Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(61)

Her eyes widen as she takes in the habit I wear, and the hand gripping the pestle turns white. “Who?” she whispers. “Who have you come for?”

I cannot decide which annoys me most, her fear or her assumption that I have been sent to kill one of her patients. “No one, old woman. I merely come to see how the one called Beast fares. I escorted him here from Nantes and would like to see with my own eyes that I did not do so only for him to perish in your care.”

She bristles, her fear forgotten. “Of course he will not perish in our care.” Her face softens. “Are you the one named Alyse? For he calls that name in his sleep.”

“No, that is his beloved sister, dead these past three years.” The depth of my disappointment that it is not my name he calls takes me completely by surprise.

“Ah,” the old nun says sympathetically, as if she somehow knows what I am feeling. “Then perhaps you are Sybella. That is the name he asks for when he is awake.”

A flutter of joy quickens my pulse. I scowl so that she will not see it.

“However, he is asleep now,” she continues. “Indeed, we had to give him a tincture of opium and valerian in order to calm him. He was most insistent that he could walk out of here and be of use to the duchess, even though his body said otherwise and he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone sit up.”

“I will not wake him,” I promise. “I only wish to assure myself that he is well.”

The nun nods her permission, and I start to move away, but she stops me. “By the way, whoever tended his wounds on the road did an excellent job. The man owes that person not only his life, but also his leg.”

Her words please me far more than they should, this knowledge that my hands can heal as well as kill, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep my pleasure hidden. I turn and begin making my way to where Beast lies.

One-third of the beds here in the infirmary are occupied, mostly with the elderly and frail. It is eerily still. No fretting or moaning or frail cries for help. Perhaps she has sedated them all.

It is easy enough to pick out Beast’s hulking form, even when it is draped in white linen bedsheets, for he is easily twice the size of any other patient here. I am pleased to see the beds on either side of him are empty. That should afford me some small measure of privacy.

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?”