Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin 1)

He gallops back the way we’ve come. The overturned cart is gone now and there is no sign of anyone nearby. He takes a side street, then another, and soon we come to a wider street with finer houses.

Duval pulls up in front of one of them. His horse has barely come to a full stop before a groomsman rushes out to take the reins. Duval dismounts only long enough to introduce me to his steward, then remands me into the keeping of his housekeeper, Louyse, a round, pleasant-faced woman who welcomes me cheerfully, if curiously.

when he starts to give her orders to send for a doctor, I stop him. “Milord. If

I had been poisoned, I would be dead by now. ”

He scowls at me and begins to argue, but I cut him off. “Look how quickly it felled my horse. Surely someone my size would be dead already. ”

His face clears somewhat at my words. “Perhaps. But why would only one of their blades be poisoned?”

“I do not know. I only know that I am well, and that is enough. ”

He nods curtly. “Very well. Louyse will see that you have anything you may need. ” He surprises me by taking my hand. It is for the servants, I tell myself. To convince them of our masquerade. “Promise me you will send for a doctor if you start to feel ill. ”

I want to laugh at his concern. No, I want to wrap it around me like a blanket and use it to soothe my most recent loss. Instead I say, “I promise,” knowing it will cost me nothing.

Then he leaps onto his horse, calls four of his men to ride with him, and leaves. As they clatter out of the courtyard, I realize I do not know if they head for the palace or back to the scene of our attack. My desire to know is so strong, I take one step forward as if to run after them, but then I notice Louyse’s puzzled look.

I give her a wan smile, and she smiles back broadly. “Come, demoiselle. You are no doubt weary from your journey. ”

I marvel at how well trained she is, for I am certain she heard Duval say poisoned, and yet she neither sends me curious glances nor asks me any intrusive questions.

Instead, she leads me inside. A great hall looms to my left, and the sun sparkling through the oriel window casts a glow on the tapestries covering the wall. It occurs to me that I should at least try to search Duval’s home now that he is gone, but in truth, I cannot muster the desire. I am tired down to my bones, and my movements feel as if I am wading through water.

Perhaps there was poison on the blade after all. If so, this feeling will pass quickly, much quicker than some malaise of the heart, which is what I fear it is. Nocturne’s death shouldn’t gnaw at me so, but it does, and I hate how weak I am.

Louyse continues up a wide center staircase to a bedchamber. It, too, has glass windows, and thick velvet drapes keep out the chill. There is a fire burning in the hearth, and a large tub sits nearby. A serving maid is just emptying a bucket of steaming water into it.

My spirits lift somewhat at the thought of a bath. I have not had a bath since the convent and am in sore need of one.

There is a light knock on the door and a footman appears bearing my satchel. Louyse motions for him to put it on the bed, then shoos both him and the maid from the room. She takes a step in my direction. “May I help you with your gown?”

“No!” The small spurt of panic I feel at exposing the scars on my back gives more force to the word than I intend. “Thank you,” I add, more graciously. “But I am convent raised and more comfortable disrobing in private. ” My heart is beating quickly. I have not given a single thought to the assistance of a maid.

Her eyebrows raise only slightly, yet another sign of her excellent training. “Very well. I shall leave you to your bath then. ” And with that, she leaves.

When she has quit the room, I ease myself onto the bed. All sense of triumph has fled and I feel nothing but the keen loss of Nocturne and the awareness of how very far from home I am.

Chapter Seventeen

I come awake with the fine hairs at the nape of my neck lifting in warning, every muscle in my body tensing with anticipation. As my mind fumbles with the unfamiliar surroundings, my hand reaches for the stiletto under my pillow.

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.