Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(37)

I’d really emphasized that point.

I hadn’t mentioned Angelica’s Ring. Or Madame Labelle’s interest in it. Or Tremblay’s trafficking. Or anything that might further connect me to the witches. I walked a thin line as it was, and I didn’t need to give them another reason to tie me to the stake.

I knew Madame Labelle and Tremblay wouldn’t risk incriminating themselves by mentioning the ring. I hoped Andre and Grue were intelligent enough to follow suit. Even if they didn’t—even if they stupidly revealed they’d known about Angelica’s Ring without reporting it—it would be our word against theirs. The honor of Monsieur Tremblay, the king’s vicomte, was surely worth more than the honor of a couple of criminals.

It also didn’t hurt that my husband was in love with his daughter.

Either way—judging by the furious gleam in said husband’s eyes—Andre and Grue were in for a thrashing.

You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.

I almost cackled. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon. My husband was still the most pompous ass in an entire tower of pompous asses, but somehow, that had been easy to overlook in the dungeon. He’d actually . . . defended me. Or at least come as close as he was capable without his virtue imploding.

When we reached our room, I headed straight for the tub, craving time alone to think. To plan. “I’m taking a bath.”

If my suspicions were correct—and they usually were—the tree man from yesterday had disappeared to the forbidden upper floors. Perhaps to an infirmary? A laboratory? A furnace?

No. The Chasseurs would never murder innocent people, though burning innocent women and children at the stake seemed like it should qualify. But I’d heard the Chasseurs’ tired argument: there was a difference between murdering and killing. Murder was unjustified. What they did to the witches . . . well, we deserved it.

I turned on the tap and perched on the edge of the tub. Bigotry aside, I’d never considered where the witches’ victims actually went, why there weren’t bodies littering the streets after every attack. All those attacks. All those victims . . .

If such a place existed, it was surely doused in magic.

Just the sort of cover I needed.

“Wait.” His heavy footsteps halted just behind me. “We have things to discuss.”

Things. The word had never sounded so tedious. I didn’t turn around. “Such as?”

“Your new arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” Now I did turn, stomach sinking. “You mean my new warden.”

He inclined his head. “If you’d like. You disobeyed me this morning. I told you not to leave the Tower.”

Shit. Being watched . . . that didn’t work for me. Didn’t work for me at all. I had plans for this evening—namely, a little jaunt to the forbidden upper floors—and I’d be damned if another pompous ass would stand in my way. If I was right, if the Tower held magic, it was a visit I needed to make alone.

I took my time mulling over an answer, meticulously unlacing my boots and placing them beside the washroom door. Tying my hair on top of my head. Unwrapping the dressing on my arm.

He waited patiently for me to finish. Damn him. Exhausting all my options, I finally turned around. Perhaps I could . . . deter him. Surely he didn’t want his new bride to spend ungodly amounts of time with another man? I labored under no delusions he liked me, but men of the Church tended to be possessive of their things.

“Go ahead, then.” I smiled pleasantly. “Bring him in. For your sake, he’d better be handsome.”

His eyes hardened, and he walked around me to turn off the tap. “Why would he need to be handsome?”

I strolled to the bed and fell back, rolling to my stomach and propping a pillow beneath my chin. I batted my lashes at him. “Well, we are going to be spending quite a bit of time together . . . unchaperoned.”

He clenched his jaw so tight it looked likely to snap in two. “He is your chaperone.”

“Right, right.” I waved a hand. “Do continue.”

“His name is Ansel. He’s sixteen—”

“Oooh.” I waggled my brows, grinning. “A bit young, isn’t he?”

“He’s perfectly capable—”

“I like them young, though.” I ignored his flushing face and tapped my lip thoughtfully. “Easier to train that way.”

“—and he shows great promise as a potential—”

“Perhaps I’ll give him his first kiss,” I mused. “No, I’ll do him one better—I’ll give him his first fuck.”

My articulate husband choked on the rest of his words, eyes boggling. “Wh—what did you just say?”

Hearing impairment. It was getting alarming.

“Oh, don’t be so priggish, Chass.” I leapt up and crossed the room, flinging the desk drawer open and snatching the leather notebook I’d found—a journal, stuffed full of love letters from none other than Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay. I snorted at the irony. No wonder he loathed me. “‘February twelfth—God took special care in forming Célie.’”

His eyes grew impossibly wider, and he lunged for the journal. I dodged—cackling—and ran into the washroom, locking the door behind me. His fists pounded against the wood. “Give me that!”