The Silver Rose (40 page)

Martin had not much expertise in the care of animals, but even he could tell Aristide’s mare hadn’t looked good. But if anyone could save the creature, it was Miri. Ordinarily Martin’s instinct would have been to remain close to Miri’s side, but there was nothing he could do to help the situation. Although his every jealous impulse made him not want to leave her in the company of that witch-hunter.

Damn it. He scowled. He was finding it hard to keep calling Aristide that—not since the bastard had had the impertinence to save his life. After so many years it was hard to let go of the suspicion, the anger, and the jealousy Simon aroused in him. But Martin had other thoughts to preoccupy him, the tormenting possibility that Cassandra Lascelles had resurfaced, and there was only one person besides Simon who could put his fears to rest.

But first . . . Martin scowled down at his wet and muddy clothing. He had best spruce himself up a bit because he had a young lady to charm.

C
AROLE
M
OREAU WAS TUCKED UP
in Madame Pascale’s bedchamber behind the kitchen. Madame Pascale had disappeared with Miri in the direction of the laundry house, both women deep in consultation about some medicine they planned to brew for the horse. They seemed likely to be gone for some time.

Martin crept quietly to the door of the bedchamber. He felt more himself now, attired in a clean doublet and venetians, his hair combed and fastened back into a queue. If it hadn’t still been raining, he would have been tempted to filch a few flowers from Madame Pascale’s garden.

He knocked softly, half dreading to find Mademoiselle Moreau asleep. He knew Madame Pascale had taken a posset in to the girl earlier. But apparently even the old woman’s herbal remedy had not been enough to soothe the girl’s fear and distress.

A wan voice bade him enter. Martin cracked the door open and peeked inside. The girl lay tucked up in Madame Pascale’s bed, and although it was not a large one, Carole still looked small and childlike, her freckles standing out on her pale face.

She might have been a fetching little thing under other circumstances. But deep shadows pooled beneath her blue eyes, her expression so forlorn, it stirred all of Martin’s chivalrous impulses.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him. Obviously she had been expecting Madame Pascale. With a soft gasp, she sat bolt upright, dragging the coverlet protectively up to her chin.

“Please, mademoiselle. Don’t be alarmed,” Martin hastened to assured her, summoning up his gentlest smile. “I only wanted to see how you are faring.”

Huge tears welled up in Carole’s eyes. “Then you are n-not angry with me, monsieur?”

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“B-because I tried to help kill you.”

Martin waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, think nothing of that, child. I frequently inspire murderous urges in my fellow human beings, although not usually, I must confess, among the fairer sex.”

To his horror, two large tears escaped to trickle down Carole’s cheeks. “No, no, ma petite, I beg you. Don’t cry.”

If there was one thing Martin could not endure, it was the sight of any lady in tears, especially such a sad little damsel as this one. He drew out a fine cambric handkerchief and presented it to her.

Carole took the cloth and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you. I hate to cry in front of people, but I seem to be doing that far too much these days.”

“Completely understandable after all you have been through.”

“Then you don’t hate me for being with those evil women? I d-didn’t want to come, truly I didn’t.” She sniffed. “W-well, maybe I did a little bit. I th-thought I might find a chance to escape, but f-first I wanted to be brave enough to help get rid of the witch-hunter. F-for Meggie’s sake, you understand.”

Martin didn’t understand at all, but he nodded encouragingly.

“When we entered the yard, it—it was raining. And we couldn’t tell. We mistook you for the witch-hunter.”

“Mon Dieu!” Martin had taken many blows to his pride lately, but to be mistaken for a witch-hunter! It was entirely too much to be borne.

He drew himself up indignantly, exclaiming. “Mademoiselle, you cut me to the quick. Do I look to you like I am that sort of devil?”

“No. At least not now that I can see you more clearly.” Her lashes drifted down as she cast him a gaze of purely feminine appreciation.

“Then I shall contrive to forgive you,” Martin said. “How could I do otherwise with such an enchanting young lady? I now see where your son has acquired his own charming looks.”

She sat up in bed eagerly, color filtering back into her cheeks. “You have seen my little Jean Baptiste?”

“Bien sûr, Mademoiselle. When I went to Faire Isle looking for Miri.”

“How did he look? How did he seem? Is he faring well?”

“How can he not be? He is like a prince surrounded by a court of adoring women. He is receiving the best of care from all of your friends on Faire Isle.”

Her face clouded over. “I have no friends, m’sieur.”

“Most certainly you do. Mademoiselle Miri for one.” He bowed. “And Martin le Loup for another.”

She tilted her head, regarding him shyly. “That is you, monsieur?”

“Most certainly, ma petite.” Martin carried the girl’s hand lightly to his lips. She actually dimpled with the hint of a smile, but she became grave the next instant, curling her fingers around his.

“May I ask you something, Monsieur le Loup?”

“Martin,” he said.

“Martin,” she repeated, smiling again. “What—what became of my two companions? Are they—are they really dead?”

“I’m afraid so. I believe they’ve laid them out in one of the sheds out back until some sort of burial can be arranged.”

She slipped her hand out of his, her fingers curling in the coverlet, her lashes downcast. “You may think me very wicked, monsieur, but I am not sorry that they are dead. Ursula, the big one, she was a mean brute of a woman and Nanette—she wasn’t so bad, but she was quite mad. She was frightening.”

