felt the need to break their journey. He and Miri were tired from another day of tracking the Moreau girl and her two companions.
Their search had yielded nothing but frustration during the days since they had left the village of Longpre. They had gleaned but vague reports of their quarry. An elderly gamekeeper might have seen three such women passing across his master’s lands. A farmwife was certain she had seen the trio, but she was so frazzled between tending her flock of chickens and brood of unruly children, she could not be pressed to remember when.
If they didn’t manage to overtake the Moreau girl and her companions before they were swallowed up by the maze of streets and teeming populace that was Paris, Simon despaired of ever finding them. That is, if Paris was even where they were headed. As Simon massaged the back of his aching neck, he was assailed by the feeling of failure that had weighed him down all these months.
Only it was worse now because he felt as though he was failing her. He had promised Miri he would find Carole Moreau, make sure the girl was safe, but they might be better off pursuing the one clue the Dark Queen had given him regarding the day the Book of Shadows had gone missing.
Search both your memory and any records you made. Figure out who else was there at the Charters Inn, had opportunity to steal the book, and you may well unmask our clever Silver Rose.
But the passage of ten years was too long to call to mind all the details of a particular day, even one as eventful as that. Simon had been so obsessed with his plan to entrap the Comte de Renard, he had taken
little heed of anything else. He had kept journals of those years of his life, but they were locked away in the trunk he had placed in storage.
Stopping to consult the journals would mean abandoning their pursuit of the witches and the Moreau girl, a decision that would distress Miri. And she had been so remarkably patient these past days, never once complaining about the heat, the grueling hours in the saddle, the long silences of a man accustomed to keeping his thoughts to himself. She had not even groused about the prospect of spending the night in this old barn.
Simon had an uneasy feeling they were being followed in the last village they had passed through, the inexplicable instinct that had insured his survival upon many occasions. He would have felt foolish trying to explain this instinct to anyone else. Another person might have scoffed, thought him behaving irrationally, but Miri was so fey herself, she had nodded in complete understanding, accepting his decision to abandon the main road. He had led them through a thicket of trees and across fields to the Maitlands’ farm.
The Maitlands were a quiet, reserved couple, indebted to Simon for a service he had once rendered them. Simon hated to trade upon that. The Maitlands had suffered enough trouble. Simon didn’t want to bring any more down upon them, but with another night falling and the prospect of a storm, his first concern had been Miri, getting her sheltered someplace safe.
Since the Maitlands’ burgeoning family filled their cottage to overflowing, the barn was the only accommodation Monsieur Maitland could offer Monsieur Aristide and his young companion, the farmer had stated regretfully. But that had suited Simon, the better for him and Miri to remain close to the horses and to shield the secret of her gender. The Maitlands were good people, but rigid in their notions of propriety. They would be scandalized to realize that Simon’s traveling companion was actually a woman in disguise.
Another flare of heat lightning streaked across the sky, lighting up the cottage and the low stone fence that surrounded it. All was quiet there, Monsieur Maitland and his family retired for the night. But a pair of fierce-looking mastiffs kept guard by the gate, ready to set up a flurry of barking at the least sign of any intruder.
Satisfied that all appeared secure, he retreated into the barn. Although the storm had not yielded more than a few drops of rain, the air had cooled enough so at least the inside of the structure was not stifling.
The barn was well kept, but small. Simon had stepped outside to offer Miri a little privacy while she bathed with the water he’d drawn from the farm’s well. Not wanting to catch her at any awkward moment, he called out, “Miri?”
“Over here,” her voice echoed. A lantern suspended from a peg on one of the posts spilled a soft glow over the structure’s interior. A dairy cow chewed a wisp of straw, regarding Simon with wide, placid eyes. The Maitlands’ plow horse was asleep, as was Miri’s stolid gelding.
Simon found Miri in the last stall with Elle. Her hair unbound and falling loose about her shoulders, Miri was plaiting the mare’s black mane, using bits of her own ribbon to fasten the braids. Both the woman and the mare were such pictures of contentment, Simon felt some of his tension ease. But he strode toward the stall with a mock growl.
“Woman, what the blazes are you doing to my horse?”
“Braiding her mane. It’s keeping her mind off the thunder and—” Miri’s compressed her lips as she concentrated on finishing off the plait she was weaving. “. . . and I thought at least one of us should be lovely.”
“I am a witch-hunter. I am supposed to strike terror into the hearts of malefactors. Did it ever occur to you that I might look a trifle foolish riding a beribboned horse?”
Miri flashed him an unrepentant smile. “Heaven forfend that we meddle with your fearsome reputation, Monsieur Le Balafre. I will strive to undo the braiding before we leave in the morning, although Elle might object. She likes her new finery.”
The mare snorted, Elle tossing her head almost as if she were preening, causing Simon to give a reluctant smile. He leaned up against the neighboring stall, watching as Miri continued her ministrations. Elle was often edgy at the prospect of a storm, but she seemed oblivious to the distant rumbles of thunder.
