Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(23)
Author: Robin LaFevers

He steps closer to me and leans forward to nuzzle at my hair. “You know I hate being parted from you. I came back as soon as I could.”

I put my hands on his chest and play with the gold braid on his doublet to keep him from pressing closer.

It does not work. He ignores my hands between us and moves his lips from my hair and brings them down to my mouth. Despair fills me, and I scramble to think of some way to turn his own desire against him, but I cannot. Not now, when I am tired and chilled and the panicked dregs of discovery still run through my veins.

Then, praise Mortain, the door behind me opens and I nearly tumble backwards into the room. Julian’s head comes up, black fury in his eyes. I whirl around to see who has interrupted us, wanting to get my body firmly in front of Julian until he can get his temper in check.

It is Tephanie. Dear, awkward, sweet Tephanie! Her gaze flickers briefly to Julian and then comes back to me and never wavers. “You asked me to wait for you, my lady.”

“I did—thank you, Tephanie.” My voice is calm, steady, and holds the faint note of scorn Julian would expect.

I glance at Julian as if to apologize for this overly dutiful servant. His temper has dissipated, and in its place is a faint mocking expression. “It is late, and I am sure your attendant would like some sleep before the night is over.” He turns to Tephanie. “You may leave,” he tells her.

Hidden behind my skirt, my hand reaches out and grabs her arm, an iron grip that holds her in place. She curtsies and murmurs, “It is no inconvenience, my lord, but a great honor to be able to serve my lady in any way she wishes.”

I tilt my head at Julian. “Do you hear that, my lord brother? She is honored to serve me in any way she can.”

He looks at me, then at Tephanie, and I see in his eyes the exact moment he concedes the battle. “I cannot argue with such devotion, then. I bid you both good night.”

After Julian takes his leave, I stumble into my chamber and nearly sag to the floor. My knees weaken, my guts turn watery, and I cannot stop trembling.

“My lady?” Tephanie’s simple face is clouded with worry. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine.” Uncertain of my ability to school my features just yet, I do not look up.

Ignoring my words, she hurries to my side. I brace myself for her barrage of questions, but she surprises me by saying nothing. She simply takes one of my ice-cold hands in hers and begins chafing some warmth back into it.

Something about her touch, the simple, undemanding nature of it, makes me want to weep. Or perhaps it is still the aftereffects of my fright.

Once again, Julian has interfered, ruining my plans and destroying my hard-won resolve. Even worse, I suspect he is more fully in d’Albret’s confidence than I had thought. How far will his loyalty go? Which is his greater desire—to keep me safe or to serve our father?

And the knight! Sweet Jésu, what they have planned for him! To be hanged, drawn, and quartered is the most hideous torture I can imagine. He will be hanged by the neck—but not so long that he actually dies. No, they will cut him down before he escapes into that sweet oblivion. Then they will slice him open and remove his entrails while he watches, finding endless ways to keep him conscious and alive as they do so. When that is done, they will throw him to the ground, secure each of his limbs to a horse, and send them all galloping off in different directions until he is ripped apart.

Fearing I will be sick, I force the image from my mind. Sensing my shivering, Tephanie leaves my side long enough to fetch my night shift, then quickly helps me undress by the fire. She slips the clean gown over my head, presses a cup of heated wine into my hands, and goes to warm the bed.

When she has finished, she curtsies, still not meeting my gaze. “Will that be all, my lady?”

I study her bowed head and flushed cheeks and wonder what makes her so loyal to me when all the others revel in my fall from favor. But loyal she is, and determined, too, with her stubborn insistence on serving me in the face of Julian’s not insignificant displeasure. “Stay.” I intend it as a command but fear it sounds more like a plea.

She blinks in surprise, then curtsies an acknowledgment. While she makes ready for bed, I crawl between the covers. Even the warmth from the heated bricks cannot remove the trembling from my limbs.

Is the prisoner cold in his dungeon? Or is he well past consciousness and too far gone to feel anything at all?

The bed dips as Tephanie crawls in. I give her a moment to settle, then scoot back toward her heat, as hungry as any ghost for her vital warmth.

Just as I finally stop shivering and begin my downward tumble into sleep, I feel a pair of soft, tender lips press against my hair. Or perhaps it is but a dream. Either way, it seems like a promise of absolution.

Chapter Thirteen

MY FATHER AND THE REST of his men are back in time for the midday meal. They have not taken the time to wash, and they reek of horses, sweat, and old blood, but that is not why my appetite evaporates at once. It is the sight of d’Albret in such high spirits, for he is only ever that cheerful when he is planning something truly heinous. As I take my place at the table, Julian sends me a look of warning—Tread carefully.

With Julian’s discovery of me in the tower dungeon, all my fine plans have turned to ash. I cannot possibly break the Beast out now, or save him from the fate they have planned. They have probably doubled the guard on the tower. Plus, Julian will know precisely who is to blame.

Although, since I would likely not survive the attempt, I suppose that part does not matter overmuch. My fingers drift to the ring I wear on my right hand, the black cut-obsidian stone that hides a single dose of poison. One meant only for me.

With his eerie sense of timing, d’Albret turns his sharp gaze in my direction just then, his eyes dancing with a predatory gleam. “What have you been up to while I was away?”

It is all I can do not to look at Julian. Surely he hasn’t spoken of my trip to the dungeon with d’Albret?

No, of course he hasn’t, for if he had, d’Albret’s beard would not be bristling with goodwill. I decide a humble approach is best, at least until I know what this is about. “I entertained myself with the ladies of the castle and went into town to see what amusements it offered.”

He takes a sip of wine, studying me the entire time, letting the silence—and my apprehension—build until I fear my nerves will snap. “I also had a belt that needed fixing,” I tell him, not sure if this is a test to see if my explanation matches Jamette’s.