Now that the crisis was over, Miri had leisure to study what she had only fleetingly noted before, the broad expanse of Simon’s chest, the tensile strength in those bare arms and shoulders. She had once found the boy’s physique beautiful, but the man was utterly magnificent.
An involuntary sigh of appreciation escaped her. When Simon turned to glance her way, she lowered her gaze, a little embarrassed to be caught ogling. But she entered the tack room to fetch him a towel.
After he thanked her, one of those awkward silences threatened to descend. Miri leaned up against the tack room door, trying not to stare as Simon rubbed the linen briskly over his hair-roughened chest.
“That was an amazing thing you did just now, turning that calf. Wherever did you learn how to do that?”
“Back in my village.” He added wryly, “I wasn’t born a witch-hunter, Miri.”
“I know that. I am glad you are finally starting to remember it.”
He said nothing, wincing a little as he worked the towel down his arm.
“You are likely going to have some hideous bruises,” Miri murmured.
“It was worth it,” Simon said with a soft smile, glancing toward where the calf was nursing.
Miri reached out and ran her hand gently along the bare warm skin of his arm. Simon tensed at her touch, but as his gaze met hers, Miri felt the pulse of desire between them. She reluctantly drew her hand away, turning her attention to the stables inside.
“This is a grand building, large and airy, but there are so many empty stalls.”
“At one time, I thought of breeding horses.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I was never here enough, especially after the attacks of the Silver Rose started.”
“But after she is defeated, you could come back here, Simon. Settle down and—”
He cut her off with a shake of his head. “I told you. I tried that before. It didn’t work.”
“Because you claim you don’t belong here and yet I wonder if you’ve really tried. From what Madame Pascale tells me, you are good at giving everyone else second chances. Why not Simon Aristide?”
He looped the towel about his neck, the damp ends of his unruly dark hair tangling about his face as he cast her a wary glance. “Ah, so now you have been discussing me with my steward as well as my horse. I didn’t think Madame Pascale was as fond of gossiping as Elle.”
“Esmee only told me what you never would, how you saved her life, and don’t try to pretend that it was to your advantage do so. I never heard tell how any witch-hunter profited by letting a condemned witch go.”
“Esmee is not a witch any more than you are.” Simon frowned. “I can only tell you what I told her. That helping her was in the nature of atonement for past sins and I committed enough of them, don’t you agree? Not that anything I ever do will be enough to put right what happened on Faire Isle, what I did to you.”
Miri gazed up at him softly. “I find it enough that you are even trying to do so. Most men would just go on making excuses, repeating the same mistake over and over again.”
“There is no guarantee that I won’t.” Simon turned away from her, bracing his hands on the table. “That is the fear that makes it so hard for me to settle down here and forget the past. It’s a good life here and I—I admit that I love this place, at least during the day when I am occupied with tilling the soil or looking after the livestock.”
Simon’s face clouded, a haunted look stealing over his face. “But at night, it’s a different story. I have too much time to think and there is no escaping what I am, what I’ve done, and I am still just as alone.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, Simon. There are people willing to forget your past even if you cannot, willing to—to love you if only you would let them.”
And one of them was standing right in front of him, although Miri did not dare say as much. She tugged at his arm until he came round to face her. Trembling at her own boldness, she flattened her palms against his chest. She ran her fingers up the rugged planes, the mat of dark hair a delicious contrast to the silk-sheathed steel of his muscles.
She raised her gaze to his, allowing her heart to shine through her eyes, to tell him all that she couldn’t say. Simon stared at her, his breath stilling at the realization of what she was offering him, all that he couldn’t take.
“Miri . . .”
But she silenced him with her lips, her mouth far too sweet and enticing as it whispered over his. He fought his inevitable response, the hardening of his shaft. Gripping her shoulders, he tried to put her gently away from him, but her lips parted, her tongue teasing the breach of his lips.
With a low groan, he found himself hauling her closer instead of thrusting her away. Crushing her to him, his mouth hungrily devoured hers, his body nigh desperate with the need of her he had so long suppressed.
