The Silver Rose (12 page)

She was afraid of battling this Silver Rose, even more afraid of the consequences should she fail. And then there was Simon Aristide. Miri didn’t know if she was afraid she would not be able to find him, or more afraid that she would. No matter how vehemently she insisted her feelings for him were dead, she knew that she risked arousing that dark attraction that pulsed between them, desires that would be a betrayal of Martin, of her entire family, all that she stood for and was . . . a daughter of the earth.

When Marie Claire stepped up beside her, Miri stiffened, anticipating that the woman meant to assail her with more arguments. But Marie Claire folded her hands, looking worn down and resigned.

“Very well, if you are determined upon this course, I am coming with you.”

Miri was deeply touched by the offer, but she shook her head gently. “No, Marie.”

Marie Claire bridled. “What? You are willing to consult a witch-hunter, but you are dismissing my help? You think me too old and useless?”

“What I think is that you have never been a good horsewoman and I am going to have to ride fast and hard, cover a lot of ground quickly to have any hope of catching up to Simon.”

Marie Claire folded her arms stubbornly, but she apparently recognized the truth of Miri’s argument because she grimaced.

“Besides,” Miri went on. “You are needed here to keep watch over Faire Isle lest any of the Silver Rose’s followers turn up here again. You can also aid me in other ways. I know you still have some contacts on the mainland. I can never make this journey on Willow. I need to find a swift horse with a great deal of stamina and you must tell me where I can find other wise women I can trust to help me on my way, offer me safe shelter for the night. I also have to find someone to look after my place while I am gone and there is one other task only a wise woman like you can manage.”

Marie Claire eyed Miri warily as though she suspected Miri of trying to cozen her. “Humph! And just what might that be?”

“Necromancer.” Miri smiled ruefully. “You must prevent my very wily, but ancient cat from trying to follow me.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, the island was still unsettled by the disappearance of Carole Moreau and the equally mysterious departure of the Lady of the Wood. There was more visiting between cottages and traffic amongst the shops in Port Corsair than there had been in years. Women neglected their workaday tasks, gathering in small knots along the lane, to gossip, to exclaim, and to speculate. The only one who might know the full truth behind recent events was Marie Claire. But the former mother abbess kept more to herself than usual, spending increasing amounts of time at St. Anne’s, praying for Miri’s safe return.

On the third day after Miri’s departure, Marie Claire knelt to perform a more earthbound task. Wincing at the stiffness in her joints and the state of her garden, she eased down onto her knees to attack the army of weeds that threatened to overrun her herb beds.

It was a soft morning, a light breeze tickling the strands of hair that escaped from beneath her linen cap. Sparrows twittered amongst the branches of her apple tree, the leaves making a pleasant rustling sound. Marie Claire might have found a momentary balm for her worries, had not the peace of the day been disrupted by the sounds emanating from her cottage. Even from here, she could hear the plaintive yowls of the cat caged in her kitchen.

“I hear you, my friend,” Marie Claire murmured wearily. “But I can’t let you out. I promised her.”

She grimaced, realizing that over the past few days, she had begun to talk to that cat as much as Miri, although she was not able to understand Necromancer as well. And that, Marie Claire decided, was a very good thing, because she was convinced that at times, that little black devil was actually swearing at her, hissing bitter reproaches at her for ever letting Miri go.

Marie Claire paused in her weeding to brush some strands of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Not that she hadn’t heaped the same reproaches upon herself, she thought. But short of trying to cage Miri instead of the cat, Marie Claire had seen no way of stopping her. None of Evangeline’s daughters had ever been tractable women. The Cheney sisters had inherited a full measure of their mother’s stubborn strength.

Despite all her gentleness, Miri had an inner core of adamantine and this was not the first time Marie Claire had struck up against it. Years ago, Miri had done something very similar, run off alone to Paris, impelled by concern for her sister Gabrielle. That journey had been perilous enough, but not one tenth as dangerous as this one.

Before Miri had left, she had obliged Marie Claire again to promise she would not write to Ariane and tell her of her younger sister’s doings. Never had she been so tempted to break a pledge. Not only was she terrified of the dangers Miri would face in confronting this unknown Silver Rose, but Marie Claire was just as troubled by the idea of Miri being alone with Simon Aristide.

“He has changed, Marie.”

Did Miri have any notion how much her eyes softened when she said that, when she even pronounced the witch-hunter’s name? How she blushed even as she insisted she harbored no tender feelings toward Aristide? Who was it that Miri was really rushing off to save from the Silver Rose, Carole Moreau or Simon Aristide? Marie Claire doubted that even Miri knew the answer to that question and that was what truly worried her. No matter what gentler feelings Aristide harbored for Miri, the man was far too much at war with the darker side of his own soul ever to be relied upon.

At least a dozen times each day, Marie Claire had reached for her quill, determined to write to Ariane. If Marie Claire maintained her silence and God forbid, anything happened to Miri, how could Marie Claire ever face Ariane again? And yet . . . how could she draw one dear friend into peril to insure the life of the other?

Besides, it would take time for her message to reach Ariane, even more precious time for the Lady of Faire Isle and her husband to return to France. By the time Ariane and Renard were able to go after Miri, it might already be far too late.

Marie Claire issued a tremulous sigh. Never had she felt so infernally old and useless. Glancing down at her hands, she realized that in her abstraction, she was pulling up clumps of rosemary along with the weeds. She bent back to her weeding, trying to keep her attention focused on her task when she was startled by a distant shout.

She glanced up to see a small figure come hurtling down the lane. Shading her eyes and squinting, Marie Claire recognized Helene Crecy’s six-year-old daughter, Violette. Skirts flapping about her bare ankles, the girl ran, bellowing for her mother at the top of her lungs.

