The Silver Rose (28 page)

His breath hitched in his chest as she leaned closer and brushed her mouth against his cheek, then his eyelid, then his brow. When he felt a warm splash of moisture against his face, he groaned.

“Ah, Miri, don’t do that. Don’t cry. You’ve already wasted far too many tears on me and I was never worth a single one of them.”

He eased her back and caught her face between his hands, pressing his mouth to her eyes, her cheeks. Only wanting to kiss her tears away. He would have sworn that he meant to do no more than that, except one droplet cascaded over the corner of her mouth and he captured it without thinking. His lips settled over hers, the salt of her tears mingling with the sweetness of her mouth.

He made a half-hearted effort to retreat from temptation, but she buried her fingers in his hair, holding him captive and surrendering in the same breath, her lips parting, an invitation he had not the strength to resist. He kissed her, tenderly at first, then by degrees deeper, his tongue exploring the warm hollows of her mouth. Miri responded eagerly, straining toward him.

He cupped her breast through the linen of her shirt, feeling her warmth, the thud of her heart, which seemed to have quickened in time with his. His body hardened with need of her, the urge to sweep her up into his arms and carry her—

Carry her where? To lay her down on the rough planks of the barn floor like some marauding soldier seeking a brief toss with a milkmaid? There was no bed, no bower in which to make love to her. No soft safe place for them to be together. There never had been, never would be.

He dragged his mouth from hers with a low groan, although he still found himself unable to release her. He wrapped his arms about her waist, resting his brow against hers, their breaths mingling in ragged sighs. When she caressed his neck, her hand trailing down the opened vee of his shirt, his pulse jumped at the soft feel of her fingers against his bare skin. He captured her hand, trapping her fingers over his racing heart.

“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.

M
IRI 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 infatuation 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.”