The Courtesan (51 page)

“Persuaded or terrified?”

Ignoring her reproachful interruption, Simon continued. “This book that you claim does not exist was the main topic of discussion and since that night a mighty search for it has been organized by your sister’s coven.”

“Ariane does not have a coven—”

“And the foremost searcher is reputed to be the demonic Comte de Renard.” Simon leaned closer so that Miri was obliged to shrink back in her seat. “Now what do you suppose your brother-in-law wants with such an evil book?”

“I don’t know. Nothing—I mean, there is no such book.” Flustered by the manner of Simon’s questioning as well as the things he was telling her, Miri squirmed out of the chair. She had fled Faire Isle before Ariane’s council meeting. Caught up in her concern for Gabrielle, Miri had made no effort to contact her eldest sister other than dispatching a note to assure Ariane of her safe arrival in Paris. It had never occurred to Miri that there might be trouble brewing at home.

She still did not credit Simon’s assertions. Seized by his band of ruthless witch-hunters, who knows what the poor little Portuguese girl might have been frightened into saying? The thought of Simon, once so kind, terrorizing anyone made Miri feel ill.

She moved behind her chair, gripping the back of it. She was not about to admit the existence of Ariane’s council meetings, but she said, “If Ariane and Renard heard rumors of such a book, they would investigate just to set everyone’s mind at rest. But neither of them, I assure you, would have any interest in acquiring a
Book of Shadows.
”

“Truly?” Simon slid off the edge of the table, landing on the balls of his feet as lightly as Necromancer would have done. “My men and I found the one who brought the book over from Ireland. Unfortunately, Monsieur O’Donal was fatally wounded in his attempt to elude us. He spit out some Gaelic curse before he died, and I learned nothing more from him. He had little in his possession beyond a saddlebag stuffed with gold coin and rare jewels. Now where do you suppose some filthy bog trotter would have acquired such a treasure?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps he was a robber.”

“Or perhaps he was a sorcerer, just like your brother-in-law, and they struck a satisfactory bargain between them.”

“That is arrant nonsense.”

Simon yanked the chair from her grasp, shoving it out of the way. Miri stumbled back as he stalked after her, his movements slow and predatory. Miri was reminded of what her cat had often said about Simon.

“Beware of him, daughter of the earth. He is a hunter.”

She backed away until the panels of the wall cut off her retreat. Simon cornered her, bracing his hands on either side of her, leaning close enough that the hard wall of his chest just barely brushed the front of her bodice. His eye was soft, dark, and merciless.

“If you know who has acquired that book, Miri, you would be wise to tell me.”

Her heart thudded against her rib cage. But she tipped up her chin, refusing to be frightened by Le Balafre. No matter what he called himself, this was still Simon.

“How can I tell you who has acquired something that I am not sure exists?”

“You were always ready enough to believe in anything else. If you believe in unicorns, you have to believe in dragons too.”

“There is nothing wrong with dragons. They only breathe fire when they are trapped and forced to defend themselves from idiotic knights . . . or hunters.”

Simon’s teeth flashed in a brief smile, but it was not a pleasant one. He captured a strand of her hair and wound the golden skein around his finger. “What did you really come here for, Miri?”

“Because I foolishly supposed I might do some good and—and God help me, I wanted to see you again.”

“God help you, indeed. You have the misfortune to be connected with a family steeped in witchcraft, through your own mother and now your sister’s unfortunate marriage to the devil, Renard. I do have to warn you. I mean to find that book and root out the evil in France once and for all. You would do well to stay far away from me.”

“Or what? You’ll charge me with witchcraft? Burn me at the stake?”

“I don’t burn witches, Miri. I hang them or put them straight to the sword. It’s quicker and far more efficient.” His hand still entangled in her hair, Simon removed a knife from his belt.

Miri’s breath snagged in her throat. As Simon lifted the blade, for one terrified moment she expected to feel its sting at her throat. Instead she felt a sharp tug as Simon sliced off a lock of her hair. She could not mistake it for any sort of romantic gesture. It was clearly a warning because he crushed the lock in his fist and said with chilling softness, “Now . . . I think you had better leave. Go home, Miri. Go back to Faire Isle.”

Raising trembling fingers to her severed strands, she gazed up at him. The dark eye that regarded her was empty and cold, forcing her to accept the truth. If anything did indeed remain of Simon Aristide, he was buried too deep for her to ever find him.

Without another word, Miri eased away from him and groped for the door. Yanking it open, she hurled herself across the threshold and fled. The sentries, the stairs, the men in the taproom below were all a blur. She did not stop until she staggered into the courtyard.

It was only then that she realized how badly she was shaking. She gripped her own arms tightly in an effort to regain command of herself. For so long she had worried about Simon, wondered what had happened to him. She had been better off not knowing. Necromancer and Gabrielle had both been right. She should never have come here.

All she wanted to do was slink back to her chamber in Gabrielle’s house and curl up in her bed like some wild creature gone to ground to lick its wounds. But across the inn’s yard, she spied Wolf close to getting into an altercation with one of the guards as he prepared to come and look for her.

Miri’s heart sank. As kind as Wolf had been to accompany her here, she wished she could have avoided him. She did not feel up to all the questions he was bound to ask, or to listening to his dramatic declarations of love.

As she trudged toward him, Wolf broke off his heated dispute with the guard. His eyes lighting up, he pounced upon her. “There you are at last, my love. I was just about to—”

He broke off, regarding her sharply. Something he perceived in her face must have silenced him. His green eyes softened with such unexpected compassion, it was nearly Miri’s undoing. Wolf asked no questions. Nor did he seek to say another word. Before she could embarrass herself by bursting into tears in front of all these rough-hewn men, Wolf took her by the hand and gently led her away.

