The Silver Rose

by Susan Carroll

  Simon clamped his lips in a tight line, his throat working. “My lady has—has served me faithfully, trusted me far too long for me to allow it to end for her that way. I won’t let her suffer.”

  “Neither will I,” Miri cried. “But I refuse to give up so easily. You have to at least give me the chance to fight this poison.”

  “How the devil are you going to do that? What do you know of poisons?”

  “Only what I learned from Renard.”

  Miri saw Simon tense immediately at the name as she’d feared he would. She thrust up her chin and continued doggedly, “Thanks to his grandmother, Renard was well versed in poisons, but he put his knowledge to good use developing antidotes and he taught me—”

  “I don’t care what he taught you. If you think I will let Elle be further tormented with that sorcerer’s dark magic—”

  “How can it be dark magic if it can save her?” Miri protested. “And I am going to need the use of that witch blade as well.”

  Simon’s face suffused with outrage. He came out of the stall, hands on hips as he squared off with her. “Damnation, woman. I can’t even believe you’d suggest such a thing. Bad enough she endured being stabbed once, but you propose to use that hellish weapon to—”

  “It’s not a hellish weapon or a witch blade,” Miri said fiercely. “It’s only a syringe and I can use it to speed the antidote into Elle’s veins.”

  Simon gave an incredulous snort. “You expect me to believe you can use the same device that is killing her to save her?”

  “Yes!” Miri stepped toward him, resting her hands on the unyielding expanse of his chest. “Oh, Simon, I know that Le Vis taught you to revile and fear anything to do with the ancient knowledge, all that he considered dark magic. But you’ve seen for yourself how the same thing can be used for good or evil depending upon who wields it. The same axe that could be used to cut off a man’s head can also be employed to chop wood and build a fire, keep his family from freezing. The thing that you call a witch blade is no different. Do you think I would ever use it for any evil purpose?”

  “Of course not. But—” He stared down at her, frowning, the first flicker of uncertainty appearing in his stern gaze. “Even if I did agree to let you try this—this antidote of Renard’s, where would you brew up such a thing? It is not as though I have any witch’s storeroom on my lands.”

  Miri bit down on her lip, hesitant to tell him, but having no choice. “Actually you do. Esmee has a stillroom tucked in the back of your laundry house.”

  “What!” Simon’s mouth fell open, his expression a mingling of astonishment and betrayal. “After I saved that woman from being condemned for witchcraft, brought her here, she’s been practicing sorcery under my very nose?”

  “Not sorcery, Simon, only the kind of magic and healing ways that wise women have preserved for centuries, despite the ignorant superstition and cruelty of men like your late master. Esmee has been using the ancient knowledge to keep your people here well, your very lands thriving. Did you not notice how your orchards and your vegetable gardens have survived when so much of the rest of the country is blighted by drought?”

  “Yes, but I thought—” He raked his hand back through his hair. “Hell, I don’t know what I thought. But whatever sort of—of white magic Esmee might have practiced is one thing. The kind of sorcery Renard embraced is a different matter.”

  “This isn’t about Renard. This is about me. I beg you to trust me as you never have before. At least give me a chance to save Elle.”

  He glanced over to Elle, clearly torn between hope and the mistrust that Le Vis had bred in him for years. His gaze came back to rest on Miri’s face, something softening in his eye as he yielded. “All right. What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay with Elle. Keep sponging her down, talk to her, keep her from getting agitated and shifting about too much.” Miri looked up at him earnestly. “And promise me you’ll do nothing desperate until I return.”

  Simon nodded reluctantly. “And if this antidote of yours doesn’t work, if her suffering becomes too great?”

  “Then I’ll let you do what must be done.” Miri pressed his hand, adding softly, “And help you to say good-bye.”

  ———

  MARTIN CREPT THROUGH the empty kitchen, his head still throbbing from the blow he had taken from the witch. No man liked a good fight better than he did. If there was one flaw that Miri possessed, and Martin was far from willing to concede his Lady of the Moon had any . . . But if Miri did have one failing, it was her marked aversion to any form of confrontation, always wanting everything settled by peaceful means.

