The Silver Rose (17 page)

“I still don’t know why you insisted we stop at all. Samson was fresh enough to continue on and so was Elle.” She plunked the towel back down on the washstand. “I thought you usually traveled under cover of darkness.”

“Not with you, I don’t. Look. I thought we agreed that I was to be the one in charge of this pursuit. This alliance isn’t going to work if you are already questioning my decisions.”

“It won’t work either if you insist upon regarding me as some—some helpless woman who needs your protection,” she insisted.

Simon stole a look at the silken shimmer of her hair, the soft swell of her unbound breasts that now burgeoned against the fabric of her tunic. He blew out a gusty breath.

“You
are
a woman. How the devil else do you expect me to regard you?”

“Like a brother in arms.”

Simon snorted. “I am afraid that requires more imagination than I possess, despite your efforts to look like a man.” He raked his gaze disapprovingly over her attire. “Do you really think this inappropriate disguise of yours deceives anyone?”

“It does frequently. People seldom trouble to look that closely. I simply pull my hat lower, deepen my voice, and lengthen my stride.” Miri strutted a few steps in a remarkable imitation of a cocksure, swaggering youth. “It works, Simon.”

“Until you bend over,” he muttered.

“What?”

Simon squirmed, feeling he’d do better to keep the observation to himself, but the woman needed to be warned, damn it.

“When you bend over, the seat of your breeches—well, it—it hugs your—” Simon gestured uncomfortably in the general direction of her posterior. “The fabric tightens and one can see the curve of your—your arse.” He broke off, annoyed to feel himself reddening.

Miri’s eyes widened. She twisted her neck, peering over her shoulder as though trying to observe the phenomenon for herself. He expected her to be embarrassed, appalled, even offended. He was not prepared for her to break into a peal of delighted laughter.

“You find it amusing?” he asked stiffly.

“No, merely reassuring. For most of my girlhood, I was so flat, I despaired of ever acquiring any womanly curves worth worrying about. But I am sorry if the sight of my, um, arse distresses you. I’ll take better care to remain upright in your presence. I had forgotten what a prim lot you witch-hunters are.”

“I am not prim, damn it—”

“Yes you are,” Miri said, her eyes dancing. “You always were. Even as a boy, you pursed your lips when you saw me roaming about Faire Isle in my baggy breeches.”

“That’s because it wasn’t decent or respectable for a girl to dress thus.”

“I come from a family of accused witches and my sister Gabrielle was once one of the most notorious courtesans in Paris. I think respectability and I parted company a long time ago. Besides, you should try traveling a long distance trussed up in a corset, clinging for dear life to a sidesaddle or riding astride with your petticoats bunched around your knees. I gave up my comfortable masculine garb once before to please you, Simon Aristide. I am not going to do it again.”

“I don’t recall you ever doing any such thing.”

She flattened her hands on her hips in mock indignation as she accused, “I endured the torment of skirts and petticoats and you never even noticed.”

But as Simon reflected back, suddenly he remembered quite well. Those had been tense and difficult days for him that first summer on Faire Isle, torn between his fondness for Miri and his loyalty to his master, Vachel Le Vis.

The Comte de Renard had succeeded in destroying most of their brotherhood of witch-hunters. The ruthless sorcerer had been fairly tearing the island apart in his efforts to finish off those few who remained. Miri had helped Simon hide in a cave just off the cove, fetching him food and wine every day. She had loaned him her own masculine clothing to replace the dark robes and cowl Master Le Vis had obliged his followers to wear.

Not only had Miri abandoned her efforts to look like a boy, she had turned up each day wearing a frock, her hair bound back in ribbons. Arrogant young cockerel that he had been, he had been aware she was completely infatuated with him. He had been fond of her, too, but from the lofty experience of his fifteen years, he had considered her mere twelve as little more than a child.

Simon grimaced. His life would be a damn sight easier these upcoming days if he could still view Miri that way, not be so painfully aware of what a desirable woman she had become.

Her lips aquiver, her eyes sparkled with mischief as she continued to tease. “I suppose if it bothers you that much, I could spare your blushes and try to purchase a gown from one of the women in this village. If you truly wish it.”

Although she provoked a smile from Simon, he said, “What I wish, my dear, is that you were well out of this dangerous business. Back home on your island, completely safe.”

The light of laughter in her eyes dimmed. “Completely safe,” she repeated wistfully. “I have been looking for that place my entire life. I don’t believe it exists, do you?”

“No, but you’d be a damned sight safer back on Faire Isle than you are here with me.”

She seemed to realize he was talking about far more than the dangers presented by the Silver Rose. She cocked her head to one side, regarding him in that curious searching way that was uniquely Miri’s.

“Am I not safe in your company, Simon?” she asked. “There is something I have been wanting to ask you. About the—the way we parted on Faire Isle. That kiss . . .”

Oh, Lord. He had wondered when she might get around to reproaching him for that, had been dreading it.

“That was a mistake. I mean, I—I don’t know what devil got into me,” he blustered. “I am sorry. I never meant to offend you.”

“You didn’t. You merely startled me.” Her lashes drifted down as she confessed almost shyly. “I don’t believe I have ever been kissed quite so—so vigorously before. I fear I liked it more than I should have done.”

Simon’s breath hitched in his throat. Did the woman always have to be so infernally honest? Didn’t she understand what a dangerous admission that was to make, closeted alone with a man in a bedchamber? Especially when she added fuel to the fire by unconsciously moistening her lips, rendering her mouth all too red, lush, and tempting.

“Don’t worry about that kiss. Nothing like that will happen again,” he said hoarsely, although he was uncertain who he was most desperately seeking to convince, her or himself. “I wasn’t myself that night and I was so sure it would be the last time we met. I fully expected to be dead soon.”

