Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(51)
Author: Robin LaFevers

He lies as still as if he had been carved from marble, the high color he normally boasts leached from his face by the dim light and fatigue. His face is made even uglier by the harsh planes and shadows revealed by the flickering light from the few oil lamps in the room. His eyelashes—thick and spiky as they rest against his cheeks—are possibly the only beautiful things about him.

I marvel at this man who carried me away from my waking nightmare, determined that I not fall victim to d’Albret’s terrible retribution. Even after I had done nothing but spew vile accusations at him to light his temper, he would not leave me behind. What does he see when he looks at me? A harridan? A shrew? Some spoiled noblewoman playing at helping her country?

I glance back toward the attending nun and see that she has dimmed the oil lamp and now lies on her cot, resting until one of her patients needs her. With no one to see, I plunk myself down on the floor and lean back against the bed frame. It is quiet. So quiet. I can hear the breath move in and out of Beast’s lungs, hear the blood move through his veins, hear his pulse, strong and steady and alive. Slowly, some of the terror of d’Albret’s pursuit begins to seep out of me. Beast stirs in his sleep just then, his good hand slipping out from under his covers to hang over the side of the bed.

I stare at his hand, its thick, blunt fingers and multitude of scars and nicks. Unable to resist, I slide toward it, wondering what that hand would feel like resting on my shoulder.

“I knew that you would miss me.”

It is only a lifetime of training that keeps me from leaping to my feet at the sound of Beast’s voice. I snort to mask the small noise of surprise that escapes my throat. “I did not miss you. Merely wanted to be sure my effort in getting you here wasn’t wasted.”

“They drugged me,” he says with mild outrage.

“Because you were too stupid to lie still and let your body heal.”

“You didn’t drug me,” he points out.

“Because I had to get your maggoty carcass from one end of the country to the other. Once we arrived, trust me, I would have drugged you too.”

“Humph.” We are both quiet a moment, and then he asks, “What of the duchess?”

“She will no doubt come visit you herself. As will Duval and the entire small council, most like.”

He shifts uneasily and plucks at the covers on his bed. “I do not wish to receive them like this. Trussed up like a babe in swaddling.”

“To them you are a hero, and they wish to thank you for your sacrifice.”

He makes another rude noise.

“Are you certain you are not an ox in disguise?” I ask.

In answer, he just grunts again. “I am surprised they have not sent you off to rescue some other fool knight while I slept.”

“Not yet.”

“If they are not careful, soon they will have men locking themselves in dungeons so that you can rescue them.”

“Then they shall undoubtedly perish, for I would not go through that again.”

“Where is Yannic?”

“Camped just outside the convent walls. Except for patients, no men are allowed inside.” I wait to see what his next question will be, then hear a faint rumble from his chest. He has fallen asleep. I allow myself a tiny smile, for if he is well enough to spar with me, then he is well enough to live. I settle myself more comfortably on the floor and promise I will stay only a few more moments.

I awake some time later from a dreamless sleep. As I blink, I see that the flames in the lamps are sputtering as the oil grows dangerously low. Not quite morning yet. I feel the heavy weight of Beast’s hand still on my shoulder, then slowly inch myself out from under it, not wanting to wake him.

Not wanting him to know precisely where and how I spent the night.

I pause outside the convent and turn toward the city gate. I could leave now. I could simply walk down this street to the city gate, go across the bridge, and be gone from this place forever. No more abbess. No more threats of d’Albret.

But the stark truth is, I have nowhere to go. No home to return to, no kin to offer me shelter, and the convent will no doubt be closed to me now.

I could work as a tavern maid—if they would hire me. In troubled times such as these, people are reluctant to trust strangers.

I could even seek out Erwan and throw my lot in with the charcoal-burners. Or return to Bette and marry one of her sweet, eager sons. I could control either of them well enough.

Except they have sworn to fight at Beast’s side in the coming war.

The grim reality of my situation nearly makes me laugh. I am beautiful and educated and have all manner of useful—and deadly—skills, but all of that together is worth less than a bucket of slops.

I pull my cloak close around me against the chill breeze and continue across the bridge. As I draw near the gatehouse, I quickly rearrange my weapons, making sure that the dagger at my waist is clear and visible and that my wrist sheaths peek out from under my sleeves. Better that they think I was out on an assignment for Mortain than suspect I spent the night curled at the feet of the Beast like a mournful dog.

The guard on duty nods, his eyes taking in my habit and my weapons, and waves me through. The convents of the old saints seem to receive proper respect here in Rennes.

I reach my chambers and am relieved to find them empty. Too tired to remove my gown, I simply loosen the laces, climb into bed, and draw the bed curtains closed to block out the morning light. I pray that no one will have need of me for the next few hours, for I will be useless until I can get some sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A SHORT WHILE LATER, I am awakened by a knock on the door. A little serving maid enters, carrying fresh water for washing and the news that I am expected to attend the duchess’s council meeting.

That summons prods me from my bed and into my clothes like few other requests could, for the truth is, I am sorely anxious to discharge all I know and be rid of it.

When a second knock sounds at the door, I hurry to open it and find both Ismae and Lord Duval waiting outside. I cannot decide whether to be flattered or worried at the nature of this escort, but Ismae gives me a warm greeting, and Duval’s eyes are friendly enough, which eases my mind somewhat.

Duval bows formally to me. “We would like to hear a full report of all that transpired in Nantes, if you can bear to tell it.”

“But of course, my lord,” I say, then step into the hall. Ismae gives me a reassuring wink.

Duval leads us to a more formal chamber than the one I was in last night. The two sentries nod in greeting when they see him, and step forward to open the door.