He shrank back a little, knowing that where Finette was, her mistress would not be far behind. But he’d come too far, and he had to find out what these damned witches were up to and he needed to find out about the Silver Rose. Could the little girl actually be in on this horrible plotting?
As Gillian Harcourt sipped her wine, refusing to join in the other two’s gleeful celebration, Finette gave a sniff. “Humph. Looks like milady of the court is above our company, Odile.”
Gillian retorted, “No. Milady has just learned to be really cautious. I’m the one who’s been in servitude to the Dark Queen all these years. I know much more about how dangerous she is than the rest of you do.”
“Oh, yes. Poor thing,” Finette sneered. “What a terrible life she’s had, living all pampered in the palace and seducing all those handsome men at the Dark Queen’s command.” Finette lasciviously licked her lips.
But the one who had been referred to as Odile looked more sympathetic. “I can’t think that it would be all that pleasant a life.”
Gillian shrugged her shoulders. “It was, sometimes. But, yes, I’ve always been very much at the Dark Queen’s disposal. I had to seduce whoever she commanded me to.”
Finette scowled. “I even heard tell that you were the mistress of that witch-hunter for a while.”
What? Martin tensed.
“Yes. For a time. But that is why I am also nervous about Simon Aristide. You can’t discount him either.”
“Oh, I assure you,” Odile smiled, “he is being taken care of this time. The Lady sent Ursula and Nanette after him, and Ursula might not be good at some things but she is great at killing.”
“I hope you are right,” Gillian said, “because I haven’t slept easy since I realized that Simon Aristide and the Dark Queen are working together. The Dark Queen gave him complete authority to do whatever he pleases. Which means if he discovers where we are, we would all be at his mercy. And I can tell you now that the man has none.”
Martin’s breath hitched in sharply. He had to clap his hand over his mouth to smother his outraged oath. So Simon was in league with the Dark Queen after all. He’d almost started to listen to Miri after the man had saved his life. He’d begun to change his mind about Aristide, but once more, as usual, the bastard was betraying Miri’s trust and she was going to be hurt by him. And in more ways than one.
If this woman was telling the truth, and she had been Aristide’s mistress . . . Martin took a step back from the window, torn between wanting to uncover the truth about the Silver Rose and wanting to get back to Miri. He had left her alone with that bastard Aristide. But before he could decide what to do a twig snapped behind him. He whirled around, but it was too late. He found himself facing the point of a drawn sword wielded by a small, fierce-looking woman. The tip rested at his throat.
“Don’t move,” the creature hissed fiercely, “or I’ll run this straight through your throat, splattering your blood everywhere, all over the windows.”
Another voice echoed out of the darkness. “And that will make me mighty unhappy since I was the one who had to wash them the other day.”
Martin raised his hands, saying, “Forgive me. I wouldn’t want to put any of you ladies to great inconvenience. I realize my appearance here must occasion some alarm.” His gaze darted between the two as he spoke, trying to judge his chances of whipping away from them and getting to his own blade, but before he could react, a third appeared and seized hold of his arms.
He could hardly make out their forms in the darkness except for the fanatical, almost ratlike gleam of their eyes. But he could tell they were all armed to the teeth with swords and knives. Why couldn’t the woman have still been guarded by a dog? He would have much preferred a dog to these half-mad creatures.
He tried to summon up a charming smile. “Ladies, I realize how bad this must look, but I assure you I have merely—I was looking for the house of Pierre Tournelles. I believe I must have the wrong place.”
The one who had accosted him first flashed her teeth in a gleaming smile. “Well, as long as you are here, monsieur, you might as well come inside and join the party.”
Martin’s arrival brought the revelry in the kitchen to an abrupt end. He found himself thrust into a chair, his hands tied behind his back, his feet bound together. Silently cursing his own stupidity, he hoped that word never got out that Martin le Loup, one of Navarre’s cleverest agents, had allowed himself to be captured by a pack of women. Though, if he didn’t keep his wits about him, he thought, neither word nor anything else about him would ever be heard from again.