“I don’t think you are wicked at all, mademoiselle. What little I saw of those two witches was enough to chill my blood, but I suppose they are nothing compared to the Silver Rose.”

The girl stiffened, tensing at his mention of the sorceress. He went on, speaking in his softest, most persuasive voice. “I don’t want to alarm you, mademoiselle, but eventually the sorceress is going to find out that you’ve failed in your mission, and she’s bound to send someone else.”

Carole shivered. “Yes, she probably will.”

“However, if you could just tell me who she is, where I might find her . . .”

“I don’t—I don’t know exactly where, monsieur. We were living in some old house in Paris and I never heard the woman’s name. I just know that she was always spoken of as the Lady.”

“Can you describe her?”

The girl’s brow furrowed. “She looked exactly like what you would think a dread sorceress would look like. She had long thick black hair with silver streaks. Her skin was dead white. And her touch . . . her fingers were so cold when she touched you, you almost felt as though she was draining every thought, every memory that you ever had.”

Martin swallowed. Could there be two such women who matched such a description?

“And her eyes . . . they were so dark. Empty.”

“Because she’s blind?”

Carole looked up at him in surprise. “How did you know that, monsieur?”

Martin’s heart sank at the confirmation of all of his fears. “I believe that I may have crossed paths with this woman . . . this Silver Rose before.”

Carole squirmed as he said this. She looked down at her hands a long time before she said, “The Lady is the evil one. She’s the one who runs the coven and she’s the one behind all these evil deeds. But she’s not the Silver Rose. That’s—that’s Meggie.”

“Meggie?” Martin asked in confusion.

“She’s not evil.” Carole looked up at him earnestly. “Meggie is not evil at all. Far from it. But she has the misfortune to be this terrible witch’s daughter.”

“Her daughter? This witch has a child?” Martin felt all the blood draining from his face. “How old is this girl?”

“Meggie is nine, going on ten.”

Martin moistened his lips. “And—and the child’s father?”

“No one knows who that might be, monsieur. But the Lady is so cruel she is always telling Meggie she was fathered by the devil.”

His mind reeling from the shock of what he had just heard, Martin had to walk over to the window to hide his countenance from Carole. The child sired by the devil? He would like to believe that himself. But he was afraid there was a far different, far worse explanation.

The Silver Rose was Cassandra Lascelles’s daughter, but he was terrified that she was also his.

T
HE SHADOWS LENGTHENED
along the stalls where Miri and Simon kept anxious watch over Elle, waiting for some change. No longer able to stand, Elle lay on her side in the stall, her head stretched out toward Simon, her lids half closed, her chest heaving as she panted.

When Miri had administered the antidote, Simon had soothed Elle’s fears as best he could, but he’d averted his own face, unable to watch as Miri had thrust the syringe into Elle’s neck, delivering what she’d hoped would be the lifesaving antidote. But now, all they could do was wait, hope, and pray.

Elle had seemed so sensitive to noise, they had cleared the stable of all other creatures. It had been a little more difficult to keep Jacques and Yves away. But the boy was far better off back at the house with his mother. The day’s incidents had been very unsettling to him, and Elle needed as much peace and quiet as they could give her.

As Simon stroked Elle’s nose, he said to Miri, “Do you realize it was only a matter of chance that Elle ever came to be my horse? There was a merchant who wished to purchase her for his daughter to ride. Elle would have had a fine life, pampered in a fancy stable, only ever taken out on occasion for light rides, but I got there first that day. I offered the horse breeder a great deal more money for her.” He caressed the horse’s nose. “Elle would have been so much better off.”

“No she wouldn’t,” Miri said. “She would have been just another possession to that girl, a new bauble, nothing of what Elle means to you. Elle loves you, Simon. It’s you that she wants to be with. She’d rather be with you for a short while, for whatever time she has, than live for years in the finest—”

Miri broke off, not entirely sure who she was speaking about, herself or the horse. She reached down to stroke Elle’s neck, sending her thoughts to the mare.

Please, Elle. You can do this. Fight your way back.

The horse’s hazed thoughts came back to her.
So tired . . . tired . . .

No. You can do it. Fight your way back. You can’t die. Please. You’ve got to stay for him. He needs you.

Watching her, Simon clenched his hands tightly together, muttering, “I should never have agreed to this. It isn’t working. Miri, we’re torturing her for nothing.”

Miri was beginning to despair herself, but she realized the success of this was much more important than just saving Elle’s life. Simon had been so convinced that magic was evil, poisoned by Le Vis’s teachings. Miri felt that she wasn’t just battling for Elle, but for the very soul of Simon Aristide.

Stroking the horse once more, she tried to infuse the mare with both her thoughts and her will.
Elle, please, you’ve got to try. He needs you. You have no idea how much.

Was it her imagination, or did the horse’s eye flicker and then open, the dark depths startling liquid and clear? Elle struggled to raise her head, a little awkwardly at first. Simon held his breath. The horse emitted a soft whicker, then slowly she rolled, getting her feet under her. A little shaky at first, she clambered to her feet.

Kneeling, Miri pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to speak as she watched Simon get to his feet as well, his expression stunned, awed, full of wonder. In the next instant, he flung his arms about the horse’s neck, tears coursing down his cheek. He caressed her, gazing mistily down at Miri, fiercely trying to bank his emotion.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.