Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(48)

Only to find Duval sitting on my bed, staring at me. He holds his hand to his collar, blood seeping between his fingers, the dagger still in my hand.

“God’s Teeth,” he says. “I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.”

“I was not,” I say, then look from his neck to my knife.

"When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.” He sounds sore put out, and I cannot blame him.

“Merde.” I am fully awake now and filled with remorse. I toss my knife onto the bed and scramble out from under the covers. while Duval tries to keep the blood from dripping on the bed, I hurry to the washbasin and dip one of the linen towels into the cold water. “Let me see how bad it is,” I say, returning to the bed.

“Not serious, I think.” He lifts his chin to give me better access. “But you have ruined one of my favorite shirts.”

I gently mop the blood on his neck and collarbone. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t sneak up on people when they are sleeping.”

“You were whimpering and crying. You’d rather I left you to the tender mercies of your dream?”

Heat creeps into my face at the memory of my nightmare. “No,” I admit. “Perhaps not.” I’ve wiped away most of the blood and can see a two-inch scratch along his collarbone. “I must resume practicing,” I mutter. “I missed.”

Duval barks out a laugh. “Only because I have very good reflexes and you were asleep.” He grows quiet for a moment, and I become aware of the intimacy of our positions. we sit on the bed, our knees touching. My hand rests at the base of his throat and I can feel the steady beat of his heart under my wrist. His dark eyes study me.

Trying to ease my sudden discomfort, I take the towel from his neck and begin folding it. My wrist still throbs where it has lain over his heart.

“Do you care to share your dream?” His voice is low and warm and like as not could coax secrets from a stone.

“It was nothing. I have already forgotten it.”

“Liar.” His voice is so soft I am not sure I heard it. even so, I keep my gaze on the linen towel as I search it for a clean, unbloodied spot.

There is a long moment of awkward silence, then Duval speaks. “I can tend to it from here, I think.” His fingers brush against mine as he takes the towel from my hands. He stands up, leaving me alone on the bed, the warmth of his solid body no longer between me and my nightmares.

Feeling miserable, although not sure why, I wrap my arms around myself. “I am sorry, my lord. I did not wish to harm you.” The truth of my words surprises me, for it seems as if I have done naught but long to be rid of him.

His smile flashes, quick and surprising in the darkness. "When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice. I bid you good night.”

He leaves the room, and I lie back down on the bed, unable to tell if I am overly warm or chilled to the bone.

The next morning, Louyse bustles in with a cheerful smile and a pitcher of hot water. I have not slept since Duval left and am awake when she arrives. “Good morning, demoiselle.”

“Good morning, Louyse.” I stretch, then climb out of bed. Since there is no towel this morning, I cup my hands into the basin and splash the warm water on my face. “No word of my trunks yet?” I ask as I hurriedly dry my face and hands on my night shift.

“No, demoiselle,” she says as she straightens the covers on the bed.

“In that case, I will wear the dark gray gown today.”

When Louyse doesn’t answer, I turn and find her staring at a smear of blood on the sheets. Sweet Mortain! what must she think?

Not wanting to acknowledge the blood, I hurry over to the garderobe. She bustles to my side and casts me a look, her face full of concern. “Is demoiselle sure she feels well enough to be up and about today? Would you like me to bring you more hot water? Or I could arrange for a bath, if demoiselle likes?”

“No,” I say shortly. “I am fine.”

The older woman reaches out and pats my arm. “Do not worry.” She lowers her voice. “It will not always hurt so.”

With dawning horror, I realize what conclusions she has drawn from the blood on the sheets. My cheeks flame bright red.

My reputation as Duval’s mistress has just been firmly established.





Chapter Twenty-one



Duval is breaking his fast in the winter parlor. At my entrance, a servant pulls out a chair. I sit stiffly, filled with shame that Duval has seen me having a nightmare as if I were nothing but a child. Nor can I forget the feel of his skin beneath my fingers as I tended his wound. even worse, I am afraid all of this will show on my face.

“How did you sleep?” he asks politely.

I risk glancing at him, expecting to see a glint of amusement or a smirk. Instead, there is a hint of concern. It is this kindness of his that unsettles me most. I can dodge a blow or block a knife. I am impervious to poison and know a dozen ways to escape a chokehold or garrote wire. But kindness? I do not know how to defend against that.

“Like a babe,” I answer. The lie falls easily from my lips as I glance pointedly at his throat.

He fingers the small ruff on the high collar he is wearing this morning. “Mayhap I will set a new fashion at court.”