Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(17)

Anticipation bubbles through me, and it is all I can do to keep from charging in, daggers drawn. Instead, I put a hand to my heart to calm it and quickly run through Sister Beatriz’s instructions. This will be the hard part, acting the coquette.

With one last deep breath, I force a smile of breathless anticipation onto my face and open the heavy wooden door. “JeanPaul?” I whisper into the room, then stumble slightly, as if I’ve had too much wine. “Is that you?”

Standing at the window, Martel whirls around to face me. He is just as Sister Vereda said he would be, not much taller than I, his hair the reddish brown of a fox. I stumble toward him, and barely have time to register his scowl of alarm before he steps away from the window and grabs my shoulders. "What are you doing here?” He gives me a rough shake and I let my body go slack, as if I can barely manage to stand on my own.

“I am looking for JeanPaul. And you, sir” — I tap him lightly on the chest — “are not him.” I squish my lips into a pout and pray I do not look like a hooked fish. I am close enough to see the ruby he wears in left ear.

Looking down at my bodice, the fool relaxes. Are men truly such idiots that they cannot resist two orbs of flesh? Martel glances at the door behind us and licks his lips. “Perhaps, after I conduct my business, I can come to demoiselle’s aid,” he suggests. His eyes stray again to my bodice, and the dagger at my ankle calls to my clenched hands. Not yet, I tell myself. Not yet.

“That is a very kind offer.” I let my eyes wander up and down his body, as if assessing his charms. In truth, I am searching for the marque. His forehead is clear, as are his lips. Uncertainty raises its head. I sigh as if smitten. “But JeanPaul,” I say, then sigh again. I tilt my head, considering. "Well, as you say, he is not here. Mayhap monsieur will do.” As if I am a mare in heat, I think in disgust, and any stallion will suffice.

Martel steps closer. I swallow the distaste that rises up in my throat and wind my arms around his neck. There! Just where his shirt meets his jaw line, a dark shadow marks his skin. He sees the spark of interest flare in my eyes, and his own heat with desire. I allow my body to press even closer against his. He licks his lips again. “As soon as I am done . . . Perhaps you can wait in the next chamber?”

“My pleasure, milord,” I say. He nuzzles my ear to seal our agreement. while pretending to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, I slip the bracelet from my wrist. Just as his nuzzling starts to move dangerously low, I yank the hidden wire from the bracelet. Before he can guess what is happening, I loop it around his neck, spin out of his embrace, step around to his back, and pull tight, a move I have practiced with Annith a hundred times.

His hands scrabble at his neck, tearing at the silver wire. The sounds he makes are ugly and desperate and fill me with uncertainty. Then I remember that this man is betraying my country, my duchess, and I pull tighter, praying to Mortain for strength.

He grants it. After a short but spirited struggle, Martel sags against me. Before he is completely gone, I lean in and put my lips to his ear. "We punish those who betray our country.” My words are as soft and tender as a lover’s caress, and Martel shudders as death claims him.

Just as I relax my grip, a thick warmth rises up from his body and rubs against me, like a cat rubbing its owner’s leg. Images fill my mind: a fleet of ships, a sealed letter, a heavy gold signet ring, my own breasts. The warmth swirls briefly within me, then dissipates with a sudden whoosh, leaving me chilled and shaken.

What in Mortain’s name was that?

His soul.

The words come unbidden. Almost as if someone else — the god, perhaps? — has spoken them.

Why has no one at the convent warned me of this? Is this one of the glories of Mortain that Sister Vereda spoke of? Or something else? For I cannot decide if I have just been violated in some way or granted a sacred trust.

But I have no time for reflections. I shove my questions aside and brace myself against the man’s body, trying to balance his weight as I unwrap the garrote from his neck. I wipe it clean on his doublet, then retract the wire into the bracelet. with both hands free, I prop the body up against the window and peer down to the courtyard, praying that the cart Chancellor Crunard promised is there.

It is.

I grasp the traitor by his collar and begin the difficult task of shoving his body through the window.

For a small man, he is surprisingly heavy. I struggle with his dead weight, trying to maneuver it onto the casement. After a final heave that leaves me breathing hard, the lifeless body tumbles from the window. There is a moment of silence, then a thud as the body hits the waiting cart. I peer out in time to see the

driver lift the reins and urge the horses forward.

I do not know where he will take the body or what he will do to keep it concealed, but that is not my task.

Flushed and shaky after my brush with Martel’s soul, I long to sit down in one of the chairs and compose myself. Or fall to my knees and pray for understanding. But I must get back to Crunard so we may take our leave.

I push away from the wall and move toward the door, then hear a footstep in the corridor outside. Too late! Someone is coming. Baron Lombart, perhaps? Hoping to meet with Martel? I try to think. Should I seduce him or kill him? Of course I would prefer to kill him, but I cannot — not unless he tries to kill me or I see the marque.

The latch on the door lifts and I step back a few paces, gripping my arms and hunching my shoulders, already slipping into the role I must play. Once again, anticipation burbles through me. Or perhaps it is panic.