Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(84)

“I have something I would talk to you of in private.”

Beast raises his eyebrows and follows me out into the stable yard. Afraid I will lose my nerve, I look down at my hands, which are clutched together so tightly that my fingers have turned white. I relax my grip. “There is something I must explain to you. I have meant to tell you many times, but there was never a good moment.”

He does not so much as flinch, although his eyes become as unreadable as polished steel.

“At first I did not tell you because I was afraid you would not trust me, and I needed your trust so I could get you to Rennes safely. I had hoped that once we were here, no one would have to know my identity. It is not something I am proud of. But that did not—”

“Sybella?”

“Yes?”

“Please know if there were any other way to accomplish this, I would use it.”

“Accomplish what?” I ask, puzzled.

The look in his eyes is tender, and he moves closer so that I wonder if he plans to kiss me. Then his hand flashes, sure and quick, and the world grows black.





Chapter Thirty-Five


THE NEXT THING I KNOW, all the devils of hell are hammering at my jaw, just under my chin, but I do not care nearly as much as I might, for I feel safe. I appear to be in a cave. A warm cave of stone that completely surrounds me, pressing firmly into my back, sheltering me.

I hear a soft whicker—a horse?—then a man’s low voice. “You didn’t tell us we could bring a bit of skirt along.”

A second voice. “It’s not a bit o’ skirt, dolt. The captain would never bestir himself for a trollop.”

“Well, what is she, then?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Enough,” a familiar voice growls.

A throat clears. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s wrong with her, Captain?” The tone is much more respectful now.

There is a pause, and then the cave wall behind my back rumbles. “She fainted.”

I wrench my eyes open, then clamp them shut as harsh bright sunlight pierces my brain and a wave of nausea washes over me. Slowly, my mind sharpens enough to understand that I am not in a cave but clamped between thick, strong arms. The firmness at my back is not a wall of stone, but an armored breastplate. We are moving with a gentle rolling gait.

I struggle to sit up, but the arms are like a vise and hold me firm. “Shhh,” the familiar voice says. “Do not flail about so, you’ll spook the horse.”

Beast.

The bastard has done it again!

The world spins as I try to sit up and put as much distance between us as possible, which is not so very much when we are sharing a saddle. Furious, I jam my elbow down into his thigh, pleased when he grunts in pain. “If you ever do that to me again, I will kill you. I mean it.” And while I do mean it, the words do not sound nearly as threatening as they should.

The other horsemen draw away, giving us the illusion of privacy, for I’ve no doubt that their ears are all straining to hear every word.

There is another rumble from his chest and I cannot tell if it is words or laughter, and my head aches too much to turn around to see. Besides, even though anger and annoyance rumble in my gut like bad fish, I bask in the strength of these arms, relieved to have them between me and the rest of the world. Between me and d’Albret.

Merde! “Where are we?”

“On the road to Morlaix.”

The jolt of alarm and dismay brings a fresh wave of nausea, but I grit my teeth and ignore it as I try to clamber down from the horse. Beast’s arms tighten painfully. “Are you mad?” he says. “Hold still else you’ll fall.”

“I have someplace I must be.”

He says nothing, but his arms tighten even more until I can scarcely draw breath. It would be easy—so easy—to surrender to the strength in those arms. Because I want to do just that, scornful laughter erupts from my throat. “My father will not pay a ransom for me, nor the abbess, if that is what you hope to gain.”

When he speaks, there is an odd note in his voice. “Is that what you think I want? Ransom?”

“Why else would you abduct me? Ransom or vengeance are the only reasons I can think of.”

“I didn’t abduct you; I rescued you!” He sounds affronted by my lack of appreciation.

“I did not ask to be rescued!”

His gauntleted hand reaches out and oh so gently turns my face toward his. “Sybella.” My name sounds lovely and musical on his tongue. “I will not let you go back to d’Albret.”

The tenderness in his eyes undoes me. It is stupid, I tell myself. It means nothing. He rescues everyone he passes on the road.

But my false heart will not listen. Just like he came back for his sister, he has come for me.

Fearing he will see the naked longing of my heart, I turn my face away from his and search for the outrage I felt only moments before, but it is a mere echo of what it once was.

“I must go back,” I say, as much to convince myself as him. “If I do not, the abbess will send Ismae, or perhaps even Annith, who has never even left the convent before. Neither will stand a chance against d’Albret.” I was so ready to accept my fate—this time for the right reasons. Out of love, rather than vengeance. And once again this . . . man, this . . . mountain . . . has destroyed my hard-won resolve with a careless flick of his wrist. And even though none of the desperate reasons that compelled me to commit to that course of action have changed, I fear I will not be able to rekindle my determination.