“Dear God in heaven, now what?” Marie Claire muttered, her chest tightening in apprehension. Pressing her hand to the small of her back, she struggled to her feet just as Madame Crecy burst out of her cottage, the Moreau infant clutched in her arms.

As she hurried out onto the lane to intercept her daughter, she was hard followed by Madame Alain and her own brood of children, Josephine’s face pinched with alarm.

“Maman! Maman!”

As Violette skidded to a halt in front of the women, Helene balanced the babe against her shoulder and bent down to the little girl. Marie Claire could not hear Helene’s anxious inquiries, but Violette’s piping reply carried clearly.

“The prince has come to Faire Isle.” The child shrieked and danced in her excitement. “Like the stories you tell me, Maman. You know, the handsome prince who kisses the poor girl and saves her from the witch’s spell and then they live happily ever after. Well, the prince is
here
and maybe he’ll kiss you. Only I expect Papa would not like that.”

Helene straightened, giving vent to a relieved laugh. Marie Claire pressed her hand to her chest, overwhelmed with relief herself, not certain her heart could have taken the arrival of any more dire news or trouble. Even Josephine essayed a dry laugh, although she could not resist scolding Helene. Marie Claire caught snippets of something about
“unwise to be filling the girl’s head with such nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense,” Violette cried, stomping her small foot with indignation. “Look, here he comes.”

She pointed one chubby finger at an approaching rider. As the man drew closer and Marie Claire was able to discern his figure more clearly, she thought the child could well be forgiven for mistaking him for a fairy-tale prince. Seldom had such a dashing gallant been seen on the shores of Faire Isle. Even from this distance, he gave the impression of being a handsome man, his deep brown hair smoothed back beneath a black velvet cap sporting a white plume. A short green cloak with a rose silk lining hung off one broad shoulder, his doublet and venetians appearing of as fine quality as his brown leather riding boots.

All along the lane, women peered out windows or hung over garden fences to gawk as the stranger trotted past, his sleek dapple-gray stallion moving with a jaunty step as his master smiled and nodded. It was as though the horse was as well aware as the man of what a swath they were cutting through town and both were mightily enjoying it.

Marie Claire wiped her hands on her apron, realizing that she was gaping as much as everyone else, but could not seem to help herself. She drifted closer to her garden gate, as the stranger reined to a halt not far from Helene Crecy, whose mouth was hanging open.

As he bent forward in the saddle, murmuring some greeting, Helene was all but knocked aside by Josephine’s eldest daughter, Lysette, a buxom fourteen-year-old. Blushing and giggling, the girl sidled up to the stranger, but before they had a chance to exchange more than a few words, Josephine pounced like a mother tigress.

Roughly hauling her daughter back, Josephine stepped forward. Some low, brief conversation took place between her and the stranger. As hard as Marie Claire strained, she could not catch a word of it.

The stranger straightened in the saddle, looking considerably taken aback. As Josephine continued her harangue, he cast a disgruntled glance down the lane. His entire face seemed to light up. Ignoring Josephine, he smiled and bowed to the other women, then gigged his horse into motion.

Marie Claire scarce had time to realize he was heading straight to her cottage until he was at her gate. Vaulting from his horse in one graceful, fluid motion, he looped the reins around a fence post. She saw that her first impression of him had been correct. He
was
handsome, the sharp angles of his face tamed somewhat by a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. But that was by far the only tame thing about him.

He had a rogue’s eyes and a rogue’s smile, the kind that would make most women lock up their daughters and then be unable to resist his charm themselves. Even Marie Claire was discomposed at the way her heart fluttered as he came through her gate.

She was further disconcerted when he dropped to one knee before her. Capturing one of her hands, he carried it reverently to his lips.

“Reverend Mother,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur. But I am not— That is I am no longer—” Good Lord, Marie Claire thought in disgust. Was she actually blushing and stammering?

“To me you will always be Mother Abbess.” He peered up at her through the thickness of his lashes, flashing her that devastating smile. “I could hardly have the sauce to call you Marie Claire.”

“I believe you would have the sauce enough for anything, my son,” Marie Claire said, finally coming to her senses. She drew her hand away, saying sternly. “Never mind about my name. I think you had best be telling me yours and right quickly.”

He looked stunned for a moment, then sprang to his feet crying, “What! Never tell me you don’t know me.”

When Marie Claire regarded him in confusion, he pressed his fingers to his chest. “Madame, surely you cannot have forgotten. It is me, Martin le Loup. Captain Nicholas Remy’s friend, Mademoiselle Miri’s devoted slave, and your most humble servant.”

He doffed his cap, his cape swirling as he swept her a graceful bow. He smiled at her hopefully while Marie Claire blinked, feeling completely stupefied.

Martin le Loup? It couldn’t be. She stared at him, racking the features of this tall, strapping man for some sign of the rangy youth who had trailed so worshipfully after Miri that long-ago summer, those last days of peace on Faire Isle before Aristide and his witch-hunters had descended.

Marie Claire thought she could scarce be blamed for not recognizing Martin. He had grown, changed like a fledgling duck transforming into a mighty-winged swan. But as she studied him, she caught a spark in the deep-set green eyes, a hint of mischief about the lips that put her in mind of the boy she’d once known.

“My heavens! Wolf. It—it is you.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. Then she fell upon him with a glad cry.

Martin returned her embrace with rib-cracking enthusiasm, hefting her off her feet with an exuberance that left her giddy. She thumped his back saying, “There now, you rogue. That will do. Put me down at once.

“What a disrespectful way to treat an old woman,” she complained, but she was laughing as Martin grinned at her and set her back on her feet. Her cap had gone askew. As she straightened, she noticed her neighbors watching with popping eyes. If Josephine craned her neck any harder, the woman was going to fall flat on her face.