“It’s been a long time since I’ve dared to dream anything.”
“That’s not what this bedchamber has been telling me.”
Teasing, he said, “Are you reading auras again? What is it you’ve sensed about my house? Something haunted?”
“No.” She folded her arms and propped them on his chest, peering up at him. “No. It’s more one of waiting for life to begin. This is a large house, Simon. Perfect for a family. You can’t tell me that you never thought of that when you built it.”
“Perhaps I did,” he said, caressing a tendril of hair back from her brow. “I just never believed it could be my family.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. It’s too fresh. It’s too new. And there’s still too much unsettled. The matter of the Silver Rose. How your family is going to feel about us. And then, about your suitor, le Loup.”
The mention of Martin saddened her. He had disappeared from the farm and no one seemed to have any idea when or where he had gone except for Yves. The boy’s account of Martin’s departure had been jumbled, a confusing tale about an urgent errand and Monsieur Wolf promising to return by morning. Or maybe it was nightfall. Yves had been so crestfallen by his inability to remember, Miri had hated to keep pressing the boy for more details.
As inexplicable as Martin’s departure had been, the impulsive action was so like him, Miri was far more grieved than worried by it. Resting her chin atop her hands, she said, “I never wanted to hurt Martin. I’m afraid he might have seen us embracing by the pond, and that’s why he left so suddenly. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him good-bye.”
“I wouldn’t fret over that,” Simon said dryly. “If I know anything about le Loup, he’s not the sort to beat a meek retreat. I predict he’ll be back before morning unless he’s gone for reinforcements to rescue you from my dastardly clutches. But he’d have a damned long ride to get all the way back to Navarre.”
“Or Ireland,” Miri said softly.
“Ireland?”
She hesitated only a moment before confiding. “That’s where Ariane and Renard have been all these years. Living in a cottage, deep in the Wicklow mountains. It’s so beautiful there, Simon.”
He stared at her, astonished, and then cupped her cheek tenderly in his palm. “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
“I do trust you. Now, if only you could learn to trust yourself.”
“Perhaps you could teach me, if only we could stay here. But unfortunately, we can’t.”
“The Silver Rose.” She frowned, recalling what he’d said earlier to Carole. “So you think the sorceress is Cassandra Lascelles?”
“I have no way of knowing for sure until we have a chance to further question Madamoiselle Moreau in the morning. But you must have met the Lascelles woman years ago when your sister mistakenly befriended her. What was your impression?”
“Ice. Evil.” Miri’s brow furrowed, searching her memory. “She troubled me greatly. I sensed something dark in her, disturbing, but there was one reason more than any other that I didn’t trust her.”
“And what was that?”
“My cat didn’t like her.”
He laughed in spite of himself. “As I recall, Necromancer was not real fond of me, either.”
“He was the first night we met, when you helped me rescue him.” She smiled up at him, her cheek dimpling. “And I think, like me, he might be willing to give you a second chance.”
He sobered a moment. “That second chance, Miri. Or third, or fourth . . . I don’t want to waste it. There’s something I need to tell you.”
Miri stilled, her heart giving a small skip of apprehension. “What is it?”
“It’s about the night that I went to see the Dark Queen. There was one thing about it I concealed from you. She gave a document into my keeping, giving me full authorization, the power of life or death over the coven of the Silver Rose. It was foolish, wrong of me not to tell you. But I was afraid you would either demand that I destroy it, or it would make you mistrust me all over again.” He regarded her anxiously and she could tell how much he still feared that.
“If—if you want me to tear the document up, get rid of it right now, I will.”
“No. All I ask is that you wield the power that you’ve been given wisely.”
“I’ll try.”
“And there’s one more boon I’d ask of you.”
“Anything in my power to give you.”
Miri drove away the shadows the only way she knew, her fingertips trailing lightly down his chest, lower. “Make love to me again, Simon, before the sun comes up. And try . . .”
“Try what?”
