The Silver Rose (32 page)

Meg held herself very still, seeking not to betray her secret by the slightest whisper of breath. She had mastered the spell some time ago, but for Maman to have her sight restored, another person would have to surrender theirs. Cassandra would have no qualms about sacrificing someone else, but Meg quailed at the thought. Perhaps her mother would not be so angry or bitter if she could see, but the cost was still too high.

How she longed to beg Cassandra,
“Maman, let’s get rid of this awful book, forget all these mad plans and schemes before something really bad happens. Let’s go back and live in our pretty little cottage in Dover. I would take good care of you. I swear I would. I would be your eyes just like Cerberus was.”

But to give voice to such a plea would only elicit more of her mother’s wrath, so Meg swallowed her words. She was getting better at concealing things from Cassandra, a growing power that both thrilled and frightened her.

“Forget about the spell to restore my eyes for now,” Cassandra said. She startled Meg by suddenly demanding, “Do you know what a miasma is?”

“Y-es,” Meg replied nervously. “Nourice explained it to me when I overheard some stories about the Dark Queen. She said a miasma is a poisonous mist that—that makes people go mad, want to hurt each other, and only someone as wicked as Queen Catherine would ever think of using such black magic. Only a miasma is so dangerous and can get so far out of a sorceress’s control, even the Dark Queen no longer meddles with it.”

“Mistress Waters told you all that, did she?” Cassandra murmured with a frown. “The woman was a great fool and I believe I forbade you to ever mention her to me again.”

Cassandra ran her fingers over the table until she found the
Book of Shadows.
She thumped her hand down on the cover. “This book is said to contain all the most powerful spells known to the daughters of the earth. There has to be a miasma in there somewhere. I want you to find it, translate it for me.”

Meg stared at her mother in consternation. This was by far the worst thing Cassandra had ever told her to do. “B-but why, Maman? What use would you have for such a terrible magic?”

“Our revolution moves too slowly. I intend to hasten events, but that is all you need to know at the moment. Just do as I bid you.”

Meg gripped her hands tightly together. She couldn’t . . . she
wouldn’t,
but she did not dare to refuse her mother outright. Desperately seeking some way to avoid the alarming task, she hedged, “Even if the book has such a spell, it—it will be very difficult and it is already so late. Could we not go down to supper and then tomorrow—”

“There will be no supper for you or breakfast either. You will remain locked in here until you find a way for me to brew a miasma, stronger and more potent than anything the Dark Queen could conceive. Do you understand me, child?”

Meg’s mouth thinned into a mutinous line. Her mother could hardly keep her shut up in the tower until she starved to death, could she? But as she studied the grim determination in Cassandra’s face, she was not so sure.

“Yes, milady,” she whispered.

Gripping her walking staff, Cassandra made her way to the door. She paused on the threshold, long enough to warn. “I don’t want to have to punish you again. So don’t fail me, Megaera.”

“Yes, milady,” Meg repeated. She slumped down at the table, staring at the book, her chin sinking despondently on her hands. Only after the door had closed and she was sure her mother was out of earshot did she dare to add rebelliously:

“But my name is Meg.”

Chapter Fourteen

S
IMON REINED
E
LLE
in after a hard gallop, slowing her to a walk as they left the main road and headed down the lane leading through the woods. Little more than a narrow track, the path was often impassable in the winter or after a heavy rain, wagon wheels tending to stick in the mud.

The drought had rendered the path dry, the grooves left by the farm carts hard and baked deep into the earth. But at least the trees offered some shade from another afternoon of blistering sun.

Elle was sweating a bit, but her recent run had done little to tax her endurance or her speed. Simon had had to hold the mare back to keep her from racing full out or Miri would never have been able to keep pace. Although Samson possessed more stamina than Elle, the stolid gelding would have been left in the dust had Simon given Elle her head, a fact that had worried Simon.

When they had saddled up in the Maitlands’ barn that morning, he had urged Miri to trade mounts with him. Elle might be skittish with anyone else, but she would have allowed Miri to ride her. Miri however had adamantly refused.

“No,”
she had insisted.
“It will make Elle unhappy and jealous to see you astride another horse. Even if I try to explain it to her, she’ll still think she displeased you, be afraid she did something wrong.”

But the mare’s hurt feelings had not concerned Simon so much as Miri’s safety. Should they be overtaken by any danger on the road, he had wanted to make sure Miri could get away, especially considering his concern that they were being followed. Not long after they had left the Maitlands’, Simon had realized his apprehensions of the night before were justified.

They
were
being followed, by a trio of mounted riders, barely visible on the road behind them, sometimes disappearing for miles at a stretch and then reappearing. The trio seemed to have vanished when he and Miri had paused to rest in the last village. But once they had taken to the road again, Simon spied the familiar silhouettes behind them, never gaining, but never falling back either, so persistent that he was left in little doubt they were being pursued.

The trio were not agents of the Silver Rose, that much was certain. It was broad daylight and the riders were men. Growing weary of this game of cat and mouse, Simon had given Miri the signal and they had taken off at a swift gallop. Simon was familiar enough with this part of the country that they were able to lead their pursuers on a difficult chase, over hills, through fields, across a narrow stream, finally striking out on this worn path through the woods.