He noted that the court beauty, the witch-hunter’s erstwhile mistress, had nervously taken her leave as soon as he had been dragged inside. Besides the one fierce guard who had first attacked him, the only two who were left were the elfin woman who was called Odile and Finette, Cassandra Lascelles’s maid, who had never had a pleasant odor. It was worse now that she was reeking of whiskey. She paraded around Martin, trailing her dirty fingers over his face.
“So, we have captured a spy. What do you suppose we should do with him?”
“Cut out his eyes,” the guard offered.
“Or perhaps we should lop off his ballocks,” Odile suggested.
Martin did his best not to cringe. “Ladies, I fear I am attached to both those parts of my body. I’d hoped that we could be a little more reasonable about this. That you might have a little mercy.” He sighed. “I’ve been having a pretty rotten day. Well, if you want to know the truth, the entire week hasn’t been that great. Actually, come to think of it, the whole year has been pretty miserable.”
Finette gave a shrill laugh. “Not as miserable as things are going to get for you, monsieur.”
The sour-faced little guard suggested, “I think maybe it’s his tongue that ought to be cut out.”
To Martin’s dismay, Finette straddled his lap, saying, as she stroked back his hair. “Oh, I think that would be a waste of a fine tongue and a fine pair of ballocks. Perhaps I will take him for my plaything.”
Martin leaned back in the chair as far as he could, shuddering, thinking he would rather part with both his tongue and his ballocks before that ever happened. “Ladies, please, I assure you, this has all been a mistake . . .”
“And you are the one who made it.” The icy voice seemed to come out of nowhere, chilling Martin’s blood. Finette scrambled off his lap. Sucking in his breath, Martin braced himself, turning toward the figure silhouetted in the doorway, her white hands clasped on her walking stick.
His heart almost stopped at the sight of Cassandra Lascelles. Her thin face was still framed by that heavy mass of ebony hair, although there were now streaks of silver in it. And there were still the same dead eyes, the same cruel mouth, though she had aged considerably in ten years, and that terrible seductive beauty that she’d once had was gone, leaving in its wake only the cruelty.
As she stumped forward, groping her way toward him, Martin hitched in his breath, feeling his mouth go dry. He shrank back as she reached out to touch his face, her fingers drifting like trickles of ice across his brow.
Her hand trembled, what little color she had leaching from her cheeks. “By the very devil, it is you. When I heard your voice, I thought I was dreaming.”
“Your pardon, madame, but I don’t believe we’ve ever met before,” Martin sought desperately to disclaim, but he was silenced as her fingers moved over his mouth.
“Did you imagine I would ever forget that voice of yours? So silken, so persuasive, it has haunted my nights these past ten years.” She pressed her fingertips harder against his lips and a chill spread through Martin, a strange disturbing sensation. He remembered that the witch was reputed to have the ability to draw out one’s thoughts merely by her touch.
Martin struggled to render his mind a blank. But he could tell it was already too late. Cassandra’s mouth thinned in a smile of cold anger and triumph. She leaned in closer, her breath reeking of brandy. Obviously she had been sharin
g in the celebrations, but she had only had enough to make her a little unsteady on her feet.
“Well, my bold lover, after all these years, you magically appear at my hearth once again. It seems that the fates have finally decided to smile upon me.”
“I am glad they are smiling on somebody,” Martin muttered, “All I seem to be getting from them is another kick in the arse.”
Cass chortled, stroking his brow with a terrible gentleness. “You cannot imagine how long I have desired this reunion. You disappeared so quickly after our one night of passion.”
Martin moistened his lips. “Ah, well, forgive me. I always meant to call the next day, drop by with sweetmeats and flowers, but I wasn’t sure of my reception.”
“I think you know perfectly well what your reception would have been. I would have cut out your heart and eaten it.”