She glanced up at him with a quizzical smile. “You feared you were about to die and you couldn’t think of anything better to do than kiss me?”

“It would seem not.”

Even knowing he’d be far wiser to keep his distance, he couldn’t stop himself from moving closer, skating his fingertips down the soft curve of her cheek, this woman whose life had been so strangely, so inexplicably bound up with his. A mortal maid with fairy eyes. Silvery eyes in which he could see reflections of the child who had enchanted him, the girl whose budding beauty had tugged at his heart, the woman who stirred his senses, despite all the iron-cold walls he tried to erect between them.

He had despaired of ever seeing Miri again that pearly gray evening he’d left Faire Isle and yet here she was gazing up at him, a little shy, a little wary, but with far more trust than he had any right to expect. As Simon stroked her face, she leaned into his hand, unconsciously welcoming his caress.

The realization struck him with all the force of a cudgel to the brain, the true reason he had not tried harder to dissuade her from coming with him. Not because he was afraid of what she might attempt to do on her own or because he wanted to make use of her knowledge and skills. No, he quite simply wanted . . . her. When Simon forced his hand back to his side, Miri blinked like a woman snapping awake from a dream.

“You have always been my one weakness, Miri Cheney,” he murmured. His admission seemed to trouble her as much as it did him. Before she could say anything, he rushed on, “I think I had best spend the rest of this night keeping watch. From the other side of that door.”

“But—but you need to get some sleep too,” she said. “Of course, there is no question of us sharing the bed, but surely you could make a pallet on the floor and—”

“I think we both realize that would be a bad idea,” he interrupted.

She colored, fretting the chain suspended about her neck. “Yes, perhaps you are right.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be that far away,” he said. “There is no reason for you to be afraid.”

“I am not, but . . .” she trailed off frowning.

“Of course you aren’t.” Simon’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That is one of the most astonishing things about you, your lack of fear. You accused me earlier of doubting your strength and courage, but I have long thought you the bravest lady I’ve ever known. I can never forget that night we first met, how you were trying single-handed to fight off a score of witches to save that cat from being sacrificed.”

Although Miri smiled a little at the reminder, she protested. “They weren’t witches. Only a pack of stupid, ignorant girls.”

“And what about that time in Paris when I behaved like such a ruthless ass? You marched through an entire troop of mercenary witch-hunters to see me. I still can’t imagine why you took such a risk.”

“Because I believed in you, Simon.” She looked up at him, adding softly, “I still wish that I could.”

“Don’t. I’ll only disappoint you.” He deposited a brusque kiss against her forehead. “Good night, my dear. Bar the door behind me.”

S
IMON SLUMPED
back in his chair, nursing a cup of wine. It was strange. He had come to regard the night as his time, comfortable with the long stretches of dark and silence that isolated him from the rest of humankind. Only him, Elle, and a pale ribbon of open road.

But tonight darkness and loneliness seemed to hem him in on all sides. Perhaps it was all those other empty chairs and tables in the deserted taproom. The Paillards had retired to their cleaning up in the kitchens, leaving Simon alone with the remains of his supper and a few candles.

Ordinarily, Simon sat with his back to the wall, but he had positioned his chair so he could keep his eye trained upon the top of the stairs. He had taken up Miri’s supper tray himself awhile ago, not entering the room, simply handing it to her through the door. He assumed that Miri would be fast asleep by now and tried not to think of her soft warm body curled up in that bed, her silken hair fanning across the pillow.

At some point he was going to have to get some rest himself to prepare for tomorrow, when they would begin their dangerous search in earnest. He had resolved to stretch out in front of Miri’s door, no matter what the Paillards might think of this strange behavior. Somehow he doubted either of them would notice or care if they did.

Unhitching his purse from his belt, he loosened the drawstrings and counted out enough coins to pay for the supper and lodging. He meant to settle his reckoning with the Paillards so that he and Miri could slip away unheeded at first light.

But as he laid the coins upon the table, he was aware of the other object weighting down the bottom of his purse. Something that he rarely ever allowed himself to examine except on nights that seemed lonelier or longer than the rest, a night like this one.

Delving into the bottom of his purse, he drew forth a small octagonal box he’d purchased to conceal something he’d stolen years ago. Thumbing the catch, he watched the lid spring open to reveal a lock of moon-spun hair nestled against velvet folds. Simon winced when he remembered how ruthlessly he had taken it from Miri, backing her up against the wall of the inn, hacking off the lock of hair with his knife. He’d only done it to frighten her, intimidate her into staying away from him. Far away where she wouldn’t weaken him with her soft lips and searching eyes, dissuade him from what, in his youthful arrogance, he had perceived to be his manifest destiny: to conquer evil, to rid all of France of witchcraft.

That didn’t explain why he had kept Miri’s lock of hair all these years. As penance perhaps, a constant reminder and reproach for all the wrong he’d done her, the way he’d betrayed her trust time and again. God, she should still hate him. Why didn’t she? He had never known anyone like her, with such a capacity for forgiveness, a willingness to search for the best, even in a ruthless bastard like him. It astounded him, humbled him, shamed him.

“I believed in you, Simon. I still wish that I could.”

Oh, the damnable temptation, to take her in his arms and persuade her to do just that. He had glimpsed enough of longing in her face to realize it would be possible to seduce her. To slake his dark, parched soul by drinking in a little of her light, to find ease for his emptiness by burying himself deep within her welcoming warmth.

But for all she was a woman of some twenty-six years, he sensed that she was still untried, knew little of how one could be consumed by the fires of passion. He had sinned enough against Miri Cheney without teaching her that, for if he understood nothing else about her, he understood this. The woman was not capable of engaging in anything that did not involve her entire heart and soul. And neither would be safe in his cold rough hands.