He drew his head back with a gasp, feeling his reason, any decent impulse he had toward this woman reduced to a thread.
“Miri,” he rasped, his voice a ragged plea. “Don’t do this to me. You know how hard it is for me to resist you.”
“Then stop trying,” she whispered, wrapping her arms about his neck, pressing so close he was aware of the thunder of her heart, the warm soft feel of her breasts beneath her half-open bodice.
Her mouth claimed his again and he felt the remaining thread snap. He kissed her fiercely, burying his hands in her hair. But his passion was abruptly checked when he heard voices, the sound of Yves returning to the barn, no doubt with his mother in tow.
Simon drew hastily away from Miri, each regarding the other in dismay. Her face flushed, she bore the unmistakable look of a woman who had just been thoroughly kissed and he feared his own face must be equally revealing.
Gathering up his scattered wits, he stepped out of the tack room, determined to shield her from any embarrassment.
Yves entered the barn, announcing cheerfully, “Come right this way, monsieur. She’s in here.”
Monsieur? Simon tensed. He had warned the boy before about being wary of any strangers who came by the place, although the man who followed Yves into the barn did not look threatening.
The tall handsome man was garbed in a lined cloak and feathered hat, his apparel elegant despite the fact he’d obviously been doing some hard traveling. Any menace there was came from the steely glint in the man’s eyes.
As their gazes met, Simon experienced a jolt of recognition. He knew who the man was even before Miri crept out of the tack room. Her face went pale with shock as she cried out, “Martin!”
Chapter Fifteen
MARTIN LE LOUP STRODE HALFWAY DOWN THE STABLES, coming to an abrupt halt as Simon intercepted him, the two men regarding each other with an ages-old antagonism, although it was more wariness on Simon’s part as he studied his adversary.
He saw little trace of the swaggering boy he remembered from that long-ago summer. Martin le Loup seemed to have grown another inch or two, his shoulders had filled out, his lean face sporting a trim beard and mustache. He was as damnably handsome as Miri had led Simon to believe, but there was none of the softness of the courtier about him, despite his fancy doublet and trunk hose. As he flipped back his cloak, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword, there was an edge of danger about the man, angry emotion flashing in his narrowed green eyes, hurt mingled with accusation.
Simon’s gaze flickered toward where he had left his own sword, propped near Melda’s stall, where he had shed his shirt and jerkin. But he restrained himself as he caught sight of Miri’s face. She looked sick with apprehension, but she approached Wolf, attempting to smile.
“M-martin, this is a great surprise.”
“Evidently,” he said, raking his gaze over Miri’s unlaced bodice in a way that brought the blood to her cheeks. She fumbled with the laces, looking so miserably guilty Simon wanted to box Wolf’s ears. He stepped protectively in front of Miri, a gesture that caused Wolf to scowl.
The
only one unaware of the mounting tension was Yves, who bounded forward, prattling happily, “Isn’t this the best day ever? First Master Simon returns bringing with him the Lady of the Wood, then Melda had her calf, and now Milady Miri’s friend has come to call. Is he not the finest fellow you ever saw?” Yves beamed admiringly at Wolf. “Just look what a splendid cap he has . . .”
Yves trailed off, his gaze moving uneasily between Wolf and Simon as he began to sense something amiss. “Master Simon, did I do something wrong? I forgot the rule about strangers, didn’t I? But—but Monsieur le Loup said he was Miri’s friend.”
“He is,” Miri hastened to reassure the boy. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Then why is Master Simon looking so angry at me?”
“I am not angry at you, lad.” Despite his own tension, Simon managed to speak to Yves in gentle tones. “Don’t worry. Everything is all right.”
“I regret to differ with you, Monsieur Le Balafre,” Wolf replied, baring his teeth. “But I am finding this situation far from all right.”
“Martin, please.” Miri tried to intercept him, but he swept her aside, stepping menacingly closer to Simon.
“There has been a reckoning due between us for a long time, Master Witch-Hunter, and you have just increased your debt. Bad enough all the hurt you inflicted upon Miri in the past, but now you have the effrontery to lure her away from Faire Isle, place her in danger by demanding she help you hunt this sorceress.”
