“Oh, God, Miri. This—this is not wise,” he said.
“I know,” she whispered. “But why does it feel so right?”
“I have no idea. I have never understood this madness between us.”
“Madness?” she repeated sadly. “Yes, I—I suppose it is.”
She drew away from him and he reluctantly let her go.
“I—I am sorry,” she said, her cheeks aflame. “I don’t know what came over me. I—I am so ashamed.”
“Don’t be. It’s more my fault than yours. I promised you I would never kiss you again.”
Miri sighed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Simon, I was also kissing you.” She ran her fingers up and down the silver braid of her necklace, something that she often did when she appeared worried or troubled. For the first time he noticed the chain was attached to an elaborately engraved locket.
“What is that? Some sort of amulet to ward off demons? It doesn’t appear to work,” he jested, desperate to ease the tension between them.
Miri looked stricken with guilt as she replied, “It is a gift from a friend. You met him that time you were quartered at the Charters Inn, although I doubt you’d remember. His name is Martin le Loup.”
Simon grimaced. He remembered all too well the handsome rangy youth who had trailed after Miri like an adoring wolf cub.
“Ah, yes, that street thief from Paris. I had no idea you were still acquainted with him.”
“I—I should have mentioned him sooner. I don’t know why I didn’t. It is just with so much else happening and remembering how much you disliked him—”
Simon gave a dry bark of laughter. “As I recall, the loathing was mutual. The boy always glared at me like he wanted to cut off my head and parade it around on a pike.”
“Martin would want to cut off more than that if he knew what just happened between us. He would think me the worst sort of trollop, which I suppose I am.”
“You are nothing of the kind and I’d hack out the tongue of any man who said so.” Simon tucked his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him.
“Miri, you’ve done nothing wrong. We merely shared a few heated kisses. A man and a woman thrust together day and night in such strange circumstances, both of us feeling a little tense, a little raw. It’s not surprising we got a bit carried away. It happens, but we stopped before it went too far. It was just a foolish moment of weakness, nothing that your Wolf ever need hear about, all right?”
Rather than comforting her, his words seemed to make her even sadder. But she nodded, attempted to smile. Gesturing toward her locket, he asked, “May I see that?”
Miri displayed it to him reluctantly, a large silver oval engraved with a wolf baying at the moon. He opened the catch and sought to ignore the irritating inscription. Yours until time ends. Instead he focused on the exquisite timepiece and whistled softly.
“An expensive trinket. Er—pardon me for asking, but are you sure your thief didn’t steal this?”
“Of course he didn’t,” Miri said indignantly. “Whatever he may have been in his youth, Martin is no longer a thief. He has risen greatly in the service of the king of Navarre and has become quite the gentleman. He cuts quite a dash among all the ladies at court.”
Simon had little doubt of that. Even when le Loup had been no more than a common thief, he had had an annoying tendency to swagger and he was probably still as handsome as ever. Damn him. He felt a stab of something that was ridiculously like jealousy and did his best to suppress it.
“Despite his gallantries to the other ladies, he obviously is still quite devoted to you,” Simon remarked.
“The man is a hopeless romantic, treating me as though I was this unattainable goddess, calling me his Lady of the Moon, ever striving to perform bold deeds in my honor, to win my heart.” Miri smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I wish he would not try quite so hard, that he would remember that—that—”
“That you are a woman with very earthbound needs?”
She glanced up at him, clearly surprised by his perception. Although she nodded in agreement, she said quickly, “Not that I am complaining. He truly does love me and he has been my most devoted friend for years, always making me laugh, lifting my spirits whenever I am sad.”
But do you love him? Simon wanted to demand and didn’t, partly because he dreaded her answer and partly because it was none of his concern. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking, “So why haven’t you married him? Do your sisters not approve?”
“Oh, yes, Gabrielle in particular has urged me to marry him for a long time. Both she and Ariane love Martin.”
As much as they despise me, Simon thought, the contrast between himself and le Loup vivid and painful. On the one hand, a dashing, handsome courtier, who had remained loyally at Miri’s side all these years. And on the other a scarred and wearied witch-hunter, haunted by more memories and regrets than he could count, the bane of her family, the man who had hurt her time and again.
Not that it mattered. He had never had any hope of winning Miri for himself. He had never even realized how badly he wanted her . . . until now.
He snapped the locket closed and let it fall back against her, saying in a tone of forced cheerfulness. “I daresay your sisters are right. When we have concluded this infernal hunt for the Rose, you ought to settle down with your Monsieur Wolf. He’ll be able to give you a grand home, a family of your own.”
All the things I never could.
“After all the grief you have endured, you deserve to be happy, my dear,” he added softly.
And what about you, Simon? What do you deserve? Miri wanted to ask, but he was already striding away from her, muttering something about taking one last look around the farmyard to be sure all was secure. She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting the passion of his kiss, still feeling the heat of his arms around her.
As he vanished through the barn door, she shivered, feeling suddenly cold and bereft. She cupped Martin’s locket in her hand, staring unhappily down at it.