“Try hard to remember . . . how to dream . . .”
———
REPLETE FROM SIMON’S LOVING, Miri nestled in his embrace, her eyelids getting heavier as she gave way to sleep at last. But even the strength of Simon’s arms around her could not stay her from being pulled into the haunted world of her dreams.
Miri drifted toward the palace, but this time the towering white walls seemed familiar to her, and she could remember having been here before, and not just in her dreams. She was walking across the wide green lawns that bordered the Louvre.
The path led her past a grotto, and she saw the lizards again, but this time they were no more than carvings in the rocky wall. She continued on until she reached a grassy area that bore signs of having recently hosted a gathering of ladies enjoying the lazy summer afternoon. Soft stools and embroidery had been left abandoned, a chess set perched upon a table, but not the monstrous pieces that had frightened Miri before. Just ordinary chessmen, the kind that she could lift in her hand.
She picked up the dark queen. It seemed so small and harmless, just sitting in her hand. Unlike the shadowy figure that loomed ahead of her. Miri froze as she saw Catherine de Medici, the woman garbed in her familiar, unrelenting black. She was attended by only one of her ladies, a faded blond woman. As Catherine stared at a point past Miri, she gripped her hands together tightly, her expression tense, eager, as though waiting.
Miri turned, following the direction of her gaze. She saw another tall, dark woman approaching, her skin icy white, her eyes empty and unseeing. Cassandra Lascelles. And she was being led by a child, a little girl with soft brown hair and frightened green eyes. Eyes the deep hue of a forest that reminded Miri strangely of Martin’s eyes.
The child clutched a black, leather-bound book under one arm. Miri stood poised between the two women, invisible as a ghost. The little girl delivered the book to the Dark Queen, then shrank away, trembling. But before Catherine could open the book, Simon erupted out of nowhere.
When he lunged for the book, the Dark Queen let out a furious screech. A struggle ensued. As Simon wrenched the book away from her, it fell open, a cloud of dust rising from the pages.
Simon breathed it in, choking. His knees buckled, giving way beneath him.
Miri’s eyes flew open. She jerked upright with a sharp gasp, startling Simon awake. His arms tightened about her as he fixed her with a sleep-blurred gaze.
“Miri, what’s wrong?” he mumbled. “Not another nightmare?”
“No, not a nightmare,” she cried. “A warning. I know now what my dream means.” She tugged at him urgently, trying to rouse him more fully awake. “We’ve got to go talk to Carole. Question her about the Silver Rose before it’s too late.”
Chapter Twenty-one
DESPITE THE WARMTH OF THE AFTERNOON, MARTIN DREW the broad-brimmed black hat lower over his face, a dark cape swirling off his shoulders. Sweat trickled down his brow, his vision half obscured by the eye patch he wore. The leather irritated his skin and he wondered how Aristide could tolerate wearing such a thing, scaring old ladies and small children be damned.
But as Martin strode toward the gates of the Louvre, he ignored his discomforts, concentrating on scowling and looking as sinister as possible. It was a desperate ploy, trying to pass himself off as the witch-hunter. But on such
short notice, he’d had no time to come up with a better scheme for getting himself inside the palace.
It had taken him until morning to pick that blasted lock, and he’d had to waste more precious time before he’d been able to steal out of the underground chamber and flee the Maison d’Esprit unseen.
He didn’t know how much time he had to thwart Cassandra and rescue Meg. But it wasn’t the first time he’d launched himself blindly into some wild adventure.
Yet, for once, his heart didn’t pump with the familiar thrill of fear and excitement. His stomach was knotted with apprehension. Perhaps he had in his lifetime embarked on far more dangerous missions for the king of Navarre, but never had Martin set out on one whose outcome was more important to him.
As he hung back a little, he assessed the guards, trying to guess which one looked dim enough to be fooled by both his disguise and the document he had forged, making it seem he’d been summoned by the Dark Queen.