“Martin, that is not the way it was,” Miri interrupted, but Wolf continued furiously.
“By God, if you have also tampered with my lady’s innocence, impugned her honor, I will—”
“The only one impugning her honor is you, you fool,” Simon growled. “I realize how all this must look. But I would advise you to get command of yourself and think twice before you speak again.”
Wolf tugged the fastening of his cape, sweeping it off and casting it aside. His hat swiftly followed. “I am a man of few words, monsieur. I prefer action.”
“Really? My memory of you is that you could never keep your mouth shut for more than two seconds at a time.”
Wolf’s eyes flashed. Simon’s retort had done nothing to ease the situation. But he found the man’s flair for drama damned annoying. He would have liked nothing better than to seize Wolf by the scruff of his fancy doublet and propel him out of the stable. But Simon was fair enough to admit Wolf had some cause for his fury. He knew how he would have felt if he had found Miri in the arms of a much-hated enemy, so he struggled to keep his temper in check.
As Wolf began to draw his sword from its scabbard, Miri seized hold of his arm. “No, Martin, stop! Surely you can see Simon is not even armed.”
“That’s easily remedied.” Shaking Miri off, Wolf stalked over to where Simon had left his sword propped. Snatching it up, he tossed it to Simon, scabbard, belt, and all.
Simon caught it reflexively, but he made no move to buckle it on. Yves shrank back against the side of the stall, whimpering, not understanding what was going on, but frightened by the sight of the sword. Simon could also hear Elle. Sensing the danger to him, the mare gave a shrill whinny, stamping in her stall. But Simon’s gaze focused on Miri’s face. She had gone white, agonized with memories of another place and time when she had watched two men she cared about try to kill each other, something Simon had promised he would never put her through again.
“Please don’t,” she whispered, but her plea was directed at him as though he alone had the power to stop this from going any further. And she was likely right. Le Loup looked beyond the reach of reason.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Simon assured her. “I have no intention of fighting him.” Simon tossed the sword down. It landed on the straw-strewn floor with a dull thud.
Wolf’s lip curled in a furious sneer as he demanded, “What is the matter, witch-hunter? Oh, I forgot. You prefer your opponents to be defenseless women and even then you like to have an army at your back.”
Wolf’s verbal thrust found its mark. Simon gritted his teeth, determined not to be goaded.
“Martin, be quiet,” Miri said fiercely, but Wolf ignored her.
“Miri may have forgotten all the havoc you and your men wrought on Faire Isle, but I haven’t. A bunch of scurvy cowards terrorizing poor old ladies and young girls. Is that all you are fit for? Are you too afraid to stand up against another man?”
Simon fixed Wolf with a steely glare. “No, I merely have too much sense to engage in a pointless duel that will only cause Miri more pain. If you knew anything about her at all, you would realize how much this is distressing her. To say nothing of the fact you are frightening Yves and upsetting my horse. So either calm down or get the hell out of my stable.”
“Fine. Let’s take this outside.”
Simon folded his arms across his chest. “We’re not taking it anywhere. I told you. I don’t fight any man without a good reason.”
“Reason? You want a reason?” Wolf snarled. “Try this.”
His fist shot out with such lightning swiftness, Simon had no chance to duck. The blow cracked into his face, sending him reeling back, his jaw exploding with pain. Miri cried out in protest, but before she could react, Yves grabbed Martin’s arm.
“No. You must not hurt Master Simon,” he wailed.
Wolf shoved the boy ruthlessly away. Yves stumbled and fell against one of the stalls. Simon’s tautly reined temper snapped. With a savage oath, he hurled himself at le Loup and slammed him back against the stable wall.
Wolf fought back, aiming another blow at Simon’s face. He dodged, the fist grazing his ear. Simon hammered a series of hard blows in the man’s gut. Wolf doubled over, sinking to his knees.
Drawing back his fist, Simon barely managed to check his next blow when Miri dove in between them. The sight of her stricken face as she bent over Wolf penetrated the red haze of Simon’s anger.