Marry him. That was what her sisters and Marie Claire had said, what Miri had even told herself she would do. And now even Simon was saying it. But as she tucked the locket back inside her gown, Miri knew she never would and after all this time, she finally understood why.
She was hopelessly in love with Simon Aristide.
———
MIRI LAY FLAT ON HER BACK, the blanket that Madame Maitland had provided shielding her from the rough bed of straw she had fashioned for herself in the loft of the barn. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her, consumed by her own troubled thoughts and awareness of the man who slumbered but yards away from her.
She had had a difficult time convincing Simon to bed down for the night instead of maintaining vigil outside. The dogs would alert them at any hint of trouble, she had argued, and what if the storm broke after all? He would get soaked, spend a miserable night keeping watch or catching a few winks on the hard ground, be completely exhausted tomorrow, and all for no good reason.
He had yielded in the end, much to her surprise. Perhaps he had simply been too tired to argue, although he’d had to have been as aware as she was that for once he was unable to put a door between them as he did at every inn.
But Simon didn’t need the barrier of a door. As they had settled in for the night, he had been silent and withdrawn, building a wall between them where there was none. He was infernally good at that.
She rolled onto her side and could make out the outline of his form, barely visible by what little moonlight penetrated the cover of clouds and filtered through the open window of the loft. Simon Aristide, the man she had always loved, no matter how hard she’d fought to deny it.
She had loved him ever since she’d been a naïve young girl, smitten by the handsome boy she’d met on a windswept cliff one midnight, his dark curls and eyes as lustrous as the night, his smile rife with a devastating charm.
But what she felt for Simon now ran so much deeper than the infa
tuation of her girlhood when she had been entranced by his physical beauty. She saw his flaws all too clearly. Not the superficial ones on his face, but the scars that were ingrained deeper on his heart. The pain, the tormented memories that caused him to retreat into himself, hold the world at a distance.
She realized he was capable of being quite ruthless if he felt he was justified. He could be hard and suspicious, and had no use for anything that hinted of magic. And he was as inflexible and obstinate as ever when it came to Renard. Loving Simon would be a betrayal, not only of Martin’s devotion to her all these years, but of her own family as well.
Even knowing that that was true, seeing the harsh reality of the situation, realizing all these things didn’t help. She yearned even now to reach out to Simon, touch him, caress him, and seek the warmth of his lips in the darkness. She had to hug herself tightly to curb the impulse.
He had traveled such a long, hard road since that summer he had stormed onto Faire Isle, an angry and embittered young man. No matter how much he disclaimed, he had put himself at great risk to save the Maitlands. And not out of any self-interest as he insisted, but out of that same concern and compassion that had led him to comfort Madame Paillard, to grieve and pray over the grave of an abandoned babe. It was a testament to his character that he had survived horrors that would have broken most men, the destruction of his village, and the loss of his family.
He obviously harbored regrets about his apprenticeship to Le Vis, the fanatic who had transformed Simon into Le Balafre, the remorseless witch-hunter and loner. Only with his horse did Simon ever relax completely, showering Elle with an unreserved affection he seemed unable to show anyone else. Miri could understand that. It was so much safer to love a horse, a dog, or a cat . . . the companionship of the simpler creatures of the earth offered uncomplicated, total acceptance, affection, and trust. Simon’s existence was even lonelier and more isolated than Miri’s had been this past six months when she had returned to Faire Isle, hoping for a peace and happiness that were no longer there.
Simon seemed to have given up hoping for anything years ago. Even if Miri were to completely forget all that she owed to Martin and her family, and offer her heart to Simon, she knew he would reject her. He’d learned to fear the very mention of love, regard it as a weakness. The wisest, most sensible thing for her to do was learn to conquer her own feelings.
That was something that she suspected was going to be far easier said than done. She sighed. As she shifted restlessly on her makeshift bed, she heard Simon stir. Although she could not see his face, she realized he was as wakeful as she was. Had he sensed her watching him, this man so alive to the darkness? He startled her when his voice suddenly rumbled.
“The storm seems to have passed over.”
“Yes,” Miri agreed sadly as she stared upward through the open window. The last trace of clouds had vanished, the moon shining hard and bright.
“Another day with no rain. Poor mother earth,” she mourned.
“Le Vis would have said the drought is a sign of the wrath of God, that the French people are being cursed to hell for their sins.”
“And he would have been wrong. God is not that cruel, Simon. He would never destroy what he so lovingly created. I think he strives to refashion even the worst of souls into something finer. I don’t really believe in hell.”
“I do. Although I don’t think it is any lake of burning fire and brimstone as Le Vis claimed.”
Miri wished she could make out his features. But even with the moonlight streaming in, she saw no more than the shadow of his beard-roughened face, his head propped on his arm as he rested on his back, gazing up at the window.
“What do you think hell is like, then?” she asked softly.
“Cold. Dark. And when you reach out into the void to touch someone, there is no one there.”
The emptiness in his voice tugged at her heart. All her resolves about the wisdom of holding herself at a distance were forgotten. She scooted closer, groping until she found his hand. Although he tensed, he didn’t draw away, his fingers entwining with hers. After a long moment, he spoke again, more hesitantly.
