The Silver Rose (37 page)

T
HE HOUR WAS LATE
, the moon had risen. Miri sat on the wooden bench at the edge of the pond, her skirts hiked up to reveal her shapely legs as she dangled her feet in the water, her hair shimmering down her back.

Simon watched from a stand of trees. He should have insisted she return to the house. It was damned reckless for her to be out alone at night, even on his land. But he understood what had caused her to do so. She was hurt by his rejection and troubled by the tension between him and le Loup. It had driven Miri out here to the water and the soft night breezes to recover her sense of harmony.

Le Loup was a romantic idiot, but Simon could see why he called her the Lady of the Moon. There was something ethereal about Miri, but there was also a passion and strength in her that the other man entirely failed to recognize.

“Perhaps you’d like to train that hot gaze of yours elsewhere, witch-hunter. Before you lose your other eye.”

Simon started at the silken voice hissing at him. He whirled around to find Wolf behind him, his fingers clenched on the hilt of his sword.

“Mon dieu, would I love to run you through right here and now.”

“So why don’t you?” Simon demanded.

Wolf glowered in frustration, allowing his hand to fall back to his side. “Because I’m afraid she’d never forgive me if I did.”

“Beyond the pale of Miri’s forgiveness is a desolate, cold place. You’d be wise to avoid it. Believe me, I know,” Simon replied wearily. “I didn’t follow her out here tonight with any lust-filled purpose in mind. It’s not safe for her to be out here alone.”

“Looking after Miri is my job, not yours. I am the one who has been her most ardent and devoted adorer for years.”

“Instead of looking after her, maybe you should try really looking
at
her for a change,” Simon said. “She is not some goddess, some Lady of the Moon to be worshipped from afar. She is only a woman, albeit a most remarkable one, with a woman’s needs—”

“I hardly need the likes of you telling me anything about my lady,” Wolf snarled.

“No? Do you really think she’ll be happy imprisoned in some palace apartments, shut off from the open fields and woods?”

“She’d be a damned sight happier with me than she would with you on this wretched farm. At least she’d still have her family. You tore her life apart on Faire Isle once. Would you now seek to separate her from her sisters forever? I may not be worthy of my lovely Lady of the Moon, but you certainly are not.”

“Don’t you think I already know that?” Simon asked dully. Pivoting on his heel, he strode away, saying, “Watch out for her. Make sure she gets safely back to the house.”

As Martin watched his enemy vanish into the darkness, he frowned. This was hardly the tame response he had expected from the ruthless Aristide. For a moment, it had actually sounded as though the bastard did care about Miri.

But Aristide had always been a good liar, abusing Miri’s trust and innocence, betraying her. Except that the witch-hunter wasn’t the only one, Martin thought uneasily. The sin lay heavy on his soul, no matter how hard he tried to forget it, shove it back onto the darkest, deepest shelf of his conscience.

His love for Miri had scarce been days old that night ten years ago in Paris, the night that he had let himself be lured into the bed of a witch . . .

Chapter Sixteen

M
EGAERA HUDDLED IN
the center of her massive bed, her body curled up tight as though warding off a blow. Exhausted from her labors with the
Book of Shadows,
she slept deeply, unaware of the silent figure of her mother hovering over her.

Cassandra groped until she found the coverlet, tucking it over her daughter’s frail shoulders with a rare gentleness. Megaera stirred restively on her pillow as Cassandra brushed her cold fingers over the child’s cheek. Even in her sleep, Megaera sought to draw away from her.

Her daughter had been doing far too much of that lately. Cassandra touched her medallion and brooded. She had once been able to divine Megaera’s every thought. Now she was no longer so sure. Her daughter seemed to be growing more secretive every day, as though her life was becoming a separate entity from her mother’s, and the thought maddened Cass.

As far as Cass was concerned, their best days had been when Megaera was still tucked within her womb, their hearts beating as one, sharing breath, sharing blood, Megaera entirely dependent upon Cass for her very existence. She had felt so close to her daughter when Megaera had been no more than a flutter of movement, a chrysalis of all Cass’s ambitions and dreams, so full of promise. There had been no frustration, no disappointment, and no apprehensions of failure then. And none of Megaera’s sullen withdrawal, her marked preference for other people like that Waters woman and now this wretched Moreau girl. None of Megaera offering her trust to strangers, the love that was her mother’s due. Cass feared that the only hold she had over her child rested in the medallion suspended over Megaera’s heart.

Cass’s own heart twisted with the pain of rejection she seldom allowed herself to feel. If you carried a child in your womb, went through the agonies of labor, devoted your life to the girl, working and scheming every waking moment to make that child great, then surely that child ought to love you . . . even if no one else did.

Cass swallowed hard, telling herself fiercely it didn’t matter.

