The Silver Rose (42 page)

Martin did his best not to cringe. “Ladies, I fear I am attached to both those parts of my body. I’d hoped that we could be a little more reasonable about this. That you might have a little mercy.” He sighed. “I’ve been having a pretty rotten day. Well, if you want to know the truth, the entire week hasn’t been that great. Actually, come to think of it, the whole year has been pretty miserable.”

Finette gave a shrill laugh. “Not as miserable as things are going to get for you, monsieur.”

The sour-faced little guard suggested, “I think maybe it’s his tongue that ought to be cut out.”

To Martin’s dismay, Finette straddled his lap, saying, as she stroked back his hair. “Oh, I think that would be a waste of a fine tongue and a fine pair of ballocks. Perhaps I will take him for my plaything.”

Martin leaned back in the chair as far as he could, shuddering, thinking he would rather part with both his tongue and his ballocks before that ever happened. “Ladies, please, I assure you, this has all been a mistake . . .”

“And you are the one who made it.” The icy voice seemed to come out of nowhere, chilling Martin’s blood. Finette scrambled off his lap. Sucking in his breath, Martin braced himself, turning toward the figure silhouetted in the doorway, her white hands clasped on her walking stick.

His heart almost stopped at the sight of Cassandra Lascelles. Her thin face was still framed by that heavy mass of ebony hair, although there were now streaks of silver in it. And there were still the same dead eyes, the same cruel mouth, though she had aged considerably in ten years, and that terrible seductive beauty that she’d once had was gone, leaving in its wake only the cruelty.

As she stumped forward, groping her way toward him, Martin hitched in his breath, feeling his mouth go dry. He shrank back as she reached out to touch his face, her fingers drifting like trickles of ice across his brow.

Her hand trembled, what little color she had leaching from her cheeks. “By the very devil, it is
you.
When I heard your voice, I thought I was dreaming.”

“Your pardon, madame, but I don’t believe we’ve ever met before,” Martin sought desperately to disclaim, but he was silenced as her fingers moved over his mouth.

“Did you imagine I would ever forget that voice of yours? So silken, so persuasive, it has haunted my nights these past ten years.” She pressed her fingertips harder against his lips and a chill spread through Martin, a strange disturbing sensation. He remembered that the witch was reputed to have the ability to draw out one’s thoughts merely by her touch.

Martin struggled to render his mind a blank. But he could tell it was already too late. Cassandra’s mouth thinned in a smile of cold anger and triumph. She leaned in closer, her breath reeking of brandy. Obviously she had been sharing in the celebrations, but she had only had enough to make her a little unsteady on her feet.

“Well, my bold lover, after all these years, you magically appear at my hearth once again. It seems that the fates have finally decided to smile upon me.”

“I am glad they are smiling on somebody,” Martin muttered, “All I seem to be getting from them is another kick in the arse.”

Cass chortled, stroking his brow with a terrible gentleness. “You cannot imagine how long I have desired this reunion. You disappeared so quickly after our one night of passion.”

Martin moistened his lips. “Ah, well, forgive me. I always meant to call the next day, drop by with sweetmeats and flowers, but I wasn’t sure of my reception.”

“I think you know perfectly well what your reception would have been. I would have cut out your heart and eaten it.”

“That would be a shame. My heart is really tough. I’m sure you could find far better cuisine in a city the likes of Paris.”

He sucked in his breath as her hand moved down his throat, her nails lightly scoring his skin.

“My lone wolf,” she murmured. “Do you know how much of these past ten years I have spent thinking of you?”

Martin averted his head, trying to avoid her fetid, brandy-soaked breath.

“I—I’m flattered, madame, that I should have been of such importance.”

“Oh, yes. You certainly were. I have given much, much thought to what I would do if I were ever so fortunate as to get my hands upon you again.”

Martin grimaced. That’s exactly what he’d been afraid of. “You spent all that time thinking of me? Time you surely could have put to a better use.”

He clenched his jaw as she began to undo the lacing of his doublet, but at that moment, a small voice piped up.