“That would be a shame. My heart is really tough. I’m sure you could find far better cuisine in a city the likes of Paris.”
He sucked in his breath as her hand moved down his throat, her nails lightly scoring his skin.
“My lone wolf,” she murmured. “Do you know how much of these past ten years I have spent thinking of you?”
Martin averted his head, trying to avoid her fetid, brandy-soaked breath.
“I—I’m flattered, madame, that I should have been of such importance.”
“Oh, yes. You certainly were. I have given much, much thought to what I would do if I were ever so fortunate as to get my hands upon you again.”
Martin grimaced. That’s exactly what he’d been afraid of. “You spent all that time thinking of me? Time you surely could have put to a better use.”
He clenched his jaw as she began to undo the lacing of his doublet, but at that moment, a small voice piped up.
“Maman?”
Cassandra froze, as did all the other women in the room, Odile and the guard sank into deep curtsies, but Finette whipped around, exclaiming, “Megaera, what are you doing out of bed?”
The little voice replied. “I couldn’t sleep. I-I had a bad dream. I’ve been worried about Carole. Is—is she back yet, Maman?”
Finette started toward the girl. “You don’t need to be worried about her, Your Majesty. You need to get back to your bed.”
But Cassandra straightened, her lips setting grimly. “No. Bring the child here.”
As Finette obeyed, Martin’s heart thumped far harder than it had when he’d been threatened by the witches. He waited, holding his breath as a diminutive figure came closer.
She was such a tiny little thing. For a moment he desperately thought she couldn’t be nine years old. She had to be younger than that. She couldn’t be his daughter. He looked at the thin little creature with her angular face and her dull brown hair. Her most striking feature was her green eyes, and when they spied Martin in the chair they went wide. She hung back timidly until her mother touched the terrible medallion about her neck and turned.
“Come here, child. You’ve plagued me long enough with your questions about your father. I’ve always told you that he was the devil. It turns out I was wrong about that. It seems you were sired by a wolf. Come here, Megaera, and make your curtsy to your dear papa.”
———
THE BREEZE DRIFTED in through the window of Simon’s bedchamber, carrying with it the soft rustling sounds of the trees outside, the sweet scent of flowers and herbs from the garden, the plaintive call of a nightingale. Simon and Miri faced each other just as they had that night when they had first met amidst the standing stones. But instead of being surrounded by torchlight and the bonfire, there was nothing but the soft glow of the candles and the aching vulnerability in Simon Aristide’s face.
A face far more world-weary than that of the beautiful boy Miri remembered. A warrior’s visage, hewn by quests that all but vanquished him, dragons that almost slew him, darkness that almost claimed him.
But in the stable where he’d wrestled the devil for his soul, he’d won. This night. This moment. Miri could feel how desperately he wanted her, feel the wonder in him, the dread.
His voice echoed in her memory, as he huddled near the pond, the witch blade that had saved Elle’s life cradled in his hands. Have I ever gotten anything right?
She knew he didn’t want this—their making love—to be one more mistake. Something she would regret.
“Simon? Can I tell you a secret?” She reached up, trailing her fingers along his scarred face.
He sucked in his breath, as if that single scrap of gentleness undid him. His eye drifted shut at her touch, the lashes of his undamaged eye sooty dark, richly curling on his unmarred cheek. “You can tell me anything, lady.”
“I think I’ve been waiting for this forever. From the first moment I saw you, I—”
“You were barely a child then.”
“I didn’t say I knew what to do with you then. But all those nights, alone in my cottage in the woods, there were times I couldn’t help but imagine . . . I didn’t dare admit to myself that it was you in my dreams. A dark lover, who wasn’t afraid . . .”
“But I am. Afraid I’ll hurt you. Afraid I’ll fail you. Afraid . . . you deserve someone perfect to bed you, Miri. Someone whole, with a clean heart to offer you. There’s still so much between us. I can’t see how—”
“I want you,” she cut in, gazing into his eye. “Only you.”