  And sometimes that just wasn’t possible. There was nothing like a bit of mayhem to get a man’s blood pumping through his veins. But the exhilaration of a duel or a bout of fisticuffs with another man was one thing. There was something unnerving when one’s attacker was a crazed giant of a woman. Martin preferred his ladies soft and feminine, stitching up a fancy embroidered handkerchief to bestow upon an ardent admirer, daintily wielding scissors to snip the thread, not a knife to slit his throat.

  He was mortified that he had been caught so off guard. If not for Simon Aristide, it would be his blood soaking into the muddy yard and likely Miri’s as well. Now he was in Aristide’s debt, not a situation Martin relished.

  Not only did his debt to the witch-hunter weigh heavily upon him, he was haunted by something Aristide had said when he had roared at Carole Moreau.

  “Who is the Silver Rose? Is she Cassandra Lascelles?”

  Cass Lascelles. Martin shivered from more than his wet clothes. There was a name he’d done his best to forget, could have happily gone his entire life without hearing again.

  Both sorceress and madwoman, she’d had some crazed scheme to seduce Nicolas Remy, force him to sire her witch child. Remy, the man who had been everything to Martin, friend, brother, mentor, and captain. Martin would have done anything for his hero and that night, when Martin had gone to the Cheval Noir in Remy’s stead, he had inadvertently . . .

  Despite his wet clothes, Martin felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back as he remembered being locked in that stifling hot inn chamber with the witch, trying to render her drunk enough to steal the evil amulet with which she had threatened his captain’s life. Martin had never anticipated the witch’s dark charms might be turned upon him instead.

  The witch groped until her hand struck up against his chest, pawing at him. When Martin had realized the direction her thoughts were taking, the hairs prickled along the back of his neck.

  “Are you fer-ferocious?” her drunken voice had slurred. “You said somethin’ before about being tough, sinewy?”

  Martin gulped, edging away from her. “I have a tendency to boast far too much.”

  “You feel hard ’nough to me to father a fierce babe.”

  “I’m more of a lone wolf. I’m not really the fatherly sort.”

  “Who cares ’bout that? As long as you’re the f—ing sort.”

  Before he could stop her, the witch’s hand caught him between the legs and his shaft stirred in inevitable response. The strange heady essence of her perfume assaulted his nostrils, fogging his brain. Even as some dim corner of his mind struggled to resist, the honeyed poison of her lips destroyed what remained of his reason. With a fierce growl, he fell upon her, ripping away the bodice of her gown—

  Martin shuddered, blocking the rest of what had happened that night from his mind. Sickened, shamed by the lust the witch had aroused in him, Martin had done his best to forget.

  Cassandra Lascelles had vanished not long after. The witch had not been seen or heard from in years. What the devil made Aristide think Cassandra was mixed up in this affair of the Silver Rose? Whatever had aroused the witch-hunter’s suspicions, Martin hoped the man was wrong, but if there was any chance that witch had turned up back in France, any danger Martin might cross paths with her, he needed to know and know now.

  But he could hardly question Aristide.
Not only would the witch-hunter be disinclined to answer any questions posed by Martin, the man was too torn up over his horse at the moment to think of anything else. Despite his dislike of Aristide, even Martin had been moved to feel a pang of sympathy for him.

  Not that he completely understood the intense bond between the man and his horse. Martin was fond enough of his current mount. The big gray stallion was the kind of horse Martin liked, swift with a bit of a dash about him. But it was only a means of getting him from one place to another.

  When all was said and done, Martin’s preferred mode of transportation was still his own two feet. As a boy in Paris, he’d had little to do with horses other than trying to keep out of their way, cursing whatever oaf had nearly ridden him down or splashed him with mud in the streets. He’d stolen many things during his days as a street thief, but horses were not among them. They were simply too damn big to hide. Any ease in the saddle he had eventually acquired, he owed to Nicolas Remy and Miri.