“Maman?”

Cassandra froze, as did all the other women in the room, Odile and the guard sank into deep curtsies, but Finette whipped around, exclaiming, “Megaera, what are you doing out of bed?”

The little voice replied. “I couldn’t sleep. I-I had a bad dream. I’ve been worried about Carole. Is—is she back yet, Maman?”

Finette started toward the girl. “You don’t need to be worried about her, Your Majesty. You need to get back to your bed.”

But Cassandra straightened, her lips setting grimly. “No. Bring the child here.”

As Finette obeyed, Martin’s heart thumped far harder than it had when he’d been threatened by the witches. He waited, holding his breath as a diminutive figure came closer.

She was such a tiny little thing. For a moment he desperately thought she couldn’t be nine years old. She had to be younger than that. She couldn’t be his daughter. He looked at the thin little creature with her angular face and her dull brown hair. Her most striking feature was her green eyes, and when they spied Martin in the chair they went wide. She hung back timidly until her mother touched the terrible medallion about her neck and turned.

“Come here, child. You’ve plagued me long enough with your questions about your father. I’ve always told you that he was the devil. It turns out I was wrong about that. It seems you were sired by a wolf. Come here, Megaera, and make your curtsy to your dear papa.”

T
HE BREEZE DRIFTED
in through the window of Simon’s bedchamber, carrying with it the soft rustling sounds of the trees outside, the sweet scent of flowers and herbs from the garden, the plaintive call of a nightingale. Simon and Miri faced each other just as they had that night when they had first met amidst the standing stones. But instead of being surrounded by torchlight and the bonfire, there was nothing but the soft glow of the candles and the aching vulnerability in Simon Aristide’s face.

A face far more world-weary than that of the beautiful boy Miri remembered. A warrior’s visage, hewn by quests that all but vanquished him, dragons that almost slew him, darkness that almost claimed him.

But in the stable where he’d wrestled the devil for his soul, he’d won. This night. This moment. Miri could feel how desperately he wanted her, feel the wonder in him, the dread.

His voice echoed in her memory, as he huddled near the pond, the witch blade that had saved Elle’s life cradled in his hands.
Have I ever gotten anything right?

She knew he didn’t want this—their making love—to be one more mistake. Something she would regret.

“Simon? Can I tell you a secret?” She reached up, trailing her fingers along his scarred face.

He sucked in his breath, as if that single scrap of gentleness undid him. His eye drifted shut at her touch, the lashes of his undamaged eye sooty dark, richly curling on his unmarred cheek. “You can tell me anything, lady.”

“I think I’ve been waiting for this forever. From the first moment I saw you, I—”

“You were barely a child then.”

“I didn’t say I knew what to do with you then. But all those nights, alone in my cottage in the woods, there were times I couldn’t help but imagine . . . I didn’t dare admit to myself that it was you in my dreams. A dark lover, who wasn’t afraid . . .”

“But I am. Afraid I’ll hurt you. Afraid I’ll fail you. Afraid . . . you deserve someone perfect to bed you, Miri. Someone whole, with a clean heart to offer you. There’s still so much between us. I can’t see how—”

“I want you,” she cut in, gazing into his eye. “Only you.”

“Then God help you. I’m not strong enough to walk away.”

Gently she slipped her fingers beneath his eye patch, not wanting anything, especially that piece of leather he’d hidden behind so long, to stay between them.

She’d seen him without it before. Removed it, when she’d known it chafed him. But this time, it was different, so much different. A tangible acceptance of scars they had dealt each other, a tender absolution.

She pressed her mouth to the twisted flesh, her own eyes drifting shut, her whole body alive with wonder, need.

Courage. He’d shown so much courage, daring to come to her, letting down the walls that he’d battled to keep between them for so long.

She unlaced his doublet, slid her palms beneath his linen shirt. Burrowing between cloth and his warm skin.

Simon groaned as her fingers traced the planes of his chest, and Miri gloried in his response as he pulled away, ripping the garment over his head, impatient to be free. “I need to touch you . . . need to see you . . .”