Simon hovered by the window, keeping well to the side so that he could not be spotted by anyone in the inn yard below. He watched Miri slip her fingers into the grasp of some dark-haired lad, as trustingly as she had once held Simon’s own hand. The sight had a strange effect on Simon, filling him with an ache of envy and longing.

He fought to quell it as he did any emotion that did not contribute to his ruthless efficiency. He dropped his gaze to his fist instead and slowly unfurled his fingers to examine Miri’s lock of hair. It rested against his palm like a silken curl of moonlight. He ought to force open the casement, toss the strand out of the window and be rid of it, along with the memory of her.

Instead he carried the lock closer to his nostrils, the skein of hair carrying a faint, indescribable scent, like the sweet wild essence of Miri’s spirit, taking him back to their brief days together on Faire Isle. Despite her connection with other witches, he’d felt so protective of her, so convinced of her innocence. He’d regarded her with affection, but almost that of a brother to a sister. She had reminded him poignantly of his own little sister. Marie, like the rest of his family and most of his village, had been destroyed when that old hag had poisoned their well.

Miri Cheney certainly did not remind him of a younger sister anymore. She had grown, filled out, and yet despite all her lissome curves, her aura of innocence had not changed. Nor had those peculiar silvery-blue eyes of hers, that fey gaze that seemed capable of illuminating corners of a man’s soul best left in darkness, probing paths in his heart he no longer wanted explored.

Why the devil did she have to be here in Paris just now? Why did she have to come to see him? Miri had always made him too soft, sentimental, and tender when he could not afford to be any of those things. After his duel with the sorcerer Renard, Simon had gone to ground like a wounded beast. His master dead, his entire world in chaos, Simon had once more felt lost and abandoned. But with the cache of hidden coins he’d retrieved from Le Vis’s house, he’d managed to survive.

More than survive . . . he’d grown stronger, tougher. Once filled with doubts about his abilities as a witch-hunter, he’d discovered in himself an extraordinary gift for detectiving evil and for commanding men as well. When Simon had fully embraced his dark profession, he had resigned himself to the dangers of his choice, to the solitary existence such a role must entail. He had never let himself harbor any regrets . . . until now.

But as he watched Miri and her escort vanish into the crowded streets beyond the inn, Simon could not help reflecting on the irony of it. He was here in Paris, one of the most populous cities in Europe.

And never had he felt so alone.

Chapter Twenty-one

T
he morning breeze stirred tendrils of Gabrielle’s hair as she sat curled on the window seat. She had much to do, arrangements to make for the closing of the house, the pensioning off of her servants, final accounts to be settled before she and Remy fled Paris. Yet she could not seem to bestir herself. She yawned and stretched with all the languorous contentment of a cat, her body still aglow and replete from Remy’s most recent lovemaking. During the past two days, Gabrielle had experienced a sense of peace rare to her restive nature, despite the continued threat of witch-hunters and the Dark Queen looming on the horizon.

She leaned against the casement, peering dreamily out into a world that seemed reborn, from the verdant greens of her garden to a sky so fiercely blue it made her ache to look upon it. She felt as though she had been viewing life through a veil these past years and it had been suddenly torn away. She could
see
again all the vivid colors, all the intricate details down to the dew on the velvet petals of the smallest rose.

Her fingers tingled with the familiar itch to reach for a paintbrush. The thought that her lost magic might be returning to her filled her with both hope and fear that it might not be true, that she would face that blank wall of canvas only to fail again and be crushed with disappointment.

Now was not the best time for making the attempt, not when she and Remy still had so many difficulties to surmount, chiefly the rescue of Navarre. Remy had been much occupied seeking out other loyal Huguenots, engaging men at arms who could be trusted. To Gabrielle had fallen the task of acting as go-between, conveying messages from Remy to Navarre.

It had taken a great deal of persuasion on her part, but she had discouraged Remy from returning to the Louvre. It was far too risky and not only because of the danger to his life. Remy posessed so little ability to dissemble, Gabrielle feared that one look at his face and Navarre would guess how matters stood between her and Remy.

Gabrielle had had difficulties enough schooling her own features when she had encountered Navarre at court yesterday. She had managed to excuse her sudden departure from the tournament, attributing it to her younger sister being taken ill. Her intervention in Remy’s duel had been far harder to explain.

Gabrielle frowned as she recollected the conversation, still uncertain whether Navarre had entirely believed her . . .

“. . .and I could see quite clearly how the duel was intended to trap the captain so I made haste to put a stop to it. I—I know how much Captain Remy means to you.”

“To me?” the king asked softly. Despite his languid posture, Navarre’s eyes appeared far too shrewd.

Gabrielle willed herself not to blush. “Why, yes, he is your Scourge, your most loyal supporter, your best hope of attaining your freedom.”

“Perhaps,” Navarre murmured. “The captain is indeed a good, trustworthy man, but it is possible that he might deal me a blow without ever having meant to do so.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Only that I believed that Nicolas Remy’s return was a great blessing. Now I am no longer so sure. I have done my best to play the buffoon for this court, convince Queen Catherine I do not in the least mind my captivity. I fear all Remy’s presence here has done is fix suspicion upon me again. I am more closely watched than ever.”

The king’s hand closed over hers, an unusually somber expression stealing over him. “I couldn’t endure another failed escape attempt, Gabrielle. I think it would be best if we sent our Scourge away, perhaps to look out for my interests in Bearn, while you and I remain here in Paris, continue to watch and wait, throw dust in the eyes of the Dark Queen. Eh, ma mie?”