Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(39)

Is it possible I have been given a chance to right those wrongs?

Not that it matters, for getting Beast to Rennes alive and whole and without being found by d’Albret’s scouts is not any easier simply because he is Alyse’s brother.

It is, however, that much more vital that I do so, for more than the kingdom’s future hangs in the balance—my one small chance at redemption does as well.





When I run out of chores to keep me outside, it is time to return to the kitchen. There is much to be done—new poultices to be prepared, bandages to be cut, fires to be tended. Those tasks do not care one whit for the newfound shyness I feel toward Beast. Will he bring up the subject of his sister when he awakens? And if he does, how can I keep all the questions I have from spilling out?

Inside, I see that Beast’s eyes are open and he is staring at the ceiling above him. “You are still alive,” I say. “That is more than I dared hope for.”

He turns his head to me. “I told you I was hard to kill.”

“You did warn me, yes.” I can feel his eyes on me as I busy myself with putting more water on to boil. Does he even remember that he spoke of Alyse? And what would a simple assassin wish to know of that connection? Nothing, most likely. “Is that why you were not slain on the battlefield?” I ask. “Some gift of Saint Camulos? Or was it because d’Albret had other plans for you?”

“Saint Camulos does not protect us from death.” Beast’s voice is dry. “Nor did the men realize whom they had unhorsed. However, once d’Albret saw who I was, let us just say he is not one to let such an opportunity go to waste.” He is quiet for a moment, then speaks again. “Do you know what they had planned for me?”

Unable to help myself, I look up and meet his gaze. “I do.”

He nods. “Then you understand the debt I owe you.”

Uncomfortable with the gratitude I see in his eyes, I look back to the pot of water. “Do not be so very grateful. If I had not been able to get your lumbering carcass up those stairs, I would have killed you myself and saved d’Albret the trouble.”

“Then I would have owed you an even greater debt, for not everyone recognizes the mercy in a quick, clean death.” He pauses then, studying me. “How would you have done it?”

His question surprises me. “You mean how would I have killed you?”

“Yes. Do you have a favorite method for such things?”

Since he knows I am an assassin, there is no need to be coy. “I prefer a garrote. I like the intimacy it allows me when I whisper reminders of vengeance in their ears as they die. But in your case, I had sharpened my favorite knife especially for the occasion.”

His brows quirk up. “Why no garrote for me?”

I look pointedly at his thick neck, bulging with muscle and sinew. “I do not have one big enough,” I mutter. “Besides, yours was to be a merciful death. A knife is quicker and less painful.” If I thought my confession would shock him into putting some distance between us, I was sorely mistaken, for the great lummox laughs.

Frustrated by this kindness—one I do not deserve—I set the new poultice on his thigh, and his laughter quickly turns to grunts of pain.





Shortly after that, I gently nudge the gargoyle awake, for if I do not get some rest soon, I fear I will grab Beast by his shoulders and force him to answer all the questions crowding their way onto my tongue. It would not take him long to figure out my connection to d’Albret if I were to do that.

The jailor springs nimbly to his feet, checks once on his prisoner—now his patient—then goes to sit by the door. I stretch out by the fire and pray I will not dream of Alyse. Indeed, I do not wish to dream at all.





I come awake with a start, surprised that I have slept. It is nearly dark outside, and the ashes are cold in the hearth. I have slept almost all day. As I sit up, it occurs to me that it is too quiet. Is that what woke me? And then I hear it. The faint jingle of a harness and the soft whinny of a horse.

Panic surges in my breast and I leap to my feet. The gargoyle lurks in the doorway, peering out into the yard. With one hand he holds up three fingers, and in the other he holds his slingshot and a fat round rock the size of a quail’s egg.

There is a rustle as Beast stirs. I hurry over to him, desperate to keep him quiet. He opens his eyes, but when he sees me put my fingers to my lips, he gives a curt nod, then motions me closer. “Give me a weapon,” he whispers hoarsely.

“You are too sick to fight,” I whisper back.

He grabs my arm, his eyes burning with determination. “I will not go back there alive.” A moment of complete understanding passes between us. I nod, then retrieve one of the knives strapped to my ankle and hand it to him. When he takes it, his hand wraps briefly around mine and gives it a firm squeeze. “How many?” he asks.

“Three,” I tell him. “With horses.”

His eyes light up and he smiles. “Horses?”

I hurry back to the door and peer out. The men have reached the courtyard and I can hear their voices. “I still say we should just make for Nantes. We’ll be there shortly after dark.”

“Empty-handed,” another one points out. “And I don’t relish being the one to tell d’Albret that they got clean away and we’ve nothing to report.”