He undid her clothing with hands that trembled, this man, so fearless, so strong. Powerful fingers that had comforted a simple boy, soothed a pain-wracked horse, and challenged hate-filled mobs to protect the innocent now peeled away layer upon layer of Miri’s gown, unfolding the cloth from her body like the petals of a flower until she stood, pale, still, naked before his hungry gaze.

She had never felt shame in her body. Yet, as Simon gazed at her she felt a glow of something new, something different, a womanly surge of pride that she could bring such heated pleasure to the man she loved.

Simon skimmed his sword-toughened palms down the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her hip, trailed his fingertips along the slope of her breast, setting her afire with a heat she’d never known, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat, kissing her as he scooped her up in his arms to carry her to the bed.

The bed too wide for a solitary man. The bed that whispered of dreams Miri doubted Simon Aristide had ever acknowledged, even to himself on the dark nights he spent alone.

He drifted her back, atop the coverlets, following her down, his big body atop hers, the weight delicious, the contrast of his hardness against her softness leaving Miri breathless.

A daughter of the earth, she’d been nurtured on the balance of nature, had been so certain she understood the dance of male and female, the pull of sun to moon, sea to shore, sky to earth.

But as Simon’s mouth took hers in a hungry kiss, his hands learning every dip and curve of her body, his hips settling, heavy against her as she opened her thighs, she knew she’d understood nothing at all of the magic that was making love.

Making love . . .

For that was what Simon was doing to her. Infusing every fiber of her being with the passion he’d denied for so long, telling her with his hands, his mouth, how hungry he’d been, starving for the taste of her, the feel of her, the welcome her body could give to his.

Miri gasped as Simon’s mouth closed over hers, his tongue tracing the crease of her lips, begging entry. She opened herself to him eagerly, letting him inside. Simon groaned, arching against her, and she felt the hard ridge of his erection.

She smoothed her hands down the broad expanse of his back, trying to get closer, reach deeper into places in his heart he’d withheld from her so long. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, teasing him with womanly instinct old as the first daughter of the earth who’d given her body in the shadow of the standing stones. Rites of fertility, affirming life, the earth renewing itself.

Simon kissed his way down her throat, her breast, his breath hot, his lips moist and unbearably sensual as they closed over Miri’s nipple. She cried out as he suckled her with fierce tenderness, drawing from her every last sensation, until her whole body cried out with longing only he could satisfy.

“Simon . . .” Miri gasped. “Simon, please . . .”

He sealed her mouth with his kiss, driving himself deep.

Pain drew a cry from Miri as he pierced her maidenhead, but she laughed, a sound that startled Simon. Made him hesitate. He drew back, looking down into her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m just—just so glad that it’s gone . . .” she said, smiling up into his eyes. “You made me wait . . . a long time . . . Simon Aristide.”

“I’ll make this night worth it, Miri. If it’s in my power . . .”

He set himself against her in a rhythm that surged like the power of the sea around Faire Isle, a pulse of life that she’d felt in the earth, but never understood until now. The pulse Simon confessed he’d felt when he’d lain on the ground as a boy.

It beat against Miri’s heart, her head tossing, cries wrung from her throat as Simon brought her to wonder and surrendered to his release as well.

A magic as old as time. But new. Unbearably new as Simon and Miri claimed it for their own.

Chapter Twenty

T
HE DARKNESS WAS
so heavy and unrelenting it seemed to press against Martin’s eyes. He could feel the dank cold of the stone wall pressing against his back where he was chained, and he pulled on his manacles, gritting his teeth in frustration as he tried to wrench them out of the wall.

He knew he was locked up in some hidden underground chamber beneath the house. From what little he’d been able to see before the witches had left him chained in darkness, the walls looked old and crumbling, ready to fall down at any moment. Except, of course, the one to which they’d chained him. And that seemed as solid as a marble pillar.

