Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(34)

Duval escorts me from the room, his lightly banked fury propelling us at a rapid pace, and I am nearly breathless when we arrive at my chamber. I start to ask a question, but he cuts me off with a curt good night, opens my door, and fair shoves me inside, then shuts it with unmistakable finality.

I am alone, and grateful for it, but angry too. It is not my fault he and Hivern have nearly come to blows.

I cannot guess what lies between them, what sort of fallingout they have had. It seems far too heated a feud to be based on Duval’s resenting his mother’s affection for his brother. And how does Geffoy play into all this? For he sat there looking as guilty as Annith did when she was caught snooping through Sister Beatriz’s love poems.

Or was that it? Is the baron contemplating a liaison with Madame Hivern, and is Duval trying to discourage it? De Lornay claimed Duval had the morals of a monk, so perhaps that is at the heart of his and his mother’s animosity: he believes she is taking another lover far too soon after his father’s death.

My tired fingers are graceless and clumsy as I fight with the laces on my bodice. At last they come lose and I remove it, shivering as the cold air brushes my skin. I step out of my skirt and, clad only in my shift, hurry over to the enormous bed and climb under the thick covers, welcoming their warmth.

I can hear Duval pacing in the next room, restless and agitated, his anger rolling in under the door like some foul miasma off a fetid marsh. I push it from my mind. who his mother takes as a lover cannot be of interest to Mortain.

Sometime later, I am awakened by angry voices. At first, I think they are in the room with me, then realize they come from Duval’s chamber. The door is thick, so I catch only snatches.

“ . . . you will ruin everything for us . . .”

“Have you so little respect for my father that you would . . .”

“ . . . has nothing to do with . . .”

It is Madame Hivern. She and Duval are arguing. That brings me fully awake and just as I throw off the covers so I may go listen at the door, I hear another door slam with a thud. After a brief moment, there is a sharp, brittle crash from Duval’s room, a shatter of crystal that brings me to my feet. I have only ever heard that sound once before, in the abbess’s office, and before my head knows what my feet are doing, I am flying to the door, my hands fumbling at the bolt.

Duval sprawls in a chair by the fire, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. An open decanter sits at his elbow, and the rich fruity scent of wine mixes with the lingering traces of Madame Hivern’s rose perfume. Firelight glints off the shards of broken crystal on the floor, and I stop, afraid I’ll slice my feet to ribbons. “My lord?” I whisper, dread beating in my breast.

Duval’s head snaps up, his eyes filled with bleak despair. He quickly looks away, but too late. I have seen his expression, and sympathy for something I do not even understand pierces my heart. “I heard a crash . . .”

He raises one sardonic eyebrow at me, his face now a brittle mask. “And thought to save me from attacking crystal while clad only in your shift?”

I flinch at his mocking tone. Truly, why had I rushed in? even if he had been poisoned, what could I do? His soul, I think, relieved that a reason has come to me. If he were to die, I must learn all I can from his soul before it departs.

He glances at the empty decanter at his elbow. “Unless you are checking to see if your poison worked? Am I one of your targets, then?” The weariness in his voice suggests he would not mind so very much.

And while I did not like Hivern before, now, for some inexplicable reason, I hate her. “Are you drunk?” I try to put as much scorn into my words as he did.

“No. Yes. Perhaps a little. Definitely not enough.” The bleakness is back and he turns to stare into the flames.

I am torn between wanting to leave him to wallow in his despair and wanting to rush to his side and chase that look from his eyes. That I long to do this appalls me, sets panic fluttering against my ribs.

“I suggest you return to your room,” Duval says, his gaze still fixed woodenly on the fire. “Unless you have come to practice your lessons of seduction on me?” His mouth twists in bitter amusement. “That could well entertain me till sunrise.”

I jerk my head back as if I have been slapped. “No, milord. I had thought only to pray for your soul if Madame Hivern had seen fit to poison you. Nothing more.” And with that, I turn and flee the room, then bolt the door against the disturbing glimpse of both his soul and mine. whatever games are being played here, he is a master at them, and I will do well to remember that.



*



Things are strained between us the next morning. I won’t meet Duval’s eyes nor he mine as we take our leave and gallop from the yard. The sun rises, and the early-morning mist swirls up off the ground in gentle eddies, like steam from a simmering pot. Our awkward silence follows us on the road to Guérande. Nocturne doesn’t like that I hold myself so rigidly, and she whinnies. I force myself to relax my shoulders.

For his part, Duval acts as if I don’t exist. At least as far as La Baule. Then he turns in his saddle, his face stiff with discomfort. “I am sorry I insulted you last night. I was angry with Madame Hivern, and you presented an easy target. Please accept my apologies.” Then he turns forward again, leaving me to gape at his back.

No one has ever apologized to me before. Certainly not my family, or the nuns. It is disturbing, this apology, as if my feelings matter when I know that they do not. It is what Mortain and the convent want that is important. even so, I cannot help but whisper, “I accept,” mostly to myself. Or so I think — until I see Duval nod once, then put his heels to his horse.