Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(74)
His hand clamps down on my good shoulder. An unwelcome thrill flutters somewhere deep in my belly. “Aye, it is clean, but deep enough that it will need to be stitched. It did not tear the muscle, though, so it should not take long to heal. You are not afraid of a few stitches, are you?”
“Of course not.” His taunt works and I hold myself still.
I welcome the bite of the needle as it jabs my flesh. Pain, at least, is familiar to me. each little prick and burn helps clear away the heady intoxication of Duval’s more gentle touches.
“This is the last one,” he says. I feel an extra tug as he knots the end. He leans in close, his breath warm upon my skin, then bites the thread with his teeth. “There. Done. Raise your arm, but slowly. I want to see if it pulls.”
Still clutching the front of my dress, I lift my arm. The stitches bite and burn, but not unbearably. Just enough to remind me to use caution until it heals.
“It will do,” he says gruffly. “Although I shall refrain from moving on to fancy stitchery anytime soon.”
“And here I imagined you embroidering altar cloths with the duchess and her ladies in the afternoon.”
Duval snorts. “Hardly. But it would be wise for you to do that for a few days while this heals.”
“Methinks not. In case you hadn’t noticed, the schemes and plots around here are beginning to thicken.”
“It has come to my attention, yes,” Duval says dryly.
“May I stand up now?”
“If you wish.”
I rise to my feet, careful to keep the loose bodice clasped firmly in place, then spin around, anxious to remove my naked back from his view.
But facing him is worse, I realize, for his expression is soft, unguarded, and there is a tenderness there that I have only seen when he is with the duchess. Our eyes meet, and in that moment everything alters. It is as if he has only just now realized that we are alone in his bedchamber with me barely clothed. The tenderness in his face turns to something else, something that makes me aware of the cold air on my bare back and of my tattered bodice. He takes a step closer, then another, and suddenly we are almost touching. His eyes never leave mine, but his hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my collarbone. without even realizing what I am doing, I lean toward him.
His hand moves up to cup my face. Slowly he draws me closer, lowering his head to meet mine. His touch is careful, as if I am fragile and precious. And then his lips are on mine, firm and warm and impossibly soft.
A fierce heat rises up inside me, as sharp and bright as a blade. I move my lips against his, wanting more, but more of what, I cannot say. He steps closer, until our bodies touch, then his other hand comes up, the warm fingers grasping my waist, pulling me even closer still. I am lost in his kiss, and all my defenses give way before this hot, hungry mystery that lies between us.
And then he pulls away, slowly, as if loath to do so. That is when I hear the rap at the door. I blink, reality crashing in around me. I take three giant steps back until I reach the cold stone wall, my lips still tingling from Duval’s kiss.
“Coming,” Duval calls out, his voice somewhat hoarse. Like a drawbridge being pulled up and slammed into place, he composes himself, and the sure, practical Duval is back. He takes his eyes from me and goes to answer the door. I lean against the wall and try to pretend my entire world has not just tilted in the heavens.
He stands there talking with whoever it is, blocking the view into the room with his body. After a moment he closes the door and returns to where I stand. I cannot meet his gaze.
“That was Beast,” he says. “He found the bodies and removed them. As best as he can tell, they were simply two of Nemours’s guards, one of whom was responsible for the treachery.”
I nod but do not trust my voice just yet, so I say nothing. He is silent for a long moment. I risk glancing at him. He stares sightlessly at the bloodied chemise on his bed, his hand raking through his hair as he thinks.
I clear my throat. “My lord, what would you have me do?”
He pulls himself from his distant thoughts and returns them to our predicament.
“Can we patch my clothing together enough so that I can return to your residence? Perhaps with a cloak thrown over it?”
He glances ruefully at the ruined linen. “I do not think so. But maybe they have begun to move your trunks into the palace. I’ll check. Sit, before you fall down,” he orders.
I lock my knees and press my back against the wall, welcoming the bracing cold of it. “But the servants . . .” I protest.
"Even though I am a bastard born, I am also the son of a duke. It is not my servants’ place to question me or what I ask of them.”
Stung by this rebuke, I simply nod and wave him away. Once he has left the room, I do indeed sit down, although not on the bed. I perch on one of the unopened trunks.
I should do something. Search through his things, or try to escape to my own room, or . . . in truth, my wits have left me, for I cannot think what I ought to do. My back is burning and my heart still races. In the end, I decide to remain seated and try to compose myself. Surely recovering my wits is the highest priority.
Duval returns a short while later, a look of triumph on his face. He carries a wad of clothing in one arm — my clothing, I realize. “One of your trunks has been delivered,” he says. “Let’s get you dressed, then I must go follow up on Nemours’s guards and inform the duchess of this latest development.”