Urging Miri to go ahead of him as they rode deeper into the trees, Simon fell back. Slewing round in the saddle, he glanced behind him. All was quiet except for the clopping of Elle and Samson’s hooves, the faint rustle of a breeze through the branches, and the racket of a determined woodpecker hammering away at one of the trees.

Simon saw nothing but the undisturbed stretch of shaded path. They had managed to outstrip their pursuers for the moment, but he didn’t congratulate himself too heartily. He suspected the persons trailing him and Miri had no real wish to overtake them. Simon had finally glimpsed enough of the first rider to guess his identity and if he was right, their pursuers likely knew where Simon was headed. These woods marked the boundary of the modest holdings Simon had received as a gift from the king.

Miri slowed Samson until Simon caught up to her. The path was barely wide enough to let them ride abreast and her knee brushed against his. Peering worriedly at him from beneath the brim of her hat, she asked. “Do you think we have lost them?”

“For now, but it scarce matters. If those men are who I think they are, they know where I live. The Dark Queen is quite familiar with the property her son gave me.”

“So you believe those men work for Catherine?”

“I thought I recognized Ambroise Gautier in the lead. It would make sense for the Dark Queen to have me watched. I should have expected as much.” Simon added wryly, “Her Majesty is not the most trusting soul.”

Miri patted Samson’s steaming neck. “What are we going to do, Simon? If we do manage to find the Silver Rose’s hiding place, we will lead Catherine’s agents straight to her and the
Book of Shadows.
”

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure out some way to shake Gautier off before that happens. Come on. We’re almost there. My place is only about a mile farther past this wood.”

Simon nudged his horse onward and Miri did likewise, the pair of them falling silent as they continued on through the trees. Matters had been a little awkward between them ever since they had awakened from a night spent in each other’s arms, as warm and familiar as though they had become lovers. Miri had blushed, drawing away from him and he had been as tongue-tied as a raw boy after he had just tupped his first maid. He would have found it easier if they had made love instead of what they had done. There had been something too intimate about sharing those whispers in the dark, confessions, memories, and emotions he usually kept shoved down deep inside him. It was a devil of a lot easier to strip the body naked than it was the soul.

And yet, he didn’t feel as exposed and vulnerable as he would have expected this morning, although he was damned tired. He hadn’t gotten much rest. After he had comforted Miri over her nightmare and coaxed her back to sleep, he had lain awake for a long time.

The soft warmth of her body pressed so close to his had been a kind of exquisite torture, rousing him to a state of painful erection. He’d had to fight hard to check his desire, keep his hands from roving where they shouldn’t. Beyond his physical ache for Miri, he had savored the feel of her head snuggled so trustingly against his shoulder, the light rise and fall of her breath. He had strained to keep awake, not wanting to let a single sweet moment escape him, because he knew he’d never hold her like that again.

But there was no sense tormenting himself by desiring a woman he could never have. If he had ever been in any doubt about that, he had the sight of that locket dangling around Miri’s neck to remind him.

As Simon and Miri cleared the line of trees, the path continued through an open field, winding toward the house nestled atop the gentle rise of a hill. Simon had designed the place himself, a modest two-story structure of gray stone, its one extravagance the diamond-paned windows that reflected the afternoon sun.

Simon had not been near the place for over a year. But as they drew nearer, Elle’s ears pricked forward. Sighting the pasture where she had frolicked as a filly, the mare pulled eagerly at the bit.

“Whoa, easy, girl,” Simon said, firmly but gently reining her in.

He squinted into the sun as he surveyed his property. The house was flanked by a series of well-kept outbuildings, the stables, a hen coop, a laundry house, the granary, a shed for the plow. The wheat had been harvested, whatever poor crop had survived the drought. But the orchard looked like it was thriving and the water in the duck pond was not too low.

Simon became aware of Miri beside him, straining upward in the stirrups as she craned her neck, glancing curiously about her. His decision to bring her to his lands had seemed so simple and logical last night. The farm was where he had left his journals, the diaries that might provide the vital clue they needed to the Silver Rose’s identity. But he felt oddly self-conscious, as though he was offering up yet one more private part of himself for her inspection.

“So . . . so this is your home?” she asked wonderingly.

Simon had never thought of the farm that way, had never called the place
home,
at least not until he had spoken of it to Miri.

“My home,” he repeated slowly, as though the word was foreign to his tongue. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Miri shoved back her hat, her eyes so round with frank astonishment, Simon didn’t know whether to be amused or take umbrage.

“What the blazes did you expect? That I lived in some dank dungeon surrounded by my torture implements?”

“I didn’t think you
lived
anywhere. You spoke of trying to settle somewhere that first night, but I got the impression you had abandoned the attempt. You said you didn’t feel as though you belonged here.”

“I don’t, but I need somewhere to stow my documents, clothes, and books. I am getting too damned old to only live on what I can carry in my saddlebags. But I haven’t come here since the Silver Rose started sending her assassins after me. I don’t want to put any of the people here in danger. I wouldn’t have risked it now except for the need to consult my journals. I have a very capable steward who keeps things running smoothly, making my presence here unnecessary.”