It didn’t surprise him to see Elle calm beneath Miri’s touch. She had always had that extraordinary effect upon any creature that walked upon four legs. And one that walked upon two as well, Simon admitted wryly.
Just being in Miri’s presence was enough to make him feel the cares and frustrations of the day roll off his shoulders. Her skin was flushed with a rosy glow, the pale ripples of her hair shimmering down her back.
“You are quite mistaken,” he murmured. “Elle is not the only one who is lovely.”
Although her color heightened at his compliment, Miri only laughed and gave a deprecating shake of her head. She leaned closer to Elle, nuzzling the mare’s nose, crooning a low sweet song that melted through his very bones. The words were in some strange tongue he could not understand, but Elle responded with a soft whicker.
It should have unnerved him, this eerie ability of Miri’s to commune with animals, but Simon found himself growing accustomed to her strange gift, even awed.
“So what secrets are you ladies sharing now?” he asked in a half-teasing tone to conceal his fascination.
“Nothing of import. Just some girlish gossip.”
“About me no doubt. I suppose Elle is complaining to you about what a surly, inconsiderate bastard I am.”
Miri laughed. “No, I would never hear anything like that. At least not from Elle.” Miri’s eyes softened as she added, “Your horse adores you, Simon. She would willingly die for you.”
“Poor foolish lady,” Simon said, but he entered the stall, patting Elle’s neck.
The mare gave him a coy nudge with her nose. He massaged his fingertips over the one particular spot between her eyes that caused the mare to toss her head with bliss. His face relaxed into a fond smile until he realized Miri had drawn back, watching him. Fearsome witch-hunters weren’t supposed to go all soft and sentimental over their horses. Although he continued to caress Elle, he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “I am sorry I could not find us any better accommodation for tonight than this barn. I should have—”
“Good Lord, Simon.” Miri cut him off with a silvery laugh. “Have you entirely forgotten who you are talking to? When I was a child, I would have happily slept with my pony every night if my mother had allowed it. As far as I am concerned, barns are the closest place to heaven on earth.”
“Especially in the evening,” Simon said. “When the animals are settling for the night, that feeling of well-earned rest at the end of a hard day. Of complete peace, journey’s end. Even if it is only an illusion.”
Miri nodded in agreement. “I love the night sounds, the hoot of an owl in the rafters, the rustling of the straw, and the stamp of hooves in the stalls.”
“The soft snorts and the whickers—”
“And the sweet scent of fresh hay.”
“The smell of warm horse mingled with the leather—” Simon checked himself, a little embarrassed by his outburst of enthusiasm.
Miri subsided as well, smiling shyly up at him. His gaze locked with hers in a moment of complete understanding, a feeling of deep accord that seemed to bind them closer together.
Simon felt his heart trip with that awareness of her he often found himself fighting. The lantern light spilled over her, the glow reflected in her eyes, the golden sheen of her hair. She looked so soft and accessible, her linen shirt clinging to her womanly curves, revealing intriguing hints of her unbound breasts.
Simon’s body stirred with a hunger to draw her close, hold her hard against him, and breathe in her warm feminine scent. He was quick to turn away. He did a fair job of managing the desires Miri aroused in him during the day when his thoughts were occupied with the hunt, all his senses focused on detecting any approaching danger.
But when they were alone, these quieter moments threatened to be his undoing, fraught wit
h the danger Miri might tempt him beyond all reason and burrow her way under his skin, even deeper into his heart.
Although Miri had done a fine job currying Elle, Simon snatched up a brush and focused his attention upon stroking the mare’s glossy back. A low mew sounded as a calico-colored barn cat brushed past Miri’s skirts.
Scooping the creature up in her arms, she asked, “So who are these Maitlands? Are they friends of yours?”
“Witch-hunters don’t have friends, Miri.”
His answer disturbed her. As she scratched the cat beneath its chin, she frowned. “I had the impression Monsieur and Madame Maitland were very pleased to offer you shelter for the night.”
“Only because they felt obliged. I was able to render them a trifling service last autumn.”
“Oh?”
Simon would as soon not have discussed the incident, but he might have known Miri would not let the matter drop that easily. Not that she ever hammered him with questions or demanded answers. She merely waited, regarding him expectantly.
He sighed and continued brushing Elle. “Someone vandalized the local church, splashing pig’s blood over the altar. The Maitland family was suspected and a drunken mob of men from the village headed out here to exact retribution. I, er, managed to convince the good people they were wrong and persuaded them to return home.”
“How on earth were you able to do that?”
“I intercepted the mob by drawing my sword, rearing Elle up out of the darkness on the road ahead of them.” Simon’s mouth thinned with satisfaction at the memory of all those cowering torch-lit faces, the wide eyes, the mouths gone slack with fear. “Elle and I can conjure up quite a spectacle of terror when we try. You ought to see how she can snap, toss her mane, and roll her eyes, her hooves striking the air like a dark, avenging demon horse, springing straight from the jaws of hell.
“At least, when she is not all beribboned and braided,” Simon added dryly.
The Silver Rose Page 24
