Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(75)
“Surely you do not intend to help me dress, my lord?”
He shrugs. “Neither Agnez nor Louyse is here just now. what do you suggest? who would we risk giving explanations to?”
“I can do it myself.” even as I mutter the words, I know I cannot.
In the end, I have no choice but to let him assist me. The most awkward task is getting into a clean chemise without fully exposing myself to him. I finally order him to lay it on the bed and then turn and face the far corner of the room. even though he cannot see me, I move quickly, not caring if I rip the stitches he has so carefully made. I let go of my bodice, which falls to the floor, step around it, slip my good arm into my chemise, then slither in the rest of the way, grimacing as I wriggle my bad shoulder to get my arm through the sleeve. “Very well,” I say when it is securely in place.
“Here.” His voice and manner are matter-of-fact as he holds out my bodice much as a squire holds out a chest plate. I thrust my arms in, then turn around so he can lace up the back. Next I untie my skirt, let it fall to the ground, and step out of it. He takes the new skirt he has brought, shakes it out, then holds it open for me to step into.
with the bulk of my clothing in place, we become less awkward, and our movements cease fighting each other. The rest of the task goes smoothly until he pulls my last sleeve up my arm and his knuckles brush against my breast. I wrench away at the unexpected touch, tearing the sleeve from his fingers. He sets his teeth, takes up the sleeve again, and ties it in place.
when he is done, he gives a short, formal bow. “I will leave you to compose yourself.” while I am pained by his formality, I also welcome it. “Meet me in my study when you are ready.”
I nod — for I still do not trust my voice — and he departs. I am blessedly alone. even though I am fully dressed, my skin feels raw and exposed. Tender, like the new skin under a blister that has ruptured. even as a giggle threatens to climb up my throat, tears form in my eyes. what madness is this? Something has changed — something dark and alarming now sits between us.
when I am finally calm enough, I leave Duval’s private chamber and go in search of his study. It is not difficult to find as he has been given only a handful of rooms here at the palace. I pause in the doorway. He sits brooding in front of his chess set. “Milord?” I say softly.
His head comes up and his face relaxes somewhat. “There you are.”
I blush and try to pretend it has not taken me the better part of an hour to find my composure. Ill at ease, I pluck at the silver threads embroidered on my skirt as I move to join him at the chessboard. "Where do we stand?” I am anxious to discuss strategies and tactics, troop levels — anything but what has just happened between us.
“That’s what I am trying to discern.”
The white queen sits with but a handful of white pieces around her as she faces a board full of black. “Someone on the council bribed Nemours’s guard or told someone else who did.” Duval’s fingers rest lightly atop the queen. I shiver, remembering the feel of those fingers on my cheek, the weight of his hand on my neck. They are strong, capable fingers, and yet he held my face so gently. Irritated, I shake off this pall that has fallen over me. “Madame Dinan could easily have confided in d’Albret,” I point out.
“True enough, but they are our known enemies. It is the ones we do not know who concern me more. Has France bought someone on the Privy Council, and if so, who?”
"Why would anyone on the council want the French to know?”
“That is the question, is it not? That and what their next move will be.”
"What is our next move?” I ask. "What is the duchess’s second best option, now that Nemours has been removed?”
Duval answers without hesitation. “The Holy Roman emperor.”
“Then perhaps a visit with his envoy is in order,” I suggest.
“Clearly.” Duval thinks for a moment longer. when he lifts his eyes from the board, I see how tired he is. “Beast needs help with the cleanup. I took the liberty of ordering a supper tray to be brought to your room so you wouldn’t have to dine in the great hall with the others tonight.”
“That is most welcome, my lord.”
He gives a brisk nod. “Do you need anything before I go?”
I want you to return my wits, I long to say. Instead, I merely ask if I may use his desk and quills to write the abbess of the most recent events.
“But of course,” he says, then takes his leave.
Once he is gone from the room I can breathe again. In an effort to prove he has no hold over me, I make a cursory search of his chambers, but I find nothing of interest. No secret correspondence, no hidden weapon, nothing to indicate he is anything other than what he claims to be: Anne’s devoted half brother.
when that is done, with a heavy heart, I turn to the letter I must write. There is much I need to tell the abbess, but there is much more I long to ask. Does she have any counsel to give as to who would have assassinated Nemours? Has Duval’s name been cleared of suspicion yet? May I work with him on our duchess’s behalf? And what of love? Is loving someone a sin against our god? Surely not, for according to de Lornay, there was love of a sort between him and someone from the convent.
Or perhaps that was merely lust. I suspect the convent does not mind if we take lovers, for the nuns have spent much time training us in that art and no doubt wish us to practice. But to fall in love? That, I fear, is a grave offense. One heart cannot serve two masters.