  Martin had not much expertise in the care of animals, but even he could tell Aristide’s mare hadn’t looked good. But if anyone could save the creature, it was Miri. Ordinarily Martin’s instinct would have been to remain close to Miri’s side, but there was nothing he could do to help the situation. Although his every jealous impulse made him not want to leave her in the company of that witch-hunter.

  Damn it. He scowled. He was finding it hard to keep calling Aristide that—not since the bastard had had the impertinence to save his life. After so many years it was hard to let go of the suspicion, the anger, and the jealousy Simon aroused in him. But Martin had other thoughts to preoccupy him, the tormenting possibility that Cassandra Lascelles had resurfaced, and there was only one person besides Simon who could put his fears to rest.

  But first . . . Martin scowled down at his wet and muddy clothing. He had best spruce himself up a bit because he had a young lady to charm.

  ———

  CAROLE MOREAU WAS TUCKED UP in Madame Pascale’s bedchamber behind the kitchen. Madame Pascale had disappeared with Miri in the direction of the laundry house, both women deep in consultation about some medicine they planned to brew for the horse. They seemed likely to be gone for some time.

  Martin crept quietly to the door of the bedchamber. He felt more himself now, attired in a clean doublet and venetians, his hair combed and fastened back into a queue. If it hadn’t still been raining, he would have been tempted to filch a few flowers from Madame Pascale’s garden.

  He knocked softly, half dreading to find Mademoiselle Moreau asleep. He knew Madame Pascale had taken a posset in to the girl earlier. But apparently even the old woman’s herbal remedy had not been enough to soothe the girl’s fear and distress.

  A wan voice bade him enter. Martin cracked the door open and peeked inside. The girl lay tucked up in Madame Pascale’s bed, and although it was not a large one, Carole still looked small and childlike, her freckles standing out on her pale face.

  She might have been a fetching little thing under other circumstances. But deep shadows pooled beneath her blue eyes, her expression so forlorn, it stirred all of Martin’s chivalrous impulses.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of him. Obviously she had been expecting Madame Pascale. With a soft gasp, she sat bolt upright, dragging the coverlet protectively up to her chin.

  “Please, mademoiselle. Don’t be alarmed,” Martin hastened to assured her, summoning up his gentlest smile. “I only wanted to see how you are faring.”

  Huge tears welled up in Carole’s eyes. “Then you are n-not angry with me, monsieur?”

  “Why would I be angry with you?”

  “B-because I tried to help kill you.”

  Martin waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, think nothing of that, child. I frequently inspire murderous urges in my fellow human beings, although not usually, I must confess, among the fairer sex.”

  To his horror, two large tears escaped to trickle down Carole’s cheeks. “No, no, ma petite, I beg you. Don’t cry.”

  If there was one thing Martin could not endure, it was the sight of any lady in tears, especially such a sad little damsel as this one. He drew out a fine cambric handkerchief and presented it to her.

  Carole took the cloth and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you. I hate to cry in front of people, but I seem to be doing that far too much these days.”

  “Completely understandable after all you have been through.”

  “Then you don’t hate me for being with those evil women? I d-didn’t want to come, truly I didn’t.” She sniffed. “W-well, maybe I did a little bit. I th-thought I might find a chance to escape, but f-first I wanted to be brave enough to help get rid of the witch-hunter. F-for Meggie’s sake, you understand.”

  Martin didn’t understand at all, but he nodded encouragingly.

  “When we entered the yard, it—it was raining. And we couldn’t tell. We mistook you for the witch-hunter.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Martin had taken many blows to his pride lately, but to be mistaken for a witch-hunter! It was entirely too much to be borne.

  He drew himself up indignantly, exclaiming. “Mademoiselle, you cut me to the quick. Do I look to you like I am that sort of devil?”

  “No. At least not now that I can see you more clearly.” Her lashes drifted down as she cast him a gaze of purely feminine appreciation.

  “Then I shall contrive to forgive you,” Martin said. “How could I do otherwise with such an enchanting young lady? I now see where your son has acquired his own charming looks.”