“Then God help you. I’m not strong enough to walk away.”
Gently she slipped her fingers beneath his eye patch, not wanting anything, especially that piece of leather he’d hidden behind so long, to stay between them.
She’d seen him without it before. Removed it, when she’d known it chafed him. But this time, it was different, so much different. A tangible acceptance of scars they had dealt each other, a tender absolution.
She pressed her mouth to the twisted flesh, her own eyes drifting shut, her whole body alive with wonder, need.
Courage. He’d shown so much courage, daring to come to her, letting down the walls that he’d battled to keep between them for so long.
She unlaced his doublet, slid her palms beneath his linen shirt. Burrowing between cloth and his warm skin.
Simon groaned as her fingers traced the planes of his chest, and Miri gloried in his response as he pulled away, ripping the garment over his head, impatient to be free. “I need to touch you . . . need to see you . . .”
He undid her clothing with hands that trembled, this man, so fearless, so strong. Powerful fingers that had comforted a simple boy, soothed a pain-wracked horse, and challenged hate-filled mobs to protect the innocent now peeled away layer upon layer of Miri’s gown, unfolding the cloth from her body like the petals of a flower until she stood, pale, still, naked before his hungry gaze.
She had never felt shame in her body. Yet, as Simon gazed at her she felt a glow of something new, something different, a womanly surge of pride that she could bring such heated pleasure to the man she loved.
Simon skimmed his sword-toughened palms down the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her hip, trailed his fingertips along the slope of her breast, setting her afire with a heat she’d never known, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat, kissing her as he scooped her up in his arms to carry her to the bed.
The bed too wide for a solitary man. The bed that whispered of dreams Miri doubted Simon Aristide had ever acknowledged, even to himself on the dark nights he spent alone.
He drifted her back, atop the coverlets, following her down, his big body atop hers, the weight delicious, the contrast of his hardness against her softness leaving Miri breathless.
A daughter of the earth, she’d been nurtured on the balance of nature, had been so certain she understood the dance of male and female, the pull of sun to moon, sea to shore, sky to earth.
But as Simon’s mouth took hers in a hungry kiss, his hands learning every dip and curve of her body, his hips settling, heavy against her as she opened her thighs, she knew she’d understood nothing at
all of the magic that was making love.
Making love . . .
For that was what Simon was doing to her. Infusing every fiber of her being with the passion he’d denied for so long, telling her with his hands, his mouth, how hungry he’d been, starving for the taste of her, the feel of her, the welcome her body could give to his.
Miri gasped as Simon’s mouth closed over hers, his tongue tracing the crease of her lips, begging entry. She opened herself to him eagerly, letting him inside. Simon groaned, arching against her, and she felt the hard ridge of his erection.
She smoothed her hands down the broad expanse of his back, trying to get closer, reach deeper into places in his heart he’d withheld from her so long. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, teasing him with womanly instinct old as the first daughter of the earth who’d given her body in the shadow of the standing stones. Rites of fertility, affirming life, the earth renewing itself.
Simon kissed his way down her throat, her breast, his breath hot, his lips moist and unbearably sensual as they closed over Miri’s nipple. She cried out as he suckled her with fierce tenderness, drawing from her every last sensation, until her whole body cried out with longing only he could satisfy.
“Simon . . .” Miri gasped. “Simon, please . . .”
He sealed her mouth with his kiss, driving himself deep.
Pain drew a cry from Miri as he pierced her maidenhead, but she laughed, a sound that startled Simon. Made him hesitate. He drew back, looking down into her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m just—just so glad that it’s gone . . .” she said, smiling up into his eyes. “You made me wait . . . a long time . . . Simon Aristide.”
“I’ll make this night worth it, Miri. If it’s in my power . . .”
He set himself against her in a rhythm that surged like the power of the sea around Faire Isle, a pulse of life that she’d felt in the earth, but never understood until now. The pulse Simon confessed he’d felt when he’d lain on the ground as a boy.
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