Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(38)
Perhaps there was poison on the blade after all. If so, this feeling will pass quickly, much quicker than some malaise of the heart, which is what I fear it is. Nocturne’s death shouldn’t gnaw at me so, but it does, and I hate how weak I am.
Louyse continues up a wide center staircase to a bedchamber. It, too, has glass windows, and thick velvet drapes keep out the chill. There is a fire burning in the hearth, and a large tub sits nearby. A serving maid is just emptying a bucket of steaming water into it.
My spirits lift somewhat at the thought of a bath. I have not had a bath since the convent and am in sore need of one.
There is a light knock on the door and a footman appears bearing my satchel. Louyse motions for him to put it on the bed, then shoos both him and the maid from the room. She takes a step in my direction. “May I help you with your gown?”
“No!” The small spurt of panic I feel at exposing the scars on my back gives more force to the word than I intend. “Thank you,” I add, more graciously. “But I am convent raised and more comfortable disrobing in private.” My heart is beating quickly. I have not given a single thought to the assistance of a maid.
Her eyebrows raise only slightly, yet another sign of her excellent training. “Very well. I shall leave you to your bath then.” And with that, she leaves.
When she has quit the room, I ease myself onto the bed. All sense of triumph has fled and I feel nothing but the keen loss of Nocturne and the awareness of how very far from home I am.
Chapter Seventeen
I come awake with the fine hairs at the nape of my neck lifting in warning, every muscle in my body tensing with anticipation. As my mind fumbles with the unfamiliar surroundings, my hand reaches for the stiletto under my pillow.
A voice heavy with weariness rumbles through the silence. “You can leave that pretty little prince sticker of yours where it is.”
Duval. I am tucked up in his house in Guérande. My hand relaxes its grip on the handle. “You don’t stick with it,” I correct automatically, much as Sister Arnette does. “You shove and twist.”
A low, warm chuckle fills the chamber, and my skin ripples slightly. Annoyed, I want to rub my forearm to ease the sensation, but I am not ready to let go of my knife just yet.
Duval sits in a chair with his back to the lone window. Has he come to take advantage of me? Here, where the only ones who will hear my protests are those loyal to him?
For I will protest, I assure myself.
“I said put your dagger down.” This time there is a hint of steel in his voice rather than laughter.
“You must be mad to think I’ll just sit here in the dark, defenseless — ”
"What exactly do you feel you must defend against? I have not made any move toward you.”
And there he has me, for I cannot say what I must guard against, only that I feel threatened in some way.
“You have exactly five seconds to put your dagger away before you find it at your lovely throat.” He thinks to browbeat me into obeying him, but his words have the opposite effect. I am filled with a desire to test my skills against his. we have both dispatched three men today. How would we fare against each other? The thought has something dark and unsettling unfurling inside me. I shove my stiletto back under the pillow, afraid I will use it without cause.
Lying down feels too vulnerable, so I sit up. Duval’s broad shoulders are silhouetted by the faint moonlight coming in through the window and I want desperately to see his face so I can discern what he is about, but it is cast in shadow. Besides, he isn’t even looking at me. His head is leaning back against the chair, and the faint slump to his shoulders hints of his fatigue. "Why are you here?” I ask.
He turns his gaze to me, and although his eyes are still hidden in the shadows, I feel them as surely as any touch. My skin ripples again, and this time I do rub my arms.
"What is my fair assassin so afraid of? I wonder.”
“I’m not afraid.”
Duval tilts his head to the side. “No?” He studies me a long moment, then rises out of his chair. I hold my breath as he crosses to my bed. “Are you afraid I will draw closer, perhaps?” His voice is pitched low, little more than a purr. My breath catches in my throat, trapped by something I long to call fear but that doesn’t feel like fear at all. every inch of my skin is thrillingly, painfully aware of the soft linens and bedcovers between us.
They are thicker than any gown I have ever worn, and yet I feel unbearably exposed.
“Perhaps you worry I might touch you,” he muses. I watch, mesmerized, as his hand reaches toward me, hovers over the foot of the bed. Under the covers, my skin twitches in anticipation.
When his hand comes down and grasps my ankle, it takes every bit of willpower I possess to keep from jerking away. His grip is firm, and it is as if the heat from his hand burns through all the layers between us. My ankle throbs, and the sensation creeps up my leg and spreads throughout my entire body, until every inch of my skin is alight with — what? Fear? Anticipation? we stare at each other, the moment stretching out, swallowing up all the moments that came before it. “However will you play the game of seduction if you flinch so?” His voice is soft velvet along my skin. “You will be hard-pressed to gain my secrets if you cannot bear my touch.” Then he swears and pulls his hand away from me. "What is your convent thinking, sending such an innocent out in the world to play the strumpet?”