He’d flexed his muscles and yanked until his wrists were raw, but to no avail. He leaned back, panting, adjuring himself not to panic. “You’ve been in worse situations, Martin le Loup,” he muttered. Unfortunately at the moment he was unable to recall when.

He was chained up and at the mercy of a mad sorceress who’d had ten years to plot her revenge. He’d stolen away from the farm, leaving Miri with that witch-hunter who was once again betraying her trust. And the only one with any idea at all of where he’d gone was Yves, but the boy had been so entranced with the feathered cap Martin had presented him with for helping with his horse, he might not remember much else.

It was difficult to contrive any notions of escape when he couldn’t even see his own hands to tell if he’d made any progress at all in working himself free. If he had the light of even one candle stub . . .

He should have heeded his old friend Pierre, who had often warned Martin to be careful what he wished for. For at that moment the door at the top of the stairs creaked and a flickering light appeared. It was hard to rejoice at the approach of a candle when you had no idea what sort of torture might follow in its wake.

Martin tensed, squinting as the approaching light sent shadows flickering up against the walls. He heard a soft footfall of someone creeping stealthily down the stairs. He braced himself for God knows what, completely unprepared for the flash of dainty white nightgown and the tiny bare foot.

It was the witch’s child. He still couldn’t accept the fact that she might also be his. He’d gotten only a fleeting glimpse of her before she’d fled the kitchen after Cassandra had named him her father. She’d seemed a wild, strange little thing with wide, haunting green eyes.

She’d appeared both awed and afraid of him. He was rather surprised that she’d ventured down here alone to confront him. Equally surprised how his own heart thudded at her approach. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she froze for a moment, candle in hand. He squinted at the glow of light after the total darkness.

Once his eyes had adjusted, he watched as she set the candle down on a rough wooden table. The taper’s glow haloed her solemn, thin little face. But her hair didn’t look as unkempt as it had been before. In fact, it looked as though she had been at some pains to brush it and tie it back with a pink ribbon.

She came closer, her waif-like eyes fixing him with that unnerving stare. She just stood there for a long moment, saying nothing. And for once in his life, Martin, usually so glib with any female who crossed his path, couldn’t think of a single thing to say to this tiny being who might well be his own daughter.

At last she clutched the ends of her nightgown and dipped down into a quaint little curtsy. “Good—good evening, Monsieur Wolf,” she stammered.

Nonplussed, Martin said, “Good evening, um, Mademoiselle Silver Rose.”

A small frown furrowed her brow. “My name is Meg,” she said.

“A peculiar name for a Frenchwoman, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

She perched on one foot, rubbing her bare toes about her opposite ankle. “Well, my name is really Megaera. But that’s not much better. Maman says I was named for an avenging fury, a goddess with snakes for hair. I don’t really like snakes,” she confided.

“I’m not terribly fond of them, either,” Martin admitted. His remark earned a slight hint of a smile on that face that seemed all too serious for a child.

She ventured to come closer. “Is it true? Are you really my papa?”

“So your mother would have me believe.”

“But . . . you don’t want to believe it.” Her small shoulders heaved with a crestfallen sigh. “I don’t blame you. It’s hard for me to believe it too.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

She reached out to timidly touch the sleeve of his velvet doublet. “Because you’re beautiful and I’m ugly. I’m thin and scrawny and my hair is the color of mice. I went upstairs and tried to brush it, make myself a little pretty, but it didn’t help.”

Martin was moved by her forlorn expression in spite of himself. “No, you’re quite wrong. Your ribbon is—is very fetching. And your hair is not the color of mice. It reminds me more of cinnamon and as for being thin, I was rather scrawny myself at your age, but I grew.”

Perhaps it was less than wise to draw such a comparison, say anything to encourage this child to think she might belong to him. And yet, the sadness in her eyes tugged at his heart. When his words elicited a quavery smile from her, he found himself smiling back in return.

“Sometimes I wish I could conjure up a spell that would make me grow faster, make me prettier. But I don’t really like magic. It frightens me.”

Martin regarded her in surprise. “But I thought you were planning to become a fearsome sorceress, rule over all France.”

