Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(31)

Another second passed.

“Fine, then.” A wild little laugh escaped my throat. “Just fine!” Two could play this game. I attempted to jerk my dress over my head, but my fingers—still stiff and painful—prevented me from succeeding. The wet fabric caught around my neck instead, strangling me, and I nearly broke the rest of my fingers in a desperate attempt to pry it away.

Strong hands soon reached forward to assist me. I leapt away on instinct, and my dress ripped as easily as it had done in the theater.

Flustered, I threw it in his face.

I wasn’t naked. Soft, flexible undergarments covered my sensitive bits, but it was enough. When he extracted himself from my dress, his face was burning. He averted his eyes quickly.

“There’s a shirt in there.” He nodded to the cupboard before eyeing the wound on my arm. “I’ll tell a maid to bring you a nightgown. Don’t let her see your arm.”

I rolled my eyes again as he left, slipping into one of his absurdly large shirts. It fell down past my knees.

When I was sure he’d gone, I crept back out to the bedroom. Golden light from the sunset shone through the lone window. I dragged the desk over to it, stacking the chair on top, before climbing up. Balancing my elbows on the ledge, I rested my chin in my hands and sighed.

The sun was still beautiful. And despite everything, it was still setting. I closed my eyes and basked in its warmth.

A maid soon entered to check the blood-specked sheets. Satisfied, she stripped them without a word. My stomach sank slowly to the floor as I watched her rigid back. She didn’t look at me.

“Do you have a nightgown?” I asked hopefully, unable to stand the silence any longer.

She curtsied, prim and proper, but still avoided my eyes. “Market doesn’t open until morning, madame.”

She left without another word. I watched her go with a sense of foreboding. If I’d hoped for an ally in this wretched Tower, I’d been grossly optimistic. Even the staff had been brainwashed. But if they thought they could break me with silence—with isolation—they were in for a fun surprise.

Sliding down from my tower of furniture, I prowled the room for something I could use against my captor. Blackmail. A weapon. Anything. I wracked my brain, remembering the tricks I’d used on Andre and Grue over the years. After ripping open the desk drawer, I rummaged through its contents with all the courtesy my husband deserved. There wasn’t much to inspect: a couple of quills, a pot of ink, a faded old Bible, and . . . a leather notebook. When I picked it up, flicking eagerly through the pages, several loose sheets fluttered to the ground. Letters. I bent closer, a slow smile spreading across my face.

Love letters.

A very confused, coppery-haired Chasseur poked me awake that night. I’d been curled in the tub—wrapped up in his ridiculous shirt—when he’d stormed in and impaled my rib with his finger.

“What?” I batted him away crossly, grimacing at the sudden light in my eyes.

“What are you doing?” He leaned back, still crouched on his knees, and set the candle on the floor. “When you weren’t in bed, I thought maybe—maybe you’d—”

“Left?” I said shrewdly. “It’s still on the agenda.”

His face hardened. “That would be a mistake.”

“’S all relative.” I yawned, curling up once more.

“Why are you in the tub?”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to sleep in your bed, was I? This seemed the best alternative.”

There was a pause. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to sleep in here,” he finally muttered. “Take the bed.”

“No, thanks. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but—well, that’s exactly what it is.”

“And you think the tub can protect you?”

“Mmm, no.” I sighed, eyelids fluttering. They were impossibly heavy. “I can lock the door—”

Wait.

I jolted awake then. “I did lock the door. How are you in here?”

He grinned, and I cursed my treacherous heart for stuttering slightly. The smile transformed his entire face, like—like the sun. I scowled, crossing my arms and nestling deeper into his shirt. I didn’t want to invite that comparison, but now I couldn’t get the image out of my head. His coppery hair—tousled, as if he too had fallen asleep somewhere he shouldn’t—didn’t help.

“Where have you been?” I snapped.

His grin faltered. “I fell asleep in the sanctuary. I . . . needed some space.”

I frowned, and the silence between us lengthened. After a long moment, I asked, “How did you get in here?”

“You’re not the only one who can pick a lock.”

“Really?” I sat up, interest piqued. “Where would a holy Chasseur learn such a trick?”

“The Archbishop.”

“Of course. He’s such a hypocritical ass.”

The fragile camaraderie between us crumbled instantly. He shoved to his feet. “Never disrespect him. Not in front of me. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. The bravest. When I was three, he—”

I tuned him out, rolling my eyes. It was quickly becoming a habit around him. “Look, Chass, you’re my husband, so I feel I should be honest with you in saying I’ll gladly murder the Archbishop at the first opportunity.”