Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(15)
Author: Robin LaFevers

How could I get near him? Get him to lower his guard? Especially when I cannot—will not—use seduction, one of my most effective weapons.

As I take my seat beside the baron, his eyes light up. “Fortune smiles upon me, demoiselle. To what do I owe the honor of your fair company?”

I want to shake him and warn him that it is not an honor but a deathwatch. Instead, I smile coyly at him. “It is I who am fortunate, my lord,” I tell him, then lift my wine goblet and drain half of it. Hopefully his attention will remain so focused on my br**sts that he will not notice I must drink myself under the table to endure his company.

“Have you recovered from today’s hunt?” he asks.

The question nearly causes me to sputter. “Recovered, my lord?” It takes all my willpower to keep the scorn from my voice. “A hunt is not so very taxing as all that.”

He shrugs. “It was for Barons Vienne and Julliers. They have excused themselves from dinner tonight and taken to their beds.”

“Well, I am not as soft as they.”

“Nor I,” he says. “Indeed, the afternoon has got my blood stirred,” he adds, and there is no mistaking his meaning. Well and good—I will not even have to try very hard to snare this dumb goose.

A trill of laughter pulls my attention to the other side of the table, where Jamette hangs on Julian like a flea on a hound. Feeling my gaze on him, Julian looks up, and our eyes meet. He gives me a mocking smile and lifts his goblet to me. Does he know? I wonder. Does he know what our father has asked me to do? He must suspect something, for he knows I have no love for puffed-up buffoons or jackanapes such as Mathurin.

Jamette notices he is no longer paying attention to her and follows his gaze. Her eyes narrow and it is then that I see she is wearing a new brooch, a gold sunburst with a ruby in its center, and I wonder which secret of mine she has shared to earn it.

Chapter Seven

I HAVE DECIDED I WILL keep my rendezvous with Mathurin. I will even play the part I have been given—up to a point. Then, when I’ve learned all that I can, I will put a stop to it. If he protests overmuch or thinks to force me to continue, so much the better, for then I can kill him in self-defense. I am in desperate need of killing something.

When I reach the appointed chamber, I stop long enough to tug the bodice of my gown lower and loosen my hair. The overly eager Baron Mathurin is already inside, his pulse beating so heavily with lust I can scarce hear myself think. “Did anyone see you?” he asks when I step inside the room.

“No,” I assure him, then move closer, shaking my loose hair over my shoulder. He reaches out to capture one of the curls. “Like ebony-colored silk,” he murmurs, rubbing it between his fingers.

His desire is a heady perfume, for I know precisely what to do with desire. I run a finger lightly along the front of his doublet, and his mouth parts, his breath hitching in his throat. Then I wrap my arms around him and begin playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I bet you say that to all your conquests.”

He blinks in surprise, as if no one has ever accused him of having a string of conquests before. I lean up and begin nuzzling his great white jowl. “Do you know what put my lord father in such a foul mood tonight?” I ask. “He was in high spirits when I saw him this afternoon.”

And even though the baron and I are alone, his eyes dart around the room before he answers. He is not quite as dumb as he appears. “He received word that the duchess was crowned today in Rennes.”

Although this is good news for the duchess, I fear the crown will not save her from d’Albret’s aggression. The only thing that will do that is a strong husband with an army of thousands to defend his claim. I wonder if the courier who brought this report yet lives, for my lord father does not believe in sparing the messenger. “Do you trust d’Albret to rule Brittany?” I ask, then shudder. “For he frightens me well enough with the power he has. I cannot imagine him in charge of the entire duchy.”

As I utter these words, I can feel Mathurin’s desire begin to shrivel, so I quickly change the subject to distract him. “We do not have much time before my attendants come looking for me.”

This spurs him to action, and he unlaces his doublet, then his fine linen shirt below. When I see a dark shadow covering his chest, my heart soars. He is marqued! That makes everything so much simpler. I smile then, the first true smile that has touched my lips all day, and step closer, backing him up to the wall so I will not have to take the full weight of his body when I kill him.

But before I can do more than remove the knife hidden in my sleeve, he gasps, a puzzled, almost hurt look crossing his face.

“What? What is wrong?” I murmur, not wishing to break the mood.

He does not answer; instead, he reaches up to his chest as if it pains him, then blood appears on his lips. Sweet Mortain! Is he having a fit of some sort?

Like a hanged man cut down from a gibbet, he collapses, all his weight slumping onto me so that I nearly topple backwards. A great, dark flapping thing rises from him.

It is the part I hate most about killing, having to endure the forced intimacy of the victim’s soul touching mine as it leaves their body. It is just as shocking and unwanted as my first kiss. I steel myself and allow the rush of images to wash over me: D’Albret’s thick arm around the baron’s shoulders, lulling him into a misplaced sense of security. A feeling of smugness, that I had chosen him rather than Julliers or Vienne. And hidden deepest of all, a twinge of conscience at having betrayed the young duchess, well buried under false assurances that d’Albret would make her a good husband.

Suddenly, the baron’s lifeless body is thrust aside, and I come face to face with a tall, dark figure holding a sword that still drips with blood.

“Julian!” I whisper, shocked to my core.

He steps forward, his mouth set in hard lines, his face cast in shadow. “Have you forgotten, sister? You are mine.”

His words chill me to the bone, and I fold my arms across my middle and grip my elbows to keep my hands from shaking.

“Only mine,” he says softly, as if whispering a lover’s endearment. “No one shall put his slobbering mouth or groping hands upon you.” He looks down at the body and nudges it with his boot. “And certainly not this craven creature.”

Now I understand the look he sent me at dinner. It was a promise of reprisal.

I step quickly and easily into the role I must play. Indeed, I am as skilled as any alchemist, but instead of turning lead into gold, I turn my fear into daring, and assuredly that is a far greater trick. The smile I give him is brittle with annoyance, and I toss my hair for full effect. “Is that what you thought was happening, Julian? Can you truly know me as well as you claim?”