  She sat up in bed eagerly, color filtering back into her cheeks. “You have seen my little Jean Baptiste?”

  “Bien sûr, Mademoiselle. When I went to Faire Isle looking for Miri.”

  “How did he look? How did he seem? Is he faring well?”

  “How can he not be? He is like a prince surrounded by a court of adoring women. He is receiving the best of care from all of your friends on Faire Isle.”

  Her face clouded over. “I have no friends, m’sieur.”

  “Most certainly you do. Mademoiselle Miri for one.” He bowed. “And Martin le Loup for another.”

  She tilted her head, regarding him shyly. “That is you, monsieur?”

  “Most certainly, ma petite.” Martin carried the girl’s hand lightly to his lips. She actually dimpled with the hint of a smile, but she became grave the next instant, curling her fingers around his.

  “May I ask you something, Monsieur le Loup?”

  “Martin,” he said.

  “Martin,” she repeated, smiling again. “What—what became of my two companions? Are they—are they really dead?”

  “I’m afraid so. I believe they’ve laid them out in one of the sheds out back until some sort of burial can be arranged.”

  She slipped her hand out of his, her fingers curling in the coverlet, her lashes downcast. “You may think me very wicked, monsieur, but I am not sorry that they are dead. Ursula, the big one, she was a mean brute of a woman and Nanette—she wasn’t so bad, but she was quite mad. She was frightening.”

  “I don’t think you are wicked at all, mademoiselle. What little I saw of those two witches was enough to chill my blood, but I suppose they are nothing compared to the Silver Rose.”

  The girl stiffened, tensing at his mention of the sorceress. He went on, speaking in his softest, most persuasive voice. “I don’t want to alarm you, mademoiselle, but eventually the sorceress is going to find out that you’ve failed in your mission, and she’s bound to send someone else.”

  Carole shivered. “Yes, she probably will.”

  “However, if you could just tell me who she is, where I might find her . . .”

  “I don’t—I don’t know exactly where, monsieur. We were living in some old house in Paris and I never heard the woman’s name. I just know that she was always spoken of as the Lady.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  The girl’s brow furrowed. “She looked exactly like what you would think a dread sorceress
would look like. She had long thick black hair with silver streaks. Her skin was dead white. And her touch . . . her fingers were so cold when she touched you, you almost felt as though she was draining every thought, every memory that you ever had.”

  Martin swallowed. Could there be two such women who matched such a description?

  “And her eyes . . . they were so dark. Empty.”

  “Because she’s blind?”

  Carole looked up at him in surprise. “How did you know that, monsieur?”

  Martin’s heart sank at the confirmation of all of his fears. “I believe that I may have crossed paths with this woman . . . this Silver Rose before.”

  Carole squirmed as he said this. She looked down at her hands a long time before she said, “The Lady is the evil one. She’s the one who runs the coven and she’s the one behind all these evil deeds. But she’s not the Silver Rose. That’s—that’s Meggie.”

  “Meggie?” Martin asked in confusion.

  “She’s not evil.” Carole looked up at him earnestly. “Meggie is not evil at all. Far from it. But she has the misfortune to be this terrible witch’s daughter.”

  “Her daughter? This witch has a child?” Martin felt all the blood draining from his face. “How old is this girl?”

  “Meggie is nine, going on ten.”

  Martin moistened his lips. “And—and the child’s father?”

  “No one knows who that might be, monsieur. But the Lady is so cruel she is always telling Meggie she was fathered by the devil.”

  His mind reeling from the shock of what he had just heard, Martin had to walk over to the window to hide his countenance from Carole. The child sired by the devil? He would like to believe that himself. But he was afraid there was a far different, far worse explanation.

  The Silver Rose was Cassandra Lascelles’s daughter, but he was terrified that she was also his.

  ———

  THE SHADOWS LENGTHENED along the stalls where Miri and Simon kept anxious watch over Elle, waiting for some change. No longer able to stand, Elle lay on her side in the stall, her head stretched out toward Simon, her lids half closed, her chest heaving as she panted.