His explanation caused that familiar crease to appear between Miri’s eyes. As they proceeded at a slow walk down the lane, her head shifted from side to side. Simon attempted to imagine how the farm must look to her. She couldn’t be all that impressed, not a woman who had been raised in a fine manor house amidst the beauty of Faire Isle with its deep forests and breathtaking coastlines.

His farm was certainly nothing compared to what she might expect when she married Martin le Loup. According to Miri, her dashing Wolf held a place of high favor with the king of Navarre. Not some half-mad, perverted monarch like the French king Simon had reluctantly served.

Henry of Navarre was reputed to be shrewd and courageous, with a lusty zest for life, not unlike le Loup himself. He and Miri would probably have a grand set of apartments at the royal palace. Maybe le Loup would even acquire an estate of his own, far more impressive than Simon’s modest acreage. Not that it mattered, Simon told himself. It is not as though he was setting himself up as le Loup’s rival.

All the same he watched Miri, anxiously awaiting her reaction.

“The land stretches from those woods we rode through, all the way to those upper fields and beyond.” Simon made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Over that next rise is a small village and some of the cottagers from there help with the wheat harvesting and apple picking in the fall. The meadow borders a brook and the part of the woods where the goats can roam free to forage. There is also a small herd of sheep, a few pigs, and . . .”

Simon trailed off, grimacing as he realized he was once again talking too much. He had acquired a lamentable habit of doing that around Miri.

“And, er, well, there it is,” he concluded, letting his hand fall back to the reins. “Just a small farm. Nothing much.”

Miri faced him, adjusting her weight in the saddle.

“Simon, it’s perfect,” she said, her smile seeming to blossom inside of him. He had to check the impulse to grin back at her, an even stronger urge to lean forward and kiss those tempting lips.

How was it possible for a woman to look so enticing with wisps of hair escaping from her braids, her face shaded by that battered hat, her willowy body clad in a shapeless tunic and breeches? But she did, her lovely face possessing a natural glow, the azure of the sky reflected in her silvery-blue eyes.

Simon tried to imagine Miri in a palace, amidst all the artificiality of court life, attired in corsets, farthingales, costly silk gowns, and jewels, her moon-spun hair confined beneath a fashionable bon grace cap. Tried to picture it and couldn’t. It was like imagining some wild woodland fairy captured and trapped beneath a glass jar until her wings drooped and her glow dimmed.

He could far more easily envision her here on this farm, roaming the fields or splashing through the brook, her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders as she wandered out into the meadow, her eyes lighting with laughter as she scooped up a newborn lamb and it nibbled at her chin.

A foolish and futile vision. Just because the differences between them seemed to have blurred over these past few days, that didn’t mean anything had changed. Those differences would resurface sharply enough if Miri’s family got wind of her being in his company and sent someone after her. Or when he apprehended the Silver Rose and her coven and was obliged to see them tried for witchcraft.

He’d do his best to keep his promise and see the Moreau girl handed safely over to Miri. He had no doubt Miri would not linger long after that. No matter how much she deplored the Silver Rose’s activities, Miri’s tender heart would never be able to endure the trials, the executions.

She’d take Carole and return to Faire Isle. He’d never see Miri again and that was as it should be, the better for both of them. They had no future, their past shadowed with painful memories and far too many regrets. Beyond that, there was only the present. Although Simon was beset by a hollow feeling of loss, he shook it off, determined not to waste a moment of the pleasure he saw on her face as she looked over his farm.

As they rode toward the stable yard, he pointed out to her the vegetable and herb garden beyond the house. Although Miri nodded, her gaze was more on Simon. Just when she felt she had begun to know the man, he surprised her yet again.

When he had spoken hesitantly about bringing her to his home, she didn’t know what she had expected. Some indifferent lodgings he had leased above a shop or inn, perhaps, nothing like this prosperous, sprawling farm.

He had given her the impression of being a lonely drifter, no real place to call his own. Although he had kept this farm, he insisted he didn’t feel as if he belonged here. But it was only Le Balafre, the witch-hunter with his sinister eye patch, unrelenting black garb, and restless gaze, who did not belong in this serene setting. Simon Aristide
could,
Miri thought, if only he would give himself half a chance.

When an elderly groom and a stable hand emerged to take charge of the horses, Miri saw no apprehension of Simon on the men’s faces. They were wary and respectful as they greeted Simon, welcomed him home. Any distance Miri sensed came more from Simon as he dismounted. Not that he was curt or unfriendly as he returned the men’s greetings, merely stiff and reserved, his invisible wall in place.

A wall that did nothing to deter the young man who had been at work in the garden. He dropped his hoe with a loud whoop when he spied Simon, loping across the stable yard with a black-and-white dog at his heels. The boy was large and ungainly, with a bristle of pale blond hair, a round flushed face, and jug-like ears. His long arms and massive hands flailed wildly as he bounded toward Simon, calling out joyously. “Master Simon! Master Simon! You’ve come back.”