The one with the thatch of red hair, his stomach straining against his tunic, looked like Martin’s best bet. But before he could swagger in the man’s direction, a hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder.
Martin’s heart leapt as he was forced about to face the man looming behind him. He looked dead on into Simon Aristide’s grim features, but for once the man’s face lightened. The bastard actually had the impertinence to smile at him.
“If you’re seeking to impersonate me, le Loup, you should at least make sure you get the patch over the right eye.”
Martin flushed, a surge of fury tearing through him. He launched himself at Aristide, going for his throat. But Aristide evaded his grasp, dragging Martin away from the gates, back behind the shelter of a broad tree.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Simon demanded.
“Don’t you presume to question me, you treacherous bastard!” Martin snarled, struggling to break free, drive his fist into Aristide’s jaw. But before he could, Miri appeared, her hair looking windblown, her face streaked with dust from the road.
Martin stopped struggling, not knowing whether he was more dismayed or relieved to see her. “Miri, I don’t know what you’re doing here, or how you and the witch-hunter found me, but you need to be warned about what I learned last night. This lying bastard here—he’s been working with the Dark Queen.”
“I know,” she replied calmly.
“You know?” Martin’s mouth fell open.
“Yes. Simon told me.”
“Did he tell you about his mistress as well?”
That at least seemed to ruffle some of Miri’s aggravating calm.
“What mistress?” Simon scowled.
“Gillian Harcourt, as if you didn’t know!”
“Gillian and I parted company years ago. And what the devil has she got to do with anything?”
“Oh, not much,” Martin sneered. “Only that the blasted woman is in league with Cassandra Lascelles, and she’s even now helping that sorceress get inside the palace to—”
But Miri interrupted him, turning to Simon. “This Gillian—she must be the blond woman in my dream!”
“Dream? What dream?” Martin demanded. The blasted eye patch was making it necessary for him to shift his head from side to side to be able to take in both Miri and Simon. Impatiently, Martin wrenched both the patch and his hat off. “What’s going on here?” He glared at both Miri and Simon. “How did you find me? I want an explanation!”
“You first,” Simon said. “Where the blazes did you disappear to last night?”
“Surprised either one of you even noticed I was gone,” Martin muttered, causing a bright flood of color to appear on Miri’s cheeks.
“I don’t have time to get into any explanations now. There’s a little girl the witch has dragged into the palace. I have to help her.”
“The little girl with the green eyes? Carole told us everything about Meg,” Miri said. “We know that she’s Cassandra’s child. That she’s the Silver Rose.”
“There’s one thing you can’t possibly know,” Martin stormed defiantly. “She’s also my daughter. And she’s no evil sorceress. So if this witch-hunter of yours thinks he’s going to touch her he’s going to have to go through me first. The poor child has been at the mercy of that devil woman. Cassandra’s the one who’s been forcing her to do all these things.” He glared at Simon. “But why do I bother trying to explain such a thing to you? You can’t possibly understand what it must be like for her, under the control of a madwoman.”
“Perhaps not a madwoman,” Simon said softly. “But I can understand her fear and confusion far better than you would think. Still, you’re right about one thing. We don’t have time to delay. So we can either stand here and engage in another useless bout of fisticuffs or you can trust me to help rescue your child.”
———
THE DARK QUEEN PACED along the secluded walk of the gardens. She had bade all her ladies return to the palace save for Gillian. The garden bench bore evidence of the disrupted afternoon. A lute left propped against the wooden seat, the chess game unfinished. Catherine toyed nervously with one of the rooks.
Sometimes she felt as if she’d been playing at chess her entire life, but the consequences of wins and losses were far more deadly than having one’s pawns swept from the board. She could hardly believe that the object that she had long sought, the Book of Shadows, was about to be delivered into her hands.
She had been astonished when Gillian had approached her with the news that someone from the Silver Rose’s coven had come to the palace, and that they were willing to hand it over to her for a sum of money.
