An image of Mortain sitting beside me in the wine cellar fills my mind. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”
Her eyes flash open and she turns to look at me, surprised. She smiles. “You are the first to agree with me,” she confides. “I knew we would get along.” She turns back around so I may finish her hair. “His name was Louis, Louis d’Orléans, and he came to my father’s court when I was but five years old. He was so charming and gallant, but mostly kind, kind and gentle with the child I was then. And of course, I had heard plenty of stories of how bravely he fought beside my father as they tried to restrain France’s encroachment on her surrounding duchies.”
My mind scrambles to the tapestry back at the convent, but Louis d’Orléans was a French noble, not a Breton one, so I knew little about him other than that he is a cousin of Charles VIII, and that he fought in the Mad War beside the duchess’s father.
“Why did your father not betroth you to him? Surely it would have been a good match.”
The duchess sighs in sorrow. “Louis was forced to marry Joan, the daughter of the late king, when he was only fourteen years old. It was especially hard because his wife’s physical infirmities left her sterile, so he would have no hope of producing an heir.”
“And thus there would be no threat to the French crown,” I murmur.
“Precisely. There was talk, during that visit, of having his marriage annulled so that we could marry, but the plan was vehemently blocked by France, which held much sway with the pope.
“And then he was captured last year and has been kept as a prisoner ever since.” There are tears in her eyes. Whether because he is imprisoned or due to her lost dreams, I cannot tell.
Chapter Forty-Two
IT IS LATE, FAR TOO close to dawn. I should grab a few hours’ sleep before morning, but I am filled with a need to see Balthazaar, even as an unwelcome sense of shyness and uncertainty settles over me at the memory of the things we did together four nights ago. I wonder if that is all he will think of now when he sees me.
I wonder if he will want to do it again.
And how soon.
When I reach the ramparts, I step quietly onto the catwalk. The sentries are so familiar with my habit of haunting their domain that they barely acknowledge my presence except to stand a little more alertly and shake themselves awake. I turn and walk in the opposite direction. Usually by the time I reach the far corner, Balthazaar is there waiting for me. But tonight as I peer into the shadows and whisper his name, I can see that they are empty.
My heart twists uncomfortably in my chest, then I scold myself for being foolish. He does have other things to do—hellequin duties he must attend to. It is unreasonable to expect him always to be here when I need him. And yet, he is, and I do.
I whisper his name again, then wait a few moments. I lean on the battlements so that if the sentries should look my way, they will think me pensive or in prayer.
The minutes drag into a quarter of an hour and still he does not come. A most disturbing thought fills me. Does he feel he has gotten what he wanted and so sees no reason to return? He is a hunter, after all, and I his prey. Now that I have been duly lured into his trap, has his interest faded? My hands grip the stone wall in front of me. No. Our connection is more than simple lust, although that is part of it, no question. But it wasn’t only my body he was after.
I glance at the sky. Nearly an hour has passed and I have run out of arguments and justifications as to why he is not here. I put my hand on my chest, over the tender place there, and tell myself it is not pain I am feeling. As I turn to leave, I detect movement in the shadows. “Balthazaar?”
After a moment’s hesitation, he steps forward.
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“Not long. It is late. Surely you should be sleeping.”
“I will, but I wished to see you.”
“Why?”
I frown. “Because I am daft, clearly.”
He sighs, then steps over to the battlements, puts his hands on the wall, and leans out, staring at the city below, careful to keep a goodly distance between us. “Do they not miss you when you come up here?” His voice is gruff, guarded, and he does not look at me.
“I am careful not to come that often.” I do not slip away nearly as often as I would like.
“You should not come here anymore.”
I hold very still, trying to study his face, but he keeps it turned toward the city. “What are you saying?” I keep my voice very low. “Are you rejecting me?” Outrage mingles with mortification.
“No.” The word is harsh. He turns to face me, and I recoil at the intensity of the emotions in his eyes. He takes a step closer, looming over me. “I am not rejecting you—I am trying to save you. To save you from being pulled any further into my bleak existence.”
“It is not I who need saving, but you.”
He blinks in surprise, his mouth parting slightly, but no words emerge and I realize I have hit the mark far more accurately than I dreamed.
He turns to look back over the city. “Do not be ridiculous.” His voice is ripe with scorn and mockery. “It is others, including you, who must find safety from me.”
“Truly?” I take a step closer to him and he cringes. It is a mere tightening of muscle and skin, but I see it and suddenly I know he is not cringing in revulsion or rejection but because he is fighting a fierce battle with his own desires and his own heart. “What must I fear from you?” My voice is as soft and gentle as the caress I long to give him. “That you will touch me?”
I reach out and put my hand on his neck, feel his flesh twitch and flutter beneath my fingers. I draw even nearer, pressing myself close against his unyielding side. “That you would do this?” I put my fingers in his hair and force him to look at me. The anguish and conflict in his eyes nearly break my heart anew. If ever anyone needed saving, it is this tortured man. “Or this?” I rise up on my toes and softly place my lips against his. He resists at first, and then it is as if a floodgate opens and all his need pours out.
He turns from the battlements and pulls me into his arms as if he could pull me into his very chest so I might reside against his heart. His manner shifts, changing from resistant to possessive, and he cups my head in his hands and devours my mouth as if he would pull all that I am into him. Breathless, he stops and rests his forehead against mine, our hearts beating in a joint frantic rhythm.
“How can you expect me to walk away from this?” I whisper.