He stepped back, panting just as Jacques and the other young stable hand, Bertrand, burst into the stable, drawn by the noise. Old Jacques took in the situation at a glance. Both he and Bertrand seized hold of the still-winded le Loup, over Miri’s protest. Bertrand in particular looked ready to take up where Simon had left off.
Simon straightened, his breath coming quick and hard. He tasted blood on his lip as he surveyed the chaos of the stable. Yves was crouched down, crying, his hands flung over his head. Elle reared and plunged in her stall, in danger of hurting herself in her desperate efforts to get to Simon. Even the stolid Samson snorted and stamped, and the new calf was bawling plaintively.
As his men prepared to drag Wolf out and “teach him a proper lesson,” Simon intervened. “No, let him go.”
Looking uncertain, Jacques and Bertrand slackened their grip. Wolf shook himself free, straightening, attempting to recover some of his dignity. Simon strode over to Yves, wrapping his arm bracingly about the boy, while Jacques and Bertrand hastened to calm Elle and the other animals.
Simon caught Yves’s chin in his hand, gently forcing the trembling boy to look at him.
“It’s all over, lad,” Simon soothed. “You see now? All over. Now come and help me convince Elle of that.”
Teary-eyed, the boy sniffed and nodded.
Miri’s agonized gaze darted between Wolf and Simon. She stepped toward Simon, faltering, “Oh, Simon, I am so sorry—”
Simon waved her brusquely away. “Never mind about that.” He glared at Wolf. “Just get him the devil out of here.”
He didn’t wait to see that his command was obeyed, his attention fully claimed by the task of restoring peace to his stables. Not until he was able to get both Yves and Elle to stop trembling did he glance back and see that Wolf and Miri were gone.
He regretted having snapped at Miri that way. He didn’t want her thinking she was in any way to blame for this. If he and Wolf had both kept their heads, the situation need never have turned so ugly, although the devil knows he had tried.
He rubbed his hand gingerly over his swel
ling jaw, worrying about Miri being alone with Wolf when he was in such a cursed temper. Not that he feared Wolf would hurt her, at least not physically. But to Miri, harsh words were as bad as a blow.
Turning Yves over to Jacques’s gruff but kind care, Simon shrugged back into his shirt and leather jerkin. He strode toward the entrance of the stables, cautiously looking about for Miri, not wanting to set off another confrontation with her hotheaded swain.
He spied the couple over by the pond, silhouetted against the last fiery gold rays of the setting sun, Wolf’s horse tethered nearby. Simon relaxed, a little relieved. Although Wolf had Miri clasped by the shoulders, he appeared to be pleading with her as well as scolding, no doubt trying to convince her to mount up behind him and ride off immediately, reminding her how much he loved her and what a bastard Simon was. Miri shook her head, her chin tipped to that stubborn angle Simon knew all too well, but she made no move to draw away from Wolf either.
It was all Simon could do not to charge out there. As he watched the two of them together, he felt as though a demon of jealousy was gnawing at his heart. He now had some idea what Wolf had gone through when he had discovered Miri and Simon together.
There was one difference. Simon had no right to be jealous because Miri didn’t belong to him, not like she belonged to this handsome man who had been her devoted friend for years, whose pursuit of her was both welcomed and sanctioned by her family.
For a few fleeting moments back there in the stable, Simon had allowed himself to stray into a fool’s paradise of remembered dreams and forgotten hopes. When he had held Miri in his arms and kissed her, and she’d looked up at him with a hunger that matched his own, he’d scarce dared to believe what he’d seen shining in her face, all the love that she had offered him. And God help him, he had almost been mad enough to take it.
If Wolf had not arrived when he had—Simon vented a sigh filled with bitterness and regret. No, it was just as well Wolf had come, reminding both him and Miri of what they were in danger of forgetting. This farm, peaceful as it seemed, was no enchanted island, insulated from the rest of the world. There was no escaping his past here or anywhere else, which is something he had known all along.
The Silver Rose Page 32
