Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(85)

“The abbess is no fool. Ruthless, perhaps, and unscrupulous, but no fool. She will not send one of her prized handmaidens to certain death. She is using them both to threaten you.”

“I am not willing to risk my friends’ lives on that,” I say quietly. “Besides, what if it is my fate, my destiny, to stop d’Albret, and I do not?”

He is silent a long moment, his cheerfulness disappearing like last winter’s snow. “Can we ever know our own destiny?” he asks. “I believed it was mine to rescue Alyse, but I failed, so clearly it was not. It is possible our fates cannot be known until we are cold in the ground, our lives over.”

Even though I fear he is right, I am not willing to give up. “What if your mission in Morlaix fails?”

“We will just have to be certain it does not.”

“It is a foolish commander who puts all his hope for victory in one basket.”

“Sybella. You cannot stop him. Not alone.”

His words are so seductive, I fear I will have to place my hands over my ears to keep them from tempting me. “But I must,” I whisper.

“Ah, but you have no choice, for you have been kidnapped by someone far stronger than you and there is no escape. Best set your mind to that and be done with it. Besides, I have collected your belongings, so the abbess will think you have left for Nantes, just as you were scheduled to do.”

I cannot help but admire his thoroughness, and some small part of me hopes it might work. To be free of not just d’Albret but the abbess as well? So must Amourna have felt the first time she was allowed to leave hell.

Beast places his big hand on my head and pushes it toward his chest. “Sleep now,” he says. “Else I will have to clout you again.”

Annoyingly, I do what he tells me. I assure myself it is only because I wanted to do it anyway.





When next I open my eyes, the horse has stopped moving, and the sun is angled low in the sky. We are halting for the night.

I blink as Winnog gangles over toward us and Beast prepares to hand me down from the saddle. At Winnog’s approach, the horse prances and paws the air until Beast does something with his heels and mutters a command, and then the horse stills long enough for me to slip from the saddle into the charbonnerie’s waiting hands. “What is wrong with your horse?” I ask once I am safely on the ground.

“That is no natural horse, my lady,” Winnog mutters, “but some foul creature straight from the Underworld itself.”

Beast flashes one of his lunatic grins then steers the creature to the edge of camp where the horses are being tethered.

“My lady? Do you need to rest?” Winnog asks, and I realize I am still clutching his arm.

I let go immediately. “No, thank you. I prefer to stretch my legs.”

He bobs his head. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go help with the horses.”

I stand for a moment, watching the swarm of activity as the party rein in their horses and begin to dismount. A dozen men from the duchess’s army are on fine coursers and stallions, and they jostle for position, trying to steer around an equal number of charbonnerie on their sturdy rouncies and ponies. None of them appears willing to give way before the others, and within minutes it is a chaotic jumble of cursing men and prancing horseflesh. Merde. If this is the sort of cooperation Beast can look forward to, he was beyond stupid to keep me from being the contingency plan. We will be lucky to even reach Morlaix, let alone run off the French so the British troops can land.

A slow realization creeps over me. Rennes is only a day’s ride away, and d’Albret himself will not arrive until late tomorrow at the earliest. If I leave now, I can be there in plenty of time to slip unnoticed into the throng of camp followers that are sure to travel with him.

I glance around the clearing. Yannic is wrestling Beast’s demonic horse to a tether. Beast himself has already fetched his maps and is rolling them out in order to discuss tactics and strategies with his commanders. The charbonnerie are busy casting sullen glances at the soldiers, and the soldiers are busy making their disdain for the charbonnerie plain as day.

No one is watching me. The resolve I feared lost for good rises once more.

I begin sauntering toward the line of horses. As I draw closer, there is a whisper of movement from the trees, and a half a dozen bodies emerge. I freeze, as do the soldiers, their hands going to their swords until Erwan tells them to hold. It is only the charbonnerie women, come to cook for the camp.

During the confusion that the new arrivals bring, I choose a dappled gray gelding tethered the farthest from camp and quickly put his great girth between me and the others, hoping he will hide me somewhat.

I reach out to pet the creature’s silky nose and let him smell me, as if I am merely saying hello. As I do, I glance around, looking for saddle and tack. I will need a bridle if I am to steer this creature back to Rennes. A saddle would be nice, although I can ride without one if need be. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to the gray, but before I have taken two steps, a hand closes around my arm. A big hand as hard as iron. “Must I hobble you as Yannic has hobbled the horses?”

Damn him. Will the infernal oaf just tend to his business so I can tend to mine? I huff out a breath of annoyance, but there is some relief as well. Furious at myself for being relieved, I pull my arm out of Beast’s grip. “No. You do not need to hobble me; you need only to let me go so I may complete my assignment.”