The Silver Rose (23 page)

“Simon?”

He had hunkered down to her level, “What is it, petite poule?”

Lorene pouted at his teasing name for her, grumbling as she always did. “I am not a little chicken. I just wanted to know if you will ever be able to take me to the château. I want to see my lord’s stables and all the grand horses you will be taking care of.”

Simon rocked back on his heels, pretending to eye her askance. “I don’t know. These are mighty big horses with very big teeth. They might gobble up a little chick like you.”

She poked him in the shoulder with her small fist. “Horses don’t eat chickens, you great fool. And even if my lord’s horses were very ferocious, I wouldn’t be afraid. Not with you there.” She flashed him a gap-toothed grin. “I know you would always protect me, brother.”

Except that he hadn’t protected her, Simon thought bitterly. Not his mother or his father either. Caught up in the excitement of living above the stables at the château, looking after sleek hunters so different from Javier’s swaybacked plow horse, Simon had seldom spared a thought for home. By the time he had managed to return for a visit, it was already far too late . . .

He swallowed hard, thrusting the memories aside as he saw Miri making her way up the hill. There was a spring to her step that suggested her errand had been successful, that at long last they had stumbled across some useful information.

She was a little out of breath by the time she reached him. Removing her hat, she tossed it down and wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. The tendrils escaping from her braid looked a bit damp from the heat, but she beamed at Simon, displaying a small basket. “An offering from Madame Brisac,” she said, drawing back the cover to reveal some grapes, a crusty loaf of bread, and a creamy white hunk of brie.

Simon had little interest in the food, although he’d scarce eaten anything since yesterday. Shattering the last of Madame Paillard’s hope had left him with little appetite. But as Miri settled on the grass beneath the tree, he sat down to join her.

“I am assuming since you look like the cat that got into the cream, you learned something. What did this wise woman tell you?”

Miri paused in the act of dividing up the bread to blink at him, then her mouth widened in such a dazzling smile that Simon demanded, “What?”

“Nothing.” Miri fought to subdue her grin, but her lips quivered, dimpling her cheek. “It is only you used the term wise woman instead of witch. There may be hope for you yet, Simon Aristide.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. Now are you going to tell me what the woman said or not?”

Miri handed him a hunk of the bread and cheese, unable to suppress a shiver of excitement. “Oh, Simon, they were seen passing through this village several days ago. From what Madame Brisac told me, it has to be Carole and those two witches.”

“Ah. For once you are willing to say witch instead of wise woman,” Simon was unable to refrain from teasing. “Maybe there is hope for you as well, Miribelle Cheney.”

Miri crinkled her nose, pulling a face at him. She paused to nibble at her own portion of the cheese before continuing, “Madame said there were three of them, one a very tall and hefty blonde who went by the name of Ursula. The other woman was short and dark, with sharp elfin features. That sounds very much like the way old Sebastian described the women who took Carole. And these two did have a young sandy-haired girl with them.”

Miri’s bright expression dimmed. “Madame said that the girl looked pale and sickly. And so unhappy. She was often on the verge of tears, but didn’t dare cry or the big one, Ursula, would cuff her about the head.”

Simon leaned forward to curl his fingers about Miri’s wrist. “Don’t worry. We’ll find the girl, rescue her.” It was a rash promise to make, but Simon thought he’d have done or said anything to ease the troubled furrow from Miri’s brow. “It would seem that you were right about the girl not going willingly. You may feel entirely free to say ‘I told you so.’ ”

Miri shook her head, but she appeared grateful for his reassurance. The hopeful light flickered back into her eyes. “It seems that they are no longer traveling by river. They acquired a pair of pack mules from somewhere.”

“Stolen most likely,” Simon said after swallowing another mouthful of bread and cheese.

“The villagers certainly seemed to suspect as much. Madame Brisac said the three women were taken to be
gitanes
and not encouraged to linger.”

“That would fit. That is how the members of this coven frequently travel about the countryside, in the guise of gypsies. I suspect that is how Lucie Paillard became involved with them. The girl was said to be very fond of consulting
gitans
to have her fortune told.” Simon dusted crumbs from his hands, accepting the cluster of grapes Miri offered him. “So does Madame Brisac have any idea which way they went when they left the village?”

Miri had to finish chewing before she was able to reply, “Madame believes that they took the road that heads north toward Paris.”

Was that the witches’ final destination? If it had not been for Miri, Simon would have been tempted to trail the women, see if they would finally lead him to the Silver Rose herself. But Miri would be far too concerned about Carole Moreau to hold back and it was his own hope that once Carole was rescued, he might be able to persuade Miri to return to Faire Isle.

As soon as they finished their repast, Simon was ready to set out again. He thought Miri would be just as eager, but when he tried to rise, she leaped to her feet, pressing her hand on his shoulder to stay him.

“No, Simon. Rest awhile.”

“But those witches have a considerable start. If they are traveling by mule, that’s in our favor. We should be able to overtake them if we keep pressing on. The horses are rested—”

“But you are not,” she insisted. “You look almost gray with fatigue and I noticed earlier you were practically nodding off in the saddle.”

“I do that sometimes when I have had little sleep,” Simon admitted as he shrugged off Miri’s hand, struggling to his feet. “Elle is used to it. She just slows her gait when she feels my hand start to slack on the reins.”

“But she cannot catch you if you tumble off. You make her very nervous.”

“Oh, I suppose she told you that,” Simon drawled.

“Yes, she did,” Miri replied somberly.

He eyed her askance, realizing she was not jesting. From the first that he had known Miri, she had insisted she had this extraordinary ability to communicate with animals, a claim that had always rendered Simon uneasy.

