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?”
My heart thuds painfully in my chest as Duval returns to his chair. He knows. He knows the abbess has sent me to spy on him. Has probably always known. It was only I who thought we were fooling anybody.
Duval settles back and studies me, as if I am some complicated knot he must untangle. I try not to fidget.
“So why are you here?” I cling stubbornly to that question. “Your abbess was correct. It does not matter what we call
You—people are drawing their own conclusions. when I arrived at court this evening, two nobles congratulated me on my new mistress. It is stupid to fight this.”
“Perhaps my wits are addled from sleep, but I still do not understand why you’re here.”
Duval sighs. “So my attendants will note I visited your bedchamber tonight and draw their base conclusions.”
“Surely we don’t need to continue the charade under your own roof?” I say, glad to have something concrete to argue over. “Surely you are not willing to risk your life or our duchess’s future on everyone in my household being completely loyal?”
“I cannot believe you do not trust your own household,” I say, but it is a lie. I am not surprised.
Duval leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “The French have bought any number of Breton nobles, Ismae. It is only a matter of who and how much. If I were the French spymaster, I would certainly make an effort to place a spy or two in the house of every one of Anne’s trusted advisors.”
“Then surely they would all bear the marques of Mortain for their treachery.”
“And yet, they do not. As I have said, I suspect your saint is more complex than your convent would have you believe.” Anger, prickly and welcome, flares inside me. “How can you know they do not bear the marques? They are not visible to you.” He smiles then, a genuine smile. “That is why I am presenting you at court tomorrow. It will prove most amusing, I’m sure.
However, I recommend that you consult with the duchess before you begin assassinating her courtiers with abandon. Now, go back to sleep,” he says. “I will sit here for another hour, then return to my own chamber.”
It is clear he will not budge until he is good and ready. I settle back down under the covers, too aware of his presence, of the lack of space between us. Of only the thin linen of my nightshift covering me. I clear my throat. “Did you learn anything of our attackers?” I ask.
“Sleep now, Ismae. we will talk more in the morning.” His voice is low, naught but a faint rumble in the night air. I am certain I will never fall back to sleep, and yet I do. And when I awake in the morning, he is gone. It is as if he was never there at all.
When Louyse comes to help me dress, I am unable to meet her eye. Does she know that Duval spent a good portion of the night in my room? If so, she gives no indication. She is either remarkably discreet or truly unaware.