Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(21)

I place one of my cold feet on Tephanie and she stirs at last—the great slug. She blinks twice to clear the confusion from her eyes, then remembers where she is and with whom. “My lady! I beg your forgiveness. I have overslept.”

“Did you know that you snore?” I say, amused at the bright spots of red that stain her cheeks.

She looks away. “I am sorry—you should have shoved me from the bed or awakened me in some fashion.”

“I did not say it disturbed me, only that you did it.”

She does not know what to say to this, so she leaps out of bed, curtsies, then hurries to fetch my chamber robe.

Just as she is about to help me into it, Jamette enters the room babbling like a brook. “Barons Vienne and Julliers were found dead in their chambers this morning—” Her mouth snaps shut when she finds us standing together in nothing but our shifts.

She blinks, her mouth opening then closing as she searches for something to say. Because she annoys me so very much, I reach out, place a finger under Tephanie’s chin, and turn her head gently toward me. “Thank you, Tephanie,” I say. “For everything.” Tephanie’s cheeks turn a dull red, and I almost laugh and spoil the effect I have so carefully created.

Poor Jamette cannot decide if she is shocked or jealous. “So, who are these barons whose chambers you visited last night?” I ask languorously.

“Not me,” she snaps. “It was the servants who reported they died of the plague in their sleep.”

“Could you bring the water? I’d like to wash now,” I say with a sleepy yawn.

“Do you think we will catch it?” Tephanie asks. “The plague, I mean?”

The look Jamette sends Tephanie is so full of venom I am surprised the other girl does not wilt on the spot. She does look acutely embarrassed, however, and hurries away to finish dressing in the privacy of the garderobe.

Jamette’s temper makes her careless, and she splashes water everywhere. “Watch what you are doing,” I warn her. “Else I will have you clean it up with that sharp tongue of yours.”

Our eyes meet, and I can see all the insults and accusations she wishes to hurl at me. Instead of saying them, she mutters to herself, “At least now I know why she ignores the few men who cast their attention her way.”

I run my finger along Jamette’s arm. “Do not tell me you are jealous, little one?” I have found an entirely new way to get under Jamette’s skin and anticipate hours of fine sport.

She pulls her arm away. “Of course not!” She turns and moves across the room to the clothespress. “Which gown do you want today?”

“The dark gray satin with the black underskirt.”

She helps me dress, but her movements are stiff, and she touches me as little as possible. When she laces up my bodice, she pulls so hard she nearly cracks my ribs.

I jerk away and grab her hand. “Careful. Your duties are to attend me, not cause me bodily damage.”

She glares at me, and I can feel her temper humming in her veins. Tephanie chooses that moment to come stumbling back into the room, slipping her belt into place and affixing to it the small knife I gave her.

“Enough of this,” I say. “I have in mind something more entertaining for us this morning.” D’Albret and most of the garrison plan to go to Ancenis today to take back Marshal Rieux’s holding from the French. Which means it is a perfect day for ferreting out secrets. “Where did you say the sounds of ghosts were coming from? I would like to hear them for myself.”

For while ghosts do not make noise, prisoners do.





It turns out that the ghosts are rumored to haunt the old tower, the very place from which I watched the battle. It is also the most logical place to keep a prisoner, since it is well away from the living quarters and the high-traffic areas of the castle.

Neither of my attendants wishes to come face to face with ghosts and they both decide to wait for me in the chapel right next to the tower and pray for the newly dead barons. That suits my purposes perfectly, as I would much rather do my snooping away from their prying eyes.

The old tower was built nearly two hundred years ago. The stones are roughened with age, and the tower roof is in need of repair. I try the heavy wooden door and find it locked.

My heart quickens in excitement, for it was not locked when I was last here.

There is no guard posted so I peer through one of the arrow slits cut into the thick walls. The tower is haunted; I can feel the ghosts’ chill presence seeping out from the window—but ghosts do not clank, or make any sound at all.

I glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. There are just enough servants and men-at-arms about that I do not dare pick the lock.

Ignoring the ghostly chill, I search for some sense of a heartbeat within, but try as hard as I might, my power to detect such things cannot penetrate twelve feet of thick stone. I climb the winding, external staircase to the catwalk, then stand on tiptoe to peer in through another arrow slit.

The small shaft of light barely touches the gloom. I do not see anyone. No guard, no prisoner, no signs of life.

But wait. Some faint hint of sound wafts up—as if from the bowels of the earth itself—followed by a groan. Or a whisper. Or mayhap it is the wind. But since it is all I have to go on, I call it moaning. And even though it is so very little, it heartens me. I will have to find a way to pick the lock or steal the key when my actions can be hidden by darkness. The task is still impossible—but if I must sit here and do nothing while waiting for orders that are not coming, I shall no doubt go mad. Again.