when he touched her cheek, brushing away the moisture with the rough pad of his thumb. “Your curse, my dear. It comes far too late. I’ve been in hell for quite some time.”
Miri trembled so badly, her knees might have given way if Simon had not braced her by grasping her shoulders. She stiffened, resisting, but he drew her gently, inexorably into his arms. No matter how she despised herself for it, she was weak enough to rest her brow against his shoulder. His large hand engulfed the back of her head as he stroked her hair, murmuring something about it being all right.
“All right?” she choked. “Do you realize I’ve never held a weapon in my hand, never tried to hurt anyone until you came along?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Damn him for sounding as though he meant that, Miri thought. So much for all of her fierce boasting to Marie Claire, that she would know how to deal with Simon the next time she encountered him.
How appalled Marie Claire would be to see her cradled in the witch-hunter’s arms. To say nothing of how Ariane and Gabrielle would react. It was the thought of her sisters that gave Miri the strength to draw back, shove Simon away from her.
Mopping tears and rain from her face, she fought through her confused jumble of feelings, focusing on the only thing that made sense to her, the mare that stood trembling nearby.
“Your horse is cold and frightened,” she informed Simon tersely. “We need to get her in out of the rain.”
T HE SMALL BARN behind the cottage was snug and dry, the air redolent with scents that Miri had long found soothing and familiar, sweet hay and warm horse. Shivering in her wet clothes, Miri gestured toward the only empty stall. Simon eased his nervous mount inside. It was a strange aftermath to their conflict, this working in silent harmony to look after the mare Simon called Elle. But Miri suspected that they both found it easier to deal with the horse’s needs than each other.
Willow thrust his head over the door of his stall and whickered softly, the stolid pony more curious than alarmed by the intruders in his barn. But the pigeons that roosted in the rafters had gone silent. Miri could sense them up there in the shadows, watching warily with their beady eyes. Her birds were fully as disturbed as she was by the invasion of Simon Aristide.
As Miri rummaged about through her tack box for some towels, she studied Simon out of the corner of her eye. He seemed like a stranger, fitting none of her memories of him, neither the handsome boy who had once figured in her dreams nor the dreaded Le Balafre who had formed her nightmares.
He looked older, wearier, his wet hair slicked back from his brow, throwing his beard-coarsened jaw and scarred face into sharp relief. When she had last seen Simon, he had been shaved bald, determined to look as grim as possible, to intimidate everyone who crossed his path, including her.
But nothing could have been gentler than the way Simon handled his horse. The mare was still spooked, blowing and trembling.
“Easy now. Easy, my beautiful lady,” he crooned, caressing the mare’s neck with long firm strokes. “It’s all over. You’re all right now.”
Miri watched him with a kind of wonder. Never had she known Aristide to display such affection to anyone.
You know that is not true,
the voice of memory whispered in her ear, recalling a stolen moment in a secluded cove so long ago, the breeze from the channel stirring the black curls of Simon’s hair, his handsome young face as smooth as her own.
Simon leaned forward and Miri’s heart missed a beat when she realized what he intended to do. She shyly tipped up her face, closing her eyes. Simon touched his mouth to hers, so lightly, but the kiss seemed to blossom inside her, sweet and warm.
Her very first kiss . . . Simon had been so tender, as tender as he was being now. Miri caught her breath, cutting off the thought.
“Don’t start doing that again. Looking for things in
Miri trembled so badly, her knees might have given way if Simon had not braced her by grasping her shoulders. She stiffened, resisting, but he drew her gently, inexorably into his arms. No matter how she despised herself for it, she was weak enough to rest her brow against his shoulder. His large hand engulfed the back of her head as he stroked her hair, murmuring something about it being all right.
“All right?” she choked. “Do you realize I’ve never held a weapon in my hand, never tried to hurt anyone until you came along?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Damn him for sounding as though he meant that, Miri thought. So much for all of her fierce boasting to Marie Claire, that she would know how to deal with Simon the next time she encountered him.
How appalled Marie Claire would be to see her cradled in the witch-hunter’s arms. To say nothing of how Ariane and Gabrielle would react. It was the thought of her sisters that gave Miri the strength to draw back, shove Simon away from her.
Mopping tears and rain from her face, she fought through her confused jumble of feelings, focusing on the only thing that made sense to her, the mare that stood trembling nearby.
“Your horse is cold and frightened,” she informed Simon tersely. “We need to get her in out of the rain.”
T HE SMALL BARN behind the cottage was snug and dry, the air redolent with scents that Miri had long found soothing and familiar, sweet hay and warm horse. Shivering in her wet clothes, Miri gestured toward the only empty stall. Simon eased his nervous mount inside. It was a strange aftermath to their conflict, this working in silent harmony to look after the mare Simon called Elle. But Miri suspected that they both found it easier to deal with the horse’s needs than each other.
Willow thrust his head over the door of his stall and whickered softly, the stolid pony more curious than alarmed by the intruders in his barn. But the pigeons that roosted in the rafters had gone silent. Miri could sense them up there in the shadows, watching warily with their beady eyes. Her birds were fully as disturbed as she was by the invasion of Simon Aristide.
As Miri rummaged about through her tack box for some towels, she studied Simon out of the corner of her eye. He seemed like a stranger, fitting none of her memories of him, neither the handsome boy who had once figured in her dreams nor the dreaded Le Balafre who had formed her nightmares.
He looked older, wearier, his wet hair slicked back from his brow, throwing his beard-coarsened jaw and scarred face into sharp relief. When she had last seen Simon, he had been shaved bald, determined to look as grim as possible, to intimidate everyone who crossed his path, including her.
But nothing could have been gentler than the way Simon handled his horse. The mare was still spooked, blowing and trembling.
“Easy now. Easy, my beautiful lady,” he crooned, caressing the mare’s neck with long firm strokes. “It’s all over. You’re all right now.”
Miri watched him with a kind of wonder. Never had she known Aristide to display such affection to anyone.
You know that is not true,
the voice of memory whispered in her ear, recalling a stolen moment in a secluded cove so long ago, the breeze from the channel stirring the black curls of Simon’s hair, his handsome young face as smooth as her own.
Simon leaned forward and Miri’s heart missed a beat when she realized what he intended to do. She shyly tipped up her face, closing her eyes. Simon touched his mouth to hers, so lightly, but the kiss seemed to blossom inside her, sweet and warm.
Her very first kiss . . . Simon had been so tender, as tender as he was being now. Miri caught her breath, cutting off the thought.
“Don’t start doing that again. Looking for things in
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