“My father would have agreed with you . . . about the drought. I remember something he said to me the year much of the village’s crops were destroyed by an overabundance of rain. He told me there is no fathoming the ways of nature. One can only try to live in harmony with the earth, rejoice in the days of bounty, put something by to get you through the seasons of want, and have faith in God to see you through.”
“Live in harmony with the earth,” Miri murmured. “That is exactly what my mother taught me.”
“You would have understood my father. He—he would have gotten on well with you.”
“I am sure I would have liked him, too. Tell me more about him,” she coaxed, gently massaging his fingers.
She feared he would refuse. It was hard to get Simon to talk about his family, but perhaps he found it easier lost in the shadows, only their hands connecting. He spoke slowly at first, then warmed as he described for her life in his small village, until she could see it so clearly, from the winding lane to the well-tended cottage.
Javier Aristide with his work-roughened hands, imparting his gentle wisdom, teaching Simon all he knew of animal husbandry. His mother, fiercely reigning over her kitchen, keeping both her cottage and her family in tidy domestic order, but always free with a gentle caress, a beaming smile. And his little sister Lorene, trailing adoringly after Simon, running to him first every time she skinned her knee or had any small treasure she’d found to display.
Although Miri was certain he was unaware of it, Simon revealed to her the kind of boy he had been as well, kind, openhearted, quick to laugh and to tease. She caught glimpses of the gentleness she had seen when she had first met him, even after he’d fallen under Le Vis’s influence, traces that still remained in the man who grasped her hand in the darkness.
Miri found herself talking about her own mother, the wondrous Lady of Faire Isle who had taught her the magic of brewing herbs, how to apply Maman’s healing skills with people to the simpler creatures of the earth. Her bold, handsome father who had taken her on so many journeys into the rich realms of imagination, hunting for unicorns in the woods. And her sisters, solemn and gentle Ariane, who had become like a second mother to her. Impulsive, teasing Gabrielle, with whom Miri had so often quarreled, but whom she had known she could always count on to be her fiercest protector.
As she held Simon’s hand, she suddenly realized how dangerous this was, this sharing of memories only deepening her feelings for him, forging bonds stronger than mere desire. And yet she was filled with a peace she had not known for a long time.
Her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. She fell asleep, her hand still linked with his. But it was a peace that didn’t last as she was drawn into the dark world of her dreams . . .
The salamanders were crawling up the palace walls. Miri avoided them as she hammered against the castle door, frantically seeking admittance. As she paused to catch her breath, she heard voices that seemed to float from somewhere far away, across the green expanse of lawn.
Miri stumbled in that direction, racing along garden paths that sloped down toward a sparkling river. The path ahead was barred with statues. No, not statues, she realized, her heart thudding. But the familiar menacing figures of the chess pieces towering above her.
Only there was something strange about them, something more disturbing. Miri froze as she saw there was no white queen, only two dark ones and the hapless white knight was trapped between them.
The pawns rumbled to attack as they had done before. Miri tried to call out a warning, but her voice came out in a hoarse croak. One pawn moved forward, smaller than the rest, not wielding a mace or a club, but a book. As the pawn cracked the volume open, it exuded a sinister green mist that enveloped the white knight.
He breathed it in and tumbled to the ground, helpless as the other pawns attacked, smashing him. Miri
rushed to his aid, but as always, she was too late. The stone shell had fallen away, revealing a man, broken and bleeding.
When Miri stroked his hair back, her fingers came away dark and sticky. But this time, she could see his face all too clearly, blood streaming in a dark river over his scarred cheek.
“Simon,” she moaned.
“Miri!”
She felt strong hands seize her by shoulders. Although she struggled desperately to free herself, both the hands and the voice were insistent, dragging her clear of the dark webs of her dream.
“Miri, wake up!”
As her eyes fluttered open, she gasped, uncertain where she was until she saw the shadow of the man hovering over her.
“S-simon.” Her nightmare was still so strong, so vivid in her mind, she bolted upright and ran her fingers frantically over his brow, his cheeks, and his beard. Finding no trace of blood, no gaping wound, she snapped fully awake with a sob of relief.
Simon caught hold of her trembling fingers, squeezing them gently. “Miri, what’s wrong? Were you having a nightmare?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Come here, then.” He drew her into his arms, cradling her head against his shoulder. Stroking her hair, he murmured, “Shh. You’re awake now and I’m here. It was nothing, only a bad dream.”
Miri snuggled against him, soothed by his caress, the rough timbre of his voice. But the tears still coursed down her cheeks as she choked, “No, you—you don’t understand. I—I’ve had nightmares like this ever since I was a little girl. Strange dreams that spin out over and over again until—until they come true.”
His hand stilled in her hair. “You mean like a—a prophecy?”
“Y-yes.”
Miri could sense his frown and knew that the witch-hunter in him would be leery of anything that hinted of visions or the forbidden art of divining the future. But he resumed stroking her hair, his voice gentle as he said, “All right. Tell me about this one.”
The Silver Rose Page 26