Meg shook her head sadly. “That’s Maman’s dream. Not mine. I don’t want to be the Silver Rose.”

“What would you like to be?”

She cocked her head to one side. “A beautiful lady who can dance and play the lute. But right now, I would just like to belong to someone. Be their little girl.” She looked up at him so hopefully that Martin squirmed, his chains rattling.

“Ahem, you do belong to someone. Your mother.”

The child’s bottom lip quivered. “No. I’m only her Silver Rose. Her dream. Her ambition. I’ve never been just her child.” She stole a bashful peek at him from beneath her lashes. They were remarkably dark and thick, framing her deep green eyes. “I’ve dreamed about you for a long time,” she said.

“You have?”

“Maman doesn’t like it when I daydream. But I’ve often thought about who my papa was and wondered, imagining that you might be a handsome prince who rides a great white horse.”

“Well,” Martin said ruefully, “I have a horse, but I’m afraid there the resemblance ends. It’s no good, your dreaming about me, child. You’ll only be disappointed. I’m afraid the angels weren’t particularly kind when they gifted you with parents. A witch for a mother, and me . . . I am little more than a shiftless adventurer. I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of a father.”

He tugged on his chains, displaying his manacles. “And, as you can see, my current prospects are severely limited.”

She dared to come closer still. When she touched the place on his wrist where he’d abraded the skin in his struggles, her eyes welled with tears. “You must have made my maman very angry. That’s not a good thing to do, monsieur.”

Martin sighed. “I’m painfully aware of that, child. But it’s kind of you to warn me.”

“When she’s really angry, she makes people disappear.” She blinked back her tears, attempting to smile. “Except, if I’m going to save you, I have to be the one to make you go away.” She swallowed hard. “Even if I never see you again.”

“No, mademoiselle . . . Meg . . . if—if you can find a way to get me out of here, I’ll take you with me.” Martin blinked twice, astonished by the rash words that fell from his lips. He’d barely set eyes on this child more than an hour or two ago, and yet he already felt some inexplicable kinship with her. Or maybe it was just one of his usual impulsive urges to rescue another damsel in distress, albeit a very young one.

Her face brightened at his promise, only to cloud over immediately after. “I wish I could go with you, but I can’t. Maman would never let me. You—you see . . .” She delved into her nightgown, dragging forth a silver chain from which a medallion winked evilly.

Martin stared in horror, scarce able to believe that even Cassandra Lascelles could be evil enough to curse her own child with such a hellish burden.

“Mon Dieu,” he said. “Why would your mother give you such a devil’s charm?”

Meg’s fingers trembled as she touched the medallion. “Maman uses it to keep us linked together and—and sometimes to punish me when I don’t do what she tells me.”

Despite the child’s obvious fear of her mother, Meg’s small chin lifted with a hint of defiance. An unexpected spark of mischief crept into her eyes. She leaned closer to Martin, whispering. “May I tell you a great secret, monsieur?”

Still reeling from his shock over the medallion, Martin managed to nod.

“And if I tell you, you swear not to tell anyone? Especially Maman?”

“I swear—” Martin started to cross his heart, but his hand couldn’t reach that far. “Your secret will be safe with me, ma petite. She shan’t wring it out of me, even if she threatens to . . .” Martin almost said “put out my eyes and cut off my ballocks,” but he remembered just in time who he was talking to. “Even if she threatens to feed me to the most ferocious of dragons.”

An unexpected giggle erupted from Meg. For a moment, her pale face and those far-too-old eyes were transformed. Martin realized the little girl had likely not laughed often enough. If she truly had been his child, he would have made sure her eyes often sparkled with merriment. That she had pink ribbons and trinkets aplenty to help make her feel pretty. Instead of that damnable medallion, a locket of purest gold. Martin checked himself, astonished and dismayed by his imaginings.

He had a tendency to stray into daydreams as heedlessly as his daughter . . .