She bumped up her chin, frowning. “Don’t look at me that way, Simon Aristide. As though you think I am either mad or possessed. Elle speaks to you, too. You told me that she has frequently warned you of danger.”

“Yes, but that’s different,” Simon said. “I can tell that from the way she whinnies or shies back or—or tosses her head.”

“She speaks to you in dozens of different ways, just as all animals are capable of doing. I am simply able to hear and understand them better than most humans can. And I happen to know you are a great source of concern to Elle. She doesn’t think you look after yourself properly.”

Simon shifted his gaze from Miri to his horse and was disconcerted when Elle lifted her head and pricked her ears as though she knew they were discussing her.

“But I can’t just doze off out here in the open, in the middle of the day, leaving you unprotected—”

Miri pressed her fingertips to his mouth to silence his protest. “Yes you can. We are safe enough here. You said the Rose’s coven has never attacked during the day and you won’t be much of a protector if you collapse in a heap. You asked me earlier to trust you. But you have to learn to do some trusting yourself. Lie down for a while and close your eyes,” she coaxed. “Depend upon me to look out for you.”

She didn’t know what a difficult thing she was asking. It had been so long since he had ever depended upon anyone but himself. But she was right. He was dead on his feet. He would be of little use to her if his vigilance was impaired.

“All right,” he consented grudgingly. “But you are not to let me sleep more than five minutes, do you hear?”

Miri only gave him a serene smile. She led the horses down the hill to water them as Simon stretched out under the tree. By the time she returned, he was fast asleep, one arm pillowed beneath his head.

Miri eased down beside him, taking great care not to wake him. He looked so worn down, as though even in sleep he could not entirely escape a lifetime of cares and regrets. She was unable to resist stroking a tangle of hair back from his face. Her fingertips brushed up against his eye patch and she was tempted to remove it, but she feared Simon would find that another intrusion. He didn’t like exposing his wounds, either those of the flesh or those buried deeper in his heart.

She had known him for a good portion of her life, from the boy she had been infatuated with to the man she had believed she’d hated. Simon Aristide, the infamous Le Balafre, master witch-hunter, the bane of Faire Isle. But these past two days she had glimpsed another side of him as well, the man who had chastely kissed her good night and gallantly placed the barrier of a door between them. The same man who had risked going alone to confront a dangerous enemy to keep Miri safe, the one who had cradled Colette Paillard in his arms, trying to absorb her pain. Simon Aristide . . . the protector.

“Who are you really, Simon?” Miri whispered. “I warn you, this time I mean to find out, no matter how fiercely you try to guard your heart.”

But for now she was content to watch over him while he slept.

S
IMON STUMBLED
through the village, the lanes empty and silent, rakes and plows abandoned in the fields, cottage doors boarded over.

“Maman? Papa? Lorene?” he called frantically. But there was no answer, only the eerie moan of the wind, the thunder of his heart. It was as though he was the only one left alive in the entire world.

Except for the old woman on the village green, her straggly gray hair blowing in the wind as she tossed something down the well, muttering curses.

“You there! Stop!” Simon shouted. “What are you doing?”

The hag straightened from bending over the well and grinned, revealing the blackened stumps of her teeth. As Simon darted forward to seize her, the witch rose into the air with a cackling laugh.

He ducked down as she flew at him, her nails extended like claws. But as she swooped past him, he was horrified to realize he was not her target. She flew toward a child picking daisies in the meadow. Her dark head bent earnestly over her task, she did not see the hag bearing down upon her.

“Lorene!” Simon screamed his little sister’s name but his voice was torn away by the wind. He started to run, legs pumping, but he knew he’d never get there in time. Lorene looked up at last, screamed in terror as the witch descended.

“Lorene!” Simon came awake gasping, sitting bolt upright. He squinted against the bright flood of sunlight, his mind still fogged from his dream. He felt disoriented, unable to place where he was until he became aware that a woman hovered over him, her face set beneath a silken blond crown of braids, her eyes gentle with concern.

“Simon, are—are you all right?” Miri asked.

He blew out a gusty breath, and dragged his hand down his face, trying to clear off the last vestiges of sleep. “Yes. It was only—only—”

“A bad dream,” she filled in. She paused, then asked softly. “Who is Lorene?”

Simon grimaced, mortified to realize he must have been muttering in the throes of his sleep, whimpering like some frightened child.

“No one,” he started to snap, but for once the denial stuck in his throat. He stared down at his hands dangling between his knees. “She is . . . she
was
my sister.”

Miri reached out, took hold of one of his hands, the gesture soft and encouraging. Her eyes were full of questions, but she didn’t press him, just waited. But Simon felt he had already taken enough painful journeys into his past for one day. Lord! He hadn’t had that particular nightmare for years. That’s what came of letting himself remember.

“Look. I’m fine. It was nothing but a stupid dream.” He carried her hand brusquely to his lips, then released it. “I am sorry if I alarmed you. Damned embarrassing way for a man to behave.”

“No, don’t be embarrassed. Everyone has bad dreams.” Her lashes swept down as she confessed, “I—I sometimes do myself.”

“Yes, my dear, but I am a witch-hunter. I am supposed to be the stuff of nightmares, not cringe from them myself.” He attempted to smile, lighten the mood as he struggled to his feet.

He extended his hand to her. She retrieved the hat she had discarded, then allowed him to pull her up. Simon frowned when he saw how far the sun had journeyed across the sky.

“Miri, I told you not to let me sleep so long.”

“You were tired. You needed the rest.”

“But you must have been bored to distraction just sitting there watching me snore.”

She fingered the brim of her hat and shook her head, smiling softly. “No, actually I found it good to steal a moment of peace. Despite the drought, this valley is still a lovely place and after all the darkness we have been facing, it was comforting to watch people going about normal, everyday sorts of tasks.”