Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(98)

I hurry over to inspect each piece, all of them still warm from Duval’s body, but there is no trace of poison. No waxy residue, no trace scent.

“There is nothing on any of these,” I tell him. “May I see your boots?”

He recoils in horror. “You are not going to smell my boots,” he tells me flatly. He tramps to the chair, drops into it, and pulls off his boots. "What would it smell like?” he asks.

I shrug, hating this helpless feeling. “It depends on which poison was used. It can smell sweet as honey or like bitter oranges. Some have a metallic tang.” My heart falters at all the possibilities, for how can I cure him if I do not know what is being used?

He sticks his nose into his boot. “They smell nothing like that,” he says.

I am not sure if I should take his word, but he looks ready to come to blows over it, so I let it be for the moment. “Here, let me hold that one while you check the other.” I brace myself for another argument, but he grunts at me and shoves the boot into my hand. while he is busy with his other foot, I let my fingers brush against the inside of his boot. There is no tingle, no numbness, nothing.

“This one is fine too,” he says, shoving his foot back into it. He holds out his hand for the other one and I return it to him.

“Now your shirt, my lord.”

He gapes at me. “You want to examine my shirt?”

I let my impatience fill my words. “Did you not just hear me say it could be on anything that touches your skin? There are no end of ways to poison a man. You must trust me to know this better than you.”

However, there is another reason I wish him to remove his shirt. I need to see if he bears a marque.

His eyes on mine, Duval rises to his feet, undoes the lacings of his shirt, then pulls the fine cambric over his head.

I swallow back a gasp, my eyes fixed on the map of silvery white scars that crisscross the left side of his rib cage. A deep, puckered scar sits just inches from his heart. Unthinking, I step closer, my fingers reaching out to touch the pale tracks some keen blade left. He flinches as if in pain. “Do they still hurt?” My voice comes out as a whisper.

“No.” His voice sounds strained.

I trace the longest of the scars that spans his chest. “How close you came. How very, very close.” I shiver, unbearably warm and chilled at the same time. Surely Mortain did not spare him then only to have me kill him now.

His skin under my fingers twitches and suddenly I no longer see the scars, but the shift of taut muscle and the broadness of his shoulders. Heat rushes into my cheeks and, unable to stop myself, I look up to meet his gaze. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Dear, sweet Ismae.”

The longing and wanting that rise up inside me is as sharp as any blade and cuts as deep. It is also more terrifying. I snatch my hand out of his grip and turn to fumble for the shirt he has so carelessly dropped on the floor.

I busy myself with picking it up and turning it inside out. I can feel his eyes on me, the room full of unspoken dreams and desire. I concentrate on the shirt, checking the seams carefully, the cuffs, any place a smear of poison might hide. However he is being poisoned, it is not from his garments.

“It is clean,” I say, then slowly turn around to hand the shirt to him.

Duval is all business and takes the shirt and slips it over his head. I use that moment to inspect him for a marque. Other than his scars, there is nothing on his chest or his throat, which confirms he has not eaten nor drank this poison. But the room is lit only by the fire and a brace of candles, so I cannot tell if the grayish pallor to his skin is due to the poor light, the effects of the poison, or the marque of Mortain. But of course, it does not matter. I cannot kill him, marque or no.

“If it is not you poisoning me, who is it?” he asks as he tugs his sleeves into place.

“There are so many who wish you ill, my lord, it is difficult to say.”

He gives a wry grimace, then shoves his arms into his doublet. "What is the antidote?” he asks.

“I won’t know until we determine which poison has been used.” even then I might not know. I was not taught how to remove the effects of poison, only how to best administer it. It will also depend on how much he has taken in and how much damage it has done to his body.

“How long do I have?” he asks.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself and keep my voice calm. “That you are not dead yet bodes well. Many poisons that will kill you in large amounts only sicken you if taken in small doses.” I do not tell him that some of those small doses can have lasting results.

The grim lines about his mouth lead me to believe he knows I am honey-coating my words. “The best we can do for now is keep your strength up. eat and sleep, my lord, for the stronger you are, the better you will be able to fight the effects.”

when he sits down to the tray, he attacks his dinner as if it is an invading army he must vanquish. when he is finished, he lies down in front of the fire and falls immediately to sleep. But I do not. I spend the long, dark hours of the night fighting despair and looking back over the past few days, trying to pick out symptoms I may have missed.

what I told him is true; there are hundreds of possibilities. Many noble houses in France and Italy have their own poisoners on staff, each with his own secret recipe or concoction. There are dozens upon dozens of poisons that can be taken in through the skin alone. How will I ever determine which one is being used against him?