The money was a trivial thing. Catherine would have paid any amount to have acquired that book, but after so many years of searching and waiting, the book seemed about to fall into her hands all too easily.
All of her suspicions aroused, she studied her lady-in-waiting. Catherine’s eyes might not be what they had once been. But even she could detect Gillian’s nervousness, smell the fear in the woman.
Catherine had been too long inured to treachery, the ways of intrigue, not to recognize a traitoress when she saw one. But Catherine was adept at concealing her emotions; not by so much as the flicker of an eyelash did she let Gillian know her suspicions had been aroused.
Gillian would have been far more nervous if she had realized that Catherine had had the forethought to have Ambrose Gautier waiting at a discreet distance, ready to arrest the courtesan at a moment’s notice should Catherine’s suspicions prove correct, that Gillian was playing her false.
Gillian’s hands fluttered to her throat, but she summoned up a nervous smile and said, “Your Grace, I believe the woman whom I told you of has arrived.”
Catherine squinted across the lawn to where a tall woman with dark hair approached. Catherine held herself tense, wary as she watched the figure approach. No, two figures. She was astonished to see that the second one was only a child. And the child appeared to be leading the older woman by the hand.
Gillian murmured to Catherine, “Poor Mistress Cassandra is blind, Your Grace. She is completely dependent upon her daughter.”
“It intrigues me. How did any woman so helpless ever manage to succeed in getting the Book of Shadows away from the Silver Rose? A task even the formidable witch-hunter Aristide failed to accomplish.”
“I—I don’t know, Your Grace,” Gillian’s voice faltered. “The woman would explain little to me, but she has the book. Surely you can see the child is carrying it.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. The child was certainly carrying something. But Catherine had allowed herself to be fooled once before. All the same, her heart gave a flutter of hope.
Catherine took an eager step forward, only to check herself. The woman and the child did indeed look harmless enough, but she had not survived this long by taking any unnecessary chances. “I’ll pay the woman whatever she asks,” Catherine said. “But first, I must examine the book.”
Gillian’s skirt rustled across
the grass as she approached the woman and her daughter. They stood some ten yards away from her, speaking in low voices.
Catherine could not hear what they said, but the blind woman murmured something in her child’s ear, then shoved the little girl in Catherine’s direction. With the book clutched to her thin chest, the child crept toward Catherine. She was a plain little thing, her most striking feature her large green eyes, which were filled with fear.
Curbing her impatience, Catherine attempted to speak in gentle tones. “Come closer, my dear. There is nothing for you to be afraid of. Just let me see your book.”
The little girl halted in front of Catherine, dipping into a trembling curtsy. She hugged the book tighter as though reluctant to surrender it.
“Give me the book, child,” Catherine demanded.
Slowly, the little girl extended the book to Catherine. But as Catherine’s fingers closed over the small leather-bound text, a dark figure rushed toward Catherine. She was startled to see it was the witch-hunter, Aristide. At the sight of him, the child emitted a terrified cry and fled back to her mother.
“No, Your Grace!” Aristide roared. “Don’t touch the book! It’s a trick!”
Catherine hesitated for a fraction of a second, but if anything could have convinced her of the book’s authenticity it was Aristide turning up to snatch it away from her. She shouted for Gautier, but he was already there, flinging himself in between her and the witch-hunter.
Before Gautier could draw his sword, Aristide felled him with one blow of his fist. When the witch-hunter grabbed for the book, Catherine tightened her grip, refusing to release it.
“How dare you!” she cried. “What do you mean by this outrage?”
“I mean to protect you, woman! Now give me the damned book before—”
Catherine clung to it with all her strength. Aristide yanked it from her hands with such force the book went flying. It crashed to the ground, flung wide open, a choking cloud of dust rising from the fluttering pages.
Too late, Catherine stumbled back, pressing her handkerchief to her nostrils. Her head whirled, webs of darkness dancing before her eyes until she sagged to the ground, oblivion claiming her.
The Silver Rose Page 40