His daughter. The words stirred a strange, poignant ache in his heart. The little girl leaned closer, her lips cupped close to his ear. She whispered. “The medallion helps Maman keep track of me, but I’ve learned how to fool her sometimes. I use my imagination and pretend that I’m hiding in a great . . .” The child suddenly reared back, giving a sharp gasp. She grabbed at the medallion, her face going white.

“Meg, what is it? What’s wrong?” Martin asked urgently.

She stumbled back from him, her eyes widening in fear. “Maman, I—I wasn’t pretending hard enough. She—she knows where I am and she’s angry.”

“For mercy’s sake, child, grab the candle! Get out of here! Go hide!”

“It’s—it’s too late,” she quavered.

Martin heard the door at the top of the stairs being wrenched open, the hinges screeching. Then the dread tap of the cane as Cassandra Lascelles began to descend into the underground chamber.

Meg stood, frozen in fear like a fawn caught in the sights of a crossbow. Martin grated his teeth, yanking at his chains, his every impulse to leap in front of the little girl, shield her. But all he could do was watch, helpless as Cassandra descended upon her daughter like the fury Meg had been named for.

The witch’s sightless eyes seemed to hone straight in on the cowering child. “What are you doing down here, Megaera?”

The child moistened her lips. “I—I just wanted another look at Monsieur Wolf.”

“Are you sure you didn’t come down here with some notion of springing Monsieur Wolf from his trap?”

“N-no.”

“You little liar!” Cassandra hissed. Her hand closed, white-knuckled, over her own medallion and Meg gave a horrible cry.

She sank down to her knees, tears spilling down her cheeks while Wolf roared. “What the hell are you doing to her? Stop it!” He gave another savage wrench at his bonds. “If you want to torment somebody, why don’t you pick on someone more your size? Me!”

“You’ll get your turn soon enough, my lone wolf.” Cassandra’s lips snaked back in a cold smile. “Right now I have to teach my daughter a lesson in loyalty.”

Meg doubled over, gasping and clutching her stomach. “Maman, please don’t! Make it stop! I—I’m sorry!”

Martin bared his teeth, a fury coursing through him more feral and primitive than he’d ever known. If he had been a wolf, he would have ripped out the woman’s throat. Meg’s sobs tore through him, her pain piercing him worse than any pain of his own he’d ever felt. The witch’s terrible punishment seemed to go on forever, until she finally released the medallion.

Meg lay prone on the rough stone floor, her small shoulders heaving. Martin ached to gather her up in his arms. All he could do was glare up at the witch and curse her.

“God damn you to hell! What kind of mother are you to do such a thing to your own child?”

“The one who is going to make a queen out of her despite all the bad blood she inherited from you.”

Groping down until she found the child, Cassandra seized Meg roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “There’s no time for this sniveling, Megaera. You must come upstairs and get dressed. The miasma you translated is ready, and we have an audience with the Dark Queen.”

The child whimpered. “But I don’t want to go.”

But Cassandra replied coldly. “It is high time that you saw what it takes to seize power. Learn to be ruthless enough to destroy all who stand in your way.”

“For the love of God, woman, she’s only a little girl!” Martin protested. “Do you know what horrors were visited upon Paris the last time a miasma was released? The entire city was plunged into madness and savagery that lasted for days.”

“That is exactly what I have in mind.”

“And what if the miasma consumes you as well? The slightest shift in wind—”

“Thank you for your concern,” Cassandra interrupted with a sneer. “But my clever daughter has devised an antidote to protect me. I shall not be driven mad.”

“You are
already
insane,” Martin snapped. “Do you think the Dark Queen is a fool? Why would she even grant you an audience?”

“Because I have something she wants,” Cassandra purred. “The
Book of Shadows.
”

“You mean to offer her that terrible book?”

“Of course not, you fool. I have had a book fashioned that will look very like an ancient grimoire. The pages will even be a little . . .
dust
coated.” She smirked. “The Dark Queen will not realize she has been tricked until it is too late. As for any suspicions Her Majesty might harbor, they will be lulled. How could it be otherwise when the book is presented to her by an innocent little girl?”