His hand moves up to cup my face. Slowly he draws me closer, lowering his head to meet mine. His touch is careful, as if I am fragile and precious. And then his lips are on mine, firm and warm and impossibly soft.
A fierce heat rises up inside me, as sharp and bright as a blade. I move my lips against his, wanting more, but more of what, I cannot say. He steps closer, until our bodies touch, then his other hand comes up, the warm fingers grasping my waist, pulling me even closer still. I am lost in his kiss, and all my defenses give way before this hot, hungry mystery that lies between us.
And then he pulls away, slowly, as if loath to do so. That is when I hear the rap at the door. I blink, reality crashing in around me. I take three giant steps back until I reach the cold stone wall, my lips still tingling from Duval’s kiss.
“Coming,” Duval calls out, his voice somewhat hoarse. Like a drawbridge being pulled up and slammed into place, he composes himself, and the sure, practical Duval is back. He takes his eyes from me and goes to answer the door. I lean against the wall and try to pretend my entire world has not just tilted in the heavens.
He stands there talking with whoever it is, blocking the view into the room with his body. After a moment he closes the door and returns to where I stand. I cannot meet his gaze.
“That was Beast,” he says. “He found the bodies and removed them. As best as he can tell, they were simply two of Nemours’s guards, one of whom was responsible for the treachery.”
I nod but do not trust my voice just yet, so I say nothing. He is silent for a long moment. I risk glancing at him. He stares sightlessly at the bloodied chemise on his bed, his hand raking through his hair as he thinks.
I clear my throat. “My lord, what would you have me do?”
He pulls himself from his distant thoughts and returns them to our predicament.
“Can we patch my clothing together enough so that I can return to your residence? Perhaps with a cloak thrown over it?”
He glances ruefully at the ruined linen. “I do not think so. But maybe they have begun to move your trunks into the palace. I’ll check. Sit, before you fall down,” he orders.
I lock my knees and press my back against the wall, welcoming the bracing cold of it. “But the servants . . .” I protest.
"Even though I am a bastard born, I am also the son of a duke. It is not my servants’ place to question me or what I ask of them.”
Stung by this rebuke, I simply nod and wave him away. Once he has left the room, I do indeed sit down, although not on the bed. I perch on one of the unopened trunks.
I should do something. Search through his things, or try to escape to my own room, or . . . in truth, my wits have left me, for I cannot think what I ought to do. My back is burning and my heart still races. In the end, I decide to remain seated and try to compose myself. Surely recovering my wits is the highest priority.
Duval returns a short while later, a look of triumph on his face. He carries a wad of clothing in one arm — my clothing, I realize. “One of your trunks has been delivered,” he says. “Let’s get you dressed, then I must go follow up on Nemours’s guards and inform the duchess of this latest development.”
“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.