“Love me or hate me, you are mine, my Silver Rose. And you always will be,” she whispered, running her fingers lightly over Megaera’s face.

Megaera whimpered in her sleep, rolling onto her side away from Cass. She clenched her jaw and withdrew her hand. But she congratulated herself that in their latest battle of wills, she had emerged the victor.

She had forced Megaera to translate the instructions for the miasma, write them out on a sheet of parchment. The paper was even now folded and tucked within the bodice of Cass’s gown. Tired and hungry, Megaera had finally surrendered the translation this morning.

“You are sure you have gotten the miasma right?” Cass had demanded. “Found me the powerful potion I have needed?”

“Yes, Maman—I mean, milady,” the child had replied in that grudging tone that made Cass want to slap her. “But the one described in the
Book
is not exactly a potion. It will be more like a powder or dust.”

“I don’t care what form the miasma takes. Only one thing matters to me. Will it be as powerful as the Dark Queen’s?”

“It will be worse than hers. The
Book
said no one can fight this one. It will drive anyone mad, make anyone who breathes the dust angry and full of hate, wanting to kill and destroy, even themselves. The only protection from the miasma is a special ointment that you rub under your nose. I wrote down the instructions for that, too.”

Cass had caught Megaera’s face in her hand, uncertain whether to believe her or not. She had pinched the girl’s chin, seeking to divine her thoughts, but Megaera had—Cass frowned. Megaera had not precisely blocked access to her mind, but her thoughts had eluded Cass, racing out of reach as though they were engaged in some frustrating game of hide and seek.

Cass would have been tempted to clutch her medallion, teach her daughter another painful lesson about defiance, but the document Megaera had penned seemed to speak for itself. Cass could not read the words, but as her fingers closed over the parchment, she felt as though she could sense its power as well as the splotches of Megaera’s remorseful tears.

Cass’s mouth thinned. If there was one thing about her daughter that she deplored more than any other, it was Megaera’s tenderheartedness, her unwillingness to embrace the dark measures necessary to put her on the French throne.

Cass blamed Prudence Waters for her daughter’s weakness. She had heartily regretted that she had ever engaged that old woman to act as Megaera’s nurse, but it was not as though she had had much choice. Mistress Waters had been one of the few wise women skilled enough to instruct Megaera in the art of deciphering the ancient runes.

If the Englishwoman had confined her lessons to that, all would have been well. Instead, she had sought to fill Megaera’s head with nonsense about the true calling of a daughter of the earth, to spread compassion, peace, and healing, to eschew the more valuable darker arts. Cass supposed that she should have paid more heed to what was going on during Megaera’s early years. But she had never been one to go all soft and sentimental over children as other women did.

Infants were singularly uninteresting creatures, able to do nothing but squall and soil themselves. Small children were not much better. Megaera’s chirping little voice had often given Cass a headache. By the time she realized what a bad influence Megaera’s beloved Nourice was, it had almost been too late. At the same time, Prudence Waters had learned about the
Book of Shadows
and Cass’s true plans for her daughter.

The woman had actually dared to threaten Cass, declaring she would remove Megaera from Cass’s care. She could only suppose that Mistress Waters had discounted Cass’s ability to defend what was hers, reckoning her helpless simply because she was blind, a serious mistake on her part.

Cass wondered idly if the old woman’s body had ever been found. Not that it mattered. There would hardly be enough left of the Englishwoman to identify.

As for the unfortunate softening influence Mistress Waters had had on Megaera, Cass had hoped that her daughter would outgrow that in time, but to her savage disappointment, the girl had not. Cass had begun to fear that Megaera’s weaknesses were more inherent, the result of bad blood, her daughter’s flaws not a legacy of Mistress Waters’s but the girl’s unknown father.

Employing her staff, Cass made her way carefully over to the bedchamber window. The casement had been left cracked open, no hint of a breeze stirring. A hot summer night, the air still and stifling. So different from that night a decade ago when the sky had boomed with thunder and crackled with lightning, a dark wind howling outside the inn where Cass had waited.

As the storm had raged outside, she had known it was the perfect night to conceive a girl child, destined to become a great sorceress, a leader among wise women, a conqueror who would make the likes of Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan seem mere puling boys. A perfect night and Cass had chosen the perfect man to sire her babe. Nicolas Remy, the Huguenot captain who had won such renown for his ruthlessness and fierce skills as a warrior he was known as the Scourge. The Scourge’s fire and steel united with her dark power would produce a girl child who would be strong and invincible.

The only hitch to her plan was that Remy was the beloved of Gabrielle Cheney, a woman whom Cass had once considered her only friend. But Gabrielle had owed her a favor and it had seemed such a small thing to ask. She had only wanted use of the Scourge for one night. It still outraged her that Gabrielle had been selfish enough to refuse.

But Cass had been prepared for the possibility of Gabrielle’s ingratitude. She had tricked Gabrielle into giving Remy the medallion that would allow Cass to gain control over him. She had never expected that Gabrielle would be able to trick her as well—

Cass gripped the windowsill, her heart burning with anger and resentment as she remembered how she had waited for Gabrielle to send Remy to her. She had been tense, edgy, knowing that her entire future depended upon this one night.

The waiting had been especially difficult because she had recently resolved to conquer what had always been her greatest weakness, a fondness for strong spirits. Although she felt shaky, she had managed to subdue her demon, determined to keep her head clear on this, the most important night of her life.

And then
he
had entered her chamber, identifying himself as a waiter bringing her refreshments she had never ordered. She had ordered him to be gone, but he had persisted. Such a clever rogue, with his silky voice, tempting her with the glass of whiskey and she had been so desperate for a drink. Just one to steady her nerves.

But one had led to another and then another, until she had felt her strength disappearing into a bottle as it had done so many times before. Her hazy mind had registered the fact that her future was in danger of slipping away from her. Nostradamus had been most specific in his prediction for once. Her wondrous child must be conceived this night or never and Remy still had not arrived.

Frantic, befuddled with drink, Cass had done the only thing she could. She had used the special perfume she had concocted to seduce the nameless villain who had invaded her bedchamber. Even after all these years, she had no idea who he had been. All she recalled was his honeyed voice and a remark he had made, referring to himself as a lone wolf.

She had been so preoccupied with her ambitions for her daughter, her desire for vengeance had had to wait, a luxury she could not afford at present. But someday, somehow, she would hunt them down, make them pay for tampering with her dreams, Gabrielle and her Scourge. And as for the
lone wolf,
she would make him suffer mortal agonies such as no man had ever endured. He would crawl at her feet, begging to die before she was through—

A soft rap at the bedchamber door disrupted her bitter thoughts. Before she could answer, the door creaked and someone entered. She did not need to inquire who it was. She was all too familiar with the pungent aroma of her servant.

Finette crept over to where Cass lingered by the window. “Mistress,” she said in a low voice. “A messenger has arrived. There is word from our spy in the Queen’s household.”

“I’ll receive her up in my tower,” Cassandra replied. She produced the parchment from her bodice. “After you have escorted me there, I want you to single out two of our order who are most skilled at brewing potions. Odile and Yolette, I think. Set them to work on the miasma and the protective ointment at once.”

Finette eagerly took the paper from her hands. “Do you think Megaera has really managed to translate the miasma correctly? Can we trust the child?”

“Of course we can. She is my own daughter. She does what I tell her,” Cassandra snapped, unwilling to admit even to Finette what she feared, that her control over Megaera was weakening.

T
HE DOOR TO THE TOWER ROOM
creaked open. Cass heard the rustle of skirts and a familiar sniff as Nanette entered the room.

“All hail milady, revered mother of our Silver Rose.” The girl prepared to eagerly salute Cassandra’s hand, but she pulled away impatiently.

“Yes, never mind all these formalities. Just tell me what I need to hear.”

“There is great news, milady. The meeting you have hoped for is slated to take place. The king of France, the Dark Queen, and the duc de Guise will all be assembled at the Louvre a few days hence. We can strike them all at once.”

Cass frowned. That did not give them much time to brew and test the miasma.

“But there is a problem.”

Cassandra gripped her staff tightly. She did not want to hear about any more problems. “What the devil now?”

“It’s the witch-hunter. Le Balafre is still alive and worse than that, he is now working with the Dark Queen to bring you down.”

Cassandra sagged back against the wall, feeling momentarily overwhelmed.

“So Agatha Ferrers failed. That man has more lives than a cat. How hard can it be? Can no one rid me of this devil?”

“I could,” Nanette volunteered. “I even know where he is. The alliance between the witch-hunter and the Dark Queen is not an easy one. She has had him followed. Gillian has reported to me they have trailed the witch-hunter back to his home.”

“He has a home?” Cass snapped. “Why did no one discover this before?”

“Because he is very clever, milady. But he has gone back there and it is not far from here.”

“I want someone sent after him and no mistakes this time. We need to send our best people and perhaps a change of tactics. Whoever goes must be prepared to be bold and resourceful, willing to lay down their lives and trust in the Silver Rose to resurrect them.”

“Let me go, milady,” Nanette pleaded. “I beg you to bestow this great honor upon me.”

Cassandra wished the girl’s size matched her fanatical enthusiasm. “You may go, but we will also need a woman of great strength. Ursula would be the best choice. She will be thirsting for the man’s blood when she hears about Agatha Ferrers. The woman was her cousin.”