I am breathless with his whirling and try to smile back, to act as if nothing has changed, but my face feels frozen. I push at his hands, but they do not budge from my waist.
“Truly,” he says, slowing down, “your saint can work miracles.” As he looks into my eyes, his smile fades and his eyes grow dark with emotion. Slowly, he leans toward me.
His lips are soft and warm as they touch mine. His mouth moves urgently, as if he is trying to experience every nuance and curve of my lips. The utter rightness of this fills me, for it feels I have waited all my life for just this moment.
His mouth opens slightly, and he shifts the angle of his kiss, nudging my mouth to do the same, and I am lost in a whole new world of sensation. His mouth is soft compared to the strong, callused hands that grip my waist. He tastes faintly of wine and victory and something bitter and astringent.
Even as the realization dawns, my lips begin to tingle, then grow numb. “My lord!” I gasp and pull away.
He looks at me, his eyes full of desire, his pupils grown so large they have swallowed up nearly all the gray in his eyes. It cannot be! I lean in close again, press my lips to his, then run my tongue lightly over his lips and inside his mouth. even as he responds by pulling me closer, the acrid tang fills my senses.
I pull away and take his hands from my waist. “My lord,” I repeat, hoping he will hear the urgency in my voice. “Stop. Think. what have you had to eat today?”
He stares at me intently, trying to make sense of my words, as if I have spoken in some strange language from a far-off land. “Nothing but what you gave me last night. why?”
I lean in and press one last soft kiss against his lips — to be certain, I tell myself. “You are poisoned. I can taste it.”
His pulse beats frantically in the hollow of his throat. “Poisoned?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him.
I hold my fingers to my lips, tasting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes fill with unspeakable sadness. “You — ”
“No!” I grasp his face with my hands, his whiskery stubble rough beneath my palms. “It is not I who have poisoned you. I swear it!” I hope he does not push me further and ask if the convent is behind it, for I do not know the answer. Did the reverend mother not trust me to do as she ordered? Or has someone else taken matters into his own hands?
He smiles then, a quick fey thing that displays the small dimple I have seen only twice before. Nearly stupid with relief that he believes me, I smile back. His hands reach out and cup my face. “I should not have doubted you,” he whispers, then he lowers his mouth to mine.
The taste of poison is strong on my lips and yanks me back to the matter at hand. “Are you sure you haven’t eaten any food or wine other than what I gave? Did you notice any strange taste?”
He snorts. “No and no. If so, I would not have eaten it.”
But of course, there are hundreds of poisons, many of them too subtle to be detected by the tongue. Others are administered by different means. “Then perhaps it passed through your skin.”
He holds his arms out to his sides. “As you can see, all I have left to me are the clothes on my back.”
“I know, and that is what I would like to inspect.”
"What?”
“Poison can be placed in your gloves, on the inside of your doublet, your shirt, your hat, anything that touches your skin.”
He blinks, at last understanding what I am saying. with a sudden movement, he reaches down and tears the gloves from his belt and throws them on the floor. Frantic now, as if his clothes are coated in stinging nettles, he pulls off his belt, then yanks his doublet over his head and